White Pawn on Red Square

by Hugh McLeave

  “Spies:” I was so thrown off-balance by that word I laughed out loud. Makurin snarled. He dumped me on the chair, jarring my spine. He wrapped his ham hands round my throat and squeezed until my eyes and my tongue swelled. Kolya’s poor battered face swam before me. I think this man would have garroted me in the same way had Agarov not stepped between us and heaved him off. “Comrade-general, we’re not going to let him get away with this…this shit.”

  “Mr. Churchill’s a reasonable man and he’ll finish by telling us the truth.”

  “But that is the truth.” My shout emerged as a hoarse croak through my bruised throat.

  Agarov ignored me, turning to Makurin. “I think we ‘d better give him a little more time for solitary meditation to allow him to see his errors and rid his mind of those lies.”

  Makurin grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up. “Wait,” I stuttered, turning to Agarov. “Can I ask two questions?” His Asiatic face twitched assent. “What day is it?”

  “Monday.”

  “I mean, the date.

  “It is May the eighth. Why?”

  “You won’t keep me here much longer.” At least, I had the satisfaction of watching that built-in sneer congeal into a scowl and those inclined green eyes scan my face, seeking to unravel that cryptic statement.

  “Your second question?”

  I pointed to the remaining copies of my confession. “Haven’t you read that before?” I asked. Agarov stared at me, then at his stooge, Makurin.

  “What do you mean?” he barked.

  “I thought your sekoty, your nark, might have given you the same truth.”

  Without replying, Agarov nodded towards the door and Makurin hustled me out. On the march back to my cell, I had time to weigh the KGB general’s reaction to my questions. It did not tell me everything, but now I thought I knew the traitor and I could guess how they had managed to plant their spy among us. Agarov was clever. Like a good general, he was choosing his own ground to fight on. KGB ground. Espionage. It embraced everything. But he realized those two questions of mine were loaded and he’d erred by answering. Why didn’t he beat a fake confession out of me? Did he have other ways?

  They had cleared the vomit and filth out of my cell and it exuded carbolic acid disinfectant. Now, I acted the old circus horse, shambling and feeling my way round with my eyes shut and my mind no longer assembling those cosmic sums between meals. How many of us had they roped in and what had they extorted by way of confessions? As I traced out that rectangular route, one thought sustained me: Agarov was either scared, or had received a Kremlin order to change his ground.

  I reckoned my meal came up about six o’clock in the evening, normal feeding time in Lubyanka. About two hours after the meal following my interrogation, I slowed my shuffling steps and collapsed. Minutes later, the hose jet struck me, but I stayed down, eyes shut, groaning slightly. Half an hour passed, just long enough to summon Makurin, before he entered the cell. He cursed the guards for spoiling his dinner. He grabbed me, pinioned me against the wall and slapped me with the flat and back of his hand. My mouth filled with blood and I had to open my eyes.

  “Get him moving again,” he said, and was leaving the cell when I called him. “What do you want?”

  “Just tell your boss to keep listening to the BBC and he’ll learn something.”

  Makurin replied by driving his huge fist into my stomach, a blow that would have done permanent injury had my back been against the wall. It left me in a heap that not even their hose could budge. They shoved smelling salts under my nose, propped me up and set me going like some marionette. They obviously had orders to break me, for the soakings grew more frequent, the soup a more atrocious thin gruel and the tea tinted, tepid water.

  Makurin appeared the next morning. A good sign, meaning Agarov had got my message and was wondering, if not worrying. I slumped on the floor, squinting upwards at the square, coarse-grained face with its piggy eyes towering above me.

  “Have you decided to make a real confession of your espionage activities on behalf of the British Intelligence Service?” he grated.

  “I have something to tell you.” My words, slow and spaced, echoed in my own head.

  “What’s that?”

  “Listen carefully…in Pushkin Street…the public lavatories…lavatory number four…number four…in the cistern there is a package…with plastic round it…tell Agarov to read it.”

  “Is that all?”

  When I nodded, he jerked me upright and thrust me forward with an order to keep walking.

  Perhaps my nerve-endings had been blunted by exhaustion or the punishment I had taken, perhaps I was imagining things, but a couple of hours after transmitting that message, the peephole opened less frequently and they allowed me to rest against the wall and even squat on the floor for five minutes or more. According to newspaper reports, Agarov read and spoke fluent English, so he would have read the document quickly; however, he might have had to wait for a translation to reach his superiors in Lubyanka, or even in the Kremlin.

  It was evening when they prodded me into the lift, then along the corridor to Agarov’s room; his blinds were drawn and a spot-lamp played on the typescript in the center of the desk. It had survived repeated immersions well. Agarov sat behind the desk, in the half-light, with a thundery expression on his features. Makurin pushed me into a chair. My head now weighed a ton and sagged on my chest. My ears were buzzing. A hand grabbed my hair and tugged my head back, almost breaking my neck. “Look at the Comrade-general,” Makurin roared.

  Agarov pointed the mouthpiece of his cigarette holder at the script. “Is this what you meant when you asked if I had read your so-called confession before?” he asked, softly.

  “It crossed my mind you might have got to Pushkin Street under your own steam.”

  He digested that statement, now conscious I had tricked him. Only one person in our group knew about that particular dead-drop—Anastas. Either they had not caught him, or he had resisted their torture and kept quiet about that lavatory cistern and the dozen other hiding-places we used. Anastas had not betrayed us.

  That I now knew, and Agarov realized this. His eyelids closed over those oblique eyes for several seconds, then he stared at me with slightly less contempt. “This is a carbon copy,” he murmured. “Where are the originals?”

  Having been in a solitary cell for more than a week, my reflexes were not exactly sparking. Before I could frame an answer, Makurin grabbed me by the pyjama lapels with one hand, drew me up and slapped me across the face. “Tell the Comrade-general where you hid the original,” he shouted.

  “Take this performing bear off me, or I’ll tell you nothing.”

  “Put him down, Makurin.”

  Before I started, I made them bring me a glass of water and sipped it slowly—the most delicious drink I’d had in years. “There are two copies of that document,” I said. “Both went out to London on May Day. One was accompanied by the cine-film I took inside the mausoleum, the other was accompanied by the same color snaps I gave you.”

  Agarov lit one of his English cigarettes from the stub he was screwing into the ashtray, his only hint of anger or nervousness. “How did you get the material out?”

  “One lot went by the diplomatic bag, the other by a British Airways passenger, whose name I cannot divulge. The packages were addressed to my solicitor and my bank manager. Both those gentlemen have instructions to arrange publication of the film and my account of what happened if they do not hear from me before May 12, or if they hear I have been accidentally killed, or placed on trial.”

  “He’s bluffing,” Makurin shouted.

  “Your London embassy can find ways of checking these facts.”

  “Comrade-general, what does it matter if they print this rubbish and show pictures. They got nothing but a couple of flags.” Agarov shut his man up with a wave of his hand.

  “What exactly do you want, Mr. Churchill?”

  “Nothing much. Release and safe
conduct out of the USSR for Bukov and the three dissidents tried with him, also the three members of the conspiracy who wish to leave, the Shapirovs, husband and wife, and the two Jewish dissidents who were convicted for hi-jacking an aircraft—eleven people in all.”

  “This is blackmail,” Agarov said. “And you know my government shall never submit to blackmail.”

  “That depends on whether they would rather face a scandal about Vladimir Ilyich Lenin.”

  Agarov did not reply. He nodded to Makurin who marched me down to the lifts and back to my cell. Before handing me over to the guards, he thrust his pitted face close to mine. “If I have anything to do with it, you’ll never get out of here alive,” he whispered hoarsely.

  I had been back in my solitary cell for an hour when he entered with two young guards that I had not previously seen. They grabbed me and pushed me along the corridor to a small room containing no more than a bath filled with water, its rounded end covered with boards. Makurin himself bound my hands and feet then they hoisted me on to the boards on my knees with one guard on either side.

  While one held my legs, the other put a hand round my neck and thrust my head underwater and held me there for twenty seconds. I counted them, holding my breath and came up with a great show of spluttering and coughing.

  “Are you going to write and sign that confession, English spy?” Makurin shouted in my ear as I gasped for air.

  “You have my confession.”

  Makurin took my head himself and forced it under. This time, he held it there until he saw the rush of bubbles of my spent breath that had exploded from my lungs. I was really retching with water spewing out of my lungs when I surfaced. I would have fallen, headfirst, into the bath had the guards not propped me up.

  “Tell us the truth,” Makurin roared, “or next time you won’t come up at all.”

  I looked at the two guards on either side. Young men with serious faces. I looked at Makurin, the thug who might even carry out his threat, who would enjoy killing me. “If you murder me, your heads will be next,” I gasped.

  “Down with him,” Makurin shouted.

  I drew a deep breath before the plunge, but neither guard moved.

  “Down with him.”

  “You’re not going to kill him, colonel?” one of the guards muttered.

  “Shut up, you,” Makurin said. But that young guard’s remark probably saved my life.

  It might have made Makurin think, for he appeared to hesitate before grabbing my hair and thrusting my head down. It gave me time to fill my lungs before my head went under. I thought: I mustn’t lose consciousness. Do that and I’m finished. As slowly as I could, I counted thirty then let out some air. Makurin’s big fist pressed harder. I kicked with my bound legs, started to struggle and twitch. Suddenly, I went slack and let the rest of the air out of my lungs.

  They must have thought I had blacked out, for Makurin heaved me out of the water by the scalp. I still dragged some water into my chest as I came up. Then I flopped against one of the guards who supported me.

  “He’s just about had it,” said a voice from a great distance.

  “You’ll sign, you thick-headed bastard…you’ll sign,” I heard Makurin growl. I shook my head, unable to speak for retching and coughing to expel the water from my lungs. At that moment, Makurin brought his fist down on my temple and snuffed me out.

  Chapter 19

  When I broke surface again, it took several minutes to reassemble everything around me. I was no longer in a Lubyanka dungeon but in a bed, a real bed. In a room with two windows, though still overlooking that bleak courtyard. Something moved and I froze, half-shutting my eyes and watching through my eyelashes. Even with his back turned, that tall, gangling shape couldn’t belong to anyone but Agarov. He was seeking something in the steel locker against the wall, then he soft-footed to the table to run a hand underneath and all round before lifting an ashtray and peering at it; he pulled back the curtains and seemed to study the sills and catches of the windows. Then, it pierced my fuddled mind:

  Agarov was looking for eavesdropping devices. A KGB general wondering if his superiors—or subordinates—were bugging him. Maybe spies never trusted even their own colleagues or, for that matter, anybody at all. Suspicion was a virus in their blood. It intrigued me that even Lubyanka generals had to watch their backs. I let him search for another five minutes before stirring slightly, then moaning. Several seconds later, I opened my eyes. He was standing, gazing down at me. I let my eyes wander round the room for a few moments.

  “What day is it?” I asked.

  “May the tenth.”

  So, I had been unconscious for nearly two days. “You have only a couple of days left then,” I said.

  “You’ re a fool, Churchill.” He produced his splendid case and long holder and lit himself a cigarette. “You know you nearly died.”

  “Died’. You mean your strong man, Makurin, nearly murdered me.”

  “Whichever way you like, it would have been a waste of a life, and for what?” He pulled up the one chair and sat down, his face close to mine. Was he still concerned about microphones?

  “For what?” he repeated. “That girl who would jump in and out of bed with anybody to save that worthless fellow she thinks she loves.”

  “Is that what you got from your sekoty, Vanya Roskov, or whatever his name is. He didn’t know half the story. He knew nothing of what happened in the crypt on May Day and neither do you. He had no idea of how the whole thing would end.” I gazed at Agarov who sat between me and the window and therefore in silhouette. “Only you and I know something about that, don’t we?” His cigarette appeared to bloom a more vivid red as he absorbed that statement. “The trouble is, we’ve both written a different script.”

  “What is your script, Mr. Churchill?”

  “Not the one you tried to get me to write. In fact, I’ve written quite a big part for you—the biggest after Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov Lenin, and he has the lead, of course.”

  “Tell me about my part.” Agarov kept his voice low and soft as though he might still be worrying about hidden devices, or worried about his head.

  “Your biggest and most dangerous scene would be with your bosses in the KGB and the Kremlin. You’d have to answer some tough questions about how a whole squad of people managed to get into the holy of holies, the mausoleum, during the biggest spectacular in the Soviet Union, May Day. Since you’ve labeled us enemies of the state, a lot of Politburo members will wonder why they weren’t blown off their granite podium by such dangerous conspirators. They’ll certainly question the infallibility and even the efficiency of the KGB, especially when that organization had an informant among the plotters. However, in Act Two you find an argument to save your head by claiming that you have rounded up the whole gang, including the Englishman who was master-minding the plot with the aid of foreign elements recruited by his own government. And the Englishman, who has the right name, Churchill, gives you a dazzling inspiration. The Lenin theft was only a cover and camouflage for something much more dangerous and sinister.”

  “A spy ring,” Agarov put in.

  “Exactly. You can sell spies any time, any place in the Soviet Union. And with the KGB’s long experience of squeezing their personal truth out of anybody, of manipulating the evidence, of rigging trials plus Russian xenophobia you are able to argue your way out of both the firing squad and the gulag by the Act Two curtain.”

  “And Act Three?” Agarov prompted.

  “Ah, now this is crucial. No-one knows about the films except you and Miss Bukova and myself, and your own minions of course. When those films and my story appear, they cause a tremendous sensation all over the world in the press and on TV. Even the Kremlin gets its own copy on a video-recorder and when the decadent bourgeois media really gets going, think of the thousands of newspapers and magazines that will run the whole drama.”

  I looked at Agarov’s shadowy figure and gave him a grin. “You know, with a scoop like that I cou
ld have made a fortune instead of allowing you the chance of a trade-off.”

  “Keep to the point, Mr. Churchill.”

  “Where was I? Ah, those sensational Lenin pictures. Of course, they stop the whole show, dead. People will look at that dummy Miss Fotyeva and I are handling in those film shots and they’ll think it’s the figure that’s always on display. And you know from experience that nobody will ever convince them otherwise. Anti-communists will seize on this and raise a world-wide cry for an international commission to study Lenin’s remains (if there are any), and even anti-communists who don’t agree with the way you’ve turned Lenin into a Red Christ, will want to know exactly what’s under that glass cage. And even if such a commission finds something left of Lenin, they’ll say you’ve done a good job as KGB men of faking the evidence.”

  Agarov was sitting, silhouetted in a halo of smoke from his third cigarette, and I wished I could see his features clearly. I asked, “How many people have filed through the traurnv zal, General Agarov?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Churchill. It’s your script.”

  “I’d say about a hundred and forty million, give or take a million or two. Most of those millions have made a long pilgrimage. They might not care much for the idea they might have been shown a doll instead of the embalmed body of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. And, unless you can reassure them somehow, the most holy shrine in Soviet Russia will be forever discredited. And your leaders with it.”

  “A bit improbable, this Third Act of yours,” Agarov murmured, but now his voice carried much less conviction.

  “Hmm! No more improbable than the series of accidents that allowed Lenin and the Bolshevists to seize power in the first place. You’ve built Lenin up into such an Olympian figure, such an infallible myth of a man that when he topples, he might shake the whole country. If people discover he’s just a wax dummy, you could have another revolution on your hands.”

  “Now, this is what you call in the West the Theatre of the Absurd, isn’t it?”