“Do you remember Wilfred Owen?” Wolski asked. Without waiting for a response, he answered his own question. “One of your people, an English soldier in the First World War; the best poet of his generation. Month after month, year after year, he recorded the horror of it all. Then, just days before the armistice was signed, he was killed. I always thought that was especially cruel.”
Thornhill was careful not to respond, and it was some time before Wolski spoke again. His grip on reality seemed to be failing fast.
“I feel like that, a soldier fatally wounded in the last moments of the battle. I am dead and will never live again. It seems unjust, but how can the guilty plead for justice?”
“What do you mean?” asked Thornhill softly.
“For years we watched through the night, we saw terrible things. For those who did not resist, there was little persecution; in the physical sense at least. But the price of safety was moral surrender. People closed their minds to hope. Children grew to middle age knowing no alternative.”
He faltered, and Thornhill, sensing the rising level of stress, did not interrupt.
“Then at last, as all the world knows, the first light crept over the horizon and with it came the collapse of the old order. Millions rejoiced in the streets…” Wolski buried his face in his hands and breathed deeply. Thornhill had to listen carefully to catch the words. “But it was a false dawn; with the light came a new vileness, less visible, more dangerous…” His voice trailed off and he sat silently, head in hands.
“New business, not unfinished business?” Thornhill asked quietly.
“What did you say?” Wolski asked, seeking some reassurance.
“Nothing important, I was just thinking out loud,” Thornhill said.
Looking beyond Wolski to the breaking surf, he was unaccountably angry that the waves beyond the window were silent and that all he could hear was the low hum of the air-conditioning. Any thought was easier to deal with than the completeness of their dependence on each other. Thornhill knew that this moment would come, but its arrival was still alarming. Now there was no retreat.
He went to Wolski’s chair, put his hand on his shoulder and eased him into an upright position.
“I think you should begin at the beginning,” he said.
“Alice in Wonderland?” Wolski asked, turning to face Thornhill with the flicker of a smile.
“Yes,” he replied, “Alice in Wonderland: ‘begin at the beginning, go on to the end and then stop’. Let’s get in touch with reality,” Thornhill said as he slid open the balcony window.
The sound of the sea rushed into the room and the wind blew an art deco vase off the dresser. It didn’t break; it was made of plastic and hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Chapter 8 - Warsaw
The Institute in Warsaw was a flamboyant building in Imperial style, put up during the nation’s last flowering of optimism in the second half of the 19th century. In those days, the country was more than twice its present size. Russia, to the east, was concerned with the turmoil of its own affairs, while in the west, Germany was becoming a single nation for the first time. For three-quarters of a century, the Institute was home to some of the most respected academic minds of Central Europe. Then in 1939 Blitzkrieg came. Panzers rolled across the Polish Plain and from the air, the Luftwaffe struck a largely undefended population. It was all over in less than a month. The Nazis were everywhere victorious. In a city so heavily devastated, the Institute survived comparatively well. At the end of the war, along with other prominent buildings, it was lovingly restored. But things were not what they appeared to be. The victory over the Nazis had been a Soviet, not a Polish, triumph. In its own way, this left deeper scars than those inflicted by enemy action. The restoration of the buildings was political propaganda, empty of serious scientific or intellectual content. Everything worth having was removed and shipped to Moscow. In scientific endeavour, the rich and powerful academic institutions of the West raced ahead, with the Soviets keeping pace only in military and aerospace hardware. Central Europe became a technological backwater. But with the death of Stalin, the grip of Moscow gradually slackened and the Institute slowly recovered.
But outside the Institute, the Soviet-dominated state continued to intrude in every part of life. The secret police were omnipresent and, from time to time, there were political murders that the authorities made little attempt to disguise. Arrests for the slightest expression of opposition were common. Families had children removed from them, careers were blighted and international travel was restricted to government officials, performers and contestants at major sporting events.
Almost out of sight, in the privileged environment of the Institute, Wolski was one of the fathers of an academic renaissance. Fighting discreet political battles for resources, he carefully built a reputation that attracted the best of a new generation of would-be research scientists. Despite the struggle, or perhaps because of it – he sometimes wondered which – Wolski was comfortable at the Institute; it was home. He developed a talent for advancing its international reputation and nobody was surprised when, though still relatively young, he was appointed to one of the three Deputy Directorships, a post that was the limit of a scientist’s advancement. The Director was a political appointee. Wolski’s job suited him well; it meant out-thinking his Western peers. His skill lay in identifying specialities not already monopolised by others in the USA, Western Europe or Japan, and in developing them with a fraction of the resources available to his Western counterparts.
Institute staff were shielded from the harshness of life among the population at large and it was in this protected atmosphere that the Night Watch met every month. Each arrest, each intimidation, each threatening speech and act of censorship was discussed and recorded in a journal: ‘The Testament’, as it became known. At the end of each meeting this was passed to a different member for safekeeping. Though their purpose was serious, the meetings were not sombre. Vodka was always plentiful and even in the most difficult times, someone in the group had contacts that enabled them to bring a delicacy to accompany the copious supplies of black bread which were always available: a jar of herrings, some German sausage, fresh mushrooms and occasionally caviar, bartered with some visiting Soviet academic; there was always something special. For Wolski, the Institute and the Night Watch were the two most important things in his life. One exercised the intellect and the other the conscience. It was the perfect combination, the kind of atmosphere that, in an earlier time, a monastery might have provided. Then Golkov arrived.
*
In the Soviet days, Russians were common visitors, mostly raiding parties of technicians and commissars who, in the name of fraternal collaboration, were looking for anything worth stealing. They earned the nickname Carrion Crows from the long black Zil limousines that ferried them about.
The Institute’s senior staff became skilled at protecting their best work while appearing to offer the cooperation that political pressure demanded of them. Some even came to enjoy the game of cat and mouse. Then with a suddenness that nobody would have dared to predict, the Carrion Crows were gone. Soviet power collapsed in a matter of months. Everyone at the Institute supposed they were now free, but nobody was sure what that meant. Nothing in their past dreams and speculations had prepared them for living out the reality they had all hoped for. Neither were they at all prepared for the way in which power changed hands, not just in the change of government, but also in all the layers of power between government and the governed. As in so many revolutions, the power of corrupt influence simply passed from one set of hands to another.
Golkov was living evidence of the new reality. His masters were not the Moscow Politburo; who they were was a matter of much speculation. Golkov was smoother and sharper than any of the other Russians that Wolski and his colleagues had come to know. He possessed a quick mind and an unknown quantity of power. Mysteriously, he also appeared to have a wardrobe of American business suits. ‘Brooks Brothers’, one jun
ior professor claimed to have seen on the label inside a jacket left on the back of a chair during one long, hot meeting. Everyone was cautious; they smelt danger.
Six weeks after Golkov’s arrival, Wolski was summoned to a meeting; ‘invited’ was the word used, but there was no opportunity to decline.
When he arrived at the Director’s office, Wolski was surprised that none of the other Deputy Directors was present. He was immediately uneasy.
The Director of the Institute sat at his desk, and by the glass-fronted Gothic bookcases that lined an entire wall stood Golkov. The Director, a small man with a legendary reputation for pomposity, rose while simultaneously motioning Wolski to a seat.
“Comrade Doctor Golkov wishes to speak to you.” The Director used the old Communist title by force of long-learned habit. “He wishes to speak to you alone,” he added, stiff with resentment.
Wolski could not disguise his surprise as the Director left the room. Golkov said nothing. He took the Director’s big chair behind the wide desk and smiled a warm, insincere smile. Just like an American politician, Wolski thought; a notion reinforced by a well-tailored dark-blue suit, a gold Cross pen and an Italian silk tie. Instinctively Wolski tried to think of a way to avoid becoming the only person to hear what Golkov had to say. Hard-won experience had taught him that secret information was the most dangerous kind.
“Professor, I am glad to meet you. I have asked to speak to you alone because what I have to say is for your ears only. That is also why during the past twenty-four hours, for the security of us both, I have had this room swept for electronic listening devices.”
In the old regime nobody talked of such things. Wolski realised that this opening was not intended to reassure but to establish Golkov as a man with the power to control the world in which he operated and the lives of others who were summoned into his presence. From the pit of his stomach, Wolski felt a rising tide of fear. He tried to disguise it with a joke that might level the ground between them.
“So the only ones remaining are your own.” It was a misjudgement.
Golkov ignored the remark and continued in the same self-confident tone. “First let me introduce myself. I am Doctor Vladimir Golkov. From Moscow.” He added the name of the city as if it were an explanation, which in a way it was.
Wolski was becoming annoyed at Golkov’s superior manner.
“Thank you, Doctor, I already know who you are, but I would like to know what you are.”
Golkov’s shallow affability vanished and the conversation continued with academic formality.
“Professor, there are those who might consider such curiosity unsympathetic.” Wolski understood the warning and waited for Golkov to speak again. It was an ominous beginning. “History teaches that the prizes go to those who can see furthest,” Golkov said cryptically.
Wolski doubted the truth of the observation but continued to listen. Like everyone else at the Institute, he had long lived partly in the present and partly in hope of a future free of Russians. Golkov seemed to have thought of the same possibility.
“In the new Russia, there are those who can see that things as they are now will not last much longer. The present democratic reforms are simply Band-Aids on a corpse.”
Wolski wondered what Band-Aids were.
There seemed a curious rhetorical quality to Golkov’s way of speaking. It was as if he were addressing a large and expectant audience.
“There will be a new world revolution, but this time it will not be a revolution of the ragged masses but of those with vision, money and power. We shall join forces with others of like mind in the United States and across the world. Why should we continue to endure terrorist outrages and the tedious demands of those without the imagination to better themselves?”
The enormity of the proposition left Wolski speechless.
Golkov continued. “Already in the think-tanks around Washington they are talking about the collapse of the old order and ‘A One World Alliance’ to enable civilised nations to protect themselves against the rest. Soon the phrase will start appearing in presidential speeches, the media will pick it up and it will become everyone’s expectation.”
Wolski was puzzled to know why this seemed like good news to Golkov.
He spoke quietly. “Why do you tell me this, and what have you to gain from such expectations?”
Golkov paused and Wolski, now sick with anxiety, regretted asking the question. It was clear that Golkov was deciding how much to reveal.
“We have everything to gain. The Bolsheviks in their revolution had to destroy the establishment. We need destroy nothing; chaos will do it for us.”
Wolski searched for some evidence of the fanatic or lunatic in the man, but found no such comfort. Nor could he think of a prudent reply and it was a relief that no answer seemed to be required.
“Why do I tell you all this?” Golkov answered his own question. “Because we want your Institute to join us.”
“Then why not speak to the Director?” Wolski asked.
“The Director is a bureaucrat, he will do as I instruct; he can be coerced. You, on the other hand – you are different. I would prefer your willing cooperation.”
“To do what?”
“To do what you are best at, competitive science, in a field where you can lead the world.” The notion seemed childishly simplistic, but Golkov spoke too rapidly to allow interruption. “Don’t concern yourself with the technicalities, everything will be formally arranged; a research contract between the Institute and the sponsor. In reality you will work directly for me, as Moscow’s representative.”
For a dangerous moment, the professional in Wolski was intrigued.
“Why come here? There are many more resources in Moscow.”
“And many more prying eyes,” replied Golkov.
The Moscow Mafia? Wolski thought, trying to anchor the conversation in some part of the real world. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Organised crime seemed too easy an answer.
Golkov continued in a tone of prim reasonableness. “Here we can work without arousing curiosity and we can conduct field tests more discreetly.”
“Field tests?” Wolski seized on the term. “What kind of field tests?”
Golkov shook his head in mock dismay. “Have you no wish to change this sad world?”
Wolski knew there were many precedents for doing sensitive scientific trials in out-of-the-way places where the locals could not complain too loudly if things went wrong. Oral contraceptives tested on women in the Third World; ‘miracle’ treatments on Romanian orphans. Was this what Golkov had in mind?
“You will need to tell me what you mean,” Wolski said stubbornly.
“I have confided enough in you for you to make a decision. I want a commitment from you before I tell you more.”
“That’s quite impossible. It’s all too vague; I must know to what I am agreeing.”
Golkov stood and leaned forward across the desk aggressively. “I am disappointed. I offer you an outstanding scientific opportunity and you quibble like a bureaucrat.” He paused, staring into Wolski’s eyes, and as if saddened by his lack of enthusiasm, sighed and shrugged his shoulders.
He withdrew back across the desk, paused for a moment and went to the opposite side of the room where he hesitated again, then spoke with studied courtesy.
“But of course you are right, I must tell you more.”
On a side table lay a stainless-steel briefcase. As Golkov undid the combination locks and swung the polished lid open, Wolski noticed that it reflected the ornate plaster ceiling. He was to remember that reflected image for years afterwards.
As Golkov shuffled through the papers inside the case his tone became relaxed, with a hint of warmth. “Perhaps I can reassure you. We have common interests; you are fond of Bach I believe, and of painting?”
Wolski’s mouth was dry; he nodded. Golkov took a folder from the briefcase and, as if to avoid formality, sat on the edge of
the desk beside Wolski. His closeness was deeply unsettling.
“I too am a lover of art. I think every effort should be made to preserve great paintings, don’t you?”
He took a postcard from the folder and, with another of his brittle smiles, handed it to Wolski. As he took it, his hand began to shake. The picture was The Night Watch by Rembrandt.
Golkov pretended not to notice Wolski’s distress. “It’s terrible what people will do to such fine expressions of the human spirit. Did you know that the picture, as it now hangs in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, is only part of the original?”
Wolski was too shocked to speak.
Golkov kept talking. “Yes, a great barbarity. One of its early owners cut off the edges so that it would fit between two doors; such short-sightedness, but such finality.” Golkov would not stop. “And only recently it was damaged with a sharp instrument by a man out of touch with reality. I believe that he was taken into care, for his own protection, of course. You are not out of touch with reality, are you, Professor?”
Wolski turned to meet Golkov’s gaze with a look of fear and contempt. Golkov fell silent. For Wolski, the impact of the discovery of the Night Watch was massive. Here was the crudest of all forms of coercion, the threat of violence.
A rush of indignation overcame anxiety and he shouted his reply. “The old days are over, we are a free people. You can no longer threaten us.”
“Oh, but I can and I do. Is it necessary for me to arrange for one of your ‘free people’ to have an accident for me to convince you? Which one should I choose? Perhaps you can advise me?”
Wolski could find no words for the disgust that was welling up inside him.
Golkov was unstoppable. “Ask yourself how much your ‘freedom’ is worth. Who can you run to for help? Politicians? The police? They are commodities who are bought and sold every day.” Golkov returned to his chair, leant back and put his feet on the desk; he spoke in a menacingly relaxed manner. “The reality is that power is an equilibrium with three components: money, knowledge and people. Those whom I represent have unlimited quantities of all three. I am merely a technician with the task of maintaining that equilibrium, which is why I shall ensure that you do as we wish.” Golkov let the message sink in. “The reality is quite simple; I am more powerful than you, Professor Wolski. Denial of that fact is like denying gravity; it can only bring you and your friends great grief.”
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