The Chosen Dead

by M. R. Hall

  ‘The streets seem very quiet tonight,’ Slavsky said.

  ‘Everyone is watching television. The government is holding a news conference.’

  ‘Have I missed something important?’ He had been so preoccupied by the wretched symposium that he hadn’t looked at a newspaper in days.

  ‘The border issue,’ she replied. ‘There’s to be some sort of announcement.’

  ‘Are we allowed to discuss such things?’

  ‘In theory, but it might be wiser not to.’

  She glanced across and unwittingly caught his eye. Dagmar wasn’t a classically attractive woman, but for a member of the secret police she was remarkably appealing. During their three days’ acquaintance he had observed something in her expression, a knowingness that told him that she possessed intelligence and a degree of perceptiveness far beyond that required for her regular work. He supposed these were the qualities that had singled her out for accompanying a senior military scientist: she was watching him, recording his moods, reading his unspoken thoughts as intently as he was discerning hers.

  They continued their journey across the unfamiliar city in silence, Slavsky smoking another cigarette and trying to think of subjects for conversation that would see him through his evening with Dr Keppler. Tell them as little as possible, his director had instructed him, techniques, yes, but the substance of his research, the implications of the genetic code he was deciphering, absolutely not. Occasionally Slavsky felt Dagmar’s eyes flit to her right and register his expression, searching out the features of his inner landscape. He pretended not to notice: a woman was inevitably intrigued by a self-contained man. He had secured her interest on the first day; yesterday he had deepened it, and now, he sensed, they were reaching the delicate tipping point. It must be she who makes the first move, Slavsky told himself, only then would he be able to reconcile his infidelity with his conscience.

  As they drew closer to the centre of the city, Slavsky became aware that people had start to emerge onto the street, not just in trickles, but in streams that became a river as they turned into a wide boulevard a short distance from the apartment block in which he was staying. They spilled off the sidewalks into the road, prompting Dagmar to lean on the horn.

  ‘There is a soccer stadium nearby,’ she said impatiently. ‘A big match, I think.’ She turned left across the oncoming lanes and drove down the ramp into the basement car park. ‘Do you follow soccer, Professor?’

  ‘No. Only boxing. As a student it was the one sport I excelled at.’

  ‘Isn’t it rather a brutal sport for an intellectual?’

  ‘I like its honesty – the strongest wins. Chance rarely plays a part.’

  ‘You dislike ambiguity?’

  ‘I avoid it where I can. But a certain amount is unavoidable, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She pulled into a space near the elevator. ‘Shall I wait for you here?’

  ‘Absolutely not. You don’t think I’d treat you like a common driver.’

  She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  In the intimate space of the elevator Slavsky caught her scent. A trace of perfume and the heat of her body. They avoided one another’s eyes, the tension between them increasing with each illuminating number above the door. As they arrived on the seventh floor Slavsky stood aside to let Dagmar step out ahead of him. She brushed his shoulder as she passed.

  Slavsky crossed the hall and unlocked the door. ‘I have Brazilian coffee – shall I make you some?’

  ‘I can help myself,’ she said. ‘I’m familiar with the apartment.’

  ‘Of course.’ She had probably bought the coffee herself, personally planted every bug and hidden camera. They stepped into the narrow hallway. ‘Make yourself at home. I shan’t be long.’

  He showered quickly and thoroughly and cleaned his teeth with the unpleasantly sweet Western toothpaste his hosts had provided along with the scented soaps and effeminate deodorants. He was perfectly aware that this could not possibly be a secret encounter, but in the headiness of the moment he longer cared. He studied his torso in the mirror. He was pale but carried no fat, his body the envy of his middle-aged friends at the Moscow banya. Yes, he could be rightly proud of his body. Reassured that he had no need for self-consciousness, and his conscience eased by the thought of his wife’s infidelity, Slavsky pulled on a towelling robe, and slid back the bolt on the bathroom door, his heart pounding in his chest; he hadn’t touched a woman other than Katerina for nearly sixteen years.

  Approaching the sitting room he heard the sound of the television, and then Dagmar speaking in an urgent whisper into the telephone. He paused to listen, trying to unscramble her rapid German. He moved closer to the door and looked through the crack. Her jacket and shoulder holster were hanging from the back of a chair, her black shoes on the carpet beneath them. She had begun to undress for him.

  He caught only a word or two: ‘Yes, yes . . . I understand . . . of course, sir. Right away.’ He could see half of the television screen. A news programme was showing pictures of an impatient crowd. Hundreds of policemen stood in their way, their arms linked together forming a human chain, and then, as if surrendering in the face of some supernatural power, they seemed to lose their will to resist and let go of one another. A torrent of bodies flooded forward and consumed them. At first Slavsky assumed it to be an incident at a football stadium, but as the camera drew back to a wider angle he saw that the multitude was heading for a familiar landmark: the Brandenburg Gate.

  His intake of breath must have been audible inside the room. Dagmar pulled open the door and stared at him, all colour washed from her face.

  ‘We have to go, Professor. Now. Get dressed.’

  Slavsky looked past her to the television. People were running through the border post with no guards to stop them.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The government opened the borders,’ Dagmar said. ‘It’s no longer safe for you in Berlin. I’ve been ordered to take you to the airport.’ There was panic in her voice.

  The words escaped Slavsky’s lips even before, it seemed, he had consciously formed them. ‘And if I don’t wish to leave?’

  ‘You have no choice.’

  She glanced across to the holster hanging from the chair.

  Propelled by an elemental force, Slavsky pushed her aside and went for the gun. He seized the holster and spun around as Dagmar threw herself at him, knocking him backwards across the table. He felt the holster fly from his fingers and heard it skitter across the thin carpet. Dagmar chased after it. Slavsky forced himself to his feet and kicked her hard in the stomach as she leaned down and closed her fingers around the pistol grip. She jerked forward, extending her arm to steady herself on the back of the sofa. Slavsky punched the side of her face. Blood exploded from her nose. The gun fell from her limp hand. He snatched it by the barrel, and beat her once, then a second time across the face with the butt. As she slumped, bloody and semi-conscious, to the floor, Slavsky turned the weapon in his hands, aimed it between her shoulder blades and fired.

  Third Secretary Gordon Jefferies climbed the stairs to his office on the second floor at the British Embassy in Wilhelmstrasse, having spent fewer than two hours in his bed. Although the East Germans’ lifting of border restrictions had not come entirely as a surprise, the overwhelming events of the previous night most certainly had. The Embassy had primed itself for a gradual transition, a steady flow of Easterners and a cautious warming of relations, but no one had envisaged tens of thousands demolishing the Berlin Wall and swarming into the West in one spontaneous orgy of liberation. It was both thrilling and terrifying to behold. Jefferies was sharply aware that he was witnessing a great moment in history, and yet felt numbed to it, as if he were merely reading a news report from a distant continent. There was too much to absorb to be able to react meaningfully. The best he could do was to observe, to take note and record for posterity.

  He swiped his security card through the electronic reader and push
ed through the office door.

  ‘Mr Jefferies?’ The voice belonged to one of the local temps who’d been called in overnight to deal with the deluge of phone calls from the British press and citizens anxious to know if West Germany was about to descend into anarchy. He tried to recall her name.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The front desk has been calling for you – they say it’s urgent.’

  ‘Oh?’ He noticed her badge, Ingrid, that was it. ‘Did they say what it concerned?’

  ‘A Russian. He’s seeking asylum.’ She handed him a note. ‘He says his name is Professor Roman Slavsky.’

  ‘Tell them I’ll be down in ten minutes.’ He passed through the glass door into his office and reached for the phone. He dialled the switchboard of the Foreign Office and asked to be put through to the Soviet desk. It was his old friend Tim Russen who answered. Just like him to be on the night shift. They’d been at Oxford together, Tim a layabout linguist who acted in a succession of pretentious experimental plays, while Gordon struggled through a law degree, entombed in the library for ten hours each day.

  ‘Gordon – I’ve been thinking about you. It’s unbelievable. What’s the scene on the street?’

  ‘Like Notting Hill the morning after the carnival – ankle-deep in trash and bodies in every doorway – except the party’s still going strong. Thousands of Easterners wandering the streets, gawping through shop windows and stroking the cars like holy relics.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man. I’d give my right arm to be there.’

  ‘We may well be needing someone from your desk.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m told we’ve a potential Soviet defector downstairs – a Professor Roman Slavsky. Any idea who he is?’

  ‘Hold on. God, I hate this thing . . .’ Gordon heard Tim stabbing one-fingered at a computer keyboard. ‘Don’t hold your breath, it takes a while for it to flip through the directory or whatever the hell it does.’

  While Gordon waited, there was a knock on his office door. A messenger was standing outside holding a briefcase. Gordon motioned him in and pointed to the desk. The messenger set the case down and handed him the delivery docket to sign. He scrawled an illegible signature. As the messenger left, Gordon wedged the phone against his shoulder and sprang the catches, noticing that the inside carried a heavy odour of cigarette smoke.

  ‘I tell you, it was a damn sight easier with a filing cabinet,’ Tim was saying. ‘At least you could bloody well see what was in there.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gordon said distractedly, his attention switching to the contents of the case. On the left-hand side was a stack of cardboard wallet files, and on the right four bundles of 5-inch floppy disks bound together with rubber bands.

  ‘OK, here we go,’ Tim said. ‘Professor Slavsky . . . Yep, looks like there’s only one with that name.’

  Gordon pulled out the top file and opened it. The documents were in English – some sort of complex scientific data that looked like computer code.

  ‘You lucky bastard,’ Tim said. ‘Roman Slavsky? Are you sure that’s who you’ve got?’

  Gordon scanned the page and spotted company details printed at its foot: Genix Inc., 1050 West Bronco Drive, Scottsdale, Arizona.

  ‘Why, who is he?’

  ‘Your ticket to the stars, my friend.’

  THREE

  Present day

  JENNY COOPER WAS FREE. Eight years after she had frozen mid-sentence in front of a bemused courtroom and felt the walls close in, she had emerged from the long dark tunnel of recovery and completed her last ever appointment with Dr Allen, the psychiatrist who had become such a troubling fixture in her life. He had seemed almost disappointed that she hadn’t suffered a panic attack for more than a year and was coping well with her job as the Severn Vale District Coroner. In the absence of symptoms to analyse, he had been reduced to sermonizing and platitudes: ‘Remember that life is precious, Mrs Cooper. It exists by chance but thrives by will. Always keep hold of your purpose.’ She had promised that she would and had stepped out into the bright morning to feel the warmth of the sun on her face as if for the first time.

  No more pretending. No more deceit. No more shame. She was well again. It was official.

  Jenny drove her Land Rover out of the car park and turned towards Bristol, saying goodbye to the Chepstow Hospital for the final time. In future she would drive past on her journeys to and from the office not with a sense of dread, but with only a fading memory of the years in which she had struggled to put her shattered life together. She felt like the sole survivor of a bomb blast; a woman who had emerged whole from the wreckage but couldn’t quite understand how or why. Don’t question, Jenny, she told herself, you’re done with all of that. Just live.

  Just live. What did that mean?

  Driving over the mile-wide expanse of the Severn Bridge, the sharp, fresh air of the estuary blowing in through her open window, she allowed herself to believe that it meant no more than being an ordinary, forty-something single woman, with mundane worries of the kind millions of women like her coped with every day. She was anxious about her future with Michael, the man who only sometimes referred to himself as her ‘boyfriend’. She fretted about the lines appearing in her still-attractive features and about the few pounds she was struggling to shed from around her middle. And she was missing Ross, her son, who was at university in London and who she feared would have grown even more distant when she went to collect him tomorrow. Ordinary worries. Nothing that couldn’t be overcome; nothing that need defeat her. After nearly a decade of being a ‘case’ she had rejoined the common flow. She felt an unaccustomed sensation: was it happiness? No, it was something even more precious than that: it was contentment.

  Her brief moment of peace was rudely interrupted by the phone. The display on the dash behind the wheel said Unknown Caller.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Mrs Cooper?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Stephen Watling, Gloucestershire. We met last summer – the kids in the canoe.’

  She felt herself crashing back to earth.

  ‘I remember.’ Images of swollen, drowned teenage bodies invaded her mind. She pushed them away. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Body on the M5. Male. Thirties. Looks like he jumped from the bridge into the traffic – he was lying just along from it.’

  ‘Are there any witnesses?’

  ‘No. He was found at the roadside this morning by a verge-cleaning crew.’

  ‘Right.’ So far it sounded like an unremarkable suicide. She waited for the rest.

  ‘We think we know who he is. A two-year-old boy was found early this morning about a mile away in Bristol Memorial Woodlands. He’s the man’s son. His car was still parked there.’

  ‘What’s happened to the child?’

  ‘He’s alive. Hypothermia but no injuries. He’s been taken to the Vale Hospital. Mother’s on the way.’

  Now she understood. DI Watling was trying to pass the awkward conversation with the child’s mother over to her. Satisfied the dead man had killed himself, it had become the coroner’s problem.

  ‘Won’t you be talking to her anyway?’ Jenny said.

  ‘I’ll send a family liaison along – Annie Malik, she’s good. I’m tied up on a drugs inquiry.’

  What could be more important than that? Jenny wanted to answer, but held her tongue. She had made enough enemies in the police.

  ‘What’s the mother’s name?’

  ‘Karen Jordan. We think the guy was called Adam. Adam Jordan.’

  ‘All right. Tell your officer I’ll be ready to speak to Mrs Jordan in an hour, but I’d like to see the body first.’

  It was a task most coroners would have left to their officers. The days of being obliged to view the body in situ were long past. The coroner had increasingly become an office-bound official who kept contact with the bereaved to a minimum, but Jenny had never been able to operate that way. Having spent the first fifteen years of
her legal career in the family courts dealing with the fallout from domestic violence and abuse, there wasn’t one human emotion that she hadn’t learned to cope with. Death was far easier to manage than a bitter struggle over a damaged child, her role so much more clearly defined than that of an advocate fighting an ugly case: gather the evidence and determine the cause of death. She was to the legal profession what the pathologist was to medicine: the last word.

  Some things she never got used to. The heavy perfume of the mortuary – pine-scented detergent and decomposing flesh – was chief among them. A warm day in July was guaranteed to be close to intolerable. A virulent outbreak of hospital infection had been killing elderly patients at three times the normal rate for the past month. Superbugs loved the summer, and their victims were lined up on gurneys in the long straight corridor, two deep. Jenny instinctively covered her mouth as she hurried past and pushed through the swing doors into the autopsy room.

  Dr Andy Kerr glanced up briefly from his work, then carried on, his muscular arms bare beneath the elbow save for a pair of blue latex gloves. He was dissecting the body of an emaciated young man with a shaved head, separating the lungs and removing them from the narrow ribcage. Two others, each wrapped in a shroud of white plastic, were waiting their turn for the knife.

  ‘No locum today?’ Jenny said, nodding towards the empty second table.