Quiller Balalaika

by Adam Hall

  I could have told him all that but I didn't.

  'I thought about being there,' was all I said. Alex would have understood.

  We were three days moving south towards the city, hunched and rocking under a tarpaulin, the only shelter we had from the wind chill, getting through the last of the rations we'd brought from the camp.

  We had no money but a guard at the station in Moscow showed mercy and threw down two kopeks and told me to get my friend to a hospital: the bandage was black by now with dried blood.

  I left Marius propped on a bench while I went to telephone Legge.

  'Did they recall the DIF to London?'

  He recognized my voice. 'Yes.'

  'I want him back here.'

  In a moment, rather formally: 'I'll try it and get him for you.'

  'I also want Croder here.'

  Another brief silence. The ferret in the field doesn't move a Chief of Signals around like a pawn on a chess board.

  'I'll have to go through the DIF for that, of course.'

  'Listen,' I told him, 'these are your direct instructions: tell Croder I want them both out here by the first available plane. Tell him I'm bringing home Balalaika, but he's got to be here to take it over – it's too big for anyone else to handle.'

  'I'll do what I can but -'

  'Get them. And listen, I'm sending a woman to you. Antanova, the dancer. Get her to London under protective escort as soon as she shows up, but not through the airport – she'll be hunted. Tell our people to keep her safe until further instructions. Is that clear?'

  'Yes.'

  'Meanwhile, I want the DIF here, and the COE, both of them. I'll be watching for their plane.'

  I shut down the signal.

  There were just three of us in here sitting in baroque armchairs like members of a London club. Now in an atmosphere of dust and shadows and brass blackened with age – this was the old British Embassy, now derelict, the rendezvous Legge had chosen for us.

  Croder and Ferris had flown in an hour ago, courtesy of a clear runway. It would soon be dawn.

  'Let's cut straight to the chase,' I said. 'Here's the deal. I'm bringing the mission home and it's all yours. You've got Balalaika in your lap. I can give you the names of seventeen leading members of the Duma who either help control the Moscow mafiya or who are deeply in its pay. Nine of them, incidentally, are at this moment planning a militarized coup d 'etat through the former GRU designed to bring down Boris Yeltsin. I can give you the whole of Sakkas' organization and modus operandi from Saint Petersberg through Moscow to Vladivostok and even from there through Beijing, Tokyo and New York.'

  I got up and walked around a bit, disturbing the dust as I toyed with the tassle of one of the big velvet curtains.

  In a moment Croder's voice came from the shadows. 'And the deal?'

  I turned and looked at him. 'I want Sakkas hit.'

  I saw Ferris look up but he said nothing. 'We can't do that,' Croder said flatly.

  'That's a bloody shame,' I told him, 'because that's the deal.'

  'There's no provision in the constitution of the Bureau to take human life. You know that.'

  'Then you don't get Balalaika.'

  Croder's claw hand hit the arm of his chair as he got up to face me. 'Why do you want him hit?'

  'What else would you do with him?'

  'Get him to London and slam him into jail for a start.'

  'You'd never keep him there.'

  'In solitary confinement during the investigation.'

  I swung away, swung back. 'With a strong guard?'

  'As you can imagine.'

  'There isn't any jailer who wouldn't accept a million pounds sterling from such an eminent prisoner and clear out to Monte Carlo. An inside escape job would cost him ten or twenty million. Last year his income was two billion US dollars. Or he'd kill his way out as he did before if he had to. There is no way youcan keep that man in captivity, and once he's free he's going to start all over again back in Moscow, and I am damned if I'm going to let all the work or the effort I've put in come to nothing. And think how nice it will be to go to the Prime Minister and say you've pulled out the plum after all.' This time I turned my back on him, looking up at a faded portrait of George VI, cracked with age.

  Then Croder astonished me. 'If you want a hit made on Sakkas, you'll have to do it yourself.'

  I swung back to look at him. 'There's no provision in my constitution for taking human life either. I've only done it twice and each time it was to avenge a woman. But I'd set it up.'

  'Difficult.' Ferris' quiet voice came from the armchair for the first time. 'And terribly dangerous.'

  'This trade isn't tiddlywinks.'

  'You'd have to isolate him.'

  'I think I can do that.'

  Croder spoke. 'We haven't got a hit man in Moscow. Or anywhere.'

  'Three of Legge's men are trained snipers. One simple shot from a rooftop is all we need.'

  'I couldn't condone it.'

  'I understand that, just let it happen. And do the soul-searching afterwards. Or do you want me to dump Balalaika in the Moskva River?'

  It was still the pitch dark of a winter morning when I left the derelict embassy. There was only one phone call left to make. I'd called Natalya the night before at the theatre to tell her Marius was free.

  'He can't be,' she'd said in a rush of breath.

  'He escaped three days ago.'

  'From Gulanka?'

  'Listen,' I said. 'This frees you too. Make a note of this address and get there as soon as you can. Do not drive your car away from the theatre. Get a taxi – if it breaks down or runs out of petrol, stay inside and ask the driver to get you another. Do not show yourself on the street – Sakkas' bodyguards will be hunting for you. The people whose address I've just given you will protect you and get you to London. You'll go by train to St Petersberg and fly from there. In London you'll be looked after until it's safe for you to come out and resume your career. Look for me in the audience one night. I want to see you dance again.'

  Now it was time to phone Sakkas. I got a minion on the line and said, 'Tell Sakkas that Marius Antanov is back in Moscow.'

  A few moments later an icy voice said, 'I don't believe so.'

  'He escaped from Gulanka three days ago and he's ready to blow you.'

  His voice was cool and alert. 'Who is this speaking?'

  'You don't know me. I'm just a businessman and I have a deal for you.'

  'How much will it cost?'

  'A hundred million dollars.'

  'And do I get the girl back?' he said.

  'Of course.'

  I gave him the rendezvous.

  The Mercedes limousine was punctual, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the street from the abandoned fire station. Other cars followed, spilling their occupants under the neon glow of the lamps. I counted eighteen guards, each with an AK-47 slung from the shoulder. The doors of the Mercedes remained closed.

  I crossed the street, aware of all that fire power concentrated on me. The tinted glass of the rear window slid down six inches as I approached. His blue eyes, like chips of ice, bored into me.

  'Where's little Marius?' he said.

  I pointed at the fire station. 'He's inside with three lawyers and a banker. They're waiting to draw up the contracts to transfer the funds to a bank in Switzerland.'

  'What's in it for you?'

  'I get a cut.'

  He looked past me at the building through the flurries of snow. A light from the first-floor window shone dimly through the gloom. For a moment a figure was silhouetted there. He raised a hand in salute. Marius. Even in a bullet-proof vest it was a risk. He was a brave man.

  'Bring him down,' said Sakkas and stepped out of the car. The snow landed on the black sable of his coat. I shrugged.

  'I'll bring him to the door.'

  The nerves tingled on the back of my neck as I turned my back on him and walked across the street. Here was the moment of truth. If Sakkas
did not trust me he only had to nod his head and his guards would blow me to shreds.

  As I stepped into the building the shot rang out. A single round from a 1.2mm Parabellum Deerslayer, I would have said. A man-killer at any range.

  The great iron door of the fire station crashed behind me, cutting off the confusion outside as Legge's private army went into action. Behind the thick walls of the great building the sound of gunfire was muffled.

  A fleck of debris hit the rusting fire-bell and left a faint note floating on the air.

  AFTERWORD

  by Jean-Pierre Trevor

  I am high above the desert and the thermals created by the 115-degree heat pitch the 737 around. The prepare-for-landing tone sounds so I sit down and start slow breathing to calm myself. Flying makes me nervous.

  From my window at 17,000 feet I can see where I'll be staying – an Arabian horse ranch down there in the baking desert. This is summer and the Arizona desert is one of the hottest places on earth. In a few minutes we will be landing at Phoenix Skyharbour International. About 200 miles south of here, buried in the sand dunes of Buttercup Valley, are the remains of the plane that was used for the film The Flight of the Phoenix. Myfather wrote the book in the sixties and was brought out from France as technical director on the production.

  The turbulence increases as the plane slows. I jot some thoughts down, notice how clammy my hands are. I am also nervous because of what I am about to face. I pray it won't happen.

  I am going to visit a dying man known to millions of people as Adam Hall, the creator of Quiller. He is also my father, Elleston Trevor.

  Arriving at the ranch under burnt skies, I greet Chaille, my father's wife, who has been battling by his side during his illness for the past two years.

  I go into the living room, the walls framed with book jackets, mostly of the Quiller series, and then into a darkened room. The only sounds are from a machine that keeps a special air mattress inflated, the humming of the air-conditioning and a bell tinkling in Katrina the husky's collar. Resting on a mound of pillows is my father.

  Softly I say, 'Hello.'

  His eyes open slowly. 'Hello, JP.'

  I stroke his forehead.

  Outside the summer storm clouds are gathering. I look at this spectacular display of power and think: Please heal my father. I pray for a miracle and a small voice inside me says: Let him go if that is his wish…

  Yet he wants to live so much. And Quiller Balalaika is pages short and this weighs heavily on him. I offer to set up a laptop so he can write. He says yes. I sit on the bed next to him and we try for a few minutes but he is too weak. Part of me resents Quiller because he reminds me of the shield my father has had to keep in place all his life. Maybe if Quiller was vulnerable he wouldn't exist. And right now my father is the most vulnerable I've ever seen him, so I'm very confused.

  The next day when I go into his room he looks like someone who has had a huge burden lifted from his shoulders. I take his hand. 'Hello, Papa.'

  'I'd like to work on the book if I may, JP.'

  'Of course. Just give me a minute, I'll get the laptop.'

  Chaille tells me that for three hours early this morning they talked of his distress at being stuck between life and death. It has given my father the spirit to write more.

  We begin. There are long moments of silence as he creates Quiller and I look at his etched face, backlit from the desert light. Sometimes whole minutes drift by when I feel I am holding a flame that has been burning for years and the slightest breath will extinguish it forever. Then a word or a sentence, then more silence. The nurses know he is writing and stay in the living room.

  'That's it.'

  My father speaks the words in a slow voice. He turns as I turn and we look at each other, a few inches between us, he on his throne of pillows, me with a shaking laptop on my knees.

  I hold his hand and burst into tears, for the significance of the words – 'That's it' – is too great. There's only one person who could show such unimaginable restraint and wrap up a wholelife with those two words. I will never forget this moment.

  I press some keys to shut down the computer and stare at thescreen, which has never looked so black. I mumble something, go into the living room and tell Chaille he has finished his book.

  Later I go into his office. The floor is covered in research material, city maps from Russia, letters from the Pentagon. plot notes are stuck to the walls. I look around. His worn black karate belt on a hook. Incense sticks. A police and fire scanner. Paintings by Chaille. KGB Death and Rebirth on the floor. Two Boken martial-arts training swords on the wall. On his desk are quartz crystals and Fool's Gold from the Arizona mountains, a manual on interrogation, a small bowl of protein wafers, an acupuncture needle, Tibetan chimes and a spinning disc with prismatic colours. My father likes things that sparkle.

  I sit at his desk for the first time. In front of me, on the shelves spanning the entire room, is his life's work.

  On the desk is his typewriter which he will never use again. Dust is already gathering on the keys. This is too much and I sit here in a veil of tears. There is something so horribly final about this typewriter that will never form words again. And when I look at the awesome body of work in front of me – over a hundred novels, dozens of foreign editions, the awards, ten motion pictures – I see a labour of more than fifty years of creating worlds for other people to share. I realise I am looking at my father and I feel buried in grief.

  I return to his room. All I want to do is take his weary head in my hands and hold it for a long time, but I don't. I lean forward, put my face next to his.

  'I've always loved you,' I tell him.

  'I've always loved you, too.'

  It floods out of me.

  'Go ahead, let it rip,' my father says while I hold him in my arms.

  Chaille and I sit on his bed, my father between us. We talk about his leaving. In the Rembrandt light of the desert evening reflecting off the outside wall, I sit next to my father and time doesn't mean much anymore.

  He slept better last night and wears his red kimono. His eyes are open and look at somewhere far beyond the walls. He might hear the wind chimes outside.

  Slowly, over the following hour, my father turns his head slightly around and upwards, focusing on something not in this world. Chaille and I don't say much. Are words important now?

  Just the three of us in this room. Waiting for a signal.

  He stays looking up into his Universe, like Wednesday's child, shallow breathing, almost not visible, but still there.

  Chaille and I are on either side of my father. There are almost no sounds – Katrina's bell collar, our breathing. I pray.

  My father lies under a lake of pink blanket looking like a noble Tibetan monk. Charlie, the soft-toy bear I bought him, on his knee.

  'It's safe, you're safe,' I say to him.

  I briefly look at Chaille because I don't think I saw his last breath. She looks back, not certain.

  Another breath.

  I hold mine.

  My father swallows twice, gently with no sound.

  Chaille says something to me but I don't hear it.

  Now it comes. The storm breaks loose in my body and I bury my face in his pillows.

  Finally I understand the meaning of the last words of his last novel, Quiller Balalaika…

  At 4.10 p.m. on July 21, 1995 my father spread his great wings and took his final flight.

  On July 31, Chaille and I took my father's ashes in a beautiful casket to the top of a 7000-foot mountain in north east Arizona where we sipped Fernet Branca – Quiller's favourite drink.

  Jean-Pierre Trevor Los Angeles, September 1995

  Elleston Trevor

  ***

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