Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  “The question was addressed to Mrs. Karpenko, not you,” the officer said equally firmly.

  “The KGB killed my husband,” said Elena, unable to hold back the tears.

  “Why?” demanded the officer. “Was he a criminal?”

  “No!” said Elena, raising her head in defiance. “Konstantin was a good man. He was the works supervisor at the Leningrad docks, and they killed him when he tried to set up a trade union.”

  “They kill you for that in the Soviet Union?” said the officer in disbelief.

  “Yes,” said Elena, bowing her head once again.

  “How did you and your son manage to escape?”

  “My brother, who also worked on the docks, helped smuggle us onto a ship bound for America.”

  “With the help of your cousin, no doubt,” said the officer, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes,” said Dimitri. “Her brother, Kolya, is a brave man, and with God’s help we will get him out as well, because he hates the communists every bit as much as we do.”

  The mention of God’s help and hatred of the communists brought a smile to the officer’s face. He filled in several more boxes.

  “Are you willing to act as a sponsor for Mrs. Karpenko and her son?” the officer asked Dimitri.

  “Yes, sir,” responded Dimitri without hesitation. “They will live at my home in Brighton Beach, and as Elena is an excellent cook it shouldn’t be too difficult for her to find a job.”

  “And the boy?”

  “I want him to continue his education,” said Elena.

  “Good,” said the officer, who finally turned his attention to Alex. “What is your name?”

  “Alexander Konstantinovitch Karpenko,” he announced proudly.

  “And have you been working hard at school?”

  “Yes, sir, I was top of the class.”

  “Then you will be able to tell me the name of the President of the United States.”

  Elena and Dimitri looked anxious. “Lyndon B. Johnson,” said Alex without hesitation. How could he forget the name of the man Vladimir had described as the Soviet Union’s greatest enemy, which only made Alex assume he must be a good man?

  The officer nodded, filled in the final box, and added his signature to the bottom of the form. He looked up, smiled at the boy, and said, “I have a feeling, Alex, you’ll do well in America.”

  8

  SASHA

  En route to London

  Sasha was sitting in the corner of the railway carriage when the 3:35 shunted out of Southampton station on its way to London. He stared out of the window but didn’t speak, because his mind was far away in his homeland. He was beginning to wonder if they’d made a terrible mistake.

  He hadn’t said a word since they’d climbed on board, while Elena didn’t stop chatting to Mr. Moretti about his restaurant as the train rattled through the countryside toward the capital.

  Sasha couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before they eventually began to slow down and the train pulled into a station called Waterloo. Sasha immediately thought of Wellington, and wondered if there was a Trafalgar station. When they came to a halt, Sasha took Mr. Moretti’s bags off the rack, and followed his mother onto the platform.

  The first thing Sasha noticed was how many men were wearing hats: flat caps, homburgs, and bowlers, which his teacher back home had claimed simply reminded everyone of their position in society. He was also struck by how many women were strolling along the platform unaccompanied. Only loose women were unaccompanied in Leningrad, he’d once heard his mother say. He’d had to later ask his father what a loose woman was.

  Mr. Moretti handed over three tickets at the barrier, before leading his charges out of the station where they joined the back of a long queue. Something else the British were renowned for. Sasha’s mouth opened wide when he caught sight of his first red double-decker bus. He ran up the spiral stairs to the top deck, and took a seat at the front before Mr. Moretti could stop him. He was captivated by the panoramic view that stretched as far as the eye could see. So many cars of different shapes, sizes, and colors that stopped whenever a traffic light turned red. There weren’t many traffic lights in Leningrad, but then there weren’t many cars.

  The bus stopped again and again to allow passengers on and off, but it was still several more stops before Mr. Moretti stood up and headed back down the spiral staircase. Once they were on the pavement Sasha kept stopping every few moments to gaze inside shop windows. A tobacconist that sold so many different brands of cigarettes and cigars, as well as pipes, which brought back memories of his father. In another, a man was sitting in a large leather chair having his hair cut. Sasha’s mother always cut his hair. Didn’t this man have a mother? A cake shop where he would have liked to take a closer look, but he had to keep up with Mr. Moretti. Another shop that displayed only watches. Why would anyone need a watch when there were so many church clocks all around them? A women’s boutique, where Sasha stood mesmerized when he saw his first miniskirt. Elena grabbed him firmly by the arm and pulled him away. He didn’t have time to stop again until he saw a sign swaying in the breeze, proclaiming MORETTI’S.

  This time it was Elena who peered inside to admire the neatly laid tables with their spotless red and white checked tablecloths, folded napkins, and fine bone china. Waiters in smart white jackets bustled around, attentively serving their customers. But Moretti continued walking until he reached a side door, which he unlocked, and beckoned them to follow. They climbed a dimly lit staircase to the first floor, where Moretti opened another door.

  “The flat is very small,” he admitted, standing aside to let them in. “My wife and I lived here when we were first married.”

  Elena didn’t mention that it was larger than their unit in Leningrad, and far better furnished. She walked into a front room that overlooked the main road just as a motorbike revved by. She’d never experienced traffic noise or congestion before. She inspected the little kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms. Sasha immediately inhabited the smaller one. He collapsed onto the bed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

  “Time for you to meet the chef,” whispered Moretti.

  The two of them left Sasha sleeping and returned downstairs. Moretti walked into the restaurant and took her through to the kitchen. Elena thought she’d arrived in heaven. Everything she’d requested when she was in Leningrad, and so much more, was there before her.

  Moretti introduced her to the chef, and explained how he’d met Elena while on the return journey to England. The chef listened attentively to his boss but didn’t look convinced.

  “Why don’t you take a couple of days finding out how we do things here, Mrs. Karpenko,” the chef suggested, “before I decide where you might fit in.”

  It only took Elena a couple of hours before she was assisting the sous-chef, and long before the last customer had departed the chef’s expression of condescension had turned to one of respect for the lady from Leningrad.

  Elena returned to her flat just after midnight, utterly exhausted. She looked in on Sasha, who was still lying on his bed, fully dressed and fast asleep. She took off his shoes and pulled a blanket over him. The first thing she must do in the morning was find the right school for him.

  Mr. Moretti even had ideas on that subject.

  * * *

  Elena tried to focus, and not think about what was going on in the dining room, even though Sasha’s future could well depend on it. She set about preparing Mr. Quilter’s favorite dish long before he arrived.

  Mr. Moretti guided the gentleman and his wife to a corner table usually reserved for regulars or important customers.

  Mr. and Mrs. Quilter were not regulars. They fell into the category of anniversaries and special occasions. However, Mr. Moretti had instructed his staff to treat them as VIPs.

  He handed them both a menu. “Can I get you a drink?” he asked Mr. Quilter.

  “Just a glass of water for now. I’ll choose a bottle of wine once we’ve decided what we�
��re going to eat.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Moretti. He left them to study their menus and went through to the kitchen. “They’ve arrived. I’ve put them on table eleven,” he announced.

  The chef nodded. He rarely spoke unless it was to bawl out one of his sous-chefs, although, he had to admit, life had become a lot easier since the arrival of their latest recruit. Mrs. Karpenko also rarely spoke as she went about preparing each dish with skill and pride. It had taken less than a week for the normally skeptical chef to admit that a rare talent had appeared at Moretti’s, and he warned the boss that he feared it wouldn’t be long before she wanted to move on and run her own kitchen.

  Mr. Moretti returned to the dining room and whispered to the head-waiter, “I’ll be taking the order for table eleven, Gino.” When he saw the special guest close his menu, he quickly moved across to their table. “Have you decided what you’d like, madam?” he asked Mrs. Quilter, removing a small pad and pen from his jacket pocket.

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll start with the avocado salad, and as it’s a special occasion, I’ll have the Dover sole.”

  “An excellent choice, madam. And for you, sir?”

  “Parma ham and melon, and I’ll also have the Dover sole. And perhaps you could recommend a wine that would complement the fish?”

  “Perhaps the Pouilly-Fuissé?” said Moretti, pointing to the third wine on a long list.

  “That looks fine,” said Quilter after checking the price.

  Moretti hurried away and told his sommelier that table eleven would have the Pouilly-Fuissé. “Premier Cru,” he added.

  “Premier Cru?” the waiter repeated, only to receive a curt nod.

  Moretti retreated to a corner and watched the sommelier uncork a bottle and pour out some wine for the customer to taste. Mr. Quilter sipped it.

  “Magnificent,” he said, looking a little puzzled. “I think you’ll enjoy this, my dear,” he added as the sommelier filled his wife’s glass.

  Although the restaurant was full that night, Mr. Moretti’s eyes rarely left the customers on table eleven, and as soon as the main courses had been cleared away he returned to ask if they would like a dessert.

  The smile that appeared on Mr. Quilter’s lips after he tasted the first mouthful of Elena’s crème brûlée could have left no one in any doubt how much he enjoyed it. “Worthy of Trinity,” he mumbled when their empty dishes were whisked away, leaving Moretti none the wiser.

  Mr. Moretti remained in a corner of the restaurant until the special guest asked a passing waiter for the bill, at which point he made his way back to table eleven.

  “What a wonderful meal,” Mr. Quilter said as he ran a finger down the bill. He took out his checkbook, filled in the figures, and added a generous tip. He handed the check to Mr. Moretti, who tore it in half.

  Mr. and Mrs. Quilter were unable to hide their surprise. “I don’t understand,” Mr. Quilter eventually managed.

  “I need a favor, sir,” said Moretti.

  * * *

  Elena straightened Sasha’s tie, and stood back to take a careful look at her son. He was dressed in his Sunday best, a recent purchase from a local church jumble sale. The suit may have been a little on the large size, but nothing a needle and thread hadn’t taken care of.

  Mr. Moretti had given Elena the morning off, although he was just as nervous about the outcome as she was. A red double-decker bus transported mother and son to the next borough, and they got off outside a vast set of wrought-iron gates. They walked through into a courtyard, where Elena asked one of the boys for directions to the headmaster’s office.

  “How nice to meet you both,” said Mr. Quilter, when his secretary ushered them into his study. “Now, I know Mr. Sutton is expecting us, so let’s not keep him waiting.”

  Elena and Sasha obediently followed Mr. Quilter out of the room and into a crowded corridor, full of smartly dressed, exuberant young boys, who immediately stood aside when they saw the headmaster heading toward them. Elena admired their smart blue monogrammed uniforms with dismay.

  The headmaster stopped outside a classroom with the words MR. SUTTON MA (OXON) painted on the pebbled glass. He knocked, opened the door, and led the candidate in.

  A man wearing a long black academic gown over his suit rose from his desk as they entered his classroom.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Karpenko,” said the senior mathematics master. “My name is Arnold Sutton, and I’m delighted you were both able to join us today. I’ll be conducting the examination.”

  “How nice to meet you, Mr. Sutton,” said Elena as they shook hands.

  “You must be Sasha,” he said, giving the boy a warm smile. “Please, take a seat and I will explain what we have planned.”

  “Meanwhile, Mrs. Karpenko,” said the headmaster, “perhaps we should return to my study while the test is taking place.”

  Once the headmaster and Elena had left the room, Mr. Sutton turned his attention to the young applicant.

  “Sasha,” he said, opening a file and extracting three sheets of paper, “this is the mathematics examination that was taken by those pupils who wished to enter the sixth form of Latymer Upper.” He placed the three pages on the desk in front of Sasha. “The time allocated for the test is one hour, and I suggest you read each question carefully before answering it. Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.” The schoolmaster checked his watch. “I’ll warn you when you have fifteen minutes left.”

  * * *

  “You do understand, Mrs. Karpenko,” said Mr. Quilter as they walked back down the corridor, “that the exam your son is sitting is not only for pupils hoping to enter the sixth form here at Latymer, but also for those preparing to go on to university.”

  “That’s no more than I would want for Sasha,” said Elena.

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Karpenko. But I must warn you that he will have to get sixty-five percent to pass. If he does, we would be delighted to offer him a place at Latymer Upper.”

  “Then I must warn you, Mr. Quilter, that I couldn’t afford the school uniform, let alone the fees.”

  The headmaster hesitated. “We do offer places for pupils in, shall we say, straitened circumstances. And of course,” he added quickly, “we award academic scholarships for exceptionally gifted children.” Elena didn’t look convinced. “Can I offer you a coffee?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Quilter. I’m sure you must be very busy, so please go back to work. I’m perfectly happy to read a magazine while I’m waiting.”

  “That’s most considerate of you,” said the headmaster, “Yes I do have rather a lot of paperwork to be getting on with. But I’ll return just as soon as—”

  The door was flung open and Mr. Sutton burst in even before the headmaster could finish his sentence. He walked quickly across to Mr. Quilter and whispered in his ear.

  “Would you be kind enough to wait here, Mrs. Karpenko?” said the headmaster. “I will be back shortly.”

  “Is there a problem?” asked Elena anxiously, but the two men had already left the room.

  “You say he finished the exam in twenty minutes? That barely seems possible.”

  “What’s even more incredible,” said Sutton, almost on the run, “he scored a hundred percent, and frankly looked bored.” He opened the door of his classroom to allow the headmaster to enter.

  “Karpenko,” said Quilter, after he’d glanced at a long row of ticks, “can I ask if you’ve ever seen this paper before?”

  “No, sir.”

  The headmaster studied the pupil’s answers more carefully, before asking, “Would you be willing to answer a couple of oral questions?”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  The headmaster nodded to Mr. Sutton.

  “Karpenko, if I throw three dice,” said Sutton, “what is the probability that the result will be a total of ten?”

  The would-be scholar picked up his pen and began to write out various combinations of three number
s. Four minutes later, he put the pen down and said, “One in eight, sir.”

  “Remarkable,” said Sutton. He smiled at the headmaster, who, as a classicist, was none the wiser. “My second question is, if you were offered odds of ten to one that you couldn’t throw ten with three dice, would you accept the bet?”

  “Of course, sir,” said Sasha without hesitation, “because on average, I would win every eight throws. But I would want to place at least a hundred bets before I would consider it to be statistically reliable.”

  Mr. Sutton turned to Mr. Quilter and said, “Headmaster, please don’t allow this boy to go to any other school.”

  9

  ALEX

  En route to Brooklyn

  Alex gazed into a dark hole that masses of people were rushing into. “Follow me,” said Dimitri, as he led his reluctant charges down a narrow flight of steps, before coming to a halt in front of a ticket barrier. He purchased three tickets, then they made their way onto a long dirty platform.

  Alex heard a rumbling sound in the distance, like the prelude to a thunderstorm, and then out of a vast cavern at the far end of the platform appeared a train like no other train he’d ever seen before. In Leningrad the stations were carved in green marble, the carriages were clean, and it was only the passengers who were gray.

  “You’ll get used to it,” said Dimitri, as the doors slid open. “Ten stops, and we’ll be in Brooklyn.” But neither of them was listening, both preoccupied with their own thoughts.

  Alex looked around the carriage and noticed that no two people were alike, and they were all chattering away in different languages. In Leningrad, passengers rarely spoke to each other, and if they did, it was always in Russian. He was fascinated. Elena looked overwhelmed.

  Alex followed the names of the stations on a little map above the carriage door: Bowling Green, Borough Hall, Atlantic Avenue, Prospect Park, came and went, and he never stopped watching the passengers as they got on and off. When the train finally pulled into Brighton Beach, Dimitri led his two charges out onto the platform. Another escalator took them up, and after they stepped off at the top, Dimitri showed them how to feed their little tokens into a turnstile. They emerged into the sunlight, and Alex was struck by how many people were walking up and down the sidewalk, all of them at a speed he’d never experienced. Everyone seemed to be in such a hurry. The road was just as busy, with cars the size of tanks blasting their horns at anyone who dared to step into their path. Dimitri didn’t seem to be aware of the noise. Alex was also mystified by the gaudy colors daubed on walls, even doorways. Graffiti, Dimitri explained, something else he’d never seen in Leningrad. A droning sound caused him to look up, where he spotted a plane that seemed to be falling out of the sky. He stood still, horrified, until Dimitri burst out laughing.