Alex remembered his hours of training. First, make sure the enemy are no longer a threat. He and the Tank checked the sixteen bodies. Fifteen were dead, but one lay writhing in agony, blood pouring from his mouth and stomach, aware that death was only moments away. Alex remembered the second order; he raised his gun and pointed it directly at the young man’s forehead, but although it might have been described in the handbook as a mercy killing, he couldn’t pull the trigger.
The third order was to check your own men, and evacuate the wounded, followed by the dead, who must be returned to their homeland and buried with full honors, not left to rot on a foreign field. And then the final order. The officer in command and any non-commissioned officers must be the last to leave the battlefield.
Alex left the dying North Vietnamese soldier and rushed to Lowell’s side. The lieutenant was unconscious. Alex checked his pulse, a faint beat. The Tank lifted him gently onto his shoulder and carried him through the undergrowth to the waiting helicopter, before coming back to assist the walking wounded to safety. When he returned to the scene of the battle, he found Alex kneeling over the bodies of Baker and Boyle. They were the last to be placed aboard the second helicopter before it rose into the air.
The rest of the unit struggled up the hill toward a small open space as the third helicopter came in to land. Alex waited until everyone was on board, before he turned around to make a final check of the battlefield.
That was when he saw him. Somehow the one surviving Vietcong had managed to haul himself onto his knees and was aiming his rifle directly at Alex.
The Tank leaped off the helicopter and ran down the hill toward him, firing at the same time. Alex could only watch as the lone Vietcong soldier was jolted backward, a full clip of bullets hitting him, but he still managed to pull the trigger once.
As if he was watching in slow motion, Alex saw the Tank fall to his knees and collapse on the ground next to the dead Vietcong soldier. Moments later Alex was bending over his friend. “No!” he screamed. “No, no, no!”
It took four men to carry the lifeless body back up the hill and place it inside the third helicopter. Alex was the last to climb on board and felt ashamed that he had allowed his closest friend to die.
22
SASHA
London
When the elderly lady entered the drawing room, few would have doubted that Countess Molenski was a genuine aristocrat. Her long black pencil skirt and high-necked jacket were of another age, but it was her bearing and demeanor that could not have been taught, even at drama school. She was simply old-school, and both Sasha and Mike rose automatically when she entered the room. As did Elena.
Mr. Dangerfield had choreographed the meeting so that nothing would be left to chance. The countess was guided to the only empty place, on the couch next to Sasha, while Elena and the rest of the family were seated on the other side of a table on which the egg was displayed. Once Mrs. Dangerfield had poured the countess a cup of tea, and offered her a slice of Madeira cake, which she declined, Sasha opened by asking her in her native tongue, “How long have you been living in England, countess?”
“More years than I care to remember,” she replied. “But it’s always a joy to come across a fellow countryman. May I ask where you are from?”
“Leningrad. And you?”
“I was born in Saint Petersburg,” replied the countess, “which rather shows my age.”
“Did you live in one of those magnificent palaces on the hill?”
“There are no hills in Leningrad, Mr. Karpenko, as you well know.”
“How silly of me,” said Sasha. “I apologize.”
“No need. But as you’ve clearly been sent on a fishing expedition, are there any more hoops you’d like me to jump through?”
Sasha was so embarrassed he couldn’t think of a reply.
“Shall I begin by telling you about my dear father, Count Molenski? He was a close personal friend of the late Tsar Nicholas the Second. Not only did they share private tutors in their youth, but several mistresses in later years.”
Once again, Sasha was silenced.
“But what I’m sure you really want to know,” continued the countess, “is how I came into possession of the masterpiece you see before you, and even more important, how I am certain it was fashioned by the hand of Carl Fabergé, and not an impostor.”
“You’re right, countess, I would be fascinated to know.”
“There is no need for you to address me quite so formally, Mr. Karpenko. I long ago accepted that those days are over, and that I must now live in the real world, and like anyone else who finds herself in impoverished circumstances, recognize that I have no choice but to part with some of my family heirlooms if I hope to survive.” Sasha bowed his head. “My father’s private art collection was acknowledged as second only to the tsar’s, although Papa only owned one Fabergé egg, as it would have been considered disrespectful to attempt to outdo the tsar.”
“But how can you be sure that this particular egg was executed by Fabergé himself, and is not, as I believe several experts claim, a fake?”
“Several experts with a motive,” said the countess. “The truth is, I can’t prove it, but I can tell you that the first time I saw the egg was when I was twelve years old. Indeed, it was my youthful clumsiness that was responsible for a tiny scratch on the base, which is almost invisible to the naked eye.”
“Assuming that it is the original,” said Sasha, looking at the egg, “I’m bound to ask why you offered the piece to Mr. Dangerfield, whose expertise couldn’t be more English—Sheraton, Hepplewhite, and Chippendale are his daily fare, not Fabergé.”
“Reputation is not easily acquired, Mr. Karpenko, but has to be earned over many years, and honesty can no longer be taken for granted, which is why I allowed the egg out of my possession for the first time in twenty years. Had I entrusted it to one of our countrymen, they would have only needed a few days to replace my masterpiece with a fake. I have become aware that such a thought would never cross Mr. Dangerfield’s mind. So it is his advice that I shall be taking.”
Sasha folded his arms, the agreed sign that his mother should take his place, and continue the conversation in Russian. He stood up, gave the countess a slight bow, and walked across the room to sit between Charlie and her father.
“Well?” said Mr. Dangerfield, once the countess was deep in conversation with Elena. “What do you think?”
“I have no doubt that she’s exactly who she claims she is,” were Sasha’s opening words.
“How can you be so sure?” said Mr. Dangerfield, whose tea had long since gone cold.
“She speaks a form of Russian court language that is frankly from another age, and that you rarely come across today outside the pages of Pasternak.”
“And the egg, is that also out of the pages of Pasternak?”
* * *
Sasha seemed to be the only person who was surprised when he was elected—by a landslide—as the next president of the Union.
Fiona clearly didn’t enjoy having to read out the result to a packed audience. Ben finally made treasurer, and he and Sasha spent their Christmas holiday planning the next term’s debates. They were delighted when the Education Secretary, Mrs. Thatcher, agreed to speak in defense of the government’s policies for the opening debate, because there were several leading politicians who were only too happy to oppose the “milk snatcher.”
Full terms at Cambridge are eight weeks long, and although Sasha attempted to survive on as little sleep as possible, he still couldn’t believe how quickly his fifty-six days in office as president passed. No sooner had he stepped down from the high chair, than his supervisor reminded him that finals were fast approaching.
“And if you’re still hoping for a first,” Dr. Streator reminded him, “I suggest you now devote the same amount of energy to your studies as you did to becoming president of the Union.”
Sasha heeded Dr. Streator’s advice, and continued to survive on
six hours’ sleep a night while he spent every waking hour revising, studying past examination papers, translating long passages of Tolstoy, and rereading his old essays right up until the moment he climbed the steps of the examination hall to sit his first paper.
Charlie and Ben joined him for a quick supper every evening to discuss their own efforts, and what they thought might come up the following day. Sasha would then return to his room and continue revising, often falling asleep at his desk, and feeling less and less confident as each day passed.
“The harder I work,” he told Ben, “the more I realize how little I know.”
“That’s why I don’t work at all,” said Ben.
When Sasha handed in his final paper to the examiners on Friday afternoon, the three of them opened a bottle of champagne and celebrated long into the small hours. Sasha ended up in bed with Charlie, although it had proved quite an effort to climb up the fire escape, and he fell asleep even before she’d turned out the light.
There then followed that agonizing period when undergraduates have to wait for the examiners to decide which class of degree they consider them worthy of. A fortnight later, the three of them trooped across to the Senate House to learn their fate.
As 10 a.m. struck, the senior proctor, in his long black gown and mortarboard, walked sedately along the corridor, bearing the results in his hand. A hush descended on the undergraduates, who parted to allow him to pass, as if he were Moses approaching the Red Sea.
With considerable ceremony, he pinned several sheets of paper to the noticeboard, before turning and progressing as slowly as before in the opposite direction, only just avoiding being trampled in the stampede that followed.
Sasha protected Charlie as they made their way toward the front. Ben didn’t move, remaining at the back of the scrum, not at all sure he wanted to know the examiners’ opinion of his efforts.
Long before Sasha had reached the front, several new graduands who passed him on their way back doffed their mortarboards, while a few even applauded. A starred first was rare enough in any subject, and only one name appeared at the head of the list for the Modern and Medieval Languages tripos.
Charlie threw her arms around Sasha, having checked his result before looking for hers. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.
“And what did you get?” he asked.
“An upper second, which is about as much as I could have hoped for. It means I’ll still have a chance of being offered a research post at the Courtauld.”
They looked around to see that Ben still hadn’t moved. Charlie turned back and ran a finger down the Land Economy list. It was some time before she reached the name Cohen.
“Will you tell him,” she said, “or shall I?”
Sasha marched up to his friend, shook him firmly by the hand, and said, “You got a third.” He didn’t add that the name of Cohen, B. S., appeared near the foot of the table.
Ben let out a sigh of relief. “Should anyone ever ask,” he said, clutching the lapels of his jacket, “I shall tell them I graduated with honors, and will be joining my father at Cohen and Son.”
Their laughter was interrupted by raucous cheers coming from a small group on the other side of the hall, who were throwing their mortarboards in the air and toasting their heroine with champagne.
“Fiona obviously got a first,” said Ben. “I have a feeling you two will continue to be rivals long after you’ve left Cambridge.”
“Especially as I’ve decided to join the Labour Party,” said Sasha.
23
ALEX
Brooklyn
Alex looked out of the cabin window as the plane began its slow descent over Manhattan. A break in the clouds allowed him a fleeting glance at the Statue of Liberty, and as they’d never been properly introduced, he gave her a mock salute.
When he’d first sailed up the Hudson, he’d been unable to pay his compliments to the lady as he and his mother had been locked in the ship’s galley. But thanks to a resourceful Chinese man and the courage and determination of Dimitri, they had escaped and been able to begin a new life in America.
Staff Sergeant Karpenko had sat at the back of the plane and spent most of the flight home thinking about what he would do once he was back on American soil. If only to please his mother, he would complete his studies at NYU. She had made so many sacrifices to make sure he graduated. Although in truth, he knew that the path he wanted to tread was not one that required any letters after his name, not that he would ever be able to explain that to his mother.
He would have to devote every spare moment to his eleven stalls, and make sure they were quickly back up to scratch, and then find out if any more were available. When he had left for Vietnam they had been making a handsome profit, and expansion had been uppermost in his mind. Perhaps one day he would buy out Mr. Wolfe and own the whole of Market Square.
And then there was Addie. Had she missed him as much as he’d missed her?
* * *
Troop plane after troop plane landed on a runway that even New Yorkers didn’t know existed.
The 116th Infantry Division, together with a thousand of their comrades, disembarked and assembled on the tarmac for their final parade. Along with many of his comrades, when he stepped onto the runway Alex fell to his knees and kissed the ground, relieved to be back home.
It was the first time he’d thought of America as home.
They all waited to be dismissed so they could return to their homes across the United States, civilians once again. But there was to be a surprise that morning that Alex hadn’t anticipated.
When Colonel Haskins had finished his speech of welcome, he called out one name. Staff Sergeant Karpenko marched up, came to a halt in front of his commanding officer, and saluted.
“Congratulations, sergeant,” said the colonel, as he pinned the Silver Star on his uniform.
Before Alex could ask what for, the colonel announced to the assembled gathering that at the height of the battle of Bacon Hill, Staff Sergeant Karpenko had taken the place of his unit commander after he had fallen, led an attack that wiped out an enemy patrol, and been responsible for saving the lives of several of his comrades.
And caused the death of my closest friend, was Alex’s only thought as he marched back to join his unit.
He had wanted to protest that the award should have been given posthumously to the Tank, who had made the ultimate sacrifice. Alex would visit Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, and lay a wreath on the grave of his friend, Private First Class Samuel T. Burrows.
Once the parade had been dismissed, Alex was surrounded by his comrades, who congratulated him, while they all celebrated friendships forged by war. He wondered if he would ever see any of them again, after they’d disappeared in fifty different directions.
As the men broke up, they went in search of their families and friends who had been waiting patiently behind a barrier at the far end of the airfield. Alex hoped Addie would be among them. Her letters hadn’t been quite as frequent recently, but Alex had no doubt that along with his mother they would both be among those waving and cheering. His mother had dutifully written to him every week, and although Elena never once complained, it was clear that she and Dimitri were not enjoying their roles as temporary entrepreneurs. Now Elena could return to what she did best, and Dimitri could sign on for the next ship bound for Leningrad.
Alex joined an excited group of exuberant young men as the impatient crowd broke ranks and began running toward them.
He searched the vast crowd for Addie and his mother. But with so many people jumping up and down, waving flags, and pointing, it was some time before he spotted Elena making her way through the dense mob, Dimitri a pace behind, but no sign of Addie.
Elena threw her arms around her son and clung on to him, as if wanting to make sure he was real. When she finally released him, he shook hands with Dimitri, who couldn’t take his eyes off the Silver Star.
“Welcome home,” he said. “We’re all so proud
of you.”
There were so many questions Alex wanted to ask, and so many things he needed to tell them, that he didn’t know where to begin. As they walked away from the crowded runway, it was hard to hear anything above the joyful, exuberant noise that was coming from every direction.
It wasn’t until they had settled into the back of a bus bound for Brooklyn that Alex noticed that all the joy had disappeared from his mother’s face, and Dimitri’s head was bowed, like an errant schoolboy who’d been found playing truant.
“It can’t be that bad,” said Alex, in an attempt to cheer them up.
“Worse,” said Elena, “far worse than you can possibly imagine. While you’ve been away fighting for your country, we’ve lost almost everything you’d managed to build.”
Alex took her hand. “It can’t be worse than seeing your closest friend killed in front of you. So tell me, what should I expect when I get home?”
Elena offered a weak smile. “We only have one stall left, and it’s barely making a profit.”
“How can that be possible?” said Alex. He knew from her letters that Elena and Dimitri had been experiencing difficult times, but he hadn’t realized things were quite that bad.
“I’m to blame,” said Dimitri. “I wasn’t always around when your mother most needed me.”
“Yes he was,” said Elena. “I wouldn’t have survived without his wages while you were away.”
“But surely that was enough to get by until…”
“Not nearly enough for Mr. Wolfe.”
“So what’s the old crook been up to in my absence?”
“Whenever one of your licenses expired, he doubled the rent,” said Elena. “We simply couldn’t afford to pay what he was demanding, so we ended up losing all but one of the stalls. The final license comes up for renewal in a couple of months, and recently he’s been tripling the price for a new one.”
“It’s been the same for everyone,” said Dimitri. “When you get home, you’ll see that the market has become a ghost town.”
Heads You Win Page 20
