When he heard voices outside in the corridor he rushed across to the window and pushed it open. As he stepped out onto the fire escape, someone began banging on his door. He climbed down the ladder, checking up and down, unsure where the danger was more likely to come from. When he reached the bottom rung, he looked up to see one of the thugs staring down at him from the window of his room.
“There he is!” the man shouted, as he dropped onto the pavement.
Three other men were standing in the hotel’s entrance staring all around them, so he quickly headed off in the opposite direction. He looked over his shoulder to see one of the men pointing, and then he started running down the hotel steps toward him.
Alex turned into a side street and broke into a run, aware that his pursuer couldn’t be far behind. He could see a main road looming up in front of him but didn’t stop running, narrowly missing being knocked over by a tram. He ran after the moving vehicle, praying it would stop. It squealed to a halt about a hundred yards ahead of him, sparks flying into the air. He wished he hadn’t missed so many training sessions.
Looking back, Alex saw his pursuers rounding the corner. He leaped through the tram doors moments before they closed, flung a kopek at the driver, remembering how much he paid the airport taxi, before slumping down into an empty seat near the back. He stared out of the window to see his pursuer, head down, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath. Alex knew only too well that within minutes the spider’s web of KGB operatives would be fanning out across the city in search of an American wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt, blue tie, and penny loafers. So much for going native.
He slumped down in his seat, aware of the occasional surreptitious glance from the other passengers—in Russia everyone’s a spy—as a succession of familiar landmarks from his youth passed by. And then he remembered that in a couple more stops they would be outside the main railway terminal—the end of the line.
When the tram pulled up outside Moskovsky station, he joined the trickle of passengers getting off. He walked cautiously toward the entrance, wary of anyone dressed in a uniform, or even standing still. Just as he reached a large archway, he ducked into the shadows, hoping for a few uninterrupted moments to form some sort of plan.
“Are you looking for someone?”
Alex turned in panic to see a slim young boy smiling at him.
“How much?” asked Alex.
“Ten dollars.”
“Where?”
“I’ve got a place just around the corner. If you’re interested, follow me.”
Alex nodded, but was careful to remain a few paces behind the youth as they walked down a dimly lit alley. And then, without warning, he ducked into a dilapidated prewar tenement block, not unlike the one Alex had grown up in. Alex climbed three flights of littered steps, before the boy opened a door and beckoned him inside.
The boy held out his hand and Alex gave him ten dollars.
“Are you looking for any particular service?” the boy asked, like a waiter offering him a menu.
“No. Just get undressed.”
The boy looked surprised, but carried out the request, until he stood there in his underwear. Alex took off his jacket, trousers, and tie, and pulled on the boy’s jeans, but found he couldn’t do up the top button.
“Do you have a jacket of any kind?”
The boy looked puzzled, but took him through to his bedroom, opened the wardrobe, and stood aside. Alex selected a loose tracksuit top that stank of marijuana, and rejected a New York Yankees baseball cap. There was no mirror to check how he looked, but it had to be better than a Brooks Brothers suit.
“Now listen carefully,” said Alex, taking a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. The boy couldn’t take his eyes off the money. “No more jobs tonight. Once I’ve gone, you lock your door and wait here until I come back, when you’ll get another of these.” He waved the bill in front of him. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just be sure you’re here when I get back.”
“I will be, I will be.”
Alex handed over the money and without another word left the boy standing in his underpants, looking as if he’d won the lottery. He waited until he heard the key turn in the lock before making his way cautiously back down the steps and out onto the street, mingling with the locals entering the crowded station. But when he was only yards away from the entrance, Alex spotted a policeman, eyes searching in every direction. It wasn’t difficult for Alex to work out who he was looking for. He turned back and walked slowly toward the main road. The policeman wasn’t interested in anyone leaving the station.
He spotted a taxi in the distance heading toward him, and raised a hand, quite forgetting what had happened at the airport when he’d first arrived in Leningrad. The taxi, three other cars, and an ambulance immediately pulled over, all wanting to give him a lift. Alex decided the ambulance would be his safest bet. He opened the passenger door and joined the driver on the front seat.
“Where are you heading?” asked the young man in Russian.
“The airport.”
“That’s going to cost you.”
Alex produced another hundred-dollar bill.
“That should do it,” said the driver, who pushed the gear lever into first, swept around in a semicircle, ignoring the cacophony of protesting horns, and sped off in the opposite direction.
Alex considered his next problem. Surely the airport would be just as risky as the station, but his thoughts were interrupted when he spotted a police car parked at a roadblock up ahead, and two officers checking licenses.
“Stop!” shouted Alex.
“What’s the problem?” said the young man, drawing into the curb.
“You don’t want to know. Better I just disappear.”
The driver didn’t comment, but when Alex jumped out, he found the back door of the ambulance open and an outstretched arm beckoning him. He climbed inside and joined a second man who was wearing a green paramedic’s uniform, his left hand held out. Alex knew that look, and produced another hundred-dollar bill.
“Who’s after you?”
“The KGB,” said Alex, knowing that there was a fifty-fifty chance the man either detested them or worked for them.
“Lie down,” said the paramedic, pointing to a stretcher. Alex obeyed him and was quickly covered with a blanket. The man turned to the driver and said, “Put the siren on, Leonid, and don’t slow down. Just go for it.”
The driver obeyed his colleague’s command and was relieved when one of the police officers not only removed the barrier but waved them through. Had they stopped the ambulance, they would have found the patient lying on a stretcher, his head wrapped in bandages, only one eye staring up at them.
“When we reach the airport,” said the paramedic, “where are you hoping to go?”
Alex hadn’t thought about that, but the man answered his own question. “Helsinki will be your best bet,” he said. “They’re more likely to be checking flights heading west. Your Russian is good, but my guess is it’s a long time since you were last in Leningrad.”
“Then Helsinki it is,” said Alex as the ambulance sped on toward the airport. “But how will I get a ticket?”
“Leave that to me,” said the paramedic. The open palm appeared once again, as did another hundred dollars. “Do you have any rubles?” he asked. “Wouldn’t want to draw attention to myself.”
Alex smiled and emptied his wallet of all the rubles Miss Robbins had supplied, which elicited an even wider smile. Not another word was said until they reached the airport, when the ambulance drew into the curb, but the driver left the engine running.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” said the paramedic, before opening the back door and leaping out. It felt like an hour to Alex, although it was no more than a few minutes before the door was opened again. “I’ve got you on a flight to Helsinki,” he said, waving the ticket in triumph. “I even know which gate the plane’s departing from.” H
e turned to Leonid and said, “Head for the emergency entrance, and keep your lights flashing.”
The ambulance shot off again, but Alex had no way of knowing where they were going. It was only a couple of minutes before they stopped when the back door was opened by a guard in a shiny gray uniform. He peered inside, nodded, then closed the door. Another guard raised the barrier, allowing the ambulance to proceed.
“Head for the Aeroflot plane parked at gate forty-two,” the paramedic instructed his colleague.
Alex didn’t like the sound of the word “Aeroflot,” and wondered if he was being led into a trap, but didn’t move until the back door opened once again. He sat up, fearful, anxious, alert, but the paramedic just grinned and handed him a pair of crutches.
“I’ll have to replace them,” he said, and only released the crutches after he received another hundred-dollar bill, almost as if he knew how much Alex had left.
The paramedic accompanied his patient up the steps and onto the aircraft. He handed over the ticket and a wad of cash to a steward, who counted the folded rubles before he even looked at the ticket. The steward pointed to a seat in the front row.
The paramedic helped Alex into his seat, bent down, and offered one final piece of advice, and then left the aircraft before Alex had a chance to thank him. He watched from the cabin window as the ambulance headed slowly back toward the private entrance, no flashing lights, no siren. He stared at the plane’s open door, willing it to be closed. But it wasn’t until the aircraft took off that Alex finally breathed a sigh of relief.
* * *
By the time the plane landed in Helsinki, Alex’s heartbeat was almost back to normal, and he even had a plan.
He had taken the paramedic’s advice, so that when he reached the front of the queue and handed over his passport there was a hundred-dollar bill enclosed where a visa should have been. The officer remained poker-faced as he removed Benjamin Franklin and stamped the empty page.
Once Alex was through customs he headed for the nearest washroom, where he removed his bandages and disposed of them in a bin. He shaved, washed as best he could, and once he was dry, reluctantly put the young man’s clothes back on and went in search of a shop that would solve that particular problem. He emerged from a clothes store thirty minutes later wearing slacks, a white shirt, and a blazer. His loafers were the only thing that had survived.
An hour later Alex boarded an American Airlines flight to New York, and he was enjoying a vodka and tonic by the time the shop assistant came across an old pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and some crutches that had been left in the changing room.
When the plane took off, the steward didn’t ask the first-class passenger what he would like for dinner, or which movie he would be watching, because Alex was already fast asleep. The steward gently lowered the passenger’s seat and covered him with a blanket.
* * *
When Alex landed at JFK the following morning, he called Miss Robbins and asked her to have his car and driver ready to pick him up the moment he arrived at Logan.
During the short flight to Boston, he decided he would go straight home and explain to Anna and Konstantin why he would never be going back to the Soviet Union again.
After he’d disembarked, he was pleased to see Miss Robbins standing outside the arrivals gate waiting for him, a perplexed look on her face.
“It’s wonderful to be home,” he said as he sank down into the back seat of his limousine. “You’ll never believe what I’ve been through, Pamela, and how lucky I was to escape.”
“I’ve heard part of the story, chairman, but I can’t wait to hear your version.”
“So you’ve been told about Major Polyakov and his KGB thugs waiting for me in the hotel restaurant?”
“Would that be the same Colonel Polyakov who died a year ago?” asked Miss Robbins innocently.
“Polyakov is dead?” said Alex in disbelief. “Then who was the man in the restaurant with the two KGB minders?”
“A blind man, his brother, and a friend. They were attending a conference in Leningrad. Jake was just about to tell you he’d spotted his white stick, but by then you were already on the run.”
“But the scar? It was unmistakable.”
“A birthmark.”
“But they broke into my room … I heard him shouting ‘There he is!’”
“That was the night porter. And he didn’t break into your room, because he had a passkey. Jake was standing just behind him and was able to identify you.”
“But someone was chasing me, and I only just managed to jump onto the tram in time.”
“Dick Barrett said he had no idea you could run that fast…”
“And the ambulance, the road block, not to mention—”
“I can’t wait to hear all about the ambulance, the roadblock, and why you didn’t get on your own plane, chairman, where you would have found a message from Jake explaining everything,” said Miss Robbins as the limousine swung off the road and drove through a gate marked PRIVATE. “But that will have to wait until you get back.”
“Where are we going?”
“Not we, chairman, just you. Jake called earlier this morning to say he’s closed the deal with Mr. Pushkin, but a problem has arisen because you told the chairman of the Commercial Bank in Leningrad that the contract wouldn’t be valid without your signature.”
The limousine drew up next to the steps of the bank’s private jet awaiting its only passenger.
“Have a good flight, chairman,” said Miss Robbins.
BOOK FIVE
41
SASHA
London, 1994
“Order! Order!” said the Speaker. “Questions to the Foreign Secretary. Mr. Sasha Karpenko.”
Sasha rose slowly from his place on the opposition front bench, and asked, “Can the Foreign Secretary confirm that Britain will finally be signing the Fifth Protocol of the Geneva Convention, as we are the only European country that has so far failed to do so?”
Mr. Douglas Hurd rose to answer the question, as a badge messenger appeared by the Speaker’s chair, and handed a slip of paper to the Labour whip on duty. He read the name before passing it down the front bench to the shadow minister. Sasha unfolded it, read the message, and immediately stood and walked uneasily along the opposition front bench, stepping over and sometimes on his colleagues’ toes, not unlike someone who has to leave a crowded theater in the middle of a performance. He stopped to have a word with the Speaker to explain his actions. The Speaker smiled.
“On a point of order, Mr. Speaker,” said the Foreign Secretary, leaping up, “shouldn’t the honorable member at least have the courtesy to stay and hear the answer to his own question?”
“Hear, hear,” shouted several members from the government benches.
“Not on this occasion,” said Mr. Speaker without explanation. Members on both sides began to chatter among themselves, wondering why Sasha had left the chamber so abruptly.
“Question number two,” said the Speaker, smiling to himself.
Robin Cook was on his feet by the time Sasha had reached the members’ entrance.
“Taxi, sir?” asked the doorman.
“No, thank you,” said Sasha, who’d already decided to run all the way to St. Thomas’s Hospital rather than wait for a taxi that would have to drive around Parliament Square and contend with half a dozen sets of traffic lights before reaching the hospital. He was out of breath by the time he was halfway across Westminster Bridge, having had to dodge in and out of camera-laden tourists. With each step he was made painfully aware just how unfit he had allowed himself to become over the years.
Charlie had suffered two miscarriages since the birth of their daughter, and Dr. Radley had advised them that this could well be their last chance of having another child.
When Sasha reached the southern end of the bridge, he ran down the steps and along the Thames until he reached the hospital entrance. He didn’t ask the woman on reception which floor his wife was on, be
cause they had both visited Dr. Radley the previous week. Avoiding the overcrowded lift, he continued on up the stairs to the maternity wing. This time he did stop at the desk to give the nurse his name. She checked the computer while he caught his breath.
“Mrs. Karpenko is already in the delivery room. If you take a seat, it shouldn’t be long now.”
Sasha didn’t even look for a seat, but began pacing up and down the corridor, while offering a silent prayer for his unborn son. Elena hadn’t approved of them wanting to know the child’s sex before it was born. He could only wonder why a situation like this always caused him to pray, when he didn’t at any other time. Well, perhaps at Christmas. He certainly neglected to thank the Almighty when things were going well. And they couldn’t have been going much better at the moment. Natasha, whom he adored, had had him obeying her every command for the past fifteen years.
“Otherwise what’s the point of fathers?” Charlie had overheard her telling a friend.
Although they’d tightened their belts—another of his mother’s expressions—after the closure of Elena’s 3, it had taken another four years before the company was back in profit and the taxman had been paid in full. Elena’s 1 and 2 were now making a comfortable profit, although Sasha was aware that he could have made a lot more money if he hadn’t chosen to follow a political career. The prospect of a second child made him wonder about his future. A minister of the Crown? Or would his constituents dismiss him? After all, Merrifield was still a marginal seat, and only a fool took the electorate for granted. Perhaps they were never going to be rich, but they led a civilized and comfortable life, and had little to complain about. Sasha had long ago accepted that if you decide to pursue a political career, you can’t always expect to travel first-class.
He had been delighted by his promotion to Shadow Minister of State at the Foreign Office when Tony Blair took over as leader of the opposition. A man who seemed to have an unusual failing for a Labour leader: he actually wanted to govern.
Heads You Win Page 41
