Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

The rock concert was scheduled to start at eight but by seven, when the taxi dropped them at the end of Komosomolskiy Prospekt, the fans were already pouring out of Leninskiye Gory metro station to cram the paths through the snow-crusted parkland. In the distance another flood of people wound its way from Sportivnaya station.

  As they were swept along in the mass of teenage bodies, Serov noticed that Galina was staring all about her. At first he thought she was fearful of the crowd, then he realised: in the sheltered life he provided for her, she had simply never seen people like this before.

  A girl with pink hair passed them, arm in arm with a boy whose own hair stood upright, Mohican style.

  ‘I told you you’d see surprising sights, didn’t I?’ Serov whispered. ‘Are you wondering where they’ve all sprung from? Why you don’t see kids like these on the streets?’

  She turned to him, wide-eyed with amazement.

  ‘Most of them don’t exist, that’s why,’ he said. ‘They’re a living conjuring trick. See the green hair? You can buy the dye in the markets – it washes out in the morning, when it’s time for work or college.’

  Another couple, both wearing outlandish make-up, drew near for a moment.

  ‘Same with the make-up and the hairstyles. That’s why so few of the boys have long hair or semi-shaved heads – too permanent. When you see a boy with ear studs, you can bet they’ll be out tomorrow. There’s a core of genuine punks, of course, but the majority of these kids are just make-believe.’

  He glanced sideways at Galina; she was absorbed, her own wretchedness forgotten for the moment.

  At intervals along the route, the militia were standing in twos and threes, many of them as young as the fans. They seemed bemused by the curiosities that traipsed past them but at this stage of the evening showed no inclination to pester anyone. They would form themselves into snatch squads later, searching for dope or drunkenness when the crowd’s energy had been sapped by the concert and the risk of general resistance would be lower.

  The entrance hall of the arena was decked out like an old Russian folk fair. Jugglers, clowns and acrobats from the Moscow State Circus performed here and there across the floor. Clearly, the authorities were out to win friends. The decision wouldn’t have been taken lightly to let a Western rock band play before an audience of ordinary Muscovites. In the past, tickets for such an event would have been restricted to the children of the nomenklatura, the privileged class. Tonight, it seemed, democratisation and liberalism were in fashion.

  As for the English band that the people were flocking to see, Serov knew something of them. In their own country they were considered left wing, a definition that depended on where the definer was standing, of course. No doubt the songs the band would perform tonight had been carefully vetted by Gosconcert for political acceptability by Kremlin standards.

  It had crossed his mind that he might be a little conspicuous in a sea of people Galina’s age; it was what had concerned him about the rendezvous. In fact, he saw that the crowd was peppered with men and women his age or older. These he paid close attention to, sorting out the cautious parents or straightforward music enthusiasts from the undercover security personnel. Some would be acting on behalf of Gosconcert, Melodiya or the sports administration. The ones he was most interested in were CID and KGB personnel. Above all, the drugs squad.

  At seven forty, bells started ringing. It was time to take their seats.

  *

  For the first thirty minutes they suffered a very average band from Leningrad. Their only credentials seemed to be observance of the party line on everything. The audience was apathetic apart from a few stage-managed cheers here and there from supporters or youth Komsomol activists.

  Then the lights went out and an immediate hush fell on the auditorium. All eyes were on the dim stage, where shadowy figures moved into position.

  Suddenly everything exploded into life. The first guitar chords rang out with startling clarity. Spotlights flooded the stage with coloured light. A driving beat began. The guitarists and the singer strutted forward to the edge of the stage, tantalising the crowd. The songs rolled out and the audience screamed, cheered and clapped. This time it was no set-piece reaction.

  Serov watched Galina from the corner of his eye. Her whole being seemed focused on the music. She began to unfasten the clip of the binoculars case that he’d hung about her neck as they left the apartment. He reached over and stopped her; his own binoculars were already out and he passed them across.

  The band was as good as any he’d seen in Paris or Hamburg in the sixties. Their themes were predictable enough: unemployment, peace, racial harmony, the social injustice of capitalism, but more imaginatively handled than the Lenigraders had managed. They created an atmosphere in the arena like a family party. The only uncertain moments were when some of the fans got up and started dancing. The security people insisted that they sit down again. The band didn’t agree.

  ‘Dance with us, Moscow!’ one of them called in English. The interpreter whose job was to translate what the band said between numbers remained silent for a moment. When his translation finally came over the PA, it was ‘Please stay in your seats.’

  All around Serov people hooted in derision. ‘You think no one but you speaks English?’ someone yelled.

  When the performance was at its peak Serov took Galina’s arm and led her out of the aisle of seats.

  ‘I have someone to meet,’ he explained. He took her back out to the entrance hall and into the service area behind the catering stalls. Cold air fanned their faces and they arrived at the open door. He stepped outside and halted to light a cigar, at the same time taking a good look around.

  This side of the building was lined with trucks and vans, as Gramin had said it would be. The snow had been scooped to the edge of the parking lot and piled into ramparts a metre or two high. He led Galina slowly along between the building and the backs of the vehicles, taking her arm when she hung back and drawing her firmly along with him.

  First they passed the vans of the catering operations, none of them occupied. As they passed through the shadows behind them he slipped the Makarov from its holster and into the side pocket of his greatcoat. Next came the television pantechnicons, surrounded by trails of cable, their generators humming. Light blazed and died in doorways as technicians came and went. Some stood in the night air chatting and nursing hot drinks. As well as Russian voices he picked out English and American accents. There was a luxury coach that presumably belonged to the band. In the driver’s cabin a man sat reading the Nedelya supplement from that evening’s Izvestiya. Two or three bored-looking girls were dotted about the passenger seats, reading English magazines or smoking.

  Right at the end of the parking lot was the Melodiya trailer. Lysenko was waiting between it and the snow rampart. He was a short, prematurely bald man in jeans and thin leather blouson. His shoulders were hunched, his hands deep in his jeans pockets and he was shuffling from foot to foot, from either nervousness or cold.

  ‘What kept you?’ he said as Serov approached. His complexion was unhealthy and oily. He noticed Galina and looked her up and down. ‘Gramin said there’d be just you. He said nothing about pussy.’

  ‘Gramin was wrong. Watch your mouth.’

  ‘No offence, brother. What have you got for me?’

  ‘You wanted to deal.’ Serov dropped the half-smoked cigar and kicked it into the snow. ‘You’re the one in need. Let’s see what you’re offering.’

  Lysenko danced some more while he thought this over, his sharp-toed boots compacting the snow into shiny ice. Then he shrugged and reached inside the blouson. At the same time Serov slipped his hand into his side pocket where the Makarov was waiting.

  ‘No surprises,’ he told Lysenko. He glanced down at his pocket to make sure the junkie understood.

  ‘All right, all right,’ Lysenko said quickly, producing an A4-size document folded in half along its length. It was about twenty pages thick.

  Serov too
k it in his free hand and angled it to catch the beam from a distant arc light. He scanned the first page in silence, looked at Lysenko, then withdrew his right hand from his pocket to leaf through the next few pages.

  ‘Don’t take all night!’ Lysenko hissed. His eyes darted anxiously from side to side. They were red and heavily shadowed.

  Serov refolded the document and tucked it inside his greatcoat with measured slowness.

  ‘I like to check that merchandise is as advertised.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ Despite the cold, Lysenko was sweating. ‘I don’t like to rush you, brother, but there’s the small matter of what you’ve brought for me.’

  Serov stepped over to where Galina was leaning against the trailer, staring back the way they’d come. He kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Nearly finished, my love,’ he whispered, and took the binoculars case from her. As he did so, she turned to look full into his eyes. For a moment he thought she was about to speak. But she looked away again.

  He handed the case to Lysenko, who tore its lid open greedily.

  ‘I see I’m not the only one who likes to check,’ Serov observed.

  Lysenko pulled the binoculars out and peered into the case. He stuck a grubby hand inside and scratched at the lining. He looked angrily at Serov and was about to say something. Serov reached across and angled the binoculars towards the arc light while Lysenko held on to them. The junkie peered into the eyepiece and his tense expression relaxed. He unscrewed one of the lens retaining rings, dipped a fingertip inside and licked it.

  ‘Pleasure doing business with you, brother! Don’t let pussy catch cold.’ He clambered up the short stepladder that led to the door set in the trailer’s side, wrenched it open and disappeared inside.

  Serov turned to Galina. ‘Let’s get back.’

  *

  The rest of the evening seemed to leave her unmoved. Afterwards she shook her head at his suggestion of a late snack at the Sofiya. In the taxi home she either stared out of the window or sat back with her eyes closed. When they got to her apartment, at about midnight, she went straight to bed.

  Serov made no attempt to force his company on her. He settled himself on the couch with a glass of bourbon and a cigar. A minute or two later he saw the chink of light under the bedroom door go out.

  Behind him on the back of the couch was the greatcoat. He fished the document from its pocket and spread it on his lap. Here in proper lighting he saw that it was a photostat copy. Some of the pages were off centre as if someone had been in a hurry when making it. On the first page were typed four lines:

  USSR Economic and Industrial Strategy

  The Next Five Year Plan and Beyond

  Projected Energy Needs and Shortfalls

  Preliminary Report of the Oligarchy Committee

  Further down were two names: the author’s and that of the man for whom alone the document had been intended.

  M. S. Gorbachev.

  With a morbid fascination, Serov realised that his hands were trembling.

  He scanned the document in less than ten minutes, not taking in the detail but enough to get its main thrust. Afterwards he set it down and leant back in the couch, staring at the ceiling.

  After a time he realised that he hadn’t touched his bourbon; now he knocked half of it back in one gulp. On an impulse, he crossed the studio to the hallway and locked the apartment’s outer door, then did the same with the inner door.

  Returning to the couch, he began to reread more carefully. This time he took over an hour and a half, pondering the occasional chart or table that interleaved the text. There were many references to other reports or statistical digests that he didn’t have, but for the most part their drift could be deduced easily enough.

  When he was done he refilled his glass and went through to the kitchen. Here the window blinds were still open. He didn’t switch the light on, so that he could gaze out at the clear, crisp night.

  Condensation rimmed the window, setting a white frame to the darkness. In its centre blazed the great red star that crowned the Kremlin’s tallest tower, the Trinity.

  He watched that star for a long time. Then he decided to call Gramin.

  *

  Lysenko was juiced to his red eyeballs. He flopped against the wall of the concert building and let his soul float up to the stars.

  His body, however, remained earthbound, and that was all Gramin cared about. In one movement he released the Melodiya trailer’s brake and kicked the chock away. The trailer began to roll down the incline towards Lysenko, the massive weight of the recording equipment aboard making it gather speed rapidly. Its protruding towbar was on an exact level with Lysenko’s groin.

  Lysenko glanced up just before the impact. There wasn’t time to move out of the way. Not even time to scream. No one but the stars to hear him anyway.

  It was over in an instant. Steam rose in clouds from the snow where his blood drenched it.

  9

  The old man called Genrikh Kunaev was so frail that he hardly rumpled the hospital bed. He’d been asleep for two or three minutes now, the second time he’d dozed off in the hour that his son Viktor had sat with him.

  A nurse approached, pushing a trolley laden with medical equipment. She smiled at Viktor and unhooked the clipboard at the foot of the bed.

  ‘You shouldn’t stay much longer,’ she advised. ‘The major’s very weak.’ She took the old man’s wrist and checked his pulse, then made a note on the clipboard.

  ‘I’ll go in a few minutes,’ Viktor told her. He moved his corduroy jacket from the bed onto the back of his chair, as a sort of promise to her. ‘I don’t just want to slip away while he’s asleep.’

  Suddenly Kunaev’s eyes twitched open. He blinked several times and frowned, as if struggling to remember where he was and what was going on. His gaze settled on Viktor and he grunted softly.

  ‘Help me up, son,’ he said.

  His left sleeve had been rolled back to make room for a catheter that had been inserted into a vein in his arm. A tube brought a clear solution to it from a plastic bag attached to the bedstead. Beneath his pyjama jacket electrodes were taped to his chest; their leads ran over his shoulder to an enamelled box and monitor screen on a shelf halfway up the wall. A green dot raced across the screen, tracing a graph over and over again.

  Viktor glanced enquiringly at the nurse. She nodded and helped him raise his father into a sitting position without disturbing the tube or leads. When this was done she plumped up the pillows behind his back.

  ‘Not too long, remember,’ she whispered to Viktor. She went back to the trolley and pushed it off to another part of the ward.

  Kunaev’s arm protruded like a white stick from his sleeve as he reached out for the pebble glasses on his bedside table. Slowly he put them on, one wire leg at a time, and studied his son’s thin face.

  ‘You remember what we agreed?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Papa?’

  ‘You know, Viktor. Don’t pretend. When your mother died.’

  Viktor took his hand. It was liver-spotted and bony, not the strong hand he remembered enveloping his own.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Papa. This isn’t the time to talk about that.’

  ‘This is precisely the time,’ insisted Kunaev. ‘Will you go through with it?’

  Viktor took a long time before he nodded. He couldn’t meet his father’s gaze.

  ‘And Anna?’ Kunaev pursued. ‘She’s still for it? You talked it over again with her?’

  Another slow nod.

  ‘Do it for her and little Andrei, Viktor. Above all, for Andrei. You owe it to him.’

  ‘Yes, Papa. I know. Let’s not talk about it any more.’

  ‘The thing you need. Do you know where in my apartment it is?’ The old man’s voice dropped to a whisper, all the more emphatic for doing so. ‘Can you remember which one it is?’

  ‘I remember, Papa. You showed me and I remember.’

  ‘Get it before the housing
people seal the place. Once they do that it could be months before they release anything. You know what they’re like. You mustn’t wait, son. God knows, they might not.’

  ‘I’ll go there tomorrow morning.’

  Viktor felt tears gathering beneath his eyelids. It was one thing to talk and plan, quite another to face up to the moment when it came. Now they seemed to be urging it nearer.

  He realised that his father was still watching him, and turned away.

  ‘You were always like your mother, Viktor. Sentimental. She could never throw things out, no matter how broken and useless they were. She wanted to hang onto them forever. Just because they’d been good once.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘You can’t hang on to the past, Viktor. If something’s no good any more, throw it out and make do with the memory.’ His voice became a whisper again. ‘That goes for countries too.’

  ‘Enough, Papa,’ Viktor said gently. ‘You should rest now. And I should go, to let you.’

  ‘Rest?’ The old man smacked the bed weakly. ‘Time enough to rest when I’m dead. Don’t rush me into it.’

  Nevertheless he settled back against the pillows and let his eyes close behind the thick lenses. Viktor thought he was dropping off again, but after a moment he smiled.

  ‘Speaking of memories, son, did I ever tell you about the day Khrushchev visited us at Izmaylovo? It was just before the bastards hounded him out of power that autumn. He was a real man of the people, our Nikita. Did I tell you how he and I walked like brothers in the gardens and yarned about our childhoods?’ He opened his eyes and peeled the spectacles off.

  Viktor smiled. He’d heard the story a thousand times. He looked up and down the ward but the nurse was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I’d love to hear it, Papa. But only if you get some sleep afterwards.’

  Kunaev settled back, satisfied. ‘It was my last year in charge of the academy. Your mother and you spent the summer out at Serebryanyy Bor. I think you came to visit me sometime early in the summer. Yes, now I think of it, you definitely did.’ He stopped and his expression seemed to cloud; the smile faded. ‘It was the year they landed me with that young whippersnapper as my captain adjutant. That’s how I remember you visiting me – you met him. You might remember, I suppose. You were only twelve or so. Now, what was his name? Unpleasant piece of work.’