Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  She paused before answering, as if going over it again distressed her. ‘The early part of the morning. Going to the cemetery. Then the gallery. Looking at the painting. That’s all, until being back here with you.’

  ‘The cemetery,’ he echoed softly. ‘Galya.’ He shook his head but otherwise let the admission pass. ‘You don’t remember what happened in the gallery or at the police station?’

  She bent her head and a swathe of golden hair hid her eyes and face. ‘I know what I thought happened in the gallery. But that’s not the same thing as what actually happened, is it? As for the police station – what police station? If that’s where you say I was, then that’s where I was.’ She lifted her head sharply and he saw that high spots of colour had come to her cheeks. She didn’t look at him, waiting a moment before she went on. Then: ‘There are other things. Other things I’ve been remembering instead.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Things from long ago, maybe. That’s how they seem. Confused things. My mother, a man – my father or you, I don’t know. The images – you and him – fuse somehow.’

  ‘Galya,’ he said gently. ‘Your father was never with you. You know that. You never knew him. He died before you were born.’

  She nodded and the hair fell forward again. ‘In some stupid demonstration. That’s what you and Mama always told me.’

  ‘Don’t try to make up a past that never existed, Galya. Even if you wish it had. We’ve been over this. Do you remember anything else?’

  As he spoke she had lifted her head and was looking at him. His stomach tightened for a moment: it was the way Gramin looked at him sometimes; or frightened creatures like Ratushny.

  But it lasted only an instant before she bent her head, bringing her hair tumbling over her eyes again and uncovering the curve of her neck. The submissiveness of that aroused him and he reached for her. She didn’t resist.

  *

  ‘I need to visit my father’s apartment – Major Genrikh Kunaev. He’s in hospital at present.’

  The concierge, a crone in a black dress, eyed Viktor up and down, like a fat crow sizing up her prey.

  ‘Kunaev,’ she muttered. ‘Kunaev.’ She began to turn the pages of a large green register. When she looked up a slyness had appeared in her eyes.

  ‘Heart attack last week,’ she said. ‘I remember now. Just as he was sitting down to breakfast. Dreadful.’

  She stopped at a page headed Away – Temporary and ran an arthritic finger down the handwritten list of names.

  ‘Apartment 12G,’ she said. ‘So you’re the major’s son?’

  Viktor nodded.

  ‘Do you have anything from him that confirms you’re to be given admittance in his absence?’

  Viktor set his briefcase on the counter, took out the letter his father had written, and handed it over.

  ‘I’ll need to keep this,’ she said. ‘For the records. Very fussy, the District Housing people. It all goes in here.’ She tapped the pages of the register. ‘And I need to know why you’re visiting the apartment.’

  ‘To fetch some items of clothing for my father.’

  She wrote it down with painful care. ‘Clothing,’ she repeated. ‘Is the major coming home?’

  ‘Pyjamas.’

  She finished writing and looked up at him. ‘Never seen you here before, comrade. Shame when folk don’t visit their family. My daughter comes over twice a week, regular as clockwork.’

  Viktor shut the case and looked pointedly at his watch.

  ‘You’ll find the apartment in good order, comrade Kunaev. I tidied it myself. Do you have a key or should I go with you and let you in?’ She pulled open a drawer with several bunches of pass keys in it.

  ‘I’ve got my father’s key.’

  She closed the drawer again and nodded towards the lifts. ‘Left-hand lift. The other one isn’t working.’

  He felt her eyes on him all the time he stood waiting for the lift to arrive. When he stepped inside and turned around to slide its black iron gates shut she was still watching. She flashed him an ingratiating smile and mouthed ‘12G’.

  He watched the floor indicators mindlessly most of the way up. He felt perfectly relaxed. When he got bored with the indicators he let his mind dwell on any small thing that entered it. There was comfort in inconsequential things. When the lift reached its destination he opened the gates and stepped outside, following the wall sign that told him apartments G to L were to the right. At the door of the apartment he struggled for a moment with the stiff lock, then he was inside.

  Until the concierge’s comment he had expected to find the place in disorder. But it was as neat and clean as anyone could wish. He pictured her poking around as she had tidied; it was an uncomfortable thought.

  The bookcase was in the bedroom and he recognised it at once. Old-fashioned and low, a glass-fronted cabinet with lockable sliding doors. Just as in his childhood, its top served as a trinket shelf for cufflinks, tie clips, military decorations in flat cases, loose change, bookmatches. He detected the concierge’s touch: everything was in orderly groupings that wouldn’t be his father’s doing.

  Viktor opened the briefcase on the bed. With the letter gone it contained only a few transparent plastic bags and a small key, which his gloved fingers fumbled to pick up. He used it to unlock the bookcase.

  The books were devoted exclusively to one topic, Russian philosophy. Many were German-, English- and French-language editions. He scanned across the titles on their spines, his eye lingering only on those which were in English. In the bottom right-hand corner of the bookcase he came to the title he sought. The sight of it made him feel slightly queasy. It was the first time all morning that he’d allowed himself an uncontrolled response.

  History of Russian Philosophy

  He said the author’s name aloud: Lossky. The sound of his own voice was somehow calming.

  He finished scanning the rest of the titles to make sure that there was no possibility of error, then slowly drew the book out and slid it into one of the plastic bags. Apart from the faded and slightly discoloured condition of its blue dust cover, it was in mint condition.

  He had wrapped several more bags around it and was putting it carefully into the briefcase when he remembered what he’d told the concierge about the pyjamas. Unfamiliar with where his father stored his clothes, he spent a couple of minutes hunting through the bedroom. He tried the dresser drawers, the wardrobe, even under the pillows, but without success. Finally he thought to try the airing cupboard in the bathroom. Sure enough, folded away among towels, bed linen and underwear, were several sets of pyjamas. He took two out, added a towel for good measure, then returned to the bedroom and packed them into the briefcase on top of the book.

  As he was closing the case he heard the scrape of a key in the apartment door and the sound of someone struggling with the stiff lock. He grabbed the case and hurried out into the hallway just as the door swung open.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  A man stepped in through the open doorway, registering no surprise whatever at Viktor’s presence. Viktor was aware of a flat nose over a broad grin.

  ‘You’ll be the major’s son,’ the stranger said amiably. ‘Concierge said I’d find you here. I’m Krivchenko. Councillor, District Housing Administration.’

  He held a clipboard in one hand and a bunch of the concierge’s keys in the other. Now he put the keys in his pocket and produced an identity card of some kind. The hallway was windowless, lit only by whatever light filtered in past him from the landing outside. Viktor squinted at the card but it was gone before he saw anything.

  ‘Councillor Krivchenko, what are you doing here?’

  ‘My job, comrade, that’s all. We must all do our jobs.’ Krivchenko winked. ‘I’m here to check the condition of the place – decorative order, fixtures and fittings, see that everything’s in good shape and working properly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Such a lot of questions, comrade! This
housing unit’s been earmarked for –’ He thumbed through some of the forms on the clipboard. ‘For a young couple who’ve been posted to our wonderful capital city from Kalinin. They’re currently sharing with another family out in Reutov.’

  ‘My father lives here! What are you people playing at?’

  The man was still smiling, shaking his head now. ‘Don’t take it to heart, comrade. Nobody means any harm. An old person goes to hospital, it’s only natural that his accommodation unit goes on our list as a possible vacancy. We’re building new units as fast as we can but the shortage is still shocking.’ He peered over Viktor’s shoulder. ‘Mind if I come on in now?’

  Viktor sighed and stood to one side. ‘Can I stop you?’

  Krivchenko chuckled as he squeezed past. ‘Quite frankly, comrade, no.’

  *

  ‘Comrade Kunaev?’

  Black skirts flapping, the crone hurried across the lobby as Viktor pushed open the main door to the street.

  ‘I’m sorry about Krivchenko. You know what pigs these people are – never happy until they make you miserable.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He pushed the door again but she rattled on about how hard she’d worked to clean up the apartment. Only when he pressed some money into her hand did she finally shut up. While she was busy examining the cash he strode quickly through the door into the street.

  ‘Bless you, comrade!’ she called after him. ‘When will your father be well enough to come home?’

  Viktor stopped on the steps. ‘That’s hard to say.’

  ‘I’ll keep the apartment nice and clean for him.’

  Viktor thought of the housing officer’s words. In his briefcase he felt the reassuring weight of the Lossky book.

  ‘Do what the hell you like,’ he muttered under his breath. Then he pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose to shut out the sleet, and strode away.

  *

  As soon as Gramin heard the lift doors creak shut behind Viktor he threw the clipboard down and hurried out of the apartment. It was a cheap place and none of its windows overlooked the street. He found a stairwell window that did and stationed himself there.

  It was a few minutes before Viktor appeared. Gramin waited to see which direction he took. North. Satisfied that Viktor was heading back to the hotel, he returned to the apartment. He nosed around for a while but Serov had set him a tough assignment: he had no idea whatsoever what he was looking for, just some clue to what had brought Viktor along in the first place.

  Maybe the story about the pyjamas was true. That little briefcase: there would have been room in it for pyjamas. Little else. Viktor hadn’t taken long in the apartment. The place didn’t look disturbed in any way.

  Gramin checked the time. He had two options. He could set off at once to the hotel to make sure that was where Viktor had ended up. But if he hadn’t, what could he do about it? Other than the hospital, there was no way of knowing where else he might have headed.

  Alternatively, he could see what booze the old man kept, and insulate himself before re-entering the Siberian gale.

  That struck him as the best idea he’d had all morning.

  *

  Back at the hotel, Viktor went straight to his room. The time was eleven fifty; in London Anna and Andrei wouldn’t yet have set off for the boy’s nursery. If he was quick he could catch them.

  Getting hold of an international operator lost him some valuable minutes, but at least the line was crystal clear. ‘Anna? It’s me.’

  ‘Viktor! It’s so good to hear you. How is Genrikh?’

  He stalled just long enough to warn her that the news wasn’t good. ‘The doctors say we can’t hope for more than a day or two.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sad I’m not there.’

  ‘He understands why you couldn’t come. He spends a lot of time sleeping anyway. When he’s awake he lives mostly in the past. His mind wanders a bit – he forgets things.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Viktor sat down on the bed before answering, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dressing-table mirror opposite. He realised how tired and drawn he looked.

  ‘Yesterday he’d forgotten who Serov is. He remembers him at the academy all those years ago but he has no idea who he is now – that he runs the directorate. My directorate.’

  They were both silent for a moment; in the background he could hear Andrei babbling away cheerfully.

  ‘Viktor?’ Anna sounded tentative. ‘When will you …’ The sentence trailed away.

  He looked back to the dressing table, where he’d left the book, still in its plastic bags. ‘I’ve got it already. It’s safe. It’s here with me right now.’

  Another pause, awkward this time.

  ‘Would you like to talk to Andrei?’ she said at last.

  ‘That would be nice. I miss both of you.’

  ‘Same here.’

  11

  London

  The memo in Horace Gaunt’s hands recorded the details of what passed for a discussion with his prime minister. The subject on this occasion had been OPEC, specifically the fact that it had decided to hold its next session of price and output negotiations in London. As with all such meetings, the shadow of international terrorism was ever present; security for the conference had to be beyond reproach.

  Gaunt looked around the table in Committee Room 2. Two of his senior directors were present. Joss Franklyn, barely visible through his clouds of pipe smoke, ran operational surveillance, meaning the teams of watchers and listeners and the delicate area of phone taps and mail intercepts. Martin Kellaway, sitting to his left, was in charge of the penetration and monitoring of suspect political organisations, whether left wing, right wing, anti-nuclear, racist, or more exotic imports from Iran and Africa. OPEC meant the Middle East, and that meant any number of crackpot factions with axes to grind.

  Beyond Franklyn and Kellaway sat the most junior person in the room: Dick Sumner, the curly-haired man whom Eva had observed with Gaunt on the evening of Sir Marcus Cunningham’s retirement. It had fallen to him to deputise for his director, Edmund Knight.

  ‘OPEC have been rather shrewd in electing to stage their conference here,’ Gaunt told them. ‘The member countries, as you will be aware, are at an impasse with regard to their individual output quotas. All tiresomely familiar, but this time the situation is made worse by the growing amounts of non-OPEC oil swilling about. As a result, the oil price has nosedived.’

  ‘No one to blame but themselves,’ Kellaway put in. ‘It was they who tripled prices in the seventies and made it worth our while looking for our own oil.’

  ‘If they could limit non-OPEC output that would drive the price up. They see Britain as a ringleader among the non-OPEC producers, so they’ve tried making all sorts of approaches to us, official and unofficial. We have refused their blandishments and prices have stayed down. Where better, therefore, for this conference than on our own doorstep? They know very well we won’t tell them to go elsewhere. We will simply put up with the embarrassment.’

  ‘Like good Brits,’ muttered Joss Franklyn. He took the briar pipe from his mouth and glared into its bowl as though it were the cause of his dejection.

  ‘What’s the timing of this thing, Horace?’

  ‘Last week in January. Two months from now. Here’s our brief, gentlemen.’ Gaunt looked down at the memo, where one paragraph had been bordered in green ink. ‘In the PM’s own words: “You will make all necessary arrangements in regard to counter-intelligence, counter-espionage and counter-sabotage, liaising with the other security, police and overseas intelligence services as you or they see fit.”’

  ‘That seems to cover everything.’

  Gaunt’s gaze roamed to Sumner, who clearly had a question on his mind.

  ‘I was just wondering if Special Branch have been put in the picture.’

  Gaunt nodded. ‘They were present at the briefing in Number Ten last night. They are charged with the personal security of the delegates, making sur
e the venue is clean – the usual thing. Anything else, gentlemen?’ They shook their heads. ‘Then here is how I would like to proceed this morning.’ His gaze settled on Kellaway. ‘We need an assessment of the potential interest of the conference to the politicals. Especially the Middle East, of whatever faction. Which of them might try to disrupt things, or worse.’ Then to Franklyn. ‘Joss, I anticipate that your branch’s contribution will be supportive rather than initiatory, so we shall pick up on you as we go along.’ He turned to Sumner. ‘The Soviet position: what might they or their surrogates get up to? Martin, let’s begin with you. The politicals are my most pressing concern.’

  But before Kellaway could say anything. Gaunt had turned again to Sumner. ‘Where is Edmund anyway?’

  ‘He’s on a few days’ leave,’ Sumner muttered awkwardly. ‘Some surplus time he’d built up. I believe he’s gone to look up a few old friends.’

  ‘Carry on, Martin,’ Gaunt said to Kellaway; but the large eyes remained thoughtful and fixed on Sumner.

  *

  Paris

  Knight took a lunchtime flight and arrived in Charles de Gaulle at two thirty local time. By three twenty he was checking into a small private hotel midway between the airport and Paris. His reservation was in the name of Gough.

  ‘Has a package arrived for me?’ he asked the clerk.

  The youth flicked through a stack of mail beneath the counter and came up with a thick manila envelope. Knight took it and went to his room.

  Straightaway he telephoned the courteous secretary at the precious metals trading firm in the centre of Paris.

  ‘You may remember me, Mademoiselle. James Gough: I am at present in Paris, to see other clients, and find that I have some free time. When we last spoke you did not think it would be possible for Monsieur Vialle to see me this week. Do you think that is still the case?’

  ‘My regrets, Monsieur. As I believe I told you, we have important guests who will be in the office with Monsieur Vialle all week.’

  He thanked her and rang off. The real Vialle wouldn’t get in his way; his schedule was unchanged. God bless organised men.