Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  Knight spent a careful minute or two studying the manila envelope. He’d posted it himself in England a few days earlier. Self-adhesive tape bound its four edges and it was here that he concentrated his attention. Only when he was satisfied that it hadn’t been tampered with did he slit it open. A burgundy-coloured French passport slid out, the one he had selected from the security deposit box in Guildford. It carried his passport but the name of Monsieur Henri Vialle.

  The rest of the day and evening was his own. He locked his room and returned to reception, where he ordered a taxi to take him into Paris. While he waited for it to arrive, he picked through the postcards on display at the desk and chose several.

  In the city centre he passed time exploring the shops and boutiques around the Champs-Élysées before crossing the river to Saint-Germain. He bought postage stamps and some Christmas gifts for Eva, then crossed north again at the Louvre and strolled slowly up to Montmartre. He stopped frequently along the way, just to gaze at the buildings, floodlit in the failing light, or the passers-by.

  He ate in a small café in place du Tertre and wrote and stamped his postcards between courses: one for Eva, the others for his secretary and section heads, all to their home addresses. His friends in Paris, he reported, had welcomed him warmly; the city was beautiful, even at this time of year; tonight they had dined at La Coupole; they saw some famous faces and had fun trying to put names to them. He left the cards unsigned, because that was the rule, just as he made no mention of any names or matters connected with their work, however harmless they might seem.

  Later he wandered back towards place de Clichy and dropped Eva’s card into the first postbox he saw. In the old-fashioned quarter beyond the square the traffic melted into the distance and the streets became narrower. He climbed the cobblestoned hill to rue Saint-Vincent and dropped some more cards into another postbox. Halfway up the hill, just where rue des Saules branched off, he came to the tiny cottage, looking like a weatherbeaten peasant farmhouse, that was the Lapin Agile. He found himself a corner table where he passed an hour or so listening to the songs and poetry. He spoke to no one except a waiter and the cloakroom attendant.

  Walking back to the city centre he posted the last cards before taking a taxi back out to the hotel. The place was even quieter than when he had checked in; the lounge area was deserted. He asked the night clerk to book him a wake-up call at seven, then went straight to his room and to bed. As he’d hoped, the walking had exhausted him and he fell asleep almost at once.

  In the morning he was back at Charles de Gaulle by nine thirty.

  *

  London

  The silver saloon car came onto the Great West Road from Chiswick Lane and crossed through the traffic lights to pick up the dual carriageway that eventually became the M4. In the opposite direction, the morning traffic was still tailed back beyond the Heston services area but the westbound road was clear. Gradually, as the car pressed on, the landscape began to open up. High-density housing gave way to ugly blocks of offices, red brick yielding to grey concrete, and finally to occasional stretches of low industrial building glimpsed beyond the shrub-covered banks of the motorway. The sickly odour of jet exhaust fumes signalled Heathrow and shortly thereafter the silver car left the motorway and turned south.

  Eva knew the route well; she had travelled it often enough either with Knight or on her own. It was the route to his house. She glanced at the clock in the dashboard and calculated that she would be there in about another half hour. With the road’s familiarity her speed had crept up. She eased her foot off the pedal a fraction; there was no hurry.

  12

  Moscow

  On Volgogradskiy Prospekt the bus lurched to a halt and Galina realised with a start that she had arrived at her stop. She jumped up and pushed through the people filling the gangway, reaching the folding doors before they hissed shut.

  On the pavement she stopped to take her bearings and took the torn corner of newspaper from the pocket of her anorak to check the address again. Griboyedov Street. Maps of the city were like gold dust but she had a feeling Griboyedov was just along to the right. She drew up her fur-lined hood and turned into the wind.

  She proved to be right about the direction but not the distance. She was frozen to the marrow by the time she got there and found that she’d stayed on the bus for two stops too many. Most convenient of all, of course, would have been the Metro; Tekstilshchiki station was just a few blocks away. But that was a form of transport she would never use …

  The offices of the Karacharovo Gazette were in a squat yellow building whose paint was peeling like diseased skin. Inside she smelt mould, stale tobacco smoke and printer’s ink. In glass cases on the walls of the entrance hall someone had tried to brighten the place up by mounting local news photographs: gypsy fairs, markets, folk dances, children receiving swimming prizes, factory openings. The attempt had failed. The brown woodwork and walls drained the life from every shot.

  She noticed a small inquiries cubicle on her left and tapped on its sliding glass window. The old man inside glanced up reluctantly from his dog-eared magazine and slid the glass panel open.

  ‘Please, is it possible for me to examine back copies of the paper?’

  He shrugged indifferently, holding on to the edge of the panel as if he couldn’t wait to get it shut again. She could see that he’d made the cubicle his very own: a hook for his overcoat, a shelf for his tobacco tin and ashtray, a portable radio, a small electric fire for his feet.

  ‘Depends how far back you want to go. We lost a lot in the floodwater thaw of sixty-seven.’

  ‘I only want last year.’

  ‘That’s easy enough. You want the reading room. Back of this floor, turn right. There’s a woman there to help you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The glass panel hurtled shut before she’d even turned away.

  *

  In his office at Yasyenevo, Serov swivelled his chair, hoisted his feet onto the desk and tallied the score so far.

  He began at the top. Mikhail Gorbachev. A man who nursed a mighty ambition: to transform his whole society. But every grand ambition came with its flaw, the seed that could waste its bearer. In Gorbachev’s case the Oligarchy Committee had identified the flaw. It fell to Serov to use it.

  Next, Zavarov. A cornered man. Watching his power being stripped away; worried also that his own grubby deals might come to light in Gorbachev’s clean-up. If ever a man was ready to play a part, that man was Zavarov. Again it fell to Serov to define the part.

  Ligachev the politician. Could an old ideological leopard change his spots as Ligachev seemed to have done? Or did he just need the right temptation and he too would play a bidden part?

  And now this, the Code Red field communication that lay on Serov’s desk. It recounted how, in the scorching heat of a Libyan noontime Colonel Gadaffi had received a delegation of top Saudis in his Tripoli headquarters. Their meeting had been observed and listened to by an agent of GRU military intelligence among the Soviet ‘military advisers’ that Gadaffi was glad to have at his back. In line with good practice, the GRU report had been monitored by the KGB’s Third Directorate, sister to Serov’s own. Now here it was before him, telling its story of subversion within the Saudi hierarchy, a hierarchy as closed to outside eyes as the Kremlin’s. Subversion in which the Libyan leader meant to have a controlling hand.

  Subversion that could well complete the tally of items needed here in Moscow by Nikolai Serov.

  *

  Mikhail Tikhrus took another bite of his black bread and cheese and set it aside. He wiped his fingers on his handkerchief before tearing off the three perforated sheets of telex data which had just finished scrolling up on the printer by his desk.

  He wore the white shirt and epaulettes of Aeroflot’s senior clerical staff. On his long, open-plan office floor of the airline’s central Moscow headquarters he was one of only four officers who enjoyed the luxuries of a rubber plant for decoration, two oran
ge screens a couple of metres high for privacy, and one orange plastic chair for visitors.

  The telex contained the passenger list of AF720 which was taking off for Moscow from Charles de Gaulle. Already on his desk were similar sheets relating to some dozen other flights from all around the globe. He glanced at the bank of clocks mounted on the wall behind him. Each had a small plate beneath it bearing the name of the capital city to which it related. In Paris it was ten thirty-five; AF720 was smack on schedule.

  He scanned down the names on the telex messages and had another mouthful of black bread before pushing a button on the base of his telephone. His elderly secretary appeared around the edge of one of the orange screens.

  ‘Something here for our people,’ he told her absentmindedly, still reading.

  She approached his desk and reached her hand out for the sheets. But a name on the Paris manifest had taken his attention and he made no move yet to pass the sheets over to her.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he mumbled eventually.

  She waited while he unlocked a drawer of his desk. It contained a single folder, which he opened without lifting out. There was just one sheet of paper inside. At the top was a telephone number and underneath it a list of names. Tikhrus took a pencil and copied out the name he’d spotted that was common to both this list and flight AF720. When this was done he handed the telex over.

  ‘You may send it now.’

  After the secretary had gone he picked up his phone and dialled the telephone number.

  ‘Gramin? This is Tikhrus, Aeroflot. One of the names on your list is on his way to Moscow. He’s on AF720, from Charles de Gaulle, Paris. Time of departure 10:35 local time, 12:35 Moscow time. Took off on schedule. ETA Sheremetyevo 16:15 our time. The name is Vialle.’ He spelt it out. ‘Henri Vialle. Travelling on a French passport.’

  He listened for a moment to what Gramin had to say in reply, nodding occasionally and making some notes. When Gramin had finished he said ‘Yes,’ but the line was already dead. He returned to the telex machine, his bread and cheese forgotten.

  *

  The Karacharovo Gazette was published only twice a week, so it wasn’t difficult to find the right issue. What Galina was looking for was compressed into a single column near the top of page 5.

  Metro death

  Peak-hour services were disrupted for an hour on the Zhdanovskaya–Krasnopresnenskaya line last Thursday evening. The cause was a woman falling onto the track in Ryazanskiy Prospekt station as an eastbound train was coming in. She was killed instantly.

  ‘It was dreadful,’ Marina Buczkova told your Gazette reporter. ‘I heard people screaming and looked around and there she was. I’ll never forget what I saw. It’ll be with me until my dying day. If that poor woman committed suicide, which you have to admit is a possibility, what a dreadful way to do it.’

  It would be ghoulish for your reporter to repeat the harrowing description which Marina gave of the scene. Marina is a cleaner at the Higher Party School in Miusskaya Square, where she has worked for seven years.

  ‘We must keep this incident in perspective,’ Metro director Boris Krassin said. ‘It was a human tragedy, of course. But from the point of view of passenger services, we responded well. Services between Planyornaya and Taganskaya were still able to operate normally. It was only the section out to Zhdanovskaya which had to shut down. I admit that travellers on that line were inconvenienced, but I would point out that their services were back to normal within an hour. I think our workers can take pride in that.’

  A date for an inquest has not yet been set. In the meantime, it has been requested that the dead woman’s identity should not be disclosed, out of respect for her family. Your Gazette naturally respects this request.

  Galina stared at the item for so long that the kind-looking woman who ran the back issues department came over to ask if she’d found what she was looking for. There was a worried note to her voice. Galina nodded dumbly and forced a smile of thanks.

  There’d never been any inquest. Nikolai knew how to make it worth people’s while to overlook niceties like that.

  Of course, in a way the newspaper story told her nothing. She hadn’t expected it to. It read like the suicide she’d been told about. But that wasn’t the point. The point was simply being able to sit here and read it. No screams. No rerun of the Tretyakov. That was what was important. This time, she really was getting stronger.

  She closed the paper and took it back to the kindly woman.

  ‘Thank you very much for your help,’ she told her, very calmly, and gave her a stronger smile than last time. She was going to practise being strong from now on.

  But as she made her way back along the gloomy corridor and past the old man in the enquiries cubicle, one word kept turning over and over in her mind: suicide. Like a record jammed on her hi-fi, over and over.

  ‘Is that really what it was, Mama?’ she asked the white sky outside. The wind snatched the words from her lips and she hardly heard them herself; only the jammed record.

  *

  Serov realised that Sergei was standing at the door; he had no idea how long he’d been there.

  ‘Did you say something?’

  ‘I asked if you’d like me to bring you lunch, comrade General. I’m going to the canteen now. If you don’t need me for anything, that is.’

  Serov shook his head. ‘No food. Tidy this place up a bit before you go.’

  He stubbed another cigar out in the already heaped ashtray and rose to get out of Sergei’s way. Somehow the act of moving crystallised the decision he’d already been thinking about.

  ‘Sergei, I have to go out of town for a time. I’ll leave early this afternoon.’

  If Sergei was surprised he didn’t show it. ‘Very well, sir.’

  ‘Bring me the Eighth Department files. All of them. Between now and when I leave, I’m not to be disturbed. I want Gramin outside with the car at two forty-five.’

  A minute later the files arrived. The Eighth Department covered the Middle East, Turkey, Afghanistan, Iran and Greece. The files couldn’t be taken out of the building; he had to work through them there and then, making notes or committing to memory whatever might prove relevant to the task he had set his mind for the rest of the week.

  Ignoring the growling in his stomach, he lit another cigar and set to work.

  13

  ‘I’ll drive. Move over.’

  Gramin did as he was told. Serov rammed the accelerator to the floor and the heavy car shot away from the kerb, slewing slightly on the icy road. Once beyond the double mesh gates of the FCD headquarters complex, Serov picked up the ring road, the mounds of snow by its verge now beginning to stain black with exhaust fumes, and headed for the city.

  ‘Tell me about young Kunaev.’

  Gramin stretched his legs to get his feet under the heater. ‘He goes to the hospital twice a day. He’s been to the funeral parlour in the Golitsyn annex. He’s taken a couple of walks in the hills. He’s been to the old man’s apartment. Otherwise, he hardly leaves the hotel. He eats in his room.’

  ‘He’s met or talked to no one?’

  ‘Only hotel or hospital staff. He phoned his wife once.’ Gramin thought for a moment more. ‘And he had to talk to the concierge at his father’s apartment block.’

  ‘Why did he go there?’

  ‘To fetch clothes for the old man.’.

  Serov was silent while he concentrated on overtaking a truck on the straight between the two railway bridges near the Danilov. Information. Watch, listen, assess. If relevant, use. But sometimes information simply had no relevance. Maybe the Kunaevs were in that category. Significant once, the old man at any rate; but perhaps no longer.

  ‘I have other news, comrade,’ Gramin added. ‘I had a call this morning from my Second Directorate contact within Aeroflot. He keeps the directorate’s foreign visitor files up to date. He does a few favours for me as well.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The man called Vialle is on his
way to Mosow again.’

  ‘Boyar?’ Serov said softly. The name came unbidden, before he could stop it.

  ‘What was that, comrade?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Gramin glanced down at a small notepad that he’d taken from his pocket. ‘He’s on flight AF720, departed Paris at 12:35 Moscow time, arriving 16:15 Sheremetyevo.’

  Serov kept his eyes on the road, his mind racing. This was something he didn’t need. Not at this time. If it was Boyar.

  ‘Which Vialle?’ he asked evenly.

  ‘No way of telling until I see him. My man in the Second drew the line at giving me anything from Vialle’s entry papers about how long he plans to be here or where he’s staying. Sorry, comrade. I suppose the real Vialle’s too important because of his platinum and gold deals. He gets to come and go pretty much as he pleases.’

  Serov swung the Chaika towards the island and the Krasnokholmskiy Bridge. He would have liked to watch the Kunaevs for a little longer, especially if the old man only had a few days left. But it was a question of priorities. He had only one realistic choice.

  ‘Forget Kunaev,’ he ordered. ‘Get out to Sheremetyevo for Vialle’s arrival. If it’s the Englishman, don’t let him out of your sight. You know what to do.’

  Gramin nodded, recalling previous instructions when the Englishman had visited. ‘I watch and report. I don’t let him see me. I don’t interfere in anything he does.’

  ‘Or talk to anyone he talks to.’

  ‘No, comrade.’

  Serov checked the cars behind and pulled over to the side of the road. ‘I’ll be in Molodechno. Contact me only if there’s an emergency. Otherwise leave me in peace.’ He leant across and unlocked Gramin’s door. ‘Now get out.’

  Gramin looked startled. He stared both ways along the bridge.

  ‘But comrade – my car. It’s south at Yasyenevo. I’ve got to get north to Sheremetyevo. Vialle lands in an hour.’

  ‘Then you’d better get a move on.’