Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  The snowploughs took advantage of the lull, clanking through the city and lining the thoroughfares with walls of snow. Five of them together swept across the vastness of Red Square in a staggered line, engines roaring and lights flashing.

  The break in the weather lifted people’s spirits. They had been held under virtual siege and now they were able to move freely again. It was the Winter Festival season. The special performance at the Stanislavski and Nemirovich-Danchenko theatres were packed, the queues outside even the bad restaurants seemed endless, crowds thronged to the circus, the cinemas and sports stadia, or just strolled through the streets and public gardens blanketed in snow.

  Sverdlov Square was a particular attraction. Tonight the people who surged out of the Bolshoi felt no urgency to get home. Free troika rides, a tradition at Festival time, departed at intervals from Marx Prospekt; while people waited for the next carriage to arrive there was the huge New Year fir tree for them to admire in the centre of the square, encrusted with its thousands of multicoloured lights.

  Even the policemen seemed less forbidding than usual; they too were glad of the kinder weather. With the populace less cooped up and driven in upon one another, they could expect fewer broken heads and skewered corpses. The reduced availability of alcohol helped as well.

  Nikolai Serov saw this lifting of winter’s oppression, understood it all, understood the vein of relief that pulsed through his city. But it was as if he was looking at it through eyes of glass: analytical, capable of understanding, but finally, indifferent. He had his own long course to run yet. He had mapped it well, he had no doubts of that, but there were many others beside him who had to be steered through it.

  Others such as Zavarov, whom he was to meet tonight.

  It was not a time for talk. It was a time to listen, to hear where there was doubt and eliminate it, to keep men and events pressing in the right direction.

  He found the marshal already at the agreed meeting place under the Karl Marx statue. His great red face was bordered by a fur hat and ear muffs, and a bulky overcoat made his shoulders and chest look even larger than usual. He swigged from a silver hip flask and offered it to Serov as he saw him approach.

  ‘No thank you, Marshal.’

  He wondered how much the man had already had to drink, and waited patiently while the old fool made a show of looking him up and down.

  ‘A man should never refuse a mouthful of good Armenian brandy,’ Zavarov said. ‘At least, you shouldn’t. You’re a walking bag of nerves. I’ve never seen you looking as tense as these last few weeks.’

  Serov watched a policeman over by the subway; he was chatting up a girl but his hand stayed resting on the holster in his belt.

  ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind. Who hasn’t? Drinking is no answer. And you smell like a distillery.’

  Zavarov grinned. ‘Ah well. I’m sticking with the only answer I know.’ He took another mouthful, swishing it through his teeth before swallowing it; then he capped the flask, patted it fondly and slipped it into his pocket.

  They moved off together from the statue, instinctively avoiding the brightness of the New Year tree and heading for the more shadowed edge of the square. A group of attractive women, expensively dressed but not hookers, passed them in the opposite direction. Zavarov’s gaze followed them.

  ‘Tell me, comrade General,’ he said, his eyes still on the women, ‘what do you do for sex?’

  ‘What a man usually does. What business is it of yours?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be impertinent.’ Zavarov held his hands up apologetically. ‘I just meant I’d never seen you with a woman. Nor has anyone that I know of. You must have a little something tucked away somewhere.’

  ‘Been asking around, have you?’

  ‘Of course not. It was just a joke, that’s all.’

  Serov took his arm, like a man about to swap a pleasantry; but his hand squeezed the muscle through the heavy coat like a vice, and his voice was flat.

  ‘Save your jokes, Marshal. Keep them to yourself until this is all over. Then you can crack them all the way to hell, for all I care. Don’t ask about my private affairs again – or make comments about them – or even think about them. You understand?’

  Zavarov nodded dumbly. Serov released his arm and began walking again. The marshal stood for a moment rubbing his bruised muscle, then caught him up and they walked on together in silence. They met one of the policemen but the light was behind them and he didn’t even bother trying to look into their faces.

  At the corner of the square Serov stopped to light a cigar and drew deeply on it before speaking.

  ‘Update me.’

  He turned around and leant against a bench by one of the snow-shrouded flowerbeds that enclosed the square, positioning himself so that he could see anyone that might approach them along the path in either direction. At present there was no one within sight or earshot.

  Zavarov propped his forearms on the barrier and stared across to the other side of the square.

  ‘Everything’s going along just the way it should be. Naturally, Mikhail Sergeyevich has his moments of doubt. That’s only to be expected – he thinks it’s a high-risk plan. But he seems to suspect nothing.’

  ‘Seems to?’

  ‘He definitely suspects nothing.’

  Serov watched him closely; without shifting his gaze he asked, ‘Ligachev – how’s he doing?’

  Zavarov smacked his gloved hands together in a gesture of satisfaction. ‘Absolutely no problem. I’m delighted. I look upon him as my special responsibility. Why not? I helped bring him back to the fold. All that nonsense about reconstruction and new directions – pah! I told you how well he performed the day we sold Mikhail Sergeyevich on the plan, didn’t I? He continues to play his part well. The thought of all that power keeps him going, I suppose. Your boss, Chebrikov, he’s good too. At the start I had my doubts about him – but now he’s all right.’

  ‘As I said he would be.’

  The ear muffs wobbled as Zavarov nodded his great head. ‘You were right, General, you were right.’

  ‘Chebrikov’s with us for the same reason as you. Because even if this fails he’ll be no worse off than if he’d never tried.’

  Zavarov looked uneasy at this assessment of his motives but put up no argument. ‘Well, I’m glad we’ve got him. Mikhail Sergeyevich places great value on his advice.’

  Serov had been keeping an eye on another of the policemen and now the man was slowly coming their way. It was time to begin walking along the path again. Time also to get to the main point.

  ‘Now tell me about the money,’ he said softly.

  Zavarov lit a cigarette. ‘Today Ligachev approved the portion of the funds that’s to be drawn off from Central Committee reserves. Chebrikov and I have already authorised the amounts that will come from our budgets.’

  ‘You’re being discreet?’

  ‘Believe me, we couldn’t be more careful if we were embezzling the money for ourselves. The chance of anyone detecting what’s going on must be one in a million. The funds should start moving next week.’

  ‘You’re cutting it fine. It should all have been set up already. The London operation gets under way next week. After that, things will happen fast.’

  Zavarov looked pained. ‘We’re not magicians. There was no way we could organise matters more quickly. Don’t forget how much cash is involved here. We can’t just deliver it in a few suitcases, you know.’

  Serov grunted, giving no clue to whether he accepted what the marshal said.

  ‘Listen,’ Zavarov went on, a note of complaint entering his voice. ‘Isn’t it time you told me how things are going at your end? Remember what Ligachev said at Molodechno – the whole thing blows apart if you can’t deliver your part of it.’

  Serov shrugged. ‘Find something else to worry about. I can handle my end. The people in London know what they’re doing.’

  Zavarov glanced nervously across at him. ‘Are you really prepared
to go through with your role?’

  Serov laughed. A family group of grandparents, parents and teenage children were standing nearby. Some of them glanced over and smiled, pleased to see someone else enjoying a pleasant evening. He returned their smiles politely.

  ‘Comrade Marshal, would I have started this if I wasn’t prepared to go through with it – all of it?’

  By now they were back at the Marx statue. Serov stopped by its base and stared at the inscription.

  ‘“Workers of the world, unite!”’ he read aloud, ‘There you have it, Marshal. That’s exactly what we’re doing.’

  He stood looking up at the statue for a moment, then he turned and gripped Zavarov’s shoulder.

  ‘Don’t drink too much, comrade Marshal. Difficult days lie ahead. Days to be sober in.’

  He strode quickly off before Zavarov could say anything or ask further questions. A short distance away he looked back: just in time to catch the flash of reflected light as the marshal pressed the silver flask to his lips.

  *

  Missing her was what took him to Galina’s apartment. Perhaps Zavarov’s salacious question had something to do with it as well. But when he got there he just stood in the middle of the studio floor, smoking, and wondered what purpose he had served in coming.

  It was as if she was due back any minute. A record on the turntable, magazines on the couch, the bed even turned down, waiting for her warm body. Paintings still stood on their easels, including the city scene with its oppressed people that had puzzled him. On the paint-stained table there was a row of jars filled with cleaning fluid. Her brushes had been left soaking in them; she never left them like that longer than overnight for fear of warping their bristles.

  His skin crawled, as if a sixth sense was telling him that he was being watched, and he swung abruptly around: so instantly that his hand hadn’t even reached the Makarov under his greatcoat. But of course no one was there.

  Only Katarina’s bust.

  The breath that he’d been holding came out harshly, shaded blue with cigar smoke.

  Her empty eyes were in shadow, making it all too easy to believe that they weren’t really empty. Maybe Zavarov was right; he was a bag of nerves.

  He stepped quickly across the studio floor and moved the pedestal a nudge to dispel the unnerving illusion of the watching eyes.

  His own bust, or at least its remains, stood on the adjacent pedestal, and he stared at its wreckage for a long time. In Galina’s absence he’d finally removed the cloth: whether merely to satisfy his own curiosity or also to spite her in some secret way, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that the shock of finding his image demolished like that had chilled him to the marrow. Just remembering that night of discovery made him shudder again. Why had he come here?

  He picked the cloth up from the floor where it had lain since that night and threw it over the wrecked bust.

  He was on his way out of the apartment when he turned and crossed to the work table. He selected the largest cloth from a pile of cleaning rags in the corner.

  He draped the cloth over Katarina’s bust and left.

  19

  Buckinghamshire

  Saturday dawned fresh and clean after the rain. It was just first light as James Thomson’s Land Rover pulled in at the foot of the lane that led to Brook Cottage. Old James got out and studied the nurseries sign for a moment. It was definitely more askew than yesterday.

  He hoisted himself over the low fence and tugged at one of the uprights. Loose. He tried the other. Just as bad. His face puckered in annoyance; he’d have to make time to fix it later.

  He reviewed the rest of his plans for the morning as he swung the Land Rover into the lane. Light jobs were what he stuck to these days. Sorting out trays of bedding plants, grouping and pricing them: that was his agenda today. He glanced at his sandwich box and smiled. He’d start with a nice cup of tea. First things first.

  A radio lay on the seat beside him. As he bumped along he started to tune it, glancing down at the dial. He finished and looked up again just in time to see the big black car. He cursed and hit the brakes. The Land Rover skidded to a standstill.

  James folded his arms across the steering wheel and tilted his cap to the back of his head to contemplate the problem. There was no way he could get past the Jaguar. Both its front doors were wide open but even if he got out and closed them the car was still too wide. He’d take half the hedge with him if he tried to squeeze past. And he didn’t want to be blamed for scraping that expensive bodywork.

  He pumped his horn lightly a couple of times and stretched up in his seat to watch Brook Cottage. No one appeared. Over the chatter of the radio he heard a dog barking somewhere across the fields but otherwise there was no sound, no movement. He waited a minute more and pumped his horn again, slightly more insistent notes this time. Still nothing.

  ‘Come on,’ he muttered. ‘You can’t be that far away. Not the way you’ve left your motor open to the world.’

  Exasperated, he climbed down from the Land Rover for the second time. He shook his head sadly. Big cars had become a common enough sight in the lane since the young couple had come to live in the cottage last year. Not that James minded. Their visitors usually parked with more consideration, that was all he cared about.

  ‘Common courtesy,’ he said.

  He hoped this morning wasn’t the thin edge of a wedge. Come to think of it, their friends usually came visiting in the afternoon or evening. James looked up at the lightening sky.

  ‘Funny time of day to call.’

  As he walked past the Jaguar on his way to the cottage a faint beeping sound caught his attention. It was coming from the car. He peered into the interior and spotted the telephone.

  ‘Flashy,’ he said.

  He straightened up and looked at the cottage. Now that he had a clear view, he could see that its front door was lying as wide open as the Jaguar’s doors. Taken together, it all suggested that someone was just dropping in, not intending to stay long. Which made it all the more daft that they’d wandered off someplace where they couldn’t hear his horn.

  ‘Hello!’ he called out. He waited but got no response. He repeated it, louder, cupping his hands around his mouth. Still no answer.

  Without really meaning it, he muttered something about moving the damned car himself and glanced inside it again just as he was about to walk on. That was when he noticed the keys still in the ignition. He laughed at the thought of really sliding in behind that wheel and having a go.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he chuckled.

  Then something jarred. It took a moment to figure out what it was.

  The dew. An even film of dewfall was spread across the roof, bonnet, windscreen and boot. Some had also gathered on the interior lining of the open door nearest him.

  It wasn’t rain. There hadn’t been any since last evening. Besides, rain didn’t settle like that. Especially if a car was driving through it.

  If it was dew, he thought uneasily, then the Jaguar had been there all night. With its doors lying open. Why would someone leave a car that way?

  Something was wrong. What about the cottage door? Had it been open all night as well?

  The car phone beeped again, startling James. He began backing away, as if he feared the phone. His hand bumped against the gate and he turned to stare at the cottage.

  ‘Hello,’ he called again. ‘Anybody home?’

  Reluctantly he pushed through the gate and went up to the front door. He had to hold it from swinging away from him as he banged with the knocker. No answer. He banged a few more times.

  He went in. The downstairs was just a scullery and a sitting room. Both rooms were empty, although the television was on in the scullery. The Open University motif filled the screen. The announcer’s voice was saying something about tropical rainforests. The volume was low, barely audible.

  ‘Hello?’ James called at the foot of the stairs.

  He listened and thought he heard a slight scufflin
g noise. Just for an instant, then it stopped. It came from one of the bedrooms; there were only two. He’d have to go up and see. He climbed the stairs slowly and looked in the open door of the first room.

  The bodies seemed to be all over the place. He was too shocked to take in exactly how many there were. There was blood everywhere. The smell now hit him and it was awful, a metallic stench mingled with something rotten.

  He threw up before he could stop himself. Then, as he hung his head in the doorway, clinging to the jamb for support and watching the strings of vomit trickling from his mouth, he caught the quick movement in the corner of the room. He tried to focus on it but the retching had filled his eyes with water and the image was blurred.

  He wiped his eyes and tried again. This time he made out the unmistakable muzzles and white-tipped brushes of the foxes. With a snarl they dashed right at him. He jumped out of the way and they tore past him and down the stairs.

  He cursed after them until his lungs ached. He pushed himself from the doorway and clutched at the banister rail. Bloody pawprints stained the stairs.

  Through the front door and scullery window he saw the foxes race across his land. He watched, gasping for breath, until they vanished. Something caught his eye, this time in the lane. A black Rover was approaching. He stared at it, wiping his eyes again, while it drew up behind his Land Rover. Two men in dark raincoats got out. They paused for a moment by the abandoned Jaguar, then hurried towards Brook Cottage.

  ‘Up here,’ James whispered, and crumpled down by the bedroom door.

  *

  Viktor and Anna Kunaev had been up since six, each having slept hardly a wink. Because of Viktor’s fear of arousing suspicion they waited until nine o’clock before setting out.

  When they stepped into Porchester Gardens everything about them suggested they were off for a morning in town, perhaps a visit to the sales. Thousands of other young couples were setting out with the same objective that morning. They might have been planning to return some toy of Andrei’s that they’d already bought and found faulty, because a large, colourful toy carton was tucked under Viktor’s arm.