Patriots

by Kevin Doherty

  He took a cab from his own hotel to another hotel that was conveniently near. Its foyer had the benefit of enclosed payphones for privacy, and provided greater security against his next call being eavesdropped on or traced. He took with him a pocketful of coins.

  He placed the call to Molodechno via the international operator, reciting the digits slowly and carefully so that there would be no mistake.

  When the number finally rang, Gramin’s voice came on the line so rapidly that he must have had the phone at his elbow.

  ‘I want an update,’ Serov told him without preamble. ‘It is time.’

  ‘Very good. And good also to hear from you, comrade.’

  Behind the ingratiation there was something else in Gramin’s voice: a guardedness that went beyond what was necessary. Something was wrong.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ demanded Serov. He tried to tell himself that the question was purely professional, for the sake of the operation.

  ‘There have been certain difficulties, comrade. And a new development.’

  He knew now what he was hearing in Gramin’s voice: fear.

  ‘What difficulties? What development?’

  ‘The professor is here. He’ll explain.’

  Before Serov could argue, Ogarkin came on, stammering and sniffing. Serov lit a cigar and heard him out in silence.

  Afterwards, when the coins ran out, he put the phone back on the hook and stood there trying to absorb what he had just been told.

  Then, silently, his back pressed against the payphone door, he wept.

  45

  Soviet Socialist Republic of Byelorussia

  ‘Back to Moscow tomorrow, comrade Professor.’

  As he spoke, Gramin pushed a log back into the fire with the toe of his boot, and returned to his warm seat. Two days had passed since Serov’s call.

  Relief and disappointment battled for control of Ogarkin’s face, like conflicting weather zones.

  ‘The general sent for her when he spoke to you?’ he asked.

  ‘He sent for her.’

  ‘What about her psychotherapy, without me?’

  ‘She’ll have plenty of witchdoctors.’

  They were at the vodka again. There wasn’t much else to do of an evening out there. The cocaine kept Ogarkin fit to work, but Gramin had been rationing it day by day. When evening rolled around, it was vodka-only time.

  ‘You’ll be sad to leave here, comrade Professor.’

  ‘The institute won’t complain.’

  Gramin laughed darkly. ‘I was thinking of the clouds of paradise.’

  Ogarkin sighed and looked bereft.

  ‘Wait here,’ Gramin said, and left the room.

  He returned a few minutes later with what looked like a small silver jewel case. He set it in Ogarkin’s hand and eased the lid carefully open. It was full of the white powder.

  ‘God of mercy!’ Ogarkin gasped.

  Gramin moistened the tip of his finger, dipped it into the powder and ran it around his gums, smacking his lips and sucking in air as if he’d eaten something hot and spicy.

  ‘A little thank-you present,’ he said. ‘Not just the contents – the box. I liberated it from a Georgian who let me down on a deal. Would you like it?’ He squeezed the professor’s shoulder. ‘I know we’ve said a few rough things to one another in our time. But that’s all in the past. Yes?’

  Ogarkin stared in awe at the gift in his hand, his nose running again at the very prospect of its almost infinite portions of heaven.

  A tiny measuring spoon and a razor blade were set into the lid of the box, along with a small tube a few centimetres long and not much greater in diameter than a drinking straw. The spoon, the tube and the razor’s sleeve were all made of silver, engraved in a pattern to match the box.

  ‘Take a snort now if you like,’ Gramin continued. ‘Why not? You’re off duty. I’ve got a few tasks to do later but I needn’t trouble you.’

  Ogarkin didn’t need telling twice. He closed the silver lid with reverence and set off for his room.

  When he’d gone, Gramin uncurled his fist. The finger that he’d dipped into the powder was still white with it, except where its damp neighbour, the one that he’d run along his gums, had rubbed some of it off.

  Carefully, he stretched his hand over a corner of the fire and poured vodka over it straight from the bottle, washing the fingers and palm thoroughly. The high-proof alcohol splashed into the flames, damping them down at first, but flaring up a beautiful yellow as it evaporated and caught.

  Then he put the bottle to his lips for another mouthful, and settled back to enjoy the interlude of peace.

  *

  He heard the jet come in over the house at nine thirty, on schedule. He rose unsteadily, kicking over the empty vodka bottle as he did so, and lumbered up the stairs to the circular window that looked down towards the airfield. Through the top fronds of the aspens and firs he could make out the parallel lines of lanterns flashing along the runway; after a moment the lights of the aircraft became visible as it turned to taxi towards the apron.

  Sinsky was already standing ready when he turned from the window. He led the way along the corridor, pausing outside Ogarkin’s room to look back enquiringly at Gramin. Gramin shook his head. For an instant the faintest flicker of a smile twitched at Sinsky’s rocky features; then he stood back from the door.

  Gramin entered the room and, ignoring the splayed figure on the bed, collected the Gladstone bag.

  They walked on to Galina’s room.

  She stirred as they entered and sat up, shaking the golden hair from her face and blinking against the light from the corridor.

  She screamed when Sinsky held her down for Gramin to administer the injection. His thick fingers were surprisingly nimble and he wielded the syringe like an expert, finding the vein quickly and easily; he’d watched Ogarkin often enough.

  Her screams were futile; there was no one to pay them any heed. Within a minute, as the sedative took effect, they subsided to a sob, then a low moan, and then she was unconscious. They wrapped the bed clothes about her like a cocoon and carried her down the stairs and out to the Chaika.

  Armed men had taken up position at the entrance to the airfield. The runway lanterns had been extinguished temporarily and the only lights burning were the floodlights that had been set up around the aircraft, an Antonov An-72 military transport. Half a dozen workers from the estate swarmed around it, standing on stepladders and hastily erected scaffolding. The pilot fussed among them like a mother hen, scrutinising their every movement. They were masking the transport’s insignia markings with quick-drying acrylic paint. It wouldn’t take them long. Unlike conventional military aircraft, the An-72’s markings consisted only of red stars on the tailfin and wings, plus a small code number on the fin; the large identifying digits that it would have borne on its fuselage in normal service were absent.

  Gramin took the Chaika to within a few metres of the aircraft and waited until the work was done and the workers had withdrawn. Then he and Sinsky carried Galina up the steps and into the passenger cabin.

  Here the comfort of the fittings was a further indication that this An-72 was no regular troop or equipment transport. Gramin’s gaze took in hide-upholstered seats, more like armchair recliners, tables, soft lighting and a large video screen.

  A nurse was waiting for them.

  ‘There are sleeping facilities,’ she explained. ‘Bring her and I’ll show you.’

  She led the way through a door set into a bulkhead midway along the fuselage; beyond it were two private compartments. She unlocked one and they laid Galina gently down on the bed, blankets and all. On Gramin’s nod, Sinsky returned to the car.

  The nurse crouched down beside Galina and began lifting her eyelids and taking her pulse. The co-pilot appeared and watched in silence. As with the nurse, Gramin offered him no introductions.

  The nurse finished her checks and Gramin began to strap the bed’s safety harnesses securely about
Galina. Now he glanced over his shoulder at the co-pilot.

  ‘Opened your flight instructions yet?’ he asked him. The airman nodded.

  Gramin looked more closely at him in the dim standby lights of the compartment. The tension on the man’s face made him laugh.

  ‘Afraid we might be shot down?’

  The nurse started at this; clearly, Gramin noted, she knew nothing yet.

  The airman remained sombre. ‘It’s not a destination I would’ve expected.’

  Gramin chuckled. ‘For an aircraft of the personal flight of the chief of staff of our glorious armed forces, you mean?’

  ‘For any Soviet military aircraft.’

  ‘Marshal Zavarov has many friends in high places, comrade. Don’t you expect that? Who says they all have to be in our country?’

  He looked down at the nurse and winked, then finished drawing Galina’s harnesses tight.

  ‘Sometimes, my friend,’ he continued to the airman, ‘matters of state require the conventions that you and I take for granted to be set aside. What are borders for if not to be crossed?’

  ‘She’s a matter of state?’ the pilot queried. He gazed at the huddle of blankets.

  ‘Oh yes, comrade. Believe that.’ Gramin paused. ‘You won’t be shot down. And by the saints, you’d better not crash either.’

  The airman stared at him, then at the unconscious girl for a moment longer, before giving a resigned shrug and heading back to the flight deck.

  ‘We’ll be safe enough,’ Gramin said to the anxious-looking nurse when he’d gone. They returned to the narrow corridor outside Galina’s compartment.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You won’t even know when you get there.’

  ‘What was all that about being shot down?’

  ‘A joke. Nobody’s going to shoot us down.’

  ‘Why did you say it?’

  ‘Because after we refuel in East Germany, we’ll be flying beyond Warsaw Pact territory. But our pilot’s got everything he needs to get by without problems. A path’s been cleared right through to our destination for us. People in high places – remember?’

  If she was feeling reassured, she didn’t show it. Gramin grinned at her. She was a good-looking woman. A nurse too. There was a lot to be said for nurses. And he’d been stuck in this Byelorussian wilderness for a mighty long time.

  ‘It’ll be a lengthy flight,’ he said. ‘Gives us plenty of time.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To get to know each other a little better. We’ll be old friends. Not to mention the trip back.’

  ‘We do come back then?’ she said with irony. ‘When?’

  ‘Right away. That’s why we’re refuelling in East Germany: so we can turn around and come straight back. We just stay long enough to drop off this cargo –’ He nodded towards Galina’s compartment. ‘And pick up some more.’

  ‘Similar?’

  ‘Wait and see.’

  A low whine that swelled quickly to a growl indicated that the pilot had fired up the An-72’s twin turbofans.

  ‘Time we strapped in for takeoff,’ she said.

  Gramin didn’t move.

  ‘I thought I might give the other compartment a try,’ he told her. ‘The one with the other bed.’

  She stared at him for a time.

  ‘Why not?’ she said. The engines were revving at almost full throttle. It was a short-takeoff plane; any second now they’d shoot up the runway and be airborne. ‘See you when we get to our destination.’

  She tossed him the key and returned to the main cabin.

  *

  By the light of a cold moon, Sinsky dragged Ogarkin’s body across the cobblestones of the courtyard. The heels of the professor’s steel-tipped shoes kicked sparks from the flint where the yard had been brushed clear of snow, throwing out brief orange arcs and leaving two fine trails of scratches.

  Sinsky left the yard and took the stepped path down the wooded hillside, shortcutting the road. Ogarkin’s feet and legs now cut two parallel tracks through the deep snow.

  When he got to the foxes’ compound, Sinsky hauled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the trapdoor in the roof of one of the cages. The clamour of the foxes became deafening; they slavered and tore at each other as the trap creaked open.

  Just before he dropped the body in, Sinsky thought about the shoes; a few cotton garments were one thing, but even these creatures couldn’t eat leather and steel. He whipped the shoes off and let the body go; it didn’t even get as far as the floor of the cage, riding instead on top of the snapping jaws.

  Sinsky held one of the steel-tipped shoes against his own shoe for size, and grinned when he saw how closely the two corresponded. He relocked the trapdoor, not even bothering to glance inside, and returned up the hill. He was content; it had been a good night’s work. As he plodded through the snow, his ponderous brain considered the production process of which Ogarkin was now part, and the Western women who’d end up dabbing essence of the professor over their sleek bodies. It was a thought that pleased him even more than Ogarkin’s shoes, and he stood roaring with laughter until his stomach muscles cramped and his sides ached.

  Then, still chuckling and winking at the cold moon, he went inside to see what liquor Gramin had left.

  *

  London

  The Lord Chancellor hadn’t had much of a weekend, Knight reflected; thanks to him.

  Evidently the Lord Chancellor agreed.

  ‘My fervent hope is that you and I never set eyes on each other again, Mr Knight. I daren’t think how many years you’ve taken off my life.’

  Knight smiled wryly at him. He was bathed and scrubbed, in fresh clothes, but for the present retaining the beard that had grown over the last three or four weeks.

  ‘I’ll assume that your comment is solely a professional one, meaning that everything’s been arranged as I said it should be.’

  ‘As you requested,’ the Lord Chancellor corrected him. ‘It’s not up to you to dictate. As it happens, I have been asked to relay some agreements to you.’

  He glanced down at the papers on the desk; they were several copies of a two-page memorandum. From where Knight sat, he could see that, after a few opening paragraphs, it consisted of a list of points, each briefly stated, and some summary paragraphs at the end.

  ‘No legal proceedings will be initiated against you,’ the Lord Chancellor read. ‘Your resignation will be accepted. You will be awarded a commuted lump sum instead of a pension. Attached to this letter is the calculation pertaining to this. Your house will be restored to good order. You will be compensated for damage to its contents. You will be provided with the documentation necessary for a fresh identity.’

  He stopped and looked questioningly at Knight over his glasses. Knight nodded to signify that, as far as he was concerned, that part of the list was as it should be.

  ‘In return,’ the gravelly voice resumed, ‘you will honour certain reciprocal obligations that have already been discussed with you. You will participate willingly in any further debriefings that may be called for by senior officers of the counter-espionage branch or any other intelligence personnel that may need to be involved. You will sell your home and move to a different part of the country. You will not, however, move abroad to live permanently or travel abroad other than for holidays or in connection with any business with which you may subsequently be earning your living. You will inform Curzon Street before you go on any such trip, and give full details of your travel arrangements. You will not seek to make contact with any members of the security or intelligence services, present, future or former. You will avoid any such contact if other parties seek it. The sole exceptions to this arrangement will be to communicate your new location and to comply with any follow-up interviews that you may be required to attend. There is no time limit on this. You will not speak, write or in any other way communicate with journalists or anyone else about the matters in which we have been engaged and which have occa
sioned this agreement, or about your intelligence career or any operations in which you have been involved or of which you have any knowledge, however acquired.’ He looked up again. ‘And finally, you will hand over the document and other items that you have admitted to preparing.’

  ‘At the right time,’ Knight said.

  ‘This is the right time.’

  ‘Nice try, Lord Chancellor. Did they ask you to try? The articles are safe where they are. They’re staying there until the right time.’

  ‘You said you would hand them over when your requests had been met.’

  ‘Fulfilled, actually.’ It was Knight’s turn to do the correcting. ‘I said I’d hand them over or destroy them when my requests had been fulfilled. At this stage they’ve been agreed to, that’s all. Just words. When my house and compensation are sorted out and I’ve got my lump sum, I’ll hand the materials over. Until then –’ He shook his head. ‘And my arrangement for their disposal remains unchanged – namely, if the person or organisation I’ve lodged them with doesn’t hear from me regularly, they’ll make sure the materials get into hands that would make embarrassing use of them. I think that’s clear enough, Lord Chancellor. Don’t you?’

  The law lord looked at him without answering for a long moment. Then he returned his attention to the letter, scrawled his surname on each copy, and slid them across the desk for Knight to do the same.

  Knight obliged. It was just words, after all.

  46

  When the letter arrived at breakfast time, Viktor knew that it had to be from the university because it was addressed to him in his new name. As he picked it up his hands were trembling. The crest on the flap confirmed its origin.

  Anna glanced up from settling Andrei in his chair and watched her husband anxiously as he opened the envelope. He slid his knife under the flap and sliced the paper slowly; to find out that they had rejected him would be worse than knowing nothing at all.

  His eyes scoured the single page, up and down, side to side, not taking in its content but trying to pick out the simple yes or no from the midst of the courtesies and formal prose. In English it was so much harder than in Russian.