He shifted what weight he carried from foot to foot, searching Glivenko’s face for signs of weakness. Then, abruptly, he reached out and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Brave man,’ he growled. ‘I like that.’
With a dismissive wave, he followed Glivenko into the gloom. Three flights of steps took them to the basement, the temperature dropping, the crudely plastered walls glistening with moisture. At the bottom of the stairs, Glivenko cautioned him to take extreme care, and the two men trod carefully around piles of abandoned equipment, making for a pool of light where the corridor suddenly widened. Four men, stripped to the waist, had been digging a sizeable hole. One of them, looking up and recognising Khrushchev, reached for a ball of cotton waste and mopped the sweat from his face.
Khrushchev was peering into the hole. It had the size and dimensions of a grave, and the excavated earth was piled beside it.
‘What am I looking at?’
Glivenko joined him, tallying each item at the bottom of the hole. The big battery. The wires leading to the detonators. Encased in a metal frame, the receiving equipment. Simple, really. But guaranteed to work.
‘And that?’ Khrushchev was pointing to a shallower excavation, barely half a metre wide, that extended from the hole into the darkness.
‘The antenna, Comrade Khrushchev, to capture the wireless signal.’
‘Range?’
‘More than adequate.’
‘You’re not going to tell me where these people are? Who sends the message? Who presses the trigger?’
‘No.’
‘Far away?’
‘Far enough.’
‘Far enough for what?’
‘Far enough to be safe. Those men will be very busy. Many targets.’
Khrushchev nodded. His gaze had returned to the hole.
‘So how many?’ he asked.
‘More than five hundred. All over the city.’
‘Five hundred?’ Khrushchev grinned at the thought. Glivenko was making him a very happy man. ‘And this stuff works? You swear to me on your children’s lives?’
‘Yes, Comrade. We had a problem with some of the equipment, but the English have helped us out.’
‘Excellent,’ he nodded. ‘Good to know those bastards are of some use after all.’
Glivenko permitted himself a brief smile. Then he explained how the hole would be refilled and the antenna disguised after the installation work had been completed.
Khrushchev nodded. He wanted to know about the explosive. How much? And where would it go?’
‘In the hole, Comrade. This building will need four thousand kilos to bring it down.’
‘All of it?’
‘Every last brick.’
Khrushchev was thoughtful for a moment or two, still gazing down at the tangle of wires between the boxes below. Glivenko knew that he’d been an engineer in the Donbas, a man who relied on his hands as well as his brain, understood the importance of bridging the gap between the drawing board and building something that would work.
‘The Germans will be here in days,’ he said finally, ‘in this very building. It’s got everything they need. Desks, phones, privacy, even a fucking reputation to make you shit in your pants. They’ll take it over. They’ll put flags on the outside and the fear of God into everyone who steps foot inside. How long do the batteries last?’
‘Months. If we’re careful with the sequencing.’
‘Excellent. Wait until they’ve settled in. Wait until they feel at home. Choose your moment.’ He drove a pudgy fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Then smash them in the snout.’
*
From the Big House, Khrushchev’s party drove into the city’s oldest quarter. Glivenko sat in the back of the big Emka, giving directions. Finally, after a tortuous detour off the main street that wound up the hill, they came to a halt. It was after midnight. The flicker of artillery fire danced on every horizon.
‘He lives in a church?’ Khrushchev was staring out of the window.
‘He’s a priest’s son, Comrade Khrushchev. You know that. He likes to feel at home.’
The woman sitting beside Glivenko was tapping her watch. No more than ten minutes, she warned, if they were to leave the city intact. Khrushchev nodded. Five was all he needed. Six if the bloody man needed proper persuasion.
He bustled after Glivenko on the path that skirted the church, pushing the sapper aside when they rounded the corner, and then hammered on the door.
‘NKVD,’ he roared. ‘Get your fucking papers out.’
The door opened after a second volley of blows. Yuri looked down at the pug nose, the splayed lips, the wildness of the light in his eyes. People said that Khrushchev had the face of a turnip, that he belonged in a field in some forlorn kolhoz, and they were right.
‘Yuri Ponomorenko. Good news, my friend. You’re coming with us.’
‘You’re arresting me?’ Yuri was peering at other faces looming out of the darkness.
‘We’re saving your life. You have anything you want to bring with you? Not too much, tovarish. We travel light, these days.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘East. Out of the city. Away from this shit heap.’ Khrushchev had caught sight of the Christ figure nailed to the door at the far end of the room. ‘These days it’s the Red Army that works the miracles. I’ve no idea how, but they’ll get us out.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to come.’
‘Then you’re mad. Believe me, I’m the one who’s kept you alive so far. The Germans won’t be so understanding. Pack a bag, son. Think of your poor father. Three minutes. Anyone else in there?’ Khrushchev was standing on tiptoe, peering round Yuri’s tall frame.
‘No.’
‘You’re lying. I can smell perfume. Larissa? Am I right?’
Larissa appeared, rubbing her eyes. Khrushchev said she could come, too. Even journalists had their uses. ‘We’re in the car outside. Seven of us if I’m counting right. Very intimate but you won’t mind that.’
There was a movement behind Khrushchev. Glivenko had appeared. He had something wrapped in brown paper and he asked Khrushchev to step aside for a moment to let him in.
‘You want to stay, too?’
‘Of course, Comrade,’ he smiled. ‘Unfinished business.’
Khrushchev studied him a moment, then he frowned.
‘A senior Major called Bezkrovny,’ he said, ‘from the Big House in Moscow. I had him on the phone a couple of days ago. You know him?’
‘No.’
‘He said he met you on the airfield at Kharkov. You were with an Englishwoman. He said you fled with her.’
‘Fled?’
‘Flew away. Here. To Kyiv.’
‘An Englishwoman?’
‘That’s what he said. He’s sent a file. He needs her arrested and he thinks we’ve nothing better to do. They’re all crazy in Moscow. Always were.’ He beamed at Glivenko. ‘Tell these children to move their arse. We’ll be in the car. Two minutes, and we’ve gone.’
Glivenko was looking at Yuri and Larissa. Tiny shakes of the head.
‘They won’t go,’ Glivenko said. ‘I know them. They’re Ukrainian. They belong here. Think of the good news, Comrade. It’ll be their city, not ours, whatever’s left of it.’
Khrushchev stared at him, saying nothing. Then, with a snort of disbelief, he turned on his heel, gathered his entourage, and hurried them towards the car, cursing as he tripped on a tree root. Moments later came the cough of the engine and then the crunch of gravel under the tyres as the driver accelerated away.
For a moment, still standing in the open doorway, Yuri could hear nothing but the hoot of a distant owl. Then the deep bass rumble of artillery swelled again, and the owl was gone.
*
Bella emerged from her bedroom. Yuri had found some glasses and Glivenko was already pouring generous measures of vodka from the bottle he’d just unwrapped. The bottle had no label.
‘Home-brewed,’ Bella c
aught the dull glint of a gold tooth in his smile. ‘Compliments of the Big House.’
They toasted the departing Russians. They toasted the coming days of chaos before the Germans arrived. And then they toasted the Party boss who’d found the time and had the decency to stop by and offer them a passage out.
‘He must love you,’ Glivenko was looking at Yuri.
‘He likes my writing, or he says he does. He also has a conscience about a wife he once buried. Strange how the past can still haunt you.’ He raised his glass to Bella. ‘Larissa told me the Big House had your name. I never believed her. What did you do to upset them?’
‘Nothing. I’ve been their hero for years.’
‘Then why this Bezkrovny?’
Bella had been anticipating the question for days. First Ilya, she thought. And then Larissa. And now Yuri. All of them wanting to know her real story.
‘I defected,’ she said. ‘I’d been Communist in my head for years and then I did it.’
‘In your heart,’ it was Larissa. ‘You’d joined them in your heart. In your head, you’d know better.’
Yuri grinned. When he said he wanted to write the phrase down, Bella thought he was joking. He wasn’t.
‘Go on,’ Glivenko wanted to know more. ‘You defect. You run away to Moscow. Then what?’
‘They give me a place to live. They give me money. They make a fuss of me. They make me feel appreciated, wanted. I try and give them something in return. Most of what I told them they knew already.’
‘They always say that.’ Larissa’s glass was empty. ‘Normally it’s a lie. They think they know everything. They don’t.’
‘So, you’re a hero in the Big House,’ Glivenko was circulating with the bottle, refilling the glasses. ‘What happened to change all that?’
‘They have other agents. I’m sure they’re all over Europe. They’ll have some in London.’
‘You know who these people are?’
‘No. I have my suspicions but no proof. In Moscow, I only get to see what they want me to see.’
‘So, where’s the problem?’
‘There’s someone in particular I’ve always worried about. Moscow sent me to London very recently, after the Germans attacked. They wanted me to wait for you, Ilya, and then bring you back with all those boxes. The man I’ve mentioned works for MI6. I think he’s like me. I think he works for Moscow. He knows this. Which means that he thinks I might blow his cover any time. He’s already important, this man, because he’s very good. Moscow thinks the world of him and so does MI6. There’s a phrase in English. It’s called the batting order. It’s a measure of importance, of value. And he’s much more valuable than me.’
‘So you think they’d get rid of you? To protect him?’
‘I do.’
‘But why would you ever give him away? To the English?’
Bella ducked her head. The vodka had warmed her, uncoiling deep in her belly. In the company of these people she felt brave, uninhibited, free. The city would fall within days, maybe sooner. Anything could happen.
‘I’m in love,’ she said simply. ‘With a man who thinks exactly the way I do.’
‘About the MI6 spy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you mentioned him to this lover of yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘And they know that? In the Big House?’
‘They do. Because our friend in MI6 will have told them.’
*
Moncrieff lay in bed, trying to work out what had disturbed him. In the field, half a lifetime ago, he’d developed a sixth sense for the unexpected. He’d be under canvas, or in a bivvy, or even under the stars, and some tiny noise – a rustle, a breaking twig – would touch a nerve deep inside his brain and bring him into wakefulness. Like any young Royal Marine, he’d added this to the list of what his instructors called ‘survival skills’, and two decades later the habit still hadn’t left him. Only weeks ago, in the draughty comforts of the Glebe House, Bella had wondered aloud whether he ever truly slept and after the briefest discussion he’d decided that she was probably right. Sleep, proper sleep, could kill you. Hence the need to post a sentry or two.
He’d been using the borrowed mews house as his London pied-à-terre for a couple of months now. Archie Gasgoigne, a fellow Marine, had inherited the property from his mother and Moncrieff had been only too happy to move in while Archie was up in the Shetlands, still running Norwegian agents over the North Sea. Chelsea was a stroll away. The pub around the corner managed to conjure fresh rabbit and occasionally lamb from God knows where. And the houses on both sides were empty. The silence, and the privacy, suited Moncrieff very well. There was even room for his bicycle in the tiny back garden. He was happy here.
The noise again, unmistakable. The bedroom window was open, and he could detect movement on the cobblestones below, the lightest footsteps, then a muttered curse. He was sitting up now, feeling for the automatic he kept on the floor beside the bed. There was a full clip of ammunition, and he eased the slider back, waiting for the click that told him the first round was in the breech. Only a couple of days ago, Ursula Barton had checked to make sure he was taking care of things. The latter was MI5-speak for sensible precautions, by which she meant ready access to a loaded gun. Now might be the moment he declares himself, she’d said. Very prescient.
Naked except for a pair of pants, Moncrieff eased his long frame towards the door. A tiny landing led to the stairs. The inky darkness of the blackout had stolen into every corner of the house, and he felt his way very slowly, one tiny step at a time, shallow breaths, pulse a little fast, waiting, listening, his right arm extended, the automatic steady in his hand. Nothing. Then came a woman’s voice, calling his name.
‘Tam? Are you there? Tam?’
He was at the top of the stairs now. In daylight, from here, he’d have line of sight on the front door but in the middle of the night he could see nothing. The voice again, softer, still calling his name. Bella? He didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Sometimes, playing the fool, she’d affect a foreign accent and now felt like one of those moments. Was she back already? Had she managed to avoid Moscow? Had she never gone in the first place? She certainly knew the mews, in fact she’d loved the house so much she’d been slightly disappointed to have to take the train to Scotland.
Moncrieff felt for the first step, then the next, then the one after. He was nearly at the bottom of the stairs when he heard the knock on the door, discreet, gentle. Bella, he thought. Definitely.
He was in the hall now, and he padded the few steps to the front door. It was bolted top and bottom, and he slid the bolts back with his spare hand, then pulled the door open. As he did so, he heard another movement, behind him this time, and he managed to half turn in the narrow hall before his head exploded, and the masked face in the street chuckled softly, and he sank to his knees as the gun clattered onto the tiled floor.
The pain was intense, flooding his entire body, then he felt the rough kiss of a canvas bag pulled tight around his head. The bag smelled damp, with an inexplicable hint of onions. Then came a sharp prick in his upper arm, and all too suddenly the pain eased, and all he could feel was an enveloping numbness, at first multicoloured, the shades of the rainbow, then fading into a darkness he knew would steal him away.
The voice again, very faint, laughing.
‘Tam…?’
13
THURSDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 1941
Bella awoke in broad daylight, with a thumping head. Larissa had gone, leaving a note on the pillow. Again? Tonight? Take care. Your friend is a lucky man. I love you, too. Bella stared at the note, trying to still her heaving guts, only too aware of how war, and the very real possibility of dying, could make a fleeting relationship so intense, and so precious. Take your pleasures while you can, Larissa had said. And Bella – even prostrate – knew exactly what she meant.
A little later, Yuri returned. He’d scouted the city as far as Khreshchatyk and reported that the Russians
were streaming out of the city, heading for the bridges over the Dnieper.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘You may never see this again.’
Bella dressed and swallowed three glasses of water. Something must have happened to the distribution system because the water was brackish, and tasted slightly sweet, but she felt better already. Yuri had been with Glivenko only an hour ago and said that the NKVD had been pulling out in strength, abandoning the Big House without even locking the doors behind them, and Bella was enjoying her new freedom. She no longer needed to bother with an Army greatcoat, an upturned collar, a working man’s cap, and the need to scuttle from doorway to doorway, on the very inside of the pavement, hugging the shadows. Larissa, perhaps anticipating this moment, had left her a red beret, a declaration that she was a woman again, and she wore it with pride, able to stretch her legs, aware of covert glances from the endless stream of Soviet troops heading east.
Thanks to the last three years in Moscow, she was – in part – Russian, and it was impossible not to feel sorry for these men. They’d obviously been on the road for a long time, retreating from God knows how many battles, and most of them looked exhausted. They stumbled along the broadness of the boulevard, in the footsteps of the man ahead, trying to avoid the tramlines, lifting their heads from time to time, sweat and dust caking their faces. Their shoulders sagged under the weight of their kitbags, blanket rolls and weapons. Each man carried ammunition in heavy pouches, another burden, and Bella watched one soldier tossing round after round aside to ease the weight, the way you might distribute sweets to waiting kids. When the man behind him warned that a Commissar was coming, he merely shrugged. He’d suffered enough and he didn’t care anymore.
Then came an old farm cart, hauled by a pair of bullocks, heaped with yet more soldiers who may or may not have been dead. Among the prostrate bodies sat a blank-faced youth in a fur hat, playing an accordion. Catching sight of Bella at the kerbside, his face was suddenly animated, and he quickened the tune and began to whistle, stirring the nearest body with his mud-caked boot. The prone soldier stirred. His head turned and he raised a grimy hand in salute, his tongue trying to moisten the dryness of his lips. Water, Bella thought. I should have brought water.
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 11
