Timebomb : A Thriller (9781468300093)

by Seymour, Gerald

  ‘What is worst is that you get to sleep too often in motor-cars. I cannot abide to sleep in a car. Because of him I have to. A bed is nothing to him. Johnny, do I smell?’

  He sniffed loudly. ‘Can’t smell anything, Mr Goldmann.’

  There was a snort, disbelief. They had pulled off the main road, before the city of Lublin, and had gone on to the concrete track that led to a farm. That was the place for sleeping, and the car seats made the beds. The smell of three bodies, Reuven Weissberg’s, Mikhail’s and Carrick’s, had been foul, and his throat had been raw and … He had thought that if they were avoiding a hotel reception desk then the business must be close. They were parked in a side-street off the town’s main square. It sloped away, was newly cobbled, a picture-postcard view of the town of Chelm. The square had a sign up that announced a European cash grant for modernization and reconstruction, and boutique-type shops lined its sides. When Reuven Weissberg had walked out into the centre of the square, Carrick had gone to follow but there had been a sharp whistle from Mikhail. When he had turned he had been waved back. So, Reuven Weissberg who did business, who fought for his survival, who was the target of an operation mounted by the Secret Intelligence Service, had space and was alone.

  Carrick stood with Josef Goldmann.

  ‘Do you know why we are here, Johnny, in this shit-hole of a town?’

  ‘I don’t, Mr Goldmann … but I don’t need to be told.’

  ‘This is Chelm. It is where his grandmother would have come as a girl, as a child. This square was here then. The Jews were one in three of the population. The town had their culture stamped over it. His grandmother, Anna, would have been brought by her parents to Chelm for special days, like a birthday. He tries to live his grandmother’s life, Johnny. Do you understand that, why he does it?’

  He could have answered, ‘Because of the loneliness.’ He shook his head. In front of him, Reuven Weissberg walked towards a little wood-built shed, in which a hatch was open. Inside, past a woman’s shoulder, he could see shelves of sweets, chocolates, gum. The shed was on a wide plinth of neatly set cobbles.

  ‘There was a similar kiosk shop there when his grandmother was a child. When she was brought to Chelm, on any day of celebration, and wearing her best clothes, her father would have bought a newspaper there, printed in Yiddish or Polish, I don’t know, and some sweets for his children. There is little now that remains of the Jewish past in Chelm … this kiosk, a cemetery – the cemetery has been cleaned, but now it is a place for addicts. He had two fears, Johnny, and I do not know which is the greater. One fear is that he should die, be killed, gunned down on a street, and that his grandmother is left to live her last years, or months, solitary, forgotten and without a carer. The other fear is for the day when she passes on, now she is in her eighty-fifth year, and who then is left for him to love and talk with? There are great fears in his life.’

  Carrick watched the man’s back, thought of the old woman marooned in the apartment in Berlin, high above the pulse of the streets, and he saw Reuven Weissberg go on across the square, leaving the kiosk behind him, then pause at the top of a side-street that ran down a steep hill. The man whose fears were now identified to Carrick gazed at a building. Carrick followed the eyeline and saw a big sign on it: McKenzee Saloon. It had once been, he thought, a fine building.

  ‘His grandmother would have been there on those celebration days, when she was a child. It was the synagogue, the holy place, the place of worship, learning and culture. She was there … For many years it was a bank. Now it is a bar. She is the past. Everything about him is controlled by the past, his grandmother’s. Be careful of him, Johnny. As his grandmother controls him, so he controls men. I tell you, be careful of him. I think, Johnny, you are too honest a person and would not welcome the contamination of poison. He has poison fed to him by his grandmother. Believe in me.’

  Reuven Weissberg was still at the top of the narrow street. A window cleaner now worked at the first-floor windows of the McKenzee Saloon. Carrick had the picture in his mind, the woman who was young and held the baby, a weapon slung loosely on her shoulder, and had brilliant white hair.

  ‘Has he told you about fighting, Johnny, fighting against the world? He will. He can recite stories of suffering, agonies and fighting. He knows them, is perfect in each word of them. They were taught him by his grandmother, from the time he sat on her knee to today. She has fashioned him. He is her creature. He likes best the story of when she fought. Stay with him and you will hear it.’

  I did not know where he was. All through the day I looked for Samuel, but I could not see him.

  I had done what I had been told to. I had dressed as warmly as was possible in the clothes I owned. I had no shame, no guilt, but I took a jersey from a woman in our barracks who was sick. I stole it. I didn’t think she would need it because she wasn’t strong enough to go out of the camp. Later, as the days became shorter and the nights colder, she would have needed it, but I thought only of that day and the coming night. I was able to ‘borrow’ a pair of boots. I told another woman, who worked in the section that converted the clothes of the dead into clothes that could be sent to Germany for those put out in the streets by the bombing, that I wanted her boots for the day and would return them in the morning. They were good boots with strong soles, and I told her I would do a shift for her in return for what she ‘loaned’ me. At first light I was ready. I wore the jersey and the boots. At breakfast, I begged for a third slice of black bread and was given it.

  All through the day I was ready, but I didn’t see Samuel.

  The morning passed so slowly. Because I knew, had been trusted, I sensed an atmosphere. I wouldn’t have recognized the changed mood among a few of the men. Where was Samuel? I never saw him through all the hours of the morning, or when the detail came back from working in the forest. It doesn’t matter where he was, but it was agony to me that I hadn’t seen him. I didn’t know how it would happen, or when.

  It rained that day.

  The darkness came early.

  The lights were on above the fences and the rain made jewels of the barbs in the wire. Above the fences and lights were the watchtowers. On each of the watchtowers, with the Ukrainians, were machine-guns. I saw everything … I saw the height of the fences, the brightness of the lights and the size of the machine-guns, I saw the guards and the swagger of the Germans. I couldn’t imagine how it was possible that we – starved, exhausted, weak – could defeat them. I think I was losing faith … Then I saw Samuel.

  He came out of a hut, the one beside the kitchen where the bread was made. He looked past me, then through me, as if determined not to attract attention to me or to himself. He tried to walk by me, but I held in my palm the flattened orchid he had given me and opened my hand to show him. He reached out and I saw that fresh blood was on his hands, and he was wide-eyed – as if in shock. I knew it. It had begun. I could not know how it would end.

  I did not have to be told. I followed him.

  I went into a hut, the one where we ate. There were, perhaps, thirty men inside and I recognized Feldhendler and a few who had been in the camp as workers all the time I had been there, and all the Russians. The speaker was Pechersky. He was on a table and spoke with the intensity of a fighter. I caught the end of what he said: ‘Our day has come … Most of the Germans are dead … Let us die with honour. Remember, if any of us survives, he must tell the world what has happened here.’

  There was no applause. I looked at the faces, grim, haggard, but determination lit them. On many hands there was blood, and I saw guns in the hands of a few, and knives or axes, which were stained and wet.

  Samuel whispered to me, ‘The first was Wolf. He was killed in the tailors’ shop. Then it was Beckmann in his office and with each stab on him there was shouted in his ear the name of a relative of Chaim who had died here. Chaim killed him. Unterscharführer Ryba we killed in the garage. Stay with me, trust me.’

  We went out into the dusk. I think it w
as five o’clock. The whistle went. Prisoners lined up, were in their formation and ranks. The roll was called. I could see the fences and the gates. I didn’t know how it could be done. The women were in a group apart from the men but I kept my eyes always on Samuel. He stood in the rank behind Pechersky. In a moment of silence there was a shout. Very clear. We all heard it. A guard cried: ‘Ein Deutsch kaput’. The shooting started.

  Some ran for the gate.

  Some stayed in the ranks.

  Some ran for the wire.

  Insufficient Germans had been killed. Frenzel organized Germans and Ukrainians at the main gate.

  Samuel ran to me, took my arm. There was shooting at the gate, incessant, and the screams of those hit. Samuel took me to the wire. It was laced with pine branches and easy to climb. We were between two towers. We reached the top of the wire, were together, and the barbs caught in my clothing, ripped it. He jumped down, crouched and called me. Men came down from the wire all around us. I think the few who had guns were shooting at the Ukrainians in the towers. I looked back. I remember my shock at what I saw. Many had stayed behind, like statues in their ranks.

  Did they believe, those who stayed, that the Germans would look kindly on them? Did it take more courage to run at the wire than to remain in the lines for roll-call? I think half stayed, and half ran.

  I came down from the wire, fell. Samuel broke the impact. Then I was beside him.

  In front of us was open ground, and beyond it the forest. He held me. He gripped my arm, and I couldn’t have broken away. Others came off the wire, tumbled, regained their feet, ran.

  The explosions deafened us. If Samuel had shouted in my ear I wouldn’t have heard his words. The machine-guns traversed the top of the wire, and some screamed, some cried out and some swung from the barbs. Samuel and I were the only ones who stayed at the base of the wire. The ground lifted, flew. The noise of the mines detonating was awesome, terrifying, but many still ran, driven like cattle in headlong flight, and I saw legs taken off and thrown clear, stomachs slashed open, the head of a man sliced off cleanly. That was what awaited us.

  He pulled me up. He loosed my arm and took my hand. He pointed to his feet, then to mine. There was chaos around us, terror. The machine-guns were constant, the mine explosions frequent, scattering shrapnel. It was hell, at the base of the wire. He stood but was bent at the waist. Without warning, he jerked me forward. How desperate must you be to run into a minefield? So desperate. There was no turning back.

  I saw some, a few, reach the trees. I saw some, many, felled in the minefield. I copied Samuel, was on the toes of those boots I had ‘borrowed’.

  It was the first time in so many months that I had seen the trees of the forest, their darkened depth, and I sucked breath into my lungs. I knew what I had to do … Samuel ran. He wove, skipped and danced – and I saw then that Pechersky was ahead of him. I understood that his feet landed always where others had gone before, had detonated the mines. We went past those who were down, who had lost limbs, who held their intestines in their hands, whose faces had been taken off by the shrapnel. Where the open ground was cratered, he put his feet. I followed, dragged forward, and my boots went on to the loosened ground where his treadmarks were. He had waited, as had the other Russians, for those in panic to clear a path. We took advantage of others’ death and mutilation. We went through the minefield.

  More were cut down between the minefield and the tree line.

  Samuel, now, did not swerve. He ran straight, fast, bent low. I tripped once, fell, was on my knees. He did not stop or hesitate. With all of his strength he pulled me up. He held my hand so tightly.

  We hit the trees.

  We had fought them. The gunfire, their death camp, their world, their evil was behind us. We ran till it was muffled and distant. Rain dripped from the trees. We ran till the breath would not go down into our lungs, till we staggered. There were so many in the forest, blundering and crying. I could go no further. I said it to myself, again and again, that we had fought them. They were behind us, with their guns, fences, the Himmelstrasse and the chambers for gassing with carbon-monoxide fumes.

  And I was trembling and gasping. ‘What do we do now, Samuel? What should we do?’ It would have wheezed from my throat,

  ‘We have to find Pechersky. We depend on him. Pechersky will save us.’

  He said it with faith. He trusted. I believed him.

  ‘I really have to speak, Mr Lawson.’

  ‘If you have something to say, say it.’

  The target had walked back from the summit of a side-street, had crossed the square and gone close to a slatted wooden shed that served as a shop, had come back to the agent and had seemed to whisper something in his ear, then had slapped the agent’s shoulder. The target’s arm had stayed loose across the agent’s shoulder as they had gone right and out of sight. Adrian came by them in the car and cruised to get locked into the tracking position behind the target’s vehicle.

  What Lawson could recognize, what seemed a priority factor to him, was the increasing exhaustion of his team, Adrian and Dennis at the top of the pecking order for rest, but no opportunity had yet shown up for handing the beacon harness to the agent.

  ‘It’s the body language, Mr Lawson.’ Shrinks had paused.

  Lawson said, ‘If you have something to communicate, spill it. Don’t wait for my prompt. God Almighty …’

  ‘Yes, Mr Lawson. What I wanted to contribute is about the body language of the agent. He demonstrates the characteristics of pure Stockholm syndrome.’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Lawson. We talk about a universal strategy for victims of personal abuse. Could be hostages, battered women, incest victims or procured prostitutes. In all cases, the victims ingratiate themselves with their abuser. The victim believes absolutely in an actual or perceived threat to his or her personal safety – that’s what we call a “precursor” to the syndrome. A second precursor is the relief if a gesture of kindness, mercy, is made by the abuser to the victim – could be as little as a smile or a gentle word. The third common precursor involves the circumstance in which the victim exists – in isolation from any normal, familiar environment, cut off from contact with the outside world. Our last precursor is the victim’s belief that he or she cannot walk away, escape. All of those factors now exist for November. We have threat, we have humanity and isolation, and we have the inability to turn his back, walk off down the street towards sunlit uplands. Put bluntly, Mr Lawson, your man regards Reuven Weissberg as a more important figure in his life than you.’

  The girl, Katie Jennings, drove the minibus off the square. Lawson liked what he was told, but wouldn’t show it.

  ‘He is, of course, Mr Lawson, a highly trained and motivated officer. I venture to suggest that nothing in the agent’s training would have prepared him for this situation. Stress factors for him will be high. Motivation will have been weakened by the factor of his being outside a net of regular contact with us. We should—’

  ‘Summarize – without waffle.’

  ‘I’ll try, Mr Lawson. Your agent has colluded with his abuser, and that is a classic symptom of the syndrome. I would suggest that his perspective on events ahead of him is not that of a serving police officer. His perspective is that of his abuser. The victim becomes, we’ve found, hyper-vigilant to the abuser’s needs.’

  ‘And you’re getting all that from the body language, with your viewpoint ranged from a hundred yards plus away?’ Lawson snorted sarcasm.

  ‘I am. The agent cannot now divorce himself from the target – a battered wife remains with a violent husband. The agent’s greatest fear is of losing the only positive relationship left him. He’s in denial of reality. It’s that simple.’

  Lawson reckoned Shrinks was frightened of him. Looking into the minibus front mirror, he could see that the girl wore an expression of suppressed anger, and that young Davies, beside her, fought to hold his silence. Probably both detested him. He had
the back seat to himself, and the jump seats behind him were taken by Bugsy, Deadeye, Shrinks and their luggage. He stretched his legs. They were out of the square, plunging down the hill and away from the modernized prettiness of the old town into the more recent concrete shapes of Chelm.

  Lawson said, ‘Yes, very helpful. Do you want a mention in dispatches?’

  ‘Just trying to do my job, Mr Lawson. Getting nearer, isn’t it, whatever the conclusion will be? And that’s piling the stress on him. Difficult thing to handle in his circumstances, acute stress.’

  ‘Everyone, Shrinks, will be feeling the stress in the coming hours,’ Lawson said cheerfully. ‘I guarantee that stress, like piano wires pulled to break-point, will play a part in the actions of everyone involved.’

  He licked his lips. Molenkov couldn’t help himself. ‘Yashkin, where we are now, is it inside the Chernobyl area?’

  ‘You know as much as I do.’

  Their leg for the day was from Gomel to Pinsk. It would be one of the longest. On the map, Molenkov had reckoned, it was around three hundred and sixty-five kilometres. They had not rejoined the M13, and Molenkov had guided Yashkin to the side roads going south. They were on a single-carriageway road, and had crossed a long, narrow bridge over the Pripat river, were among a wilderness of uncultivated fields, sparse forestry and stagnant lakes. Where there had been villages there were only slight indications of habitation. The meltdown at the nuclear reactor on the outskirts of Chernobyl had occurred two years after the death of his wife and a year before the death of his son.

  ‘I know little of Chernobyl, only that the country to the north was contaminated, that there is a considerable exclusion zone, that the poison will stay for many hundreds of years and—’

  Yashkin snapped, ‘And the level of radiation at Chernobyl, which is due south of us, is on average measured at 1.21 milliroentgens, and that’s a hundred times more than the natural level of radiation.’

  ‘Then you know something.’