by Alan Judd
‘Is that what he looked like doing?’
‘Looked pretty desperate to me, to be honest. Didn’t you think?’ The others agreed. ‘Don’t know what you want to do with him, Charles, but thought you ought to know. Orders were, if in doubt, call you in. Sorry to mess up your evening.’
‘You haven’t, don’t worry. You did right.’
‘We can take you to the alley, the entrance to it. Rest of the team’s on it now.’
‘I know it. I know where he’ll be.’ Charles made his decision. ‘I’ll walk down to it. If I don’t soon come back it means I’ve found him.’
‘Want someone with you?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll stick around, anyway.’
He walked around the bomb-site car park towards the river. Not far from the alleyway, where the road became partially cobbled, there was an abandoned, wheel-less Ford with broken windows and one door hanging open. The rest of the SV team were presumably in the car park. There was enough street light to make out puddles on the uneven ground of the alley; the crumbling, weed infested walls on either side appeared to lean in towards each other even more than he remembered. The river wall at the far end was distinguishable as a darker patch of dark.
He entered slowly, looking down to avoid the puddles, and was still dry-footed when he reached the steps leading up the river wall. The sounds of lapping water, soft but distinct against the background traffic of the city, indicated that the tide was in. He climbed the steps carefully. The water was near the top of the rickety wooden stairs the other side and two barges were moored close in. Empty and high in the water, they made an occasional dull boom whenever the current knocked them together. Reflections of the Embankment lights rippled and waved in the river. There was no Viktor sitting on the steps, staring into it, as Charles had confidently expected.
He felt at a loss, deflated, almost stupid. He had simply assumed that Viktor would be there, returning, for whatever reason, to that spot, there to – to what? Contemplate? Throw himself in, as Jim had suggested? The water was eight or nine feet deep at the edge, at least, and the bank shelved steeply farther out. The tide was still coming in, so the body would have been washed upstream. It took weeks for bodies to be washed downstream of London, since each incoming tide brought them seven-eighths of the way back again. If Viktor had jumped not long after arrival he’d have been in at least half an hour, so that was that.
But if he hadn’t gone in, where could he have gone? The river wall of the upstream building was tall and unbroken. There were old windows high in the downstream wall, a former warehouse, but too high to be climbed without equipment. There was also the rusting gantry used for loading and unloading barges. He looked up. Below it was a wooden platform, incomplete and lop-sided, too far to climb, surely, but it was the only alternative to the river.
He called Viktor’s name. There was no answer. Disappointment, and the silence, made him nervous. He called again.
‘Hallo, Charles.’ Viktor’s voice was flat.
Charles grinned with relief. He could see nothing but the bottom of the platform. ‘Where are you?’ There was no answer. ‘Are you up there?’
‘What is it to you where I am?’
‘What are you doing?’ Again, no answer. He leant against the upstream wall, smiling to himself. ‘This is silly, Viktor. How did you get there?’
‘I flew. I have artificial wings. It is new Soviet technology. But it is secret. You must not know it. Therefore, I shall jump into the river and drown myself and it.’
‘What are you doing up there?’
‘I told you. Just now I told you. I am here to drown myself.’
‘Why?’ A breeze got up and the moored barges did a double, sepulchral boom. ‘Why don’t you come down and talk about it?’ There was no response. ‘It’s difficult, having to shout. People might hear us.’
‘What people? Anyway, I don’t care.’
Charles was no longer smiling. If Viktor meant it, the best thing was to summon the river police or fire brigade, or whoever dealt with these things. If Viktor drowned and Charles had summoned no help, he might be blamed. But if he did summon help the whole story would be bound to come out and the undrowned Viktor would be doomed. As usual when confronted by difficulties, he played for time. ‘Tell me why, Viktor.’
There was another pause. ‘For my wife and child. I am killing myself for them. I am under investigation, I know that now. The two men I told you –’
‘Krychkov and Rhykov?’
‘You see, you know. You do not need me to tell you.’
‘Go on.’ He pictured Viktor squatting on the platform, arms resting on his knees, addressing the Thames. ‘Assume I am stupid, Viktor. I need convincing that it is not already your immortal soul that is talking.’ He thought he heard a chuckle.
‘The reason of these two nice men is to make sure I don’t forget to return to Moscow at the end of the week. They keep me very busy with the delegation. I can do nothing else, go nowhere else, see no one else. At least, that is part of their purpose. One at least is also interested in the anti-nuclear campaign here, which he supports. That is, the English anti-nuclear campaign, not the Russian, which does not exist. If it did he would not support it. As for me, I think the Residency has become suspicious and probably they think that all the times I was with Chantal I was doing something even worse, you know, like seeing you or your people. When I get home I shall be interrogated and I shall tell the truth. That is what most people do when they are interrogated because of what they do to you. But probably they will not believe me. What I have done is bad enough but for political reasons they may like to believe the worst and will try to make me confess to that. As you have said, I know their methods. Whatever happens, it is the end of my career, perhaps my life, and the end of my salary and pension for Tanya and Natasha. They will be poor and will be expelled from our nice KGB flat and have nowhere to live and no one will wish to speak to them. They will be contaminated for life.
‘But if I kill myself first there is only minor investigation and Tanya will get the pension and privileges of being KGB widow. They will have a flat. You see, Charles, our system is very legalistic. If I am not investigated and convicted, nothing bad will happen. The KGB will not wish to report to the Party that they have another traitor in London like Lyalin unless they can show him admitting it and then shoot him, to show how watchful and vigorous is the Sword and Shield of the Party. So, because I have done this stupid thing with Chantal, it is better I die. It is my way to make up for it.’
‘Tanya and little Natasha might not see it like that.’
‘Perhaps not, but still it is better for them.’
‘I am sure we can help you.’
‘Thank you, Charles, but I know what that means.’
‘You’re wrong. We’ll help anyway, any way we can. There’s no price.’
The platform creaked and Viktor’s pale face appeared over the edge, as if he were lying or kneeling. It was too dark to make out his expression. ‘Even if I was – were – inclined to accept your kind offer, it is too late,’ he said. ‘I have come out without permission. They do not know where I am. If I go back they will believe I have been doing something bad. It will seal my fate. So, you see, by coming here I have sealed my fate. For me, there is one way only now.’
‘Two ways.’
‘Of course, I was forgetting. I jump off forwards or backwards.’
‘Suppose you returned having found the site of the cache my father had found for them, the one at Beaconsfield. At least, its location. You could say you had a sudden inspiration, even a dream, about where it must be, and tonight was the only time you had to check it before you leave. And you went without asking because you thought you would not get permission to search again on the basis of a hunch or dream. But you did find it – I can tell you exactly where it is – so they will then think you were up to something good, not something bad. You broke the rules, yes, but with good results and you could
say that this was what you were doing on all your other absences. It had become an obsession for you, but finally it got them what they wanted. And you might then be in less trouble when you go back to Moscow.’ Charles waited, prepared for rejection and ridicule. ‘Also –’
‘You really have found it? Really?’
‘I can tell you exactly where it is and describe the instruments inside. You could say you went out and found the box but thought you heard something, so covered it up and came back, not wanting to be caught with the instruments on you. You tell them where it is and later they can send someone to retrieve it and find you are a loyal Soviet citizen after all.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Come down and I’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me now.’
Charles described it, quoting from memory the measurements from the wall of the firing butt.
‘Not feet and inches,’ interrupted Viktor. ‘Nor metres. We don’t measure like that. It has to be in paces, which a person can do without looking as if he is looking for something.’
Charles translated into estimated paces, then, at Viktor’s request, described again what was inside. ‘Not that you could see much in the dark. Would you have a torch?’
‘I suppose so. It would be a risk.’
‘You’d have to. Have you one?’
He had, but he asked more questions before moving out of sight once more and not responding for a while. Eventually, he said, ‘Possibly I can escape with this ingenious plan, Charles. At least for now. But when I am back in Moscow I am not sure it will be enough. These men will not like to have come all this way for nothing. To say, he is innocent, we have found no guilty men, is a failure for them. They have to find someone.’
It was this that gave Charles his idea. However fantastical, it might at least get Viktor down. It might do more. ‘There’s another way we might be able to help with that. But this time you must come down first.’ There was no response. ‘Viktor?’
‘In life, comedy holds the hand of tragedy. You have this saying in English, Charles?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘It is not in Russian, either. But it is in my head at this moment. You see, I cannot get down. So I have to kill myself after all. Or wait for the river to diminish and be found here.’
‘How did you get up there?’
‘I climbed along a ledge and then up the drainpipe before the river became so high. Now the ledge is gone. Inside these windows which have no glass there are no floors in the building, just a great pit, as if a bomb has been here. So there is no way inside.’
It started to rain. Charles was reasonably confident that suicide was no longer a serious possibility, if it ever had been, though less confident of his claimed solution to Viktor’s problems on returning home. There was no time to worry about that, though. He had to be got back to the embassy first, and fast. ‘Where is the ledge?’
‘I told you, beneath the water. It cannot be seen now.’
‘How far down?’
‘I had to go down several steps to climb onto it.’
Charles took off his shoes, socks and trousers. He was getting used to wet feet, of late. His pants were dark blue, so wouldn’t show up to people crossing either of the two nearest bridges, but his legs had lost most of their summer tan. Holding the top of the river wall, he took three steps down the wooden stairs into the river. He had expected the water to be cold but was unprepared for the strength of the still-rising tide, which pressed hungrily against his thighs. He felt along the wall with his left foot until he found the ledge. It was reasonably wide, about half as wide as his foot was long, but there were no handholds and he had to work his fingers around the edges of crumbling bricks. Once he had both feet on the ledge and finger-holds for both hands, he began to inch himself along. The rain fell steadily. ‘You know not what you are about to do for Queen and Country, gentlemen,’ Gerry would say at the start of exercises, rubbing his hands.
By the time he had got beneath the platform the rain was hissing in the water and trickling from his hair down the back of his neck. The river was over half way up his thighs and twice he felt that the current was about to take him. Gratifyingly, Viktor called out his name.
‘I’m here, on the ledge, beneath you,’ he called back. ‘Seeing if it’s still possible. Is this it, the drainpipe on the other side of your platform?’ The large iron pipe felt reasonably firm, its heavy brackets protruding enough for a hand to be pushed between it and the wall.
‘There is only one. You are coming to join me?’
‘Certainly not. Just seeing if your route is still navigable. It is, but you’ll get soaked up to your thighs unless you take your trousers off and throw them back to me on the steps.’
‘And if they don’t reach you I return to the Residency and say I have found the cache site but somehow I lost my trousers?’
Charles smiled in the darkness. ‘Actually, it’s better you do get them wet. The long grass would have soaked them and if you can say you slipped in a ditch, so much the better. I’ll wait here if you can get back down the pipe. Hurry up. The river’s still rising.’
The drainpipe shifted under Viktor’s weight and a small shower of mortar fell on Charles’s head. Viktor came down hand over hand, knees bent and feet pressed flat against the wall. The last few feet were a barely-controlled slide, ending just above the water. He wore corduroys and a jersey. Crouching, clutching the pipe, he looked at Charles and laughed. ‘What a wonderful photograph. The famous SIS and the famous KGB working together again, as in the war. But SIS caught with its trousers down. Like the old days, Charles? How is the river?’
‘Wet.’
Viktor lowered one leg at a time, feeling for the ledge. ‘You are right. Imagine we are both drowned. What a mystery for the security people. Shall we swim back? We are wet enough with the rain. Why not, Charles?’ He let go with one arm and made a swimming motion. For a moment it seemed he might take them both into the river.
‘Are all Russians mad?’ asked Charles.
‘All. But not enough Englishmen are mad. That is our tragedy and yours.’
Back on the river wall, Charles dressed. One of his socks fell into the river. They both reached for it and missed. ‘I hope you can claim for it on expenses,’ said Viktor. ‘If I survive and we meet again I will pay you from KGB funds. We can afford it, I think.’
‘Better lose a sock than you, I guess. Were you serious up there? Seems rather an over-reaction to me.’
‘You have not seen what happens to people. You have no child. You are responsible only for yourself. Your life is easier, Charles. I was really considering it, for the reasons I told you. And I still have to face them.’
The rain was steady and cold. They stood at the bottom of the brick steps, pressed against the wall while Charles explained his second idea. Viktor was sceptical, dismissive at first, eventually conceding that it might help even though there would be no knowing for some time whether it had finally worked. Any distraction, anything to muddy the waters, was useful. ‘It is helpful that they dislike each other,’ he said. ‘Krychkov is senior. He is old Stalinist. He resents the new generation. Rhykov is younger and cleverer and shows it, which means he is not really so clever after all. He thinks Krychkov is stupid. He is right. Each would like to blame the other for anything but Krychkov has more influential friends, old Stalinists in senior places. And because of his background, and because he is stupid, he is always suspicious. So you must point your finger at Rhykov.’
‘What else might they be doing here, apart from looking after you?’
‘I don’t know for sure but it is connected with Legacy. The Resident has called for the file and he discusses it with them. Not with me. I am left out of Legacy now. Except for my surprising discovery tonight.’
‘Why do you think they became suspicious of you?’
Viktor shrugged. ‘Maybe I have been careless. Maybe someone saw me going to Chantal. Maybe someone just said something. It can
be enough.’
When they had agreed tactics, Charles insisted Viktor leave first. Viktor smiled. ‘Still you don’t trust me. You think if I stay I might still jump into the river?’
‘Why didn’t you signal, if you felt you were in that much trouble? Defection is better than death, surely?’
‘You know, there was a murder in a provincial town in Russia. The head of the state farm was having a relationship with the wife of the district Party secretary. They killed him, the Party secretary, so they could marry each other. But people became suspicious and they were arrested. At the trial they were asked, Why didn’t you just leave him, divorce, go to another town? Why did you think the only way is to kill him? You know, they had no answer to that question. They had not thought of it. Divorcing and moving were not thinkable. It is the same for me with defection. Suicide is more common in the KGB.’
‘Well, if what we’ve agreed works, you won’t have to consider either.’
‘If.’ Viktor held out his hand. ‘Good luck with Operation Compromise. I will not know you, I promise.’
‘But you will signal?’
‘Wait and see. Yes, Charles, I promise.’
Charles waited a minute or so after Viktor’s silhouette had disappeared from the end of the alleyway, then picked his way back. Rain dripped from the buildings and spattered in the puddles. His shoe rubbed on his sockless foot. No one was in sight when he emerged. The slanting rain came now in blustery waves through the dim orange street lighting. He walked up to where Anna had dropped him and saw Jim’s Saab in a side street on the other side of the road, facing him.
