The Quiet Dogs: 3 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  In the car, the two men from the MVD examined the description form, and details, by the shaded light of a torch.

  “Well, I think it’s him.” The first man leaned from the car window. “Watch. Look. Yes, he’s going to the entrance.”

  “You think we should report it?”

  “See what happens. In a minute.”

  Gold-Troilus-Piotr Kashvar approached the big glass doors; found them locked, and rapped noisily. One of the night guards left his game of chess: not hurrying himself.

  “What you want?”

  Gold said he was the General’s nephew—Piotr Kashvar. Did not the man remember? He was here the other night. It was important that he see his uncle. He had a present for him. It was the last chance to let his uncle have the present.

  “Leave it with me. The Comrade General’s out for the evening. Won’t be back till late.”

  The night guard’s companion shouted something. The General had asked to be notified. He was expecting someone.

  “He would have said if it was his nephew,” the man at the door flung back over his shoulder. “Leave your parcel. I’ll see he gets it the moment they return.”

  “That means my aunt’s out as well.”

  “Big party at the Kremlin. Everybody’s there.”

  “Can I come in and wait? My train doesn’t leave until the early hours: I’d like to see them, and I’d rather wait here, in the warm, than at the station.”

  The night guard opened the door, shrugging. “If you wish.” He was not going to incur the General’s displeasure, by leaving this ragtag nephew out in the cold.

  “Well, he’s gone in. You think we should report it?” The first Militia man rubbed the stubble on his chin, and pushed his face close to the window. The cold filter of air at least removed the stink of stale vodka, coming from his comrade.

  “It can’t do any harm.” The second man reached for his transmitter and switched on. They had been told to keep radio silence, unless the subject turned up. Now the radio crackled.

  The leading MVD man pressed his microphone button; gave his call sign, and was immediately answered. There was a short pause while they consulted the card, and its list of codes. Chief Investigator Fedyanin had passed it on—brief details only, and use the codes. He did not want any Tom, Dick or Harry knowing when the subject was spotted: by which, they presumed in the car, the Chief Investigator did not want the KGB in on the act.

  The message went straight into Petrovka Street. Personal and urgent. Immediate for Chief Investigator Fedyanin. Uncle’s boy waiting for Uncle now at the Slum.

  The man on the radio sighed. Fedyanin would love this—being disturbed at home: though who knew what it meant? There was enough trouble around tonight. All the usual fights, muggings, together with the normal share of drunks, and domestic violence.

  Irina Lobanova had slid into a peaceful, and satisfied sleep. Then, something disturbed her. She drifted upwards, wondered if she was dreaming, before the sleep reclaimed her. The next thing she knew was the sound of the telephone dial, and someone talking softly. Then the door closing.

  Suddenly she was fully awake, sniffing the air, trying to clear her head and separate dreams from reality. Of one thing she was certain: Michael Gold was a good lover. Not the best she had ever tasted, but he had brought her on several times, and eventually left her satisfied and tired. Sure, he had not the bull-like power of some Russian men, who treated their women like cattle. She rather liked that; the feeling of being used for the outpouring. That got her going every time. Well, certainly she was sore from the Englishman.

  But what else had happened? And where was he now? No, she had half wakened. It was not a dream. Mikhail had been standing by the bed, dressed in a pullover with a roll collar. He was packing something, and there were papers in his hand. Then she had heard him on the telephone. He spoke to someone in English. Then he left.

  For a second or so, Irina was outraged. The man who had sworn he loved her; given her presents; taken her body; asked her to stay for the night. This wretched Englishman had upped and left her, alone in the hotel; and where would he go at this time of night?

  Fury went through her. Lover? She spat. That was all he wanted. To boast he had fucked a good Russian girl.

  Then Irina calmed herself. There was more to it than that. The clothes and papers; the telephone; Michael Gold gone. Something had happened. She lay there for a full two minutes before slipping out of bed, and going to the telephone where she dialled Adviser Pankov’s night number.

  He answered straight away, and listened quietly as she told her story. There was a long pause once she finished, so that she asked him again—“What shall I do?”

  “You do nothing,” he said. “I shall look into it. I presume his passport is at reception?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he has to return. You stay where you are. I shall make enquiries. In the meantime we’ll make the Militia do some work for their pay. I’ll have a couple of their men sent over to look at his passport, and wait for him to come back. They can take him in for questioning, and we’ll follow up, if it turns out to be something really special.”

  “And me?”

  “You? You’re a good girl. We won’t bring you into it. Just stay where you are for the time being. I’ll be in touch. Room number?”

  She gave it, and Pankov closed the line.

  Ten minutes later there were two plainclothed MVD men in the lobby, questioning the reception staff, and looking at Michael Gold’s passport. A little later, a patrol car arrived, with some uniformed officers. At least it was warm in the hotel lobby.

  The MVD men who watched the apartment block on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, could see the two guards playing chess. Their man, the General’s missing nephew, sat to one side watching: clutching a package to his stomach.

  Inside the building, the night guards were not on the best of terms. There had been a small argument as to whether the General should be informed. In the end they thought it better not to do anything. It was getting late; though who knew what time they would return? Those receptions at the Kremlin went on for hours; until late into the night; and everybody got pissed out of their heads. But they would be back—sooner or later.

  Chief Investigator Fedyanin was watching television. They were rerunning an old series, one of his favourites. Nowadays it always seemed to be repeats and re-runs. Shield and Sword was ten years old—more—but still very good: great stories; the spies who wormed their way into Nazi Germany—those men and women of darkness, who did so much to win the Great Patriotic War.

  Fedyanin’s wife did not share her husband’s delight in the spy TV series, but sat there, staring into space, her mind a million miles away, as the pictures flashed over the screen.

  They both jumped when the telephone rang. Fedyanin cursed, and spoke sharply into the instrument. “Does the General know? Is he with him?”

  A pause, for the radio man to repeat the message. “Can you transfer me to the unit on watch? Patch me through to them on the radio?” Fedyanin tapped his foot and waited, craning his neck to see the TV screen. Then the mobile unit came on the air. The General was out: some booze-up at the Kremlin. All right, he would see to it himself.

  Fedyanin knew his priorities. Though there was some kind of promise to let a Major Badim, of the KGB, know if the man Kashvar surfaced, Fedyanin had enough sense to consider the General before anyone else. Within minutes, he was speaking to the night guards at the apartment block.

  Oh, should they have informed the Comrade General? No, it was fine. The Chief Investigator would let him know. Did the General leave a telephone number? Good, well, pass it on. He would see to matters.

  Back on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, in the room across the wide street, the KGB surveillance man woke with a start.

  “Shit.” He looked at his watch, in the gloom, relieved to see he had missed only some fifteen minutes. He struggled to clear his head. Like one of the MVD men, there had been too much vodka during the
late afternoon: before he went on duty. He supposed it would be best to take a squint through the night glasses, on their tripod.

  Nothing unusual could be seen, as he traversed the area in the line of sight.

  Still plenty of traffic, but nothing stopping at the building under observation. The surveillance man adjusted the knurled screw on the glasses, to bring the doors of the apartment block into sharper focus—sweeping on either side. Then, alert: back again. A further adjustment. He could see clearly through the glass doors into the lobby. To the left, the pair of night guards played chess; but another figure sat near them. How had the interloper managed that? Shit on my grave—while I was asleep.

  The surveillance man turned, moving to his resting colleague, shaking him awake. He was almost certain the man was their target, but nobody in his position would dare take on the responsibility of reporting it to Badim, unless completely certain.

  His story had to be right. Only just now, when the guards invited the man in, had he been able to see the face. The whole thing had to look as though their report followed immediately after recognition. Where this kind of thing was concerned, two voices spoke with more authority than one.

  The party was being held in the huge reception room, reached by escalators, on the topmost storey of the massive Congress Building, which adjoins the old Great Kremlin Palace.

  It was an impressive affair, with colour from the dress uniforms and the ladies’ gowns; long buffet tables landscaped with food; and an endless supply of drink. The setting is ideal for this kind of gathering, for the walls of the reception room are made almost entirely of glass, giving one of the best views in the whole of Moscow.

  An orchestra played throughout the entire evening, and General Glubodkin was trying to enjoy himself. His wife enjoyed herself as a matter of course. Stentor though, having arrived still in a high state of anxiety, found himself now in a very different frame of mind.

  The motive force behind this change of heart had appeared within five minutes of their arrival, in the form of the Chairman of the Committee for State Security himself.

  The all-powerful man beamed as he approached, and Stentor suddenly realised he was alone in the crowd—his wife having been enticed away by some of her cronies: all wives of senior KGB officers.

  “My dear Vladimir.” The Chairman put out a hand, and Stentor acknowledged the authority with a stiff bow of salutation.

  “I wanted to see you.” The Chairman’s face betrayed nothing but goodwill. “Time is a luxury. Come, let us talk for a moment.” He placed an arm around Stentor’s shoulder, pivoting him towards the corner of the long window. There, they stood for a moment or two, looking down at the magnificent view of the Kremlin, and out across the city.

  “We’ve known one another a long time, old friend.” The Chairman spoke softly. “But I wanted to make this as informal as possible. It will become official on Monday. Old comrade, you are to be retired on full pay as from the coming week.”

  Stentor’s mouth fell open, and his head turned to examine the Chairman’s eyes. “What ... what have I done?” he blurted.

  The Chairman gave a low chuckle. “Served your country, and the Service, with great ability for more years than necessary.” He lied, worrying at the lie, and still hoping that Vascovsky was wrong.

  “But...?”

  “You thought, like all of us, to die in harness? Yes, I understand that. My friend, there will be decorations; a fine dacha—much better than the one you already have—where is it? On the Baltic coast somewhere? Latvia? You will also have no responsibilities. There will be time to rest and relax. It happens to us all, you know.”

  So it had come. The news was not unexpected, of course, yet Stentor felt as though a sudden void had opened up. The days, and months, stretched ahead like a weary arid view. Days, months—no, years possibly. Years, with no frame of reference except the past, and the gentle nagging of his wife.

  In a fraction, Stentor’s life had altered. The Chairman’s hand gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Come, comrade. Let’s drink together.” As they sidled their way through the growing crowd, so General Glubodkin’s eyes caught Vascovsky making an entrance with his wife. It would make life easier for Vascovsky, the spy-hunter, Stentor thought. Easy for him to corner a man on full retirement. At least he might have that to come—the inevitable questions; the stone walls and the interrogators—unless Tserkov caught up with Yekaterina, and so dishonoured Vascovsky; or Stentor’s London masters managed to do worse. Drink? No, that only made him ill.

  The reception was successful—like all official Russian junkets—with a very large number of people quietly leaving at regular intervals to vomit. After a few hours, Stentor judged that over two-thirds of the assembly were well under the influence. He wondered how the meetings with the Eastern Bloc leaders would go tomorrow, as they wrestled with the touchy problems of economy, and political line, among the barbs of deathly sick headaches.

  Thank God that he, Stentor, was well-versed in the ways of liquor: spending most of the evening nursing a full glass. So Stentor kept his head, and watched, with wry amusement, as others keeled over.

  Even his wife was exceptionally merry. He would leave it until tomorrow before telling her the news; knowing she had waited for so long. For her, his retirement could bring nothing but pleasure.

  At one point, he found himself among a group near to General Vascovsky, who conducted himself with superb poise, surrounded by captivated women—and not a few men: telling stories that set them laughing, after the manner of those who take too much alcohol, and so find even the most simple joke hilarious and brilliantly witty.

  The eyes of the two men met briefly: Stentor happily noting that Vascovsky broke the gaze first, turning back to the group to make a quip which again set them all off in guffaws of mirth.

  There was a tap on his shoulder. Glubodkin turned to see one of the Kremlin Staff officers at attention, a duty armlet around his sleeve. “Comrade General, a telephone message. Personal, and very important, for you, sir.”

  Stentor raised his eyebrows, following the young officer to the entrance, and small office where a telephone lay, unhooked, on a table. With a word of thanks, Stentor took up the receiver. At the far end, Fedyanin spoke rapidly.

  A few moments later, Stentor was giving instructions to the young officer of the Kremlin Staff. He would like his car brought around immediately, and would somebody please inform his wife. He had been called away on urgent business, which should not keep him long. Would his wife wait for his return. Fifteen minutes; half-an-hour at the most.

  The young officer, slightly overawed, knowing he was dealing with a legend of the KGB, appeared only too anxious to assist. Within five minutes Stentor’s car raced, its pennant flying, through the Spasskaya—Saviour’s Gate—heading for the apartment block on Kutuzovsky Prospekt.

  As the car gathered speed, Stentor was not to know that Major Badim, Vascovsky’s aide, was searching desperately for his General—having just received a report that the ‘nephew’ had been sighted.

  The car came to a squealing stop outside the apartment block, and Stentor, giving orders for both driver and bodyguard to remain at the ready, leaped out.

  The night guards pushed their chairs back, standing, to acknowledge the imposing presence; while Michael Gold, in his role as Piotr Kashvar, made a move towards Stentor, speaking as they drew close. “I was afraid that I would miss you, Uncle. My leave is over ...”

  For the benefit of the night guards, Stentor produced a towering rage. Where did Piotr think he had been? What had he got himself into? Disappearing like that. “Your aunt’s been out of her mind with concern. We wait for years to get a glimpse of you, then you disappear like a naughty schoolboy ...” Stentor kept it up, propelling Michael towards the elevator.

  Michael Gold took the hint, trying to get words in between the General’s tirade—“My plans changed ... I... I had to... There was no time to ...” and so, and so, until the elevator doors closed, and
Stentor gave him a great wink. Holding a finger over his lips, General Glubodkin continued his tongue-lashing—“Well, I have no time. You cannot stay here ...”

  “My train leaves at three in the morning, and ...”

  “Then you can wait at the station. I’ve come from an important reception, at the Kremlin. The Militia’s been searching for you since you decided my hospitality was not good enough for you. I’ve only come back so that I can put your aunt’s mind at rest. Now, Piotr, what’ve you been doing? Drink? Whores? Both?”

  Michael Gold spluttered, and the odd conversation continued until they were not merely inside Stentor’s apartment, but safe within the General’s antiseptic study.

  There, Gold handed over the package, which Stentor tore open, examining each item hastily. As he took the photographs and papers, looking at each in turn, the General started to laugh. “Excellent,” he whispered. “There’s no time to listen to the tapes, and I’m afraid I shall have to act out another little play with you downstairs. This will be the scene where I cut you off without a kopeck, denounce you, and say we never wish to set eyes on you again.” As he spoke, Stentor looked closely at the blue flimsy, which contained the coded instructions. He would deal with those later, even though Michael Gold told him that London required Stentor to take special note of the map references, times and fall-backs contained in the cipher. They were particularly important.

  Stentor acknowledged this. Then—“You have done well; whoever you are. Can you, perhaps, get one last message back to your people?”

  Of course, Michael Gold hoped he could do so with telephone double-talk. It was the only way, except for taking a dive into the Embassy, and he certainly did not want to do that, now he had just found Irina.

  “Tell them, first, that I have been retired. As from Monday I shall be a private person—retired honourably on full pay. Next week, I clear out my desk.”

  “Does this change anything?”

  Stentor was silent for a moment. “Yes.” Very slowly he swallowed. “I came through my dark night. I faced the fact that Russia is my country, and I could not bear to be anywhere else. But that has altered. One thing I had not really looked squarely in the eyes, was the fact of inactivity. Now I have to do that. I shall carry out whatever instructions they give me here,” He tapped the flimsy. “After that—if they have a planned meeting place—they can lift me out. I leave it up to them. If there is a date and time, here, then I shall be there. Waiting. Reluctant, but waiting to leave. You can do that?”