Suvorin watched the big car as it bounced over the rough ground and out of sight. He turned away, towards the river, and walked along the quayside, smoking his pipe, until he came to a big metal post set into the concrete, to which ships had moored in the communist time, before economics had accomplished what Hitler's bombers had never managed, and laid waste the docks. His performance had exhausted him. He wiped the surface with his handkerchief, sat down, and pulled out his photocopy of Kelso's statement. To have written so much - perhaps two thousand words - so quickly and with such clarity, after such an experience . . . Well, it proved his hunch: he was a clever one, this fellow, Fluke. Troublesome. Persistent. Clever. He went through the pages again with a gold propelling pencil and made a list of matters for Netto to check. They needed to visit the house on Vspolnyi Street - Beria's place, well, well. They ought to find this daughter of Rapava's. They should compile a list of every forensic document examiner in the Moscow region to whom Mamantov might take the notebook for authentication. And every handwriting expert. And they should find a couple of tame historians and ask them to make the best guess possible as to what this notebook might contain. And and and. . . He felt as though he was trying to stuff gas back into a cylinder with his hands.
He was still writing when Netto and the driver returned. He rose stiffly. To his dismay he found that the mooring-post had left a rust-coloured mark on the back of his beautiful coat, and he spent much of the journey to Yasenevo picking at it obsessively, trying to make it clean.
KELSO'S HOTEL ROOM was in darkness, the curtains closed. He pulled aside the cheap nylon drapes. There was an odd smell of something - talcum powder? Aftershave? Someone had been in here. Blond-head, was it? Eau Sauvage? He lifted the telephone receiver. The line hummed. He felt breathless. His skin was crawling. He could have done with a whisky but the mini-bar was still empty after his night with Rapava; there was nothing in it apart from soda and orange juice. And he could have done with a bath but there wasn't a plug.
He guessed now who the blond-headed man was. He knew the species - smooth and sharply-dressed, westernised, deracinated - too sharp for the secret police. He had been meeting men like that at embassy receptions for more than twenty years, dodging their discreet invitations for lunch and drinks, listening to their carefully indiscreet jokes about life in Moscow. They used to be called the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. Now they called themselves the SVR. The name had changed but the job had not. Blond-head was a spy. And he was investigating Mamantov. They had set the spies on Mamantov, which was not much of a vote of confidence in the FSB.
At the thought of Mamantov, he stepped quickly over to the door and turned the heavy lock and set the chain. Through the spy-hole he took a fish-eyed squint down the empty corridor.
'But you did kill him... You are the killer.'
He was shaking now with delayed shock. He felt filthy, somehow, defiled. The memory of the night was like grit against his skin.
He went into the little green-tiled bathroom, took off his clothes and turned on the shower, set the water as hot as he could bear, and soaped himself from head to foot. The suds turned grey with the Moscow grime. He stood under the steaming jet and let it scourge him for another ten minutes, thrashing his shoulders and his chest, then he stepped out of the tub, slopping water over the uneven lino. He lit a cigarette and smoked as he shaved, transferring it from one side of his mouth to the other, working his razor around it, standing in a puddle. Then he dried himself off, got into bed and pulled the cover up to his chin. But he didn't sleep.
A little after nine o'clock the telephone began to ring. The bell was shrill. It rang for a long while, stopped, then started again. This time, though, whoever it was hung up quickly.
A few minutes later, someone knocked softly on his bedroom door.
Kelso felt vulnerable now, naked. He waited ten minutes, threw off the sheet, dressed, packed - that didn't take long -then sat in one of the foam rubber chairs facing the door. The cover of the other chair was rucked, he noticed, the seat still slightly depressed from the imprint of poor Papu Rapava.
AT ten-fifteen, carrying his suitcase in one hand and with his raincoat over his arm, Kelso unlocked and unchained his door, checked the corridor and descended via the express elevator into the hubub of the ground floor.
He handed in his key at the reception desk and was in the act of turning away, towards the main entrance, when a man shouted 'Professor!'
It was O'Brian, hurrying over from the news-stand. He was still wearing his clothes from the night before - jeans a little less pressed, T-shirt no longer as white - and he had a couple of newspapers tucked under his arm. He hadn't shaved. He seemed even bigger in the daylight. 'Morning, professor. So. What's new?'
Kelso made a groaning noise in the back of his throat but managed to hoist up a smile. 'Leaving, I'm afraid.' He displayed his suitcase, bag and coat.
'Now I'm sorry to hear that. Let me help you with those.'
'I'm fine.' He began to move around O'Brian. 'Really.' Aw, come on.' The reporter's arm flashed out, grabbing the handle, squeezing Kelso's fingers out of the way. In a second he had the suitcase. He quickly transferred it to his other hand, out of Kelso's reach. 'Where to, sir? Outside?'
'What the fuck are you playing at?' Kelso strode after him. People sitting in reception turned to watch. 'Give me back my case -'That was some night, though, wasn't it? That place?
Those girls?' O'Brian shook his head and grinned as they walked. 'And then you go and find that body and all -must've been one hell of a shock. Look out, professor, here we go.
He plunged through the revolving door and Kelso, after a hesitation, followed him. He came out the other side to find O'Brian looking serious.
'All right,' said O'Brian, 'don't let's embarrass one another. I know what's going on.'
'I will take my case now, thank you.'
'I decided to hang around outside Robotnik last night. Forgo the pleasures of the flesh.'
'My case-'
'Let's say I had a hunch. Saw you leave with the girl. Saw you kiss her. Saw her hit you - what was that all about, by the way? Saw you get in her car. Saw you go into the apartment block. Saw you run out ten minutes later like all the hounds of hell were after you. And then I saw the cops arrive. Oh, professors you are a character, you are a man of surprises.'
'And you're a creep.' Kelso began pulling on his raincoat, making an effort to seem unconcerned. 'What were you doing at Robotnik anyway? Don't tell me: it was a coincidence.'
'I go to Robotnik, sure,' said O'Brian. 'That's how I like my relationships: on a business footing. Why get a girl for free when you can pay for one, that's my philosophy.'
'God.' Kelso held out his hand. 'Just give me my case.
'Okay, okay.' O'Brian glanced over his shoulder. The bus was in its usual place, waiting to ferry the historians to the airport. Moldenhauer was taking a picture of Saunders with the hotel in the background, Olga was watching them, fondly. 'If you want to know the truth, it was Adelman.'
Kelso drew his head back slowly. 'Adelman?'
'Yeah, at the symposium yesterday, during the morning break, I asked Adelman where you were and he told me you were after some Stalin papers.'
'Adelman said that?'
'Oh, come on, don't tell me you trusted Adelman?' O'Brian grinned. 'One sniff of a scoop and you guys make the paparazzi look like choirboys. Adelman proposed a deal. Fifty-fifty. He said I should try to find the papers, see if there was anything in it, and if there was then he'd authenticate them. He told me everything you'd told him.'
'Including Robotnik?'
'Including Robotnik.'
'Bastard.'
Now Olga was taking a picture of Moldenhauer and Saunders. They stood shyly, side by side, and it struck Kelso for the first time that they were gay. Why hadn't he realised it before? This trip was nothing but surprises -'Come on, professor. Don't get all shocked on me. And don't get shocked about Adelman, either. This is a story. Th
is is a hell of a story. And it just keeps on getting better. Not only d'you find this poor bastard hanging in the elevator shaft with his pecker in his mouth, you also tell the militia that the guy who did it is none other than Vladimir Mamantov. And not only that - the whole investigation's now been canned on the orders of the Kremlin. Or so I hear. What's so funny?'
'Nothing.' Kelso couldn't help smiling, thinking of the blond-headed spy. ('What we don't want is the Moscow press corps trampling over everything. . .') 'Well, I'll say this for you, Mr O'Brian: you have good contacts.
O'Brian made a dismissive gesture. 'There's not a secret in this town that can't be bought for a bottle of Scotch and fifty bucks. And man, I tell you, they're in a rage down there, you know? They're leaking like a nuclear reactor. They don't like being told what to do.'
The driver of the bus sounded his horn. Saunders was on board now. Moldenhauer had taken out his handkerchief to wave goodbye. Kelso could see the faces of the other historians through the glass, like pale fish in an aquarium.
He said, 'You really had better give me my case now. I've got to go.
'You can't just run out, professor.' But there was a defeated tone to his appeal and this time he let Kelso take the handle.
'Come on, Fluke, just one little interview? One brief comment?' He followed at Kelso's heels, an importunate beggar. 'I need an interview, to stand this thing up.
'It would be irresponsible.'
'Irresponsible? Balls! You won't talk because you want to keep it all for yourseWJ Well, you're crazy. The cover-up isn't working. This story's going to blow - if not today, tomorrow.
'And you want it today, naturally, ahead of everyone else?'
'That's my job. Oh, come on, professor. Stop being so goddamn snooty. We're not so very different -'
Kelso was at the door of the bus. It opened with a pneumatic sigh. From the interior came a ragged, ironic cheer.
'Goodbye, Mr O'Brian.'
Still O'Brian wouldn't give up. He climbed up on to the first step. 'Take a look at what's happening here.' He jammed his roll of newspapers into Kelso's coat pocket. 'Take a look. That's Russia. Nothing here keeps until tomorrow. This place might not be here tomorrow. You're - oh, shit -'
He had to jump to avoid the closing door. He gave a last, despairing thump on the bodywork from outside.
'Dr Kelso,' said Olga, stonily.
'Olga,' said Kelso.
He pushed his way down the aisle. When he came level with Adelman he stopped, and Adelman, who must have watched his whole encounter with O'Brian, glanced away. Beyond the muddy glass the reporter was trudging towards the hotel, his hands in his pockets. Moldenhauer's white handkerchief fluttered in farewell.
The bus lurched. Kelso turned, half-walking, halftumbling, towards his usual place, alone and at the back.
FOR five minutes he did nothing except stare out of the window. He knew he ought to write this down, prepare another record while it Was still clear in his mind. But he couldn't, not yet. For now, all roads of thought seemed to lead back to the same image of the figure in the elevator-shaft.
Like a side of beef in a butcher's shop -He patted his pockets to find his cigarettes and pulled out O'Brian's newspapers. He threw them on the seat beside him and tried to ignore them. But after a couple of minutes he found himself reading the headlines upside down, then reluctantly he picked them up.
They were nothing special, just a couple of English-language freesheets, given away in every hotel lobby.
The Moscow Times. Domestic news: the President was ill again, or drunk again, or both. A serial cannibal in the Kemerovo region was believed to have killed and eaten eighty people. Interfax reported that 60,000 children were sleeping on the streets each night in Moscow. Gorbachev was recording another television commercial for Pizza Hut. A bomb had been planted at the Nagornaya metro station by a group opposed to plans to remove Lenin's mummified body from public display in Red Square.
Foreign news: The IMF was threatening to withold $700 million in aid unless Moscow cut its budget deficit.
Business news: interest rates had tripled, stock market prices halved.
Religious news: A nineteen-year-old nun with ten thousand followers was predicting the end of the world on Hallowe'en. A statue of the Virgin Mother was trundling around the Black Earth region, weeping real blood. There was a holy man from Tarko-Sele who spoke in tongues.
There were fakirs and Pentecostalists, faith healers, shamans, workers of miracles, anchorites and marabouts and followers of the skoptsy, who believed themselves the Lords Incarnate. It was like Rasputin's time. The whole country was a tumult of bloody auguries and false prophets.
He picked up the other paper, The exile, this one written for young westerners like O'Brian working in Moscow. No religion here, but a lot of crime:
In the village of Kamenka, in the Smolenskaya Oblast, where the local collective farm is bankrupt and state employees haven't been paid all year, the big summer activity for kids is hanging around the Moscow-Minsk highway and sniffing gasoline, bought in half-litre jugs for a rouble. In August, two of the biggest gasoline addicts, Pavel Mikheenkov, 11, and Anton Malyarenko, 13, graduated from their favourite pastime - torturing cats - to tying a five year-old boy named Sasha Petrochenkov to a tree and burning him alive. Malyarenk was deported to his native Tashkent, but Mikheenkov has had to stay in Kamenka, unpunished:
sending him to reform school would cost 15,000 roubles and the town doesn't have the money. The victim's mother, Svetlana Petrochenkova, has been told she can have her son's killer sent away if she digs up the money herself, but failing that must live with him in the village. According to police, Mikleenkov had been drinking vodka regularly with his parents since the age of four. He turned the page quickly and found a guide to Moscow night life. Gay bars - Dyke, The Three Monkeys, Queer Nation; strip clubs - Navada, Rasputin, The Intim Peep Show; nightclubs - the Buchenwald (where the staff wore Nazi uniforms), Bulgakov; Utopiya. He looked up Robotnik:
'No place could better exemplify the excesses of the New Russia than Robotnik: bitchin interior, ear-splitting techno, Babe-OLitas and their flathead keepers, Die Hard security, black-eyed patrons sucking down Evians. Get laid and see someone get shot.'
That sounded about right, he thought.
THE departure terminal at Sheremetevo-2 was crammed with people trying to get out of Russia. Queues formed like cells under a microscope - grew from nothing, wormed back on themselves, broke, re-formed, and merged into other queues: queues for customs, for tickets, for security, for passport controls. You finished one and joined the next. The hall was dark and cavernous, sour with the reek of aviation spirit and the thin acid of anxiety. Adelman, Duberstein, Byrd, Saunders and Kelso, plus a couple of Americans who had been staying at the Mir - Pete Maddox of Princeton and Vobster of Chicago - stood in a group at the end of the nearest line while Olga went off to see if she could speed things up.
After a couple of minutes, they still hadn't moved. Kelso ignored Adelman who sat on his suitcase reading a biography of Chekhov with extravagant intensity. Saunders sighed and flapped his arms with frustration. Maddox wandered away and came back to report that customs seemed to be opening every bag.
'Shit, and I bought an icon,' complained Duberstein. 'I knew I shouldn't've bought an icon. I'll never get it through.'
'Where'd you get it?'
'That big bookstore on the Noviy Arbat.'
'Give it to Olga. She'll get it out. How much d'you pay?' 'Five hundred bucks.'
'Five hundred?'
Kelso remembered he hadn't any money. There was a news-stand at the end of the terminal. He needed more cigarettes. If he asked for a seat in smoking he could keep clear of the others.
'Phil,' he said to Duberstein, 'you couldn't lend me ten dollars, could you?'
Duberstein started laughing. 'What're you going to do, Fluke? Buy Stalin's notebook?'
Saunders sniggered. Velma Byrd raised her hand to her mouth and looked away.
'And why not?' Adelman licked a finger and turned over a page without looking up. 'Is it a secret?'
'Tell you what,' said Duberstein, pulling out his wallet. 'Here's twenty. Buy one for me as well.'
They all laughed at that, and openly this time, watching Kelso to see what he would do. He took the money.
'All right, Phil,' he said, quietly. 'I'll tell you what. Let's make a deal. If Stalin's notebook turns up by the end of the year, I'll just keep this and then we're quits. But if it doesn't, I'll pay you back a thousand dollars.'
Maddox gave a low whistle.
'Fifty to one,' said Duberstein, swallowing. 'You're offering me fifty to one?'
'We've got a deal?'
'Well, you bet.' Duberstein laughed again, but nervously this time. He glanced around at the others. 'You hear that everyone?'
They'd heard. They were staring at Kelso. And for him, at that moment, it was worth a thousand dollars - worth it just for the way they looked: 'open-mouthed, stricken, panicked. Even Adelman had temporarily forgotten his book.
'Easiest twenty dollars I ever made,' said Kelso. He stuffed the bill into his pocket and picked up his suitcase. 'Save my place for me, will you?'
He moved off across the crowded terminal, quickly, quitting while he was still ahead, easing his way through the people and the piles of luggage. He felt a childish pleasure. A few fleeting victories here and there - what more could a man hope for in this life?
Over the loudspeaker, a woman with a harsh voice made a deafening announcement about the departure of an Aeroflot flight to Delhi.
At the news-stand he made a quick check to see if they had the paperback of his book. They did not. Naturally. He turned his attention to a rack of magazines. Last week's Time and Newsweek, and the current Der SpiegeL So. He would take Der Spiegel. It would do him good. It would certainly last him an eleven-hour plane ride. He fished in his pocket for Duberstein's $20 and turned towards the till. Through the plate glass window he could see the wet sweep of concrete, a jammed line of cars and taxis and buses, grey buildings, abandoned trolleys, a girl with cropped dark hair, a white face watching him. He looked away casually. Frowned. Checked himself.
Archangel (Mass Market Paperback) Page 15
