Sacrifice

by Graham Masterton

  ‘Well, well,’ Charles told her. ‘I don’t know what you did to him; maybe you don’t want to tell me; but it sure worked.’

  ‘Yes, it worked,’ Inge smiled. ‘And, no, I don’t want to tell you.’

  ‘Hans’ said, ‘We have a grey Volvo estate parked in J.M. Thiles Vej, just around the corner. You can use that. I would suggest that you take a right on to H.C. Ørsteds Vej, and drive straight to Kastrup that way. The Russians will probably have cordoned off the city centre by now.’

  ‘Hans’ went through to the next office, and returned with the car-keys as well as an UZI machine-gun, which he handed to Charles. ‘Try not to use it,’ he said. ‘I am only giving it to you to make you feel better.’

  Charles shook his hand. ‘You peopje have done more than was expected of you. I hope you realize that.’

  Michael and John said goodbye to Lev, who had decided to stay. ‘My fight is always here, among my own people. There must always be those who struggle against the Politburo from within.’

  John went over to Rufina. He took off his spectacles and folded them, and tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘We may not get the chance later,’ he told her.

  ‘The chance for what?’ she asked him, quite coldly.

  ‘Well,’ said John, ‘simply to say goodbye.’

  She looked at him scornfully. ‘I suppose you want to kiss me, too.’

  John shook his head. ‘I simply want to say that I’m sorry. It’s just a pity we couldn’t have met at another time. You know, under rather better circumstances.’ He looked and sounded like a sixth-form schoolboy.

  Rufina closed her eyes, as if she wanted to fall asleep right where she stood, and never wake up. ‘I am too tired for wishes,’ she said.

  It was then that Marshal T.K. Golovanov appeared, rubbing his freshly-unfettered wrists, short, but muscular and stocky, and with a bearing that commanded all of their attention.

  ‘Kotoriy chas?’ he asked.

  ‘Pyat’ minut desyat’,” said Inge.

  ‘We should go then,’ he said.

  Lev went down to the street first, because he was Russian, to make sure that there were no Soviet infantry around. The rest of them waited in the outer office, Golovanov stiff and correct, Inge standing silently beside him. Charles kept a custodial eye on Rufina, his machine-gun angled in the crook of his arm. He had never had a machine-gun before, although he had been trained in their use, and he felt extremely dangerous and rather raffish. Michael and John said nothing, either to the others or to themselves. They had both begun to realize that the longer this game went on, the less qualified they were to play.

  ‘Hans’ said, while they waited for Lev, ‘I want to advise you of some things. When you get on to the plane, if you do, make sure that you do not tell any of the British or American diplomats that you know about the Copenhagen Agreement, or any of its terms. That will make life very perilous for you. You must behave as if you are nothing more than ordinary tourists, who have been unfortunately caught up in the Soviet advance, and all you want to do is return home.’

  Five minutes went past, and Lev still did not return. Charles said, ‘We’re going to miss that plane anyway unless he gets his ass together. What’s holding him up?’

  Golovanov remained impassive. John began to gnaw at the side of his thumbnail, something that Michael had seen him do when faced with a particularly difficult computer problem. Charles lit another cigarette, and made a lot of noise blowing the smoke out.

  After ten minutes, ‘Hans’ said to Niro, ‘Go down and see what’s keeping Lev. Maybe there’s a Soviet patrol outside.’

  Niro slung his UZI over his shoulder, and went down the corridor to the elevator. ‘Hans’ called after him, ‘Take the stairs, just in case.’ Niro waved an acknowledgement without turning around.

  They waited with increasing tension and impatience. After a further five minutes, there was no sign of Niro, either. Charles said, ‘This is ridiculous. It’s like the ten little niggers. One went to see what the fuck was going on, and then there were five.’

  At length, there were only 35 minutes remaining before the diplomatic plane was due to leave. Charles turned to ‘Hans’ and said, ‘What do we do? Risk it? I don’t see that we have very much choice.’

  ‘It could be that there are Russians down there,’ said ‘Hans’. ‘It is possible that both Lev and Niro have been captured; and that the bastards are standing around waiting for the rest of us.’

  Charles went across to the window, and peered down into the street. ‘I don’t see anything. No BMPs, no trucks. The whole street’s deserted.’

  Michael said, ‘For God’s sake, we’ve got to try. Otherwise that plane’s going to take off without us.’

  Charles nodded. ‘You’re right, monsieur. We’ve got to try. Is everybody ready?’

  ‘Hans’ put in, ‘This is not safe, Mr Krogh. All of you people could be killed.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Charles, ‘and tomorrow’s Tuesday.’

  Michael looked at his watch, the one that Margaret had given him for his birthday. There were only 31 minutes to go, and Kastrup airport was at least a half-hour’s drive. He could almost imagine the plane on the runway, warming up. Even though the office was air-conditioned, he was sweating, and he urgently wanted to go to the toilet.

  ‘Wait for just one minute,’ said ‘Hans’. ‘Let me send Tomas down. Tomas!’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Charles, fretting. ‘We’re going to be spending the rest of our lives under the Red flag, at this rate.’

  Tomas appeared, a burly young man of 25 or 26 with a wispy blond moustache, carrying an UZI. ‘Hans’ spoke to him quickly, and he went off to see what had happened to Lev and Niro. Michael took the opportunity to go to the office bathroom. Afterwards, washing his hands, he stared at his face in the mirror and thought: God, what’s happening to me? What’s happening to the whole damned world?

  When he came out of the bathroom, Tomas had returned. ‘There’s nobody down there, nobody that I can see. I don’t know what’s happened to Lev and Niro.’

  ‘Maybe they had to make a run for it,’ said Charles. ‘In any case, that’s it, we’re going. Michael, you ready? John? How about you, Marshal Golovanov?’

  Inge said, ‘The marshal says that he is always ready.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll make the airport in time?’ asked Michael.

  ‘Too goddamned bad if we don’t,’ snapped Charles.

  With Charles leading the way, they walked quickly and quietly along the grey-carpeted corridor. All the other offices in the building were silent: Radio Denmark had warned everybody to stay at home, to keep off the streets, and to adopt a ‘dignified and correct demeanour’ towards the occupying forces. The bitter irony was that the newscasters used exactly the same words that they had used when the Germans marched into Denmark in 1940. ‘Dignified and correct.’

  They reached the lift. ‘I’m too old for the stairs,’ said Charles, and pressed the button. The lift arrived almost immediately, because there was nobody else in the building to hold it up. They stepped inside, and Michael jabbed the button for the lobby. They sank downwards. Charles was fidgety; Golovanov remained as calm as he could, with his hands clasped in front of him as if he were standing in Lenin’s Tomb on May Day.

  The lift reached the lobby. There was a moment’s pause, then the doors opened. And there he was, waiting for them. Tall, hideously scarred, his eyes as blank and compulsive as switched-off television screens. Novikov, the most terrible KGB assassin of all time, barring the doorway to freedom. Krov’ iz Nosu, old Nose Bleed.

  ‘Shit,’ said Charles. He pulled back the cocking-handle of his machine-gun, and raised it.

  But Golovanov caught hold of the machine-gun’s barrel, and said, in English, ‘Wait.’ Then he spoke to Inge, in that curious hotch-potch of Swedish and German and Russian that they had always talked in their private conversations together.

  Inge said, ‘The marshal does
not want any violence. He does not want this man Novikov hurt. He will continue to take us to the airport; and he is sure that Novikov will not cause any problems; provided that we can take Novikov with us.’

  ‘I’m not riding in any car with that monster,’ rapped Charles.

  Michael took Charles’ arm. ‘Hans’, during the night, had told him what had happened to Agneta, and to Roger, and to Jeppe Rifbjerg. ‘Charles,’ he said, ‘listen. We don’t have much time left. Let’s just play along with it for now.’

  ‘I could waste that monster in five seconds flat,’ Charles snarled. He was so emotional about killing Novikov that he was trembling all over.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ asked Inge, caustically. ‘And in five seconds flat, you would attract a whole division of Russian infantry. Be calm. You were a professional once. Show that you can be a professional again.’

  Charles wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He lowered the UZI, and said, ‘Let’s go. Let’s get out of here before I change my mind.’

  Golovanov stepped forward, and spoke quietly and authoritatively to Novikov. The Russian assassin several times bowed his head, and grunted in reply. Charles circled around them; looking twitchily out of the office doors at Thorvaldsensvej, and then turning and smiling at Inge and Rufina and Michael and John as if they were all on a college outing, and the bus was late.

  At last, Golovanov said, ‘If we go now, there should be no problem.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ Charles breathed.

  They left the office. An incongruous party on the strangest of days, they crossed the pavement, and turned left into J.M. Thiles Vej. Just as ‘Hans’ had told them, the Volvo was waiting. And lying on the pavement next to a row of green-painted railings, were the bodies of Lev and Niro, black-faced from strangulation, the wires still maliciously tight around their bulging necks.

  Charles jerked up his UZI again. ‘You see what kind of a beast this thing is?’ he barked, waving the gun at Novikov.

  Inge had tears in her eyes, but she said, ‘Go on. We have only twenty minutes left.’

  They climbed into the Volvo, with Michael driving. Awkwardly, he U-turned, and drove southwards, in the direction which Charles had pointed out for him. ‘In a minute, we’ll run straight into Enghavevej, and that’s E-66, which goes straight to Kastrup.’

  The streets were deserted. There were no Russians, no Danes, nobody. Copenhagen looked as if it had been swept by a plague. They passed the huge Carlsberg brewery, crossed the main railway line, and then drove over Sjaellandsbro. Glancing northwards up Sydhavn, Charles saw six or seven Soviet amphibious assault craft, ploughing up the slate-grey water in formation. The sky was the same colour as the buildings, dove-grey, and melancholy. Goodbye, Copenhagen, he thought. Goodbye, Agneta.

  Novikov sat hunched in the back compartment of the estate car; but he never once took his eyes off Charles. Charles, for his part, never took his eyes off Novikov; nor the muzzle of his UZI. Golovanov sat with his arms folded, as reserved and quiet as a taxi-passenger. Rufina sat by the window, nervously tugging at her hair, and glancing around her for any sign of Soviet combat troops.

  ‘Step on it, for Christ’s sake,’ Charles nagged Michael. ‘This isn’t a funeral. Not yet, anyway.’

  They reached Kastrup airport with six minutes to spare. And as they sped up the approach road, they encountered their first Soviet troops. Fifteen or sixteen soldiers from an airborne assault battalion, their khaki Mi-26 helicopters still parked within view. Three of the troops stepped into the roadway as the Volvo came up to the airport perimeter, and flagged it down.

  ‘The airport is closed,’ one of them said, in Russian.

  Golovanov heftily wound down his window. ‘To me, soldier, nothing is closed. Stand aside immediately.’

  The soldier recognized with horror the uniform of a marshal of the Soviet Army, and snapped to attention. When his companions saw what he was looking at, they snapped to attention, too.

  ‘These people are friendly diplomats, who are to be flown out on the special diplomatic flight,’ said Golovanov. ‘You – I want you to find me an escort straight away, and take us out to the aircraft. You – I want you to go to the control tower, and make sure that the flight is held until all of these people are safely aboard.’

  ‘At once, sir,’ the soldiers replied.

  The perimeter gates were opened for them, and Michael drove the Volvo out across the concrete, following the frantic wavings of one of the airborne troops, who had decided to guide them on his motorcycle.

  ‘That putz is going to fall off if he isn’t careful,’ Charles remarked, trying to be laconic, but only succeeding in sounding strangled.

  They rounded the terminal buildings, and there it was. A 747, engines already started, in the livery of Scandinavian Air Systems, blue and white. There were four or five airport handlers around the steps, as well as three Soviet officers, and half a dozen Soviet troops. Michael drove the Volvo right up to the plane, and parked it.

  The Soviet officers approached them as they climbed out of the estate car. Then Golovanov heaved himself out of the back seat, and the officers’ confident forward step went instantly into reverse, like a country dance. They saluted in flurries, and stood aside in silence while Golovanov accompanied them to the steps of the aircraft.

  A Soviet major came forward and saluted. ‘Comrade marshal, this flight is about to leave. I am afraid that all of the authorized passengers have been accounted for.’

  Golovanov said harshly, ‘These people are to leave on this flight, and that is all. I will regard any further comments as insubordination.’

  The warm May wind whipped across the airfield. The 747’s engines built up to a thundering whistle. The Soviet major licked his lips, and glanced towards the control-tower, and then looked back at Golovanov. He knew Golovanov, from his picture in the Red Army magazine; and of course the Soviet news agencies had put out no bulletins about his abduction.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘Board your passengers. But, make it quick, please.’

  With relief, Michael and John began to mount the steps of the 747. But then Michael turned around, and saw that none of the others were following them.

  ‘Come on,’ said Michael, hopelessly. He knew for some peculiar reason that they weren’t going to come; that none of them had ever intended to come. ‘Rufina, come on.’

  Rufina smiled sadly, and turned away. The West was not for her. Especially not with a man who had to go back to his wife and his child, in a suburb of London; no matter what the future of England was going to be.

  Marshal Golovanov didn’t even look up. To him, the West was anathema, no matter what risks he was going to have to take when he announced to the Politburo that he had been lost, and now was found. And with an intense shock, Michael realized that Inge wasn’t coming, either; and that he had developed the maturity to understand why.

  Inge wasn’t coming because Inge had bought their freedom with her own body. Inge hadn’t tortured Golovanov into agreeing to escort them to the airport. She had simply promised that she would stay with him, as his concubine, for as long as he wanted her. And why not? He would give her everything she wanted, a dacha in the country, perfumes, furs, and she would be no more a prisoner of her own destiny than she ever had been before.

  And Charles? Charles was lifting a hand, waving, saying, ‘Just a minute. Hold it a minute. I forgot something.’

  Michael watched Charles walk back to the Volvo, open the back door, and root around under the seat. At the same time, Novikov, the man with the terribly burned face, tried to open the rear door of the Volvo, and obviously found that he couldn’t. Michael couldn’t hear anything, because of the 747’s rumbling engines, but he could see that Novikov was beating against the window of the car, in a desperate attempt to get out.

  Charles stepped away from the Volvo, and Michael saw with a photographic chill that he was holding the UZI machine-gun. Charles had his back to the Soviet soldiers, so that none
of them could see what he was doing. Golovanov was actually smiling, for the first time since Michael had met him, and Inge was lifting her face towards the wind, like a fashion model.

  The UZI didn’t have such a terrifyingly fast cyclic rate as the Ingram. Only 600 rounds a minute. But it let fly with a burp that startled everybody, and then another burp, and then another.

  The first burst shattered the rear windows of the Volvo, and splattered the splinters with blood. The second burst penetrated the seats, the doors, the bodywork, until sponge rubber and flakes of paint were flying everywhere.

  There was a pause. Charles walked around the back of the estate car with the elegance of a male ballet dancer, waiting while the prima ballerina completes her solo.

  He’s got timing, thought Michael. Beautiful, elegant, experienced timing. He knows when it’s time to kill; and he knows when it’s time to die.

  A single bloody hand emerged from the broken window of the Volvo, and tried to grasp the bodywork, so that it could help to heave Novikov out. It was like a mutilated crab, a creature with a life of its own. But then Charles fired again, a very short burst, straight into the Volvo’s fuel tank.

  The estate car exploded with a dragon-like roar. Inside, it was a brilliant hell of funnelling orange flames. For a second – only a second – Michael thought that he could see someone flapping their arms in there. But then the black smoke began to tumble out, and pile into the sky, and Charles turned away, and it was obvious to everybody that the act of vengeance was over. Krov’ iz Nosu, the burned and resurrected man, had burned again.

  An SAS stewardess appeared white-faced at the open door of the plane, and said, ‘Sir? Come, we have to leave now. Please, straight away! We are late already.’

  Michael and John made the last few steps up to the plane. But then they heard a crackling series of explosions, and an extraordinary moan, and they couldn’t help themselves from turning around.

  Novikov, blazing, had somehow struggled his way out of the car. He was standing on the concrete runway; ablaze from head to foot, and the crackling explosions were the sound of his body fats burning. He took one step towards Charles, and then another, although God only knew how he could tell where Charles was, because his eyeballs must have burst long before he got out of the car.