Kane and Abel

by Jeffrey Archer

  He woke with a start to find a body was on top of him and two hands around his throat. He could barely breathe.

  ‘Who are you?’ growled the voice of a boy who in the darkness sounded no older than himself.

  ‘Wladek Koskiewicz.’

  ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘Moscow.’

  ‘Well, you’re not sleeping in my carriage, Muscovite,’ said the voice.

  ‘Sorry,’ gasped Wladek. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Got any money?’ The thumbs pressed into Wladek’s throat.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Seven roubles.’

  ‘Hand it over.’

  Wladek rummaged in an empty pocket of his overcoat. The boy also stuck a hand inside, reducing the pressure on Wladek’s throat.

  Wladek immediately jerked his knee into the boy’s crotch. His attacker fell back in agony, clutching his groin. Wladek leapt on him, hitting out fiercely. The boy from Odessa was no match for Wladek - sleeping in a derelict railway carriage was five-star luxury compared to living in the dungeons and a Russian labour camp. Wladek stopped only when his adversary was pinned to the floor.

  ‘Get back to the other end of the carriage and stay there,’ said Wladek. ‘If you so much as move a muscle, I’ll kill you.’

  The boy scrambled away.

  Wladek sat still and listened for a few moments - no movement - then he lay down and was soon sleeping soundly.

  When he woke, the sun was shining through the gaps in the roof. He turned over and glanced at his adversary of the previous night. He was lying in a foetal position, staring at him from the other end of the car.

  ‘Come here,’ commanded Wladek.

  The boy didn’t move.

  ‘Come here,’ repeated Wladek, a little more sharply.

  The boy stood up. It was the first chance Wladek had to look at him properly. They were about the same age, but the other boy must have been a foot taller, with a fresh face and scruffy fair hair.

  ‘First things first,’ said Wladek. ‘Where do we find something to eat?’

  ‘Follow me,’ said the boy, and leapt out of the carriage without another word. Wladek limped after him and up the hill to the town square, where the morning market was being set up. He had not seen such a variety of food since those magnificent banquets in the Baron’s castle: row upon row of stalls laden with fruit, vegetables, greens and even his favourite nuts. The other boy could see that Wladek was overwhelmed by the sight.

  ‘Now I’ll tell you what we do,’ he said. ‘I’ll go over to the corner stall and steal an orange and then make a run for it. You shout at the top of your voice, “Stop thief!” The stall keeper will chase me, and when he does, you move in and fill your pockets. Don’t be greedy - just enough for one meal. I’ll see you back here. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ said Wladek, trying to sound as confident.

  ‘Right, let’s see if you’re up to it, Muscovite.’ The boy looked at him and sneered, before swaggering towards the corner stall, removing an orange from the top of a pyramid, making some remark to the stall keeper before starting to run slowly. He glanced back at Wladek, who had entirely forgotten to shout ‘Stop thief’, but the stall owner began to chase him anyway. While everyone’s eyes were on his accomplice, Wladek moved in quickly. When the stall keeper looked as if he was about to catch the boy, he lobbed the orange back at him. The man stopped to pick it up, swore, shook his fist and returned to his stall, complaining vociferously to the other merchants on the way.

  Wladek was shaking with mirth when a hand was placed firmly on his shoulder. He turned around, horrified at having been caught.

  ‘Did you get anything, Muscovite, or are you only here as a sightseer?’

  Wladek burst out laughing with relief and produced three oranges, an apple and a potato from the deep pockets of his coat. The boy smiled.

  ‘What’s your name?’ said Wladek.

  ‘Stefan.’

  ‘Let’s do it again, Stefan.’

  ‘Hold on, Muscovite; don’t get too clever. If we do it again, we’ll have to go to the other end of the market and wait for at least an hour. You’re working with a professional, but don’t imagine you won’t get caught occasionally.’

  The two boys walked slowly to the other end of the market, Stefan moving with a swagger for which Wladek would have traded the three oranges, the apple, the potato and even his 150 roubles, while he limped behind. They mingled with the morning shoppers, and when Stefan decided the time was right, they repeated the escapade. They then returned to the railway carriage to enjoy their captured spoils: six oranges, five apples, three potatoes, a pear, several varieties of nuts, and the special prize, a melon. Stefan had never had pockets big enough to hold a melon.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Wladek as he dug his teeth into a potato.

  ‘You eat the skins as well?’ asked his new companion.

  ‘I’ve been places where a potato skin’s a luxury,’ replied Wladek.

  Stefan looked at him with admiration.

  ‘Next problem is, how do we get some money?’ said Wladek.

  ‘You expect everything on your first day, don’t you?’ said Stefan. ‘Chain gang on the waterfront will be our best bet. That is, if you’re up to some real work, Muscovite.’

  ‘Show me,’ said Wladek.

  Once they had eaten half the fruit and hidden the rest under the straw in the corner of the carriage, Stefan led Wladek back down to the harbour.

  ‘See that ship over there, the big green one?’ said Stefan. ‘It’s only just docked, so what we’ll do is pick up a basket, fill it with grain, climb up the gangplank and then drop the load into the hold. You get a rouble for every four trips you make. Be sure you keep count, Muscovite, because the bastard in charge of the gang will swindle you as soon as look at you and pocket the money for himself.’

  The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon humping grain up the gangplank and dropping it into the hold. They made twenty-six roubles between them. After a dinner of stolen nuts, bread and an onion they hadn’t intended to take, they slept happily at the same end of the railway carriage.

  When Stefan woke the next morning, he found Wladek studying his map.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a map showing me how to escape from Russia.’

  ‘Why do you want to leave Russia, when you can stay here and team up with me?’ said Stefan. ‘We could be partners.’

  ‘No, I have to get to Turkey, where I’ll be a free man. Why don’t you come with me, Stefan?’

  ‘I could never leave Odessa. This is my home, and these are the people I’ve known all my life. It’s not so good, but it might be even worse in Turkey. But if that’s what you want, perhaps I can help you.’

  ‘How do I find a ship that’s sailing to Turkey?’ asked Wladek.

  ‘Easy - I know how to find out where every ship is going. We’ll ask One Tooth Joe, who lives at the end of the pier. But you’ll have to give him a rouble.’

  ‘I bet he splits the money with you.’

  ‘Fifty-fifty,’ said Stefan. ‘You’re learning fast, Muscovite,’ he added as he leapt out of the carriage.

  Wladek followed him, again conscious of how easily other boys moved while he limped. When they reached the end of the pier, Stefan led him into a small room full of dust-covered books and old timetables. Wladek couldn’t see anyone, but then he heard a voice from behind a large pile of books. ‘What do you want, urchin? I don’t have time to waste on you.’

  ‘Some information for my companion, Joe. When is the next luxury cruise to Turkey?’

  ‘Money up front,’ said an old man whose head appeared from behind the books, a lined, weather-beaten face below a seaman’s cap. His black eyes were studying Wladek.

  ‘One Tooth used to be a great sea dog,’ said Stefan in a whisper loud enough for Joe to hear.

  ‘None of your cheek, boy. Where’s the rouble?’

&
nbsp; ‘My friend carries my purse,’ said Stefan. ‘Show him the rouble, Wladek.’

  Wladek handed over a coin. Joe bit it with his one remaining tooth, shuffled over to the bookcase and pulled out a large green ledger. Dust flew everywhere. He started coughing as he thumbed through the dirty pages, moving a short, stubby, calloused finger down the long columns of names.

  ‘On Thursday the Renaska is coming in to pick up coal - probably returning to Constantinople on Saturday. If she can load quickly enough, she may even sail on the Friday night and save herself extra berthing tariffs. She’ll dock at Berth Seventeen.’

  ‘Thanks, One Tooth,’ said Stefan. ‘I’ll see if I can bring in some more of my wealthy associates in the future.’

  One Tooth Joe raised a fist, cursing, as Stefan and Wladek ran back out onto the wharf.

  For the next three days the two boys stole food, loaded grain and slept. By the time the Turkish ship docked on Thursday, Stefan had almost convinced Wladek that he should remain with him in Odessa. But Wladek’s fear of the Russians finding him and sending him back to the camps outweighed even the attractions of his new life with Stefan.

  They stood on the quayside, watching the Renaska docking at Berth 17.

  ‘How will I get on board?’ asked Wladek.

  ‘Simple,’ said Stefan. ‘We join the chain gang tomorrow morning. I’ll take the place behind you, and when the coal hold is nearly full, you jump in and hide, and I’ll pick up your basket and walk down the other side.’

  ‘And collect my share of the money, no doubt,’ said Wladek with a grin.

  ‘Naturally,’ said Stefan. ‘There must be some financial reward for my superior knowledge. How else could I hope to sustain my belief in free enterprise?’

  They joined the chain gang at six the next morning, and hauled coal up the gangplank and into the hold until they were both ready to drop, but it wasn’t enough. The hold was only half full by nightfall, although Wladek was blacker than he’d ever been in prison. The two boys slept soundly that night. The following morning they started again, and by mid-afternoon, when the hold was almost full, Stefan kicked Wladek’s ankle.

  ‘Next time, Muscovite,’ he said firmly.

  When they reached the top of the gangplank, Wladek threw his load in, dropped his basket on the deck and jumped over the side of the hold.

  ‘Farewell, my friend,’ Stefan said, ‘and good luck with the infidel Turks.’ He grabbed Wladek’s basket and returned down the gangplank, whistling.

  Wladek pressed himself into a corner of the hold as the coal continued to come pouring in. The black dust was everywhere: in his nose and mouth, lungs and eyes. With a painful effort he tried to avoid coughing for fear of being heard by one of the ship’s crew. Just as he thought he could no longer bear the dust-filled air of the hold and decided to return to Stefan and find some other way of escaping, the hatch above him slammed shut. He coughed luxuriously.

  After a few moments, he felt something take a bite at his ankle. His blood went cold as he realized what it had to be; he’d had to deal with too many of the vermin in the dungeons. He threw a piece of coal at the monster and sent it scurrying away, but another one came at him, then another and another. The braver ones went for his legs. They seemed to appear from nowhere; black, large and desperately hungry. He stared down, searching for them. He clambered desperately to the top of the pile of coal and pushed open the hatch. The sunlight came flooding in, and the rats immediately disappeared into their tunnels below the coal. He started to climb out, but the ship was already well clear of the quayside. He fell back into the hold, terrified. If he was discovered, and the captain decided to return to Odessa and hand him over, it would mean a one-way journey back to Camp 201 and the White Russians. He chose to stay with the black rats. As soon as he closed the hatch the red eyes appeared again. As fast as he could throw lumps of coal at the verminous creatures, new ones would appear. Every few minutes he had to open the hatch to let some light in, for light seemed to be his only ally.

  For two days and three nights Wladek waged a running battle with the rats, without ever catching a moment of sleep. When the ship finally sailed into Constantinople and a deckhand opened the hold, Wladek was black from his head to his knees with coal dust, and red from his knees to his toes with blood. The deckhand dragged him out. Wladek tried to stand up, but collapsed in a heap on the deck.

  18

  AFTER WILLIAM read in Kane and Cabot’s quarterly trust report that Henry Osborne - ‘Henry Osborne’, he repeated the name out loud to be sure he wasn’t mistaken - was requesting $500,000 to invest in his company, he had a bad day. For the first time in his four years at St Paul’s he came second in a maths test. Matthew Lester, who beat him, asked if he was feeling well. He didn’t reply.

  That evening, William telephoned Alan Lloyd at home. The chairman of Kane and Cabot was not altogether surprised to hear from him after Anne’s disclosure about his unhappy relationship with Henry.

  ‘William, dear boy. How are you, and how are things at St Paul’s?’

  ‘All’s well at this end, thank you, sir, but that’s not why I’m calling.’

  ‘No, I didn’t imagine it was,’ said Lloyd drily. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d like to see you tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘On a Sunday, William?’

  ‘Yes, it’s the only day I can get away from school and I need to see you as soon as possible,’ he said, making the statement sound as though it were a concession on his part, before adding, ‘and under no circumstances is my mother to be informed of our meeting.’

  ‘Well, William—’ Lloyd began.

  William’s voice grew firmer. ‘I don’t have to remind you, Mr Lloyd, that the investment of my trust money in my stepfather’s company, while not actually illegal, would undoubtedly be considered unethical.’

  Lloyd was silent for a few moments, wondering if he should try to placate the boy. The boy. Had he ever been a boy?

  ‘Fine, William. Why don’t you join me for lunch at the Hunt Club, say one o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you then, sir.’ The line went dead.

  At least the confrontation will be on my home ground, thought Alan Lloyd as he replaced the mouthpiece, cursing Mr Bell for inventing the damn machine.

  Lloyd had chosen the Hunt Club because he did not want the meeting to be too private. The first thing William asked when he arrived was that they might play a round of golf after lunch.

  ‘Delighted, my boy,’ said Alan, and reserved a place on the first tee for three o’clock.

  He was surprised that William did not raise the subject of Henry Osborne’s proposal during lunch. Instead, the boy talked knowledgeably about President Harding’s views on tariff reform and the incompetence of Charles G. Dawes as Director of the Budget. Alan began to wonder if William, having slept on it, had changed his mind about discussing Osborne’s proposal. Well, if that’s the way the boy wants to play it, thought Alan, that’s fine by me. He looked forward to a quiet afternoon of golf. After an agreeable lunch and the better part of a bottle of wine - William limited himself to one glass - they changed in the clubhouse and walked across to the first tee.

  ‘Do you still have a nine handicap, sir?’ asked William.

  ‘Thereabouts, my boy. Why?’

  ‘Will ten dollars a hole suit you?’

  Alan Lloyd hesitated, remembering that golf was the one game that William enjoyed. ‘Yes, fine.’

  Nothing was said on the first hole, which Alan managed to par while William made a bogey. Alan also won the second and the third quite comfortably, and began to relax, feeling rather pleased with his game. By the time they had reached the fourth tee, they were half a mile from the clubhouse. William waited until Alan was about to begin his backswing.

  ‘I must make it clear,’ began William, ‘that there are no circumstances under which I would allow you to loan five hundred thousand dollars of my trust money to any company or person associ
ated with Henry Osborne.’

  Lloyd hit a bad tee shot that ended up in the left-hand rough. Its only virtue was that it put him far enough away from William, who had made a safe drive right down the middle, to give him a few minutes to think about how to address both William’s remark and the ball. By the time they met on the green, Lloyd had played three more shots. He conceded the hole.

  ‘William, you know that, as a trustee, I only have one vote out of three, and you will also be aware that you have no authority over trust decisions until your twenty-first birthday. You must also realize that we shouldn’t be discussing this subject at all.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of the legal implications, sir, but as both of the other trustees are sleeping with my stepfather—’

  Lloyd’s next drive landed in the lake.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re the only person in Boston who doesn’t know that Millie Preston is having an affair with my stepfather?’

  Lloyd conceded the hole.

  William continued: ‘I want to be certain that I have your vote, and that you will do everything in your power to influence my mother against this loan, even if it means telling her the truth about my stepfather and Mrs Preston.’

  William’s drive on the sixth was straight down the middle of the fairway. Alan’s was even worse than his previous one, and landed in the bunker of an adjacent hole. He shanked his next shot into a bush he had never even realized existed before, and said ‘Shit’ out loud for only the second time in forty-three years. (He had got a hiding on that occasion as well.)

  ‘That’s asking a little too much,’ said Alan as he joined up with William on the green.