Brian Freemantle - The Bearpit

‘I’ll get her out,’ blurted Levin. ‘Not at once, of course. That won’t be possible. But in time. In time they’ll let her out…’

Galina shook her head sadly. ‘We can’t be certain of that, my darling. We can’t take that risk.’

‘Can we take the other risk!’

‘Not without Natalia,’ insisted the woman adamantly, refusing to answer the question. ‘I won’t go without Natalia.’

‘Things are different, under Gorbachov!’

‘Stop it, Yevgennie Pavlovich!’ said the woman sadly.

‘You’ve got to choose.’

‘Don’t ask me.’

‘I’ll make a meeting, with the Americans…’

‘…What can they do?’ interrupted Galina objectively.

‘I can’t go without you.’

‘I can’t go without the children. Both of them.’

‘I don’t know what to do!’ said Levin, who did but did not want to confront the decision.

‘You really can’t go back, can you?’ accepted Galina.

‘No,’ he said shortly.

‘Why did it have to happen like this!’

‘I don’t know.’

The waiter arrived to take their order from a menu at which neither of them had looked.

‘What do you want?’ asked Levin.

‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘We’d better eat something,’ he said. ‘For appearance sake.’

‘Appearance sake!’ erupted Galina bitterly. ‘Always for appearance sake! Will there ever be a time when we can do something other than for appearance sake!’

‘I hope so,’ said Levin doubtfully. ‘One day.’ He’d never imagined it was going to be as bad as this. And it hadn’t even started yet.

Major Lev Konstantinovich Panchenko, the deputy security commander for the First Chief Directorate, stumped heavy-booted into Kazin’s office, a recruiting poster image of a militarily trained officer, shaven-headed, polished-face, starch-stiff. The salute was like the movement of machinery: he stood ramrod straight, eyes pitched just above Kazin’s head.

‘At ease,’ said Kazin.

There was a barely perceptible relaxation from the other man.

‘Comrade Major,’ opened Kazin, almost conversationally. ‘You have been attached to this Directorate security division for ten years?’

‘Yes, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘It is a vocation you enjoy?’

‘Yes, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘One in which you see a continuing future?’

‘Yes, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘Comrade Major Panchenko, for the past five of those ten years you accepted money from Jews seeking exit visas to Israel: bribes for linking them with the responsible officials at the Dutch embassy from which they can obtain finance necessary to purchase those exits,’ announced Kazin. ‘Through a KGB deputy in Tbilisi you import once a fortnight prime Georgian fruit and meat, for black market sale on a street stall in Moscow…’ The knee-pumping man stopped, apparently to consult some notes. ‘… The KGB deputy’s name is Afansasiev,’ Kazin recited. ‘The market is in Grebnoy Alley, every Wednesday. You have also, on occasions, exchanged money in the foreign currency bars at the Rossiya and Intourist hotels…’

Panchenko remained statued, gaze fixed over Kazin’s head.

‘Well?’ demanded Kazin.

‘Nothing to say,’ replied Panchenko, tight-lipped.

‘Under the corruption legislation introduced by Comrade General Secretary Gorbachov you are liable to fifteen years’ imprisonment.’

Panchenko still did not speak.

‘But I do not intend to initiate proceedings,’ disclosed Kazin. ‘I intend to promote you to replace the comrade colonel commanding this security division…’ Again Kazin paused. Then he added: ‘Who tried to switch the entire investigation on to you, when he himself came under suspicion. You really should not have trusted him as a business associate. Not to be relied on. Not, like I am, a man to be relied on. Never forget the need for loyalty, will you?’

‘Never, Comrade First Deputy,’ assured the man immediately.

‘You’ll remove all the evidence from records once you get your appointment, of course,’ predicted Kazin. ‘Never forget, either, that I have a complete file, will you?’

‘No, Comrade First Deputy.’

‘That from now on you are absolutely dependent upon me?’

‘No, Comrade First Deputy.’

The old ways, the good old ways, thought Kazin.

In Kabul, Yuri Malik moved away from Ilena, not wanting the irritating distraction of sex, listening incredulously as she recounted the details of the cable traffic that had passed between the Afghan capital and Moscow.

When she finished Yuri said distantly: ‘Maybe there really is a Comrade God.’ And without the need for press-ups, he thought.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, confused by his reaction.

‘Neither do I,’ admitted Yuri. But he would, he determined: very soon he would.

Levin was not completely sure he had persuaded Galina; wouldn’t know whether or not she would actually come with him until the very act of defection – almost literally the cutting of the umbilical cord – but knew he had to act quickly before the already existing and heavy doubts hardened to outweigh the fragile arguments with which he’d worked to convince her. He walked apparently unhurriedly – but inwardly churning – through the upper corridor in the United Nations building, anxious to complete the established contact procedure and begin it all. The library – housing the hundreds of reports and pamphlets poured out by the UN but never, he suspected, read by anyone except their authors – was surprisingly full, at least a dozen people browsing among the partitioned gangways. But not, fortunately, cluttering the section devoted to his own subject, worldwide mineral deposits. Nervously impatient though he was, Levin proceeded with the proper professional caution, forcing himself to browse like the others through an American assessment of oil-bearing shale deposits, a necessary explanation for his presence there if he were challenged by a suspicious security officer of his own Soviet delegation. It was a full fifteen minutes before he made the move, with seeming casualness, picking up a Soviet account for what appeared to be comparison with some statistic from one of the other books and then replacing it. But not upright, as it had been: on its spine, the emergency, meeting-at-once request. Rigidly maintaining the professionalism, he did not immediately hurry away from the section, making protective time pass by staring down at type which blurred before his eyes and making meaningless notations on a pocket pad before finally putting the other two publications back in their designated places in the racks, but both properly upright this time. Would it be an hour, like they’d always promised? He hoped so. He was desperate for the impression at least that some action – some movement – was being started.

Despite the stomach-tensed, perpetual apprehension, Levin found a small amusement in the fact that Vadim Dolya had provided the way undetectably for him to make a meeting with the FBI. He’d already checked the other man’s commitments for the day, to ensure his presence in the peace studies office, and Dolya smiled up when Levin entered.

‘A favour,’ announced Levin.

‘What?’

‘You were right about the electrical goods: I think Galina is going to be an actual drain upon Moscow’s central grid system!’

Dolya continued smiling at the weak attempt at humour. ‘A shopping list?’

‘Almost a computer print-out: irons, toasters, microwaves, curling tongs… there seems to be nothing she hasn’t thought of.’

‘Is there anything to keep you here today?’ asked Dolya, who knew anyway that Levin’s diary was clear because it was his primary function to know at all times the activities of the KGB operatives for whom he was responsible.