Derek Lambert - The Red Dove

Where it differs from other such communities is that it is firmly controlled by the Communists. Its clerics are screened by the Party, its worshippers monitored. Joyously, despite such restrictions, it seems to be on the ascent.

One small outpost of Christianity in Russia is an old church a mile from the railroad station at Leninsk. It is stone-built, small and sturdy, and wears its blue dome with cheerful assurance.

Cosiness, Massey thought as he approached it through the bleak dusk, was the first attribute that came to mind. Mellow light shone from within luring you from the bitter wind driving powdered snow along the street. You smelled burning tallow and incense even before you reached its portals.

Inside a few worshippers, mostly old women with autumn-leaf faces, knelt in prayer. Candles spluttered, lighting icons on the walls.

Rybak knelt in a pew at the rear. Massey knelt beside him. In their bulky winter clothes the two of them occupied four places, the Ukrainian two and a half.

Massey greeted him but, head bowed, hands clasped together, Rybak ignored him and Massey realised that he really was praying. Surprising himself, Massey joined him.

Finally, Rybak said: ‘Well?’

Massey said: ‘The date of the launch is unchanged, January the fourteenth, in one week’s time. We mustn’t meet again, we might blow the whole thing.’

Rybak said: ‘I agree. But we’re safe enough here. The KGB only mounts surveillance during services.’

A tall man wearing a cheap shapka, long grey coat and felt boots came into the church, peered around, then left.

‘KGB?’

Rybak shook his head. ‘A thief. Probably thought we were KGB.’

Massey said: ‘So tell them to assume the defection is on and take all the necessary steps.’

Rybak slid one hand inside his black parka. ‘I bring gifts,’ he said, handing Massey a gun and a grenade. ‘By the way, did you lose your tail again?’

‘In a street lavatory, I’m becoming an old hand.’ Massey slipped the weapons into his coat pocket. ‘Have you got any bullets for the gun?’

Rybak pressed two packets into his hand. ‘A useful automatic,’ he said. ‘A TT 1933. Basic but lethally accurate. The grenade’s an old fragmentation F1. It will blow a man into little pieces. An enemy or yourself if you don’t want to fall into the hands of the KGB. And now the Good Book,’ he said, handing Massey a Bible.

A heavily bearded priest walked past them. He smiled at them. Two new members of his flock.

‘What’s this for?’ Massey asked. ‘Last rites?’ He fingered the soft leather and vellum pages.

Rybak said: ‘Inside it you will find the necessary papers for Talin to read. You will also find documents for yourself – red passbook, etcetera, exit visa, rail ticket to Nakhodka – most of the journey will be on the Trans-Siberian – a boat ticket to Japan which is the ultimate terminal for most travellers on the Trans-Siberian, and a fortune in roubles.’

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier to try and escape westwards?’

‘Perhaps,’ the Ukrainian said. ‘But I figured the KGB would expect you to make contact with your people in Moscow. Either way your chances of escaping are about 80/20 – in the KGB’s favour. What you must do,’ he said producing another small package, ‘is shave off your moustache and hair. The best disguise is always the one you remove, not the one you adopt.’

‘Identity?’

‘A nice touch,’ Rybak said. ‘Your new name is – wait for it – Vlasov.’

‘Nicolay?’

‘Mikhail.’ He handed Massey the package. ‘This is for Talin. A way of dealing with awkward fellow cosmonauts in the Dove who don’t want to defect. It was dreamed up by your Mr Reynolds who, by all accounts, would cut his own throat for President and Country. Reynolds versus Vlasov… Who would you back?’

‘This package, what’s in it?’

Rybak told him, adding: ‘There are also decoded messages among the papers you’re going to show Talin that will help your cause.’ He told Massey about the information that had reached the US Embassy in Moscow relating to the H Bomb and the function of the space stations. ‘Dynamite, eh? Even better than the stuff you were going to show him.’

Massey shivered. ‘Terrifying,’ he said. He paused. ‘And what about you? Will you be around?’

‘God willing. The KGB checked me out at the banya in Moscow but they didn’t get the name I operate under.’

‘You’re not known as Rybak?’

‘Yangel. One of the best aeronautical engineers in the business. Which is how I got myself work at Leninsk airport.’

‘And Tyuratam itself?’

‘I’m working on it. They’ve got some electrical faults on a Proton booster. I met the chief engineer on the project in the Cosmonaut Hotel and almost persuaded him that I could fix it.’

‘I figure you could fix anything,’ Massey told him.

‘One last thing – a message from Washington. Tell Talin to make his move as soon as possible after the launch.’ He gripped Massey’s arm. ‘That’s it. May God be with you.’

And he means it, Massey thought as he watched Rybak stride out of the church, flames of the candles flickering in his wake.

Talin had sold the wreck of his red Moskvich – anything could be repaired in Moscow – and bought a new cobalt-blue Lada 1600 in Leninsk.

Today, Sunday, six days before the launch, he drove Massey back into the city after an intensive day’s work at Tyuratam. Only later did it occur to him that Massey must have manoeuvred him into offering him a lift.

Massey had also inquired when he had bought the car and, when he had replied: ‘Yesterday, why?’ had followed that up with: ‘Has anyone had any opportunity to plant bugs in it since?’ and had relaxed a little when he had replied: ‘No, I parked it beside Dove out on the pad today and last night it was locked up in my garage.’

Now as he drove through the darkness along the almost deserted highway to Leninsk he realised why Massey had been so worried about microphones. Oddly nothing that Massey was saying really surprised him; perhaps he had always known about him.

‘…I told you was true except one thing: my defection was contrived and I don’t intend to stay in the Soviet Union.’

Talin said: ‘So, what’s this all about?’ The calmness of his voice did surprise him.

‘First I want you to know that I meant everything I said about space…’

He continued to speak but Talin heard his earlier words: I believe in Mankind. We are participants, you and I, in the greatest revolution man has ever known: he is stepping off the Planet Earth and establishing himself in space, in eternity. And he has a chance, this one chance, to share eternity in peace. To leave tribal warfare earthbound.

‘…and I want you to realise, to believe, that those are the reasons why I am doing this….’

To share space the super-powers have got to have access to each other’s information. They’ve got to know if one or the other is planning a criminal act.

Talin gripped the steering wheel. ‘What are you hoping to achieve?’ he asked.

Pointing at a lighted café, Massey said: ‘Do you mind if we go in there? I’m being followed and it would look suspicious if we stopped the car and talked.’

Talin shrugged. ‘I’ve probably got a shadow too. They tell me I’m a valuable property.’

He parked the Lada. They went into the café which was shiny new and decorated in red and orange. Steam billowed from a tea and coffee machine which a sharp-featured young man handled inexpertly but with arrogant assurance, like a captain on the bridge of an ocean liner.

They hung up their coats, ordered tea with lemon and took the cups to a table isolated at the end of the café; Massey took a blueprint of the Dove’s vertical tail structure from the inside pocket of his jacket – ‘so we look as if we’re discussing the shuttle.’