Robert Harris - Archangel

The Tunisians had been kicked out, finally, under the terms of their lease, in August, and Rapava had led him to the exact spot in the garden. The toolbox had been retrieved. Mamantov had read the notebook, had flown to Archangel, had followed exactly the same trail as Kelso and O'Brian into the heart of the forest. And he had seen the potential at once. But he also had the sense - the genius, he would almost call it, but he would leave that judgement to others - the wit, let's say, to recognise what Kelso had just so aptly proved: that history, in the end, is a matter of subjectivity not objectivity.

'Suppose I had returned to Moscow with our mutual friend, convened a press conference and announced he was Stalin's son. What would have happened? I'll tell you. Nothing. I would have been ignored. Derided. Accused of forgery. And why?' He jabbed his finger at Kelso. 'Because the media is in the grip of cosmopolitan forces that loathe Vladimir Mamantov and all he stands for. Oh, but if Dr Kelso, the darling of the cosmopolitans - ah, yes, if Kelso says to the world, "Behold, I give you Stalin's son," then that is a different matter.

So the son had been prevailed upon to wait a few weeks longer, until some other strangers would appear bearing the notebook.

(And that explained a lot, thought Kelso: the odd sense he had experienced in Archangel that people had been somehow waiting for them - the communist official, Vavara Safanova, the man himself. 'You are the ones, you are truly the ones; and lam the one you seek.. .')

'And why me?' he asked.

'Because I remembered you. Remembered you wheedling your way in to see me when I was fresh from Lefortovo after the coup - your fucking arrogance, your certainty that you and your kind had won and I was finished. The shit you wrote about me. . . What was it Stalin said? "To choose one's victims, to prepare one's plans minutely, to stake an implacable vengeance, 'good than to go to bed ... there is nothing sweeter in the world." Sweet. That's it. Nothing sweeter in the world.'

ZINAIDA Rapava arrived at Moscow's Yaroslavl Station a few minutes after four o'clock. (What exactly she had been doing in the three hours since leaving Robotnik the authorities were never able to determine, although there were unconfirmed reports of a woman matching her description being seen at the Troekurovo cemetery, where her mother and brother were buried.)

At any rate, at five past four, she approached an employee of the Russian railway network. Afterwards he couldn't say why she stuck in his mind when so many others were milling around that day: perhaps it was the dark glasses she was wearing, despite the perpetual sunken gloom beneath the hooded arches of the railway terminus.

Like the rest, she wanted to know which platform the Archangel train would be arriving at.

The crowds were already beginning to build, and Aurora stewards were doing their best to keep them in order. A gangway had been roped off A platform had been erected for the cameras. Flags were being distributed - the Tsarist eagle, the hammer and sickle, the Aurora emblem. Zinaida took a little red flag, and maybe it was that, or maybe it was the leather jacket that made her look like a typical Aurora activist, but whatever it was she secured a prime position, at the edge of the rope, and nobody bothered her.

She can be glimpsed, occasionally, on some of the videotape of the crowd, taken before the train arrived - cool, solitary, waiting.

THE train was trundling past the suburban stations. Curious Saturday afternoon shoppers looked to see what all the fuss was about. A man held up a child to wave but Mamantov was too busy talking to notice.

He was describing the way he had lured Kelso to Russia -and that, he said, was the touch he was proudest of: that was a ruse worthy of Josef Vissarionovich himself.

He had arranged for a front company he owned in Switzerland - respectable, a family firm: it had been exploiting the workers for centuries - to contact Rosarkhiv and offer to sponsor a symposium on the opening up of the Soviet archives!

Mamantov slapped his own knee with mirth.

At first, Rosarkhiv hadn't wanted to invite Kelso - imagine that! they thought he was no longer of 'sufficient standing in the academic community' - but Mamantov, through the sponsors, had insisted, and two months later, sure enough, there he was, back in town, in his free hotel room, all expenses paid, like a pig in shit, come to wallow in our past, feeling superior to us, telling us to feel guilty, when all the time the only reason he was there was to bring the past back to life!

And Papu Rapava, asked Kelso, what had he thought of this plan?

For the first time, Mamantov's face darkened.

Rapava had claimed to like the plan. That was what he'd said. To spit in the capitalists' soup and then to watch them drink it? Oh yes please, comrade colonel: that had appealed to Rapava very much! He was supposed to tell Kelso his story overnight, then take him directly to Beria's old mansion, where they would retrieve the toolbox together. Mamantov had tipped off O'Brian who promised to turn up with his cameras at the Institu~e of Marxism-Leninism the next morning. The symposium was to provide the perfect launch pad. What a story! There would have been a feeding frenzy. Mamantov had the whole thing worked out.

But then: nothing. Kelso had called the following afternoon and that was when Mamantov had learned that Rapava had failed in his mission: that he had told his story right enough, but then had run away.

'Why?' Mamantov frowned. 'You mentioned money to him, presumably?'

Kelso nodded. 'I offered him a share in the profits.'

A look of contempt spread across Mamantov's face. 'That you should seek to enrich yourself - that I'd expected: that was another reason I selected you. But that he should?' He shook his head in disgust. 'Human beings,' he murmured. 'They always let you down.'

'He might have felt the same about you,' said Kelso. 'Given what you did to him.'

Mamantov glanced at Viktor and something passed between the older man and the younger in that instant - a look of almost sexual intimacy - and Kelso knew at once that the pair of them had worked on Papu Rapava together. There must have been others but these two were at the centre of it:

the craftsman and his apprentice.

He felt himself beginning to sweat again.

'But he never told you where he'd hidden it,' he said.

Mamantov frowned, as if trying to remember something. 'No,' he said, softly. 'No. He came of strong stock. I'll grant him that. Not that it matters. We followed you and the girl the next morning, saw you collect the material. In the end, Rapava's death changed nothing. I have it all now.'

Silence.

The train had slowed almost to walking pace. Beyond the flat roofs, Kelso could see the mast of the Television Tower.

'Time presses,' said Mamantov suddenly, 'and the world is waiting.'

He picked up the satchel and his hat. 'I've given some thought to you,' he said to Kelso, as he stood and began buttoning his coat. 'But really I can't see that you can harm us. You can withdraw your authentication of the papers, of course, but that won't make much difference now, except to make you look a fool - they're genuine: that will be established by independent experts in a day or two. You can also make certain wild allegations about the death of Papu Rapava, but no proof exists.' He bent to examine himself in the small mirror above Kelso's head, straightening the brim of his hat in readiness for the cameras. 'No. I think the best thing I can do is simply leave you to watch what happens next.

'Nothing's going to happen next,' said Kelso. 'Don't forget I've talked to this creature of yours - the moment he opens his mouth, people will laugh.'

'You want to bet on it?' Mamantov offered his hand. 'No? You're wise. Lenin said: "The most important thing in any endeavour is to get involved in the fight, and in that way learn what to do next." And that's what we're going to do now. For the first time in nearly ten years we re going to be able to start a fight. And such a fight. Viktor.'