John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

By nine o’clock that night they had heard memories which could strip sanity to the bone. These old people described, in excruciating detail, the beatings, clubbings, stranglings – the casual violence meted out as daily normality in the death camp. After the first three witnesses, the mind became numb with revulsion. This was certainly death with everything as the director had warned.

Clive decreed they had time for one more. An old woman, supported by her equally aged husband, took the stand. They looked drained, haunted, as though living lives which had been taken away from them long ago. They gave their evidence in Russian, answering questions slowly. They had met in Sobibór and married later.

‘We did not expect to survive,’ the old woman said. ‘Even though we were still strong enough to be made into trusted prisoners, we did not dare hope for a life after the camp. Nobody remained trusted for long. Vorontsov, that man over there,’ she pointed with a trembling, aged finger, in the direction of the empty box, out of shot. By this time, as they all agreed, it was as though the shade of Josif Vorontsov stood there in reality.

‘That man. Vorontsov,’ the old woman stumbled over the words, ‘he made certain you did not remain trusted. One morning, we had two young girls assigned to our group. Our job was loathsome, for we had to help pick over the corpses for any jewellery or personal items that could be salvaged. These two girls were strong. In their twenties. They had worked on a farm, but they could not stand this. One of them began to retch, and this set off the other. Vorontsov was standing near the pile of bodies that morning. It was a gloomy day – every day was grim but today it was drizzling and worse. He . . . he gave an order to one of the guards.

‘The girls were dragged away. He considered them unfit for the job, so they were put in a special hut and used continuously for two days by the soldiers. On the third day they were dragged out. He had dressed them in some kind of finery, clothes taken from the dead, but considered sexually arousing. He paraded them in front of the whole camp. Then . . .’ she paused, unable to continue with the revolting way they had died. When she did manage to get the words out, everyone was shocked and stunned. It was one of the most horrific stories of atrocity Bond had ever heard. He could not even bear to picture it in his head and he blotted out the words, concentrating through the view-finder of the camera, obeying Clive’s trembling voice which came in through the headphones clamped over his ears. Clive told him to move in very close. ‘Get her head. That’s it. Right in. Now close on the lips. Just the eyes, nose and lips.’

Bond watched, seeing the lips moving but blocking out the words of her terrible description. And as he looked at this face, close in, he realised that, under the make-up, he saw something else which suddenly tangled his mind. His brow furrowed, his back straightened in involuntary reflex. His chest felt tight. He glanced towards Nina and saw that she was weeping, but her eyes were fixed on the old woman.

Behind the mask of this aged, haunted person, Bond saw laughing eyes and a young mouth, perfect lipstick and arched eyebrows. He knew who this broken old woman really was. Beyond the work of clever make-up artists with their latex, putty and paint, he could see the face of Emerald Lacy in the photograph that hung in the headquarters building in London – Emerald Lacy back in the sixties, telling some secret tale, leaning over the Xerox machine. Only then did he dimly recall that she was supposed to have been a wonderful amateur actress, and that theatre was a passion she had shared with Michael Brooks. His eyes shifted to the old Jew, the woman’s husband.

13

THE MAN FROM BARBAROSSA

‘The problems are incredibly complex. Byzantine really.’ Stepakov appeared hardly to have heard M’s offer of assistance. He spoke the word ‘Byzantine’ as though proud of his choice of English. They still walked along the quay near the Grand Hotel. The canal was a black sheet of glass, and what light there was made the buildings across the water look like grey cardboard cutouts. ‘The military are split. After all, the President promised a new country, and it seems to have slipped into chaos. He has promised a way forward through the Communist Party – so much for the Western belief that Communism has failed – but the disorganisation and hardship are worse than before. The army is unhappy. Some returned from Afghanistan to receive nothing, not even homes in which to live. The Americans have collective guilt over their returning troops from Vietnam. There is no collective guilt in Russia.’

‘But Misha will give you authority,’ M spoke soothingly, as though to give the KGB man confidence.

Stepakov flapped his arms. ‘Of course. Yes, the comrade President would give the order through me, but I have no idea whether the military would take any notice. Local commanders seem to be making their own rules.’

‘As I said,’ M put his face close to Stepakov’s ear, ‘I can help you. This would have to be done by Spetsnaz, wouldn’t it?’

‘They’re the only troops who could ensure a containment at the Lost Horizon, yes.’

‘Colonel Berzin,’ M screwed his eyes against the breeze. ‘Gleb Yakovlevich Berzin.’ Even his tone was cryptic. ‘You know him, Bory?’

‘Spetsnaz Training School commandant at Kirovograd? That son-of-a-bitch?’

‘Personally I know nothing of his ancestry.’ For a second M held the Russian with eyes bleak as an ice floe. ‘I do know that Colonel Berzin owes me a favour.’

‘He’s a general now. What the Americans would call hard-nosed. The course at Kirovograd has been made even more difficult since he’s been in charge. It was hell before him, now it is purgatory, hell, and a nightmare all at the same time.’

‘A general, eh? Come up in the world.’

‘Owes you a favour.’ Stepakov sounded as though he found that hard to believe, but he was not questioning.

‘I do assure you, Bory, that whatever his allegiances are now, there’s more than a ninety per cent chance that he’ll obey the President’s orders if you give him a message from me.’

‘You mean it? You’re not just hoping . . . ?’

‘Oh, I mean it. Whoever’s in control, Berzin will want to keep his job.’

‘You’re not telling me he’s an asset of your people?’

‘Hardly. Someone like Berzin would’ve been very difficult to control. No, he’s not an asset. But, as I say, give him a message, together with the President’s orders, and you should have no problem.’

‘And the message?’

‘Just tell him, “All I ask is a tall ship.” He should reply, “And a star to steer her by.”’

‘This is your poet, Masefield. I prefer Wordsworth.’ Stepakov’s mouth was fixed in the permanent clownlike smile that was also a look of despair.

If there had been light enough, the Russian might have detected a flush on M’s face. ‘Don’t know much about poetry,’ he growled. ‘Know what I like. Songs of the sea, that sort of thing. Just give Berzin the orders, then tell him what I said. Don’t even mention I said it.’

‘And he will obey the comrade President’s orders, no matter how he feels? Even if he’s allied to a possible military revolt?’

‘I’ve told you, Bory. The chances are high.’

‘You have a secret with him. Obvious. Tell me.’

‘People who live in secret houses should not throw answers. Now, let’s go.’

They watched Stepakov leave with his two bodyguards in a car he had conjured from a trusted secret source which M said could even be a PLO cell in Stockholm. ‘Bory is accepted by the strangest people,’ M told them as they walked back to the elevators. ‘That’s why he plays it so close to the chest. He’s made counterterrorist work into an art form, and he doesn’t just play both sides of the street, he plays the entire neighbourhood.’