Kolchak's Gold (39 page)

They came up the stairs two flights below and I tried to listen to their conversation—to identify the man with Bukov—but I only understood about one word in five because they were speaking in a Crimean Tatar dialect but then I heard Bukov pronounce my name. I couldn't make out the context and in my present condition I was not prepared to make fine distinctions among tones of voice. I froze; I felt an insistent hammering behind my eyes.

I heard Bukov open the door to the flat and they went inside. I did not hear the door close; I stayed where I was with the pulse shaking me like a pneumatic drill. And then I heard Bukov, very distinct, in Russian: “He has been here.”

There followed the other man's short grunt and then footsteps into the hall.

Bukov said, “Harry?”

I didn't stir.

He started up the stairs.

I turned, ready to break into the nearest door but his voice arrested me:

“He's a friend, Harry. It's all right.”

Only half trusting him I went down slowly and he retreated to the landing to wait for me; he was talking to the other man who was inside the flat: “Draw the drapes before you switch on the light.” Then turning to me: “Where did you leave the car?”

I had to swallow and clear my throat. “Behind that row of shops.” I pointed through the wall to my right.

I heard drape cords slide; a light came on, splashing a yellow fan along the floor through the open door. Then Bukov's companion appeared there, blocking the light. He was a big greying old man who had been red-haired; he had coarse features, there was a heavy roll to his lips. Bukov was arctic and aloof. “You'd better give the keys to Pudovkin.”

Without objection I produced them and handed them to the old man. They disappeared into his fist; Bukov ushered me toward the door and Pudovkin went down the stairs quickly, still in his overcoat.

Bukov shut the door behind us. “Pudovkin spent ten years of his life hunting down Germans in Johannesburg and Buenos Aires. He's one of the best we've got.”

“You expected to find me here.”

“Don't be so awed. Your escape stirred things up. The first thing they did was alert all border stations, and I have people at several of those. I've had the word for several hours.”

“They moved fast. I left my driver in the middle of a dirt track in the wheat farms. I didn't see any telephone lines.”

“He picked up a ride with a lorry. It only took him twenty minutes to reach a telephone. Was it that same fellow who came here with you?”

“Yes. Timoshenko.”

“Pity. He's an inoffensive sort. They'll have his hide for this.”

“It wasn't his fault. They ought to see that.”

“I'm sure they will—but they've got to have someone to vent their rage at. Would you like another glass of beer?” He asked it drily; he'd picked up the glass I'd left near the window.

“You offered me your help,” I said. “That's why I came.”

“I hope you've got a first-class reason. You're putting us all in jeopardy.”

“I had very little choice. I'm sorry.”

“I'm sure you've considered what you're doing—the consequences. You'll be an outsider forever, you know. You're consigning yourself to exile—a blind wandering to an unknown destination. You're not the type, Harry.”

It took me a moment to catch up with him: then my head rocked back. “How do you know that, Bukov?”

“You found the gold, didn't you.”

It was Karl Ritter all over again. I sank into a chair, raging in hopelessness.

“You'll be an outsider everywhere until you share the secret with someone.”

Someone entered the building and Bukov listened to the climbing footsteps because he knew the tread of each of his neighbors and acquaintances. He relaxed before I did. The steps went on up the second flight. Bukov said, “Comrade Litvinov,” in a tone Napoleon might have used in pronouncing Wellington's name.

I said, “I didn't find anything. But they think I did. I won't be tortured for something I haven't got.” It was the story I'd decided on—to use in case I had to. It had become necessary far earlier than I'd anticipated.

Bukov was remarkably uninterested. “In any case it's still my job to assist you. I gather you wish to get out to the West.”

“It's a terrible imposition.”

“Don't apologize. I offered our help. We've rather expected you to accept the offer.”

I didn't want to think about that at the moment; it had too many implications I wasn't prepared to face.

Pudovkin came up the stairs and Bukov, recognizing his step, met him at the door. “Where did you put it?”

“The railway motor-pool garage. I smeared the number plates. It's just another official car—they'll be a while noticing it.” Pudovkin shrugged out of his coat. “There's a man standing by the station trying not to look like an agent. I think I know his face—I've seen him in Yalta.”

“Naturally. They know their man might come here for help.”

I half rose from my seat; Bukov waved me back. “It's taken into account. But we'd better not stay here any longer—he may take it into his head to come up and inspect the premises. Come along—bring your things.”

Thinking he had a rear exit in mind I began to put on my coat but he said, “You won't need to wear it.” I gathered up the hat and my case, hung the coat over my arm and followed them out of the flat.

We went up the stairs, Bukov several steps ahead of me; he reached the landing and surveyed the hall before he motioned us to follow.

A key from his pocket: he unlocked a door and let us into a dark room, stuffy with disuse. Pudovkin silently closed the door and Bukov hit a light switch—a ceiling fixture flickered and brightened.

The room was windowless and not more than twelve feet square. It contained an old desk, four straight wooden chairs and a row of shelves on which stood dusty bound volumes of postal and railway regulations. “My office,” Bukov explained. “I rarely use it. I'm afraid you'll have to sleep on the floor. There's no heat but we're in the center of the building, it won't freeze here. You'll have to rough it.”

“For how long?”

“Until we can make the arrangements.”

“I feel like such a bloody fool,” I whispered.

“No need to keep your voice down. Litvinov is stone deaf and there's no one else on this floor. The railway department uses most of it for storage of records. But one word of caution—don't let Litvinov see you, he's the sort of old woman who loves to inform.”

“Is it risky living in the same building with someone like that?”

“Quite the contrary. He's a good cover.”

There was a door in the wall behind the desk. He went to it and opened it. There was a cupboard the size of an ordinary clothes closet with shelves across it at two-foot intervals. The upper shelves held rows of green metal file-card boxes; the lower two shelves were empty. Bukov knelt and pulled the lowest shelf out. It slid away easily in his hand. He pointed at the back of the cupboard.

“If you hear someone approaching, slide through. The rear wall is a door on spring hinges. You'll find yourself under the eaves. It will be very cold but they won't find it if you remember to slip the shelf back into place behind you.”

I nodded. It wasn't the first time he'd used this room as an underground railway station. He'd designed the cupboard for that purpose.

Pudovkin had a heavy voice like lumps of coal rumbling down a metal chute. “You'd better keep your things in that cupboard while you're here—in case you have to hide them quickly.”

I put the briefcase, hat and coat on the floor of the cupboard and Bukov closed the door on them. “You'll have to wait until morning to use the lavatory. Can you hold out?”

I said I thought I could. “After Litvinov goes to work you'll be free to move around during the day.”

“Tomorrow's Sunday. Will he go to work?”

“Yes.”

Pudovkin said something in dialect; Bukov gave it a moment's thought. “It might be wise.” He turned to me: “How committed are you?”

“To what?”

“This nineteenth-century romantic gesture of yours. How great is your rage to survive? Greater than your rage to escape?”

“I don't follow.”

“If they cornered you—would you prefer death or capture?”

I said, “What are you offering me? A cyanide capsule?”

“A pistol. Do you want one?”

“I'm not much good with them.”

“It doesn't take much marksmanship to put the muzzle in your mouth and pull the trigger.”

I pictured myself sitting in this room for an indeterminate time, counting the walls; I foresaw the increasing waves of depression and anxiety; finally I said, “I think I'd rather take my chances without it.”

“Very well. I'll bring food and drink.” Momentarily his austere features softened. “Don't break yourself on the wheel of fear. There are places where the borders are quite porous—with any luck we'll get you out. We've done it with hundreds, we know the drill. Does it matter to you where you break through?”

“I'd assumed you had a limited number of routes—I thought I'd better leave it to you.”

“All right.” He glanced briefly around the room. “I'm sorry you'll have to be incarcerated here. I know you'd rather be a moving target. It can't be helped, for the moment. Arrangements must be made—it takes time. Now. What about your linguistic aptitudes?”

I gave him a list of the languages I spoke; he needed that because it limited the identities he could manufacture for me.

I brought out my wallet. “I'm not offering a bribe. But I've got some money, in dollars. Can you change them into rubles without too much trouble?”

“Of course—and for a good deal more than you could.” He counted the bills. “Would you like some sort of receipt?”

“Don't be ridiculous. I meant the money for your use. There'll be expenses getting me out.”

He divided the bills into two stacks and proffered one of them. “You'll want money after you're out. You'd better keep this.”

I took it back without arguing. His eyes went beyond me to Pudovkin but it was to me that he was speaking: “When you go, Pudovkin will accompany you partway. You'll want to get to know each other a bit.”

Instead of leaving the room then, Bukov settled into one of the chairs and crossed his thin silk ankles. Specks of dust twirled in the light. “Please try not to concern yourself with too many details. Under great stress you will naturally find yourself worrying about trivialities but I must ask that you leave everything to us. Our organization has several people in it who know where many bodies are buried—we'll be able to obtain
bumagi
for you but you must leave the choice of identity to us. If you balk at anything at the wrong moment it could set us all right back to the wrong side of square one—you understand?”

“I put myself in your hands,” I answered. “I'm very grateful.”

Pudovkin jerked his head up as if he had just had an inspiration. He spoke a name.

Bukov shook his head. “No, I won't use him. He has a fourteen-year-old daughter, he's vulnerable. All they need to do is hint that she can't be protected every minute—she could be raped by bandits. To prevent that, all he'd have to do is expose us. I won't use him for anything more than innocuous errands.”

“Then who?”

“Don't worry. You won't have to carry it all the way.”

“I wasn't thinking of myself, Vassily.”

“I know you weren't.” Bukov smiled a bit. “One of these days you may begin to agree that my sense of security is as thorough as your own. I'm not a brash youth any longer, Mikhail.”

I was left out of this; watching the two of them I saw they were very old friends, it was more than a political alliance. Neither of them seemed the sort of man who communicated emotion easily but there was a bond of great warmth between them. Possibly Bukov had begun as the older man's protégé.

Bukov got up to leave us then. On his way to the door he paused. “Perhaps I should mention this—not to terrify you but to make you see things realistically. You can be sure that more than normal pressures have been applied against Sergei Zandor. To lose you would be to risk his position in the KGB chain of command. He has orders to bring you in alive of course—but he may be tempted to exceed those orders. You've given him a very bad time. You understand?”

“Yes.” The warning was: do exactly as you're told and don't mess things up for us because we could all get killed as a result.

Bukov nodded. Then the two of them left me.

In a little while he returned with a tray of borscht and Beluga caviar—an absurd combination but nourishing enough. He made a list of my clothing sizes.

On his way out he said, “Try to sleep.”

“Yes.”

“I rather approve of you.”

“Do you?”

“How did Nietzsche put it? ‘Audacity is essential to greatness.' You have the essence of greatness, Harry.”

He went. I prowled the chamber for a while; pulled down a dry tome and read half a page and put it back; finally I rolled my shoes into my jacket to improvise a pillow, switched off the overhead light and lay trembling in the dark with my overcoat for a blanket.