The Company of Saints (33 page)

Davina frowned. ‘What request, Humphrey?'

‘The names of the Cheka squad at Lukina.' He was surprised that she had lost the thread of their conversation. It was quite unlike her.

‘Oh, of course. I wasn't concentrating. Sorry.' She touched her scarf again. ‘It's time I had a holiday,' she admitted. ‘Even if it's only a weekend. Yes, do that, Humphrey, but I can imagine the response, can't you? Dig up information about an isolated atrocity that took place in some backwoods village in the 1920s – good God, what will these intelligence people think of next!'

He smiled. When Humphrey smiled it was like moonlight striking a gravestone. She would always think of that cruel description of an Irish politician of sacred memory. Poor Humphrey – nature had been unkind to him in the womb. A misfit among misfits. Where had she heard that before? And didn't it apply to her too in some measure and to all people in the secret world …?

The state funeral was scheduled for 11 August. Moscow was already full of visitors. Now the hotels and houses were packed with people who had converged on the city. Heads of governments and their representatives from the East European Bloc, a delegation from China itself, and the wary emissaries from the West, who felt no grief at seeing the last of Zerkhov, but considerable anxiety about who would take his place on the Kremlin walls. Whoever stood in the centre was the likeliest successor. Whoever approached the open coffin first to pay his tribute was the man to watch. It was as rigid as the protocol surrounding any tsarist funeral.

Behind the preparations, the political lobbying went on at a furious rate. One contender was already sliding out of view. Yemetovsky, the famous marshal, the hard military man with his thunderbolt reputation. He was stepping aside. The cynics argued that he realized he wouldn't win, and that an open rejection would mean a loss of face. And a subsequent loss of power. The Army wouldn't be allowed to take control. They never had, and the memory of Stalin's suspicions of his generals, even after the Great Patriotic War, was still alive in many influential Party members' minds.

The Armenian was fighting hard. He made no pretence about his ambitions. He was gathering support, making promises, rallying factions.

Borisov stayed calm. Too calm, in his friends' view. He seemed to think his succession was assured, that Zerkhov's wishes were some kind of kingly will, to be obeyed. Dead men had no influence upon the living. Only the determination to take power guaranteed power. His friends began to worry about their support for Igor Borisov. He had only begun to worry about it himself that day before the procession left the Kremlin with the body of Zerkhov on a flower-decked open bier. He was so preoccupied that at first he refused to see the doctor from the Moscow Institute of Psychiatric Medicine. He snapped at his aide when he came and told him that the young scientist was waiting in his outer office and would not leave. ‘He hasn't an appointment. Why should I make time for him?'

Borisov had met him several times, attending conferences concerning the suppression of dissidents. A flimsy figure of a man, convinced of his own genius. Effective, but uncongenial. Then Borisov restrained himself. His nerves were taut, and that was affecting his judgement. The doctor was a senior member of that notorious institute and its attendant prison hospitals. He must have an urgent reason for making a nuisance of himself at such a time. ‘Send him in,' he said wearily.

The doctor came in like a bird, with precise little steps, and even when Borisov invited him to sit down, he remained perched, his feet shuffling nervously.

He regarded Igor Borisov with his disconcerting stare. He wasn't aware of how he set people against him with that unwinking look. His life and freedom were at stake. If he failed now, he knew his fate would be the same as he had devised for many others. Imprisonment in one of his own dreaded mental hospitals. There, like the men and women of conscience, he would be tortured with hallucinatory drugs and electric-shock treatment with the minimum of anaesthetic. If he proved too resistant they would operate and make him into a vegetable to lie in his own filth until he died.

‘Comrade Borisov,' he said, ‘I came here to kill you. With this.' He held out his hand, palm uppermost. There was nothing in it that Borisov could see. He had already pressed a button under the desk with his knee. Before the doctor had finished speaking, the doors had opened and there were armed men in the room.

The doctor looked over his shoulder, and then said, ‘Let me tell you about it first. Then they can arrest me if you like. I have a ring on my finger. A wedding ring.'

Borisov leaned towards him. One move and his bodyguards would blow the doctor's head off. ‘I see it,' he said.

The doctor gave a little smile, weak and wintry. ‘But you don't see the tiny pinhead that comes out when I apply pressure. There is a poison which enters the bloodstream from a scratch so small you wouldn't even feel it. Within twenty-four hours you would have become ill and died. We've used it before, but it wasn't so quick or sophisticated then.'

‘I know we have,' Borisov said. ‘Why are you telling me this, Doctor?'

‘Because I want to save my life,' he said simply. ‘I will tell you who sent me here if you will promise I can go free and continue with my work.'

Borisov didn't answer at once. He took out his cigarettes and lit one, taking his time. The stare didn't waver. What was the matter with the man? Didn't he need to blink like other human beings? ‘I promise you,' Borisov said calmly, ‘that if you don't tell me, you'll wish you had by the end of this afternoon. My men are not scientists or psychiatrists, but they know just as much about the human body as you do about the mind. So take off your ring and after you have been searched for any other dirty tricks, you can sit down and tell me everything you know.'

It was a magnificent funeral. The Moscow skies were a dazzling blue and the procession started out from the Kremlin to the deep melodious tolling of the city's bells. A phalanx of men who had been Zerkhov's friends, colleagues and enemies all at the same time followed the coffin. Borisov was in the second line; Mishkoyan and one of the detentists, as they were called, headed the mourners. Nobody worried about the man who wanted closer cooperation with the West. He was windowdressing for the real successor. Marshal Yemetovsky walked behind Borisov. The troops marched to the beat of the Dead March from
Saul
. Crowds lined the route, openly weeping. The bells tolled again as they neared the final place of rest.

Flowers were laid against the walls of the tomb, including homemade tributes from the Russian people who had never known his tyranny. Each member of the Politburo approached the open coffin, and bent to kiss the putty-coloured face of the embalmed corpse. When Borisov kissed him, tears dropped onto the icy face.

After the ceremony, there was a reception at the Kremlin for the members of the Politburo, the senior members of the Communist Party and delegates from all over the Soviet Union. The gathering was subdued: people talked in hushed voices, but already eyes were probing the candidates, whispers were circulating about who was going to be elected.

Igor Borisov made a slow progress round the Party delegates, then to the senior Party members. He spoke quietly to them, and they listened. He had planned a tribute to the dead President; and they were all invited to the headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square to watch a special film of his life and achievements after the official reception ended. Everybody was suspicious, but nobody liked to refuse. It would seem lacking in respect. And Borisov was not only a candidate, but could still remain the second most powerful man in Russia after the election. Unless, of course, Mishkoyan had him replaced.…

Borisov went ahead of them. He had arranged the conference room in the building. A portrait of Zerkhov draped in black had been hung over the screen.

At seven o'clock the room began to fill up. By 7.30 everyone had arrived. Vodka was passed, and cigarettes. Borisov's men were also in the room, stationed near the doors. He called for silence and the lights were lowered. ‘Comrades,' he said, taking position in front of the screen, ‘this is my personal tribute to a great patriot and a great leader. I believe it will affect us very deeply.' He sat down and the screen came to life. There was a brief passage of solemn music.

But it was not Zerkhov's face that came into focus. The music suddenly died away, and there were murmurs from the audience. Borisov said aloud, ‘The man you see here is one of the most eminent psychiatrists in Russia, deputy head of the Semenov Institute. I would like you all to listen carefully to what he is going to say.'

At first the audience was inattentive: they imagined they were about to hear a long tedious tribute to the genius and humanity of their dead leader. His main contribution to human welfare in the field of medicine had been the authorization of the infamous psychiatric hospitals. But the words were not what they expected. Words like treason, and murder, and betrayal of the people of Russia. Words like ambition and insane impulses towards power.

There was no sound in the packed room. Borisov sat like a statue, arms folded, listening to the doctor's monotonous, high-pitched voice.

Suddenly the silence was shattered. There were exclamations, and shouting from the auditorium. Then, without warning, the screen went blank. And once again there was silence. Heads turned towards one man.

Slowly he rose to his feet. ‘You have accused me, Comrade General,' he said. ‘By trickery, you have accused me publicly before our comrades. Bring that liar before us, and let him repeat his lies to my face! I challenge you! Bring him here now!'

He had presence and courage, Borisov had to admit that.

‘This is not the time or the place,' he answered calmly. ‘The doctor will give his evidence before the Central Committee. If your plan had succeeded, I would be dead, like Nikolaev, and Comrade Mishkoyan with me. All your rivals would have been murdered by an army of assassins, trained to further your political ends.' He turned to face the audience. ‘Which is why, comrades, I called you here to listen to a tribute to our dead leader, Peter Zerkhov. A tribute to his patriotism and his judgement. His dying wish was to stop this man taking control of Russia.'

‘Mr Walden,' Frieda Armstrong said, ‘there's a call from Brussels. Will you take it?' She knew he disliked being disturbed when he was in a morning meeting, but he gave such high priority to this particular account.

‘I'll take it in my office,' he said. He made a joke to his executives. ‘I know what you're thinking, but Belgian Plastic isn't a beautiful blonde. I'll deal with this and be back in a minute.'

He closed his office door. There was no sign of good humour when he answered. ‘Yes? Walden speaking.' He had pressed a small button on the telephone – the conversation was being recorded. ‘No, I can't come over. It's impossible. You'll have to come here. I've got something important for you.' There was a pause at the other end. He's tempted, Walden thought, the murdering bastard. He's tempted to come and see if I really have got something for them. He'll start to threaten for a minute.

‘You must see me as usual,' the voice said. ‘You could be in a difficult situation otherwise.'

‘I got the promotion you wanted in the trade papers,' Walden countered. ‘It's not my responsibility if you couldn't get the orders through.'

Walden must have damaged the bracelet mechanism in some way because they hadn't traced their agent. Moscow didn't consider he'd fulfilled his bargain. Which was exactly what Lomax and MacNeil had expected. He wouldn't be let off the hook; they never gave up. And neither did the SIS. That was the price he would pay for nearly getting Davina killed.

The officer from the Special Branch had done most of the talking. Colin Lomax said little. But Walden could feel his contempt without any words. ‘You got yourself into this mess,' the man said. ‘And you'll stick with it now. You'll bloody well work for them and for us, Mr Walden, for as long as we can use you. And if your friends on the other side find out you've been playing doubles, that'll be too bad.'

As they left, Lomax had paused and said quietly, ‘Just for the record, if I thought you'd known what that bracelet really was, I'd kill you. You didn't, so we'll leave it at that. But don't try seeing her again. Understand?'

Walden had opened the door for them. ‘I tried to get her out of it,' he said to Lomax. ‘Which is more than you've done.'

He had to persuade the Soviet contact to come to London. He didn't know why and he didn't care. For the rest of his life he would be subject to the pressure and dangers of both sides.

‘I'm so glad you could come down,' Betty Graham said. ‘Isn't the weather lovely?'

Davina had lost a lot of weight, she thought, and she didn't look at all well. It was a relief to see Colin taking care of her. She had everything ready for them, Davina's old room, and the guest room for Lomax. She remembered how nice it had been when Davina was nursing him after his terrible wound in Mexico. What a pity they hadn't got married then. All the misery that followed might have been avoided.… But there was no use regretting the past. Mrs Graham had learned that a long time ago. No use missing her husband – it wouldn't bring him back.

She had her little grandson permanently with her, since Charlie was fully occupied with her job and her new man friend in London. The house wasn't lonely, but she had known for the past few days that it soon would be. She was very thankful when she heard that Davina and Colin wanted to come down. She kissed them both. ‘I
am
glad to see you,' she said. ‘Fergie's out in the garden – I've been so lucky, that nice girl said she'd look after him full time for me. He's growing so fast. Let's put your things upstairs and then we'll have a drink outside before lunch. I've been very extravagant and got some help in while you're here. Otherwise I'd spend too much time in the kitchen.'