The Relic (18 page)

He noted the dead as well as the living. The dead had children who might carry on their work.

In the very recent past, an English-based organization of so-called ‘Free Ukrainians' had led a worldwide campaign on behalf of the gaoled dissident, Dimitri Volkov. The organizer and prime motivator was of Ukrainian birth, though a naturalized British citizen, Yuri Varienski. He had died early that year. He had one child, a daughter, who had a Jersey-based interior-decorating business. Independent income from her father's estate.

The name Lucy Warren went in to the computer at Moscow Centre, along with hundreds of other names on the periphery of the various movements. Even a seventeen-year-old schoolboy in a French
lycée
was documented because his father and grandfather were involved in exposing the executions of the Cossacks after Yalta.

Gusev likened himself to an industrious spider, sitting at the heart of a complicated web, pulling a thread here, tightening one there, until finally he began to see a pattern. There was no pattern as yet. KGB agents among the various groups had no information beyond rumours of some kind of summit meeting between the leaders. Their destination was being kept so secret it emphasized its importance. Activities in Canada and America were even more alarming. There were powerful and vociferous organizations of anti-Communist Russians in both countries, backed by considerable funds.

The venue of this gathering must be Europe. But its location and its purpose was Gusev's first priority. There must, he rationalized, there
must
be a unifying factor to bring so many divergents together. Something that bonded them closer than a shared hatred for Communism and the Soviet Union. If he could identify that …

There were many rumours. He didn't dismiss the wildest of them. Not even the fantasy that one of the Tsar's descendents was preparing to come out and offer himself as a leader within Russia itself, defying the authorities to arrest him and prove that they hadn't changed after all.

The theme of a leader kept recurring. Check and triple check the likely candidates. More lists, long computer analyses of each individual—background, ethnic origins, age, record, previous political activities. The web spread and became more entangled. Gusev recommended night and day surveillance by expert watchers on the heads of the organization and their families. Moscow Centre had facilities in all the countries concerned. Manpower was a problem, but he felt this deserved top priority.

An agent was despatched from London to Jersey to check on the dead activist Varienski's daughter. His report that she had left the island, and had not been seen or heard of since, went into the computer bank with hundreds of similar reports and remained on file. Gusev knew from experience that sooner or later something would emerge and give the vital clue. It always did. Either by accident, or carelessness, or simply luck. And he believed that luck was the reward of diligence.

‘It's late, honey,' Susan Müller said. ‘Aren't you coming to bed?'

Peter Müller yawned and stretched. He smiled at his wife. ‘I'll just finish these accounts,' he said. ‘I won't be long. Don't go to sleep.'

‘I won't,' she promised.

He kept the smile on his lips till she had closed the door. The accounts were his coded report for Rakovsky. With a new and important addition from the Swiss detective agency. Eloise had conferred with Brückner's lawyers that morning. Müller had gone with her. The lawyers were cautious in their attitude to the nursing sister's story. He could see they regarded Eloise as overreacting. ‘Naturally', they said to her, ‘she was shocked'. The senior partner explained patiently that the nurse herself might have suspect motives in accusing the doctor of malpractice. Her reputation and experience would have to be investigated very carefully. Their case would stand or fall on her reliability.

Müller was surprised by Eloise's resistance. He'd always thought of her as pliable, sexy, more of an ornament than a partner for a man like Adolf Brückner. Now he saw another side of her. She was determined. She possessed power and she knew how to exercise it. She had silenced them all.

‘I believe this woman. I believe my husband was badly treated. I don't want arguments, gentlemen. I want this matter investigated. I want you to bring the nurse down here and let her tell you what she told me. Then, I want the best legal advice you can get for me. Good morning.'

It made her more fascinating to Müller. If he wanted the elegant clotheshorse, even more did he desire to strip and possess the woman of character. He had spent so much time with Eloise that he felt he must make love to his wife that night, however tired he felt.

That tiredness disappeared when he got his detective's report on Volkov and his girlfriend. He rewrote his original report for Viktor Rakovsky, incorporating the results of investigating the affair. Brückner's widow was determined to pursue Irina through the courts. And Irina's husband, Dimitri Volkov, was involved in a passionate relationship with a woman of Russian descent, the daughter of a well-known anti-Soviet activist who'd recently died, Yuri Warren, alias Yuri Varienski.

His admirable Swiss detectives had checked up on her with the central police register of foreigners, and then elicited the information from the police in Jersey. Her reputation was confirmed as impeccable. In the course of establishing this, the agency had extracted the other information about her background.

Müller urgently advised the recall of both Volkovs to the safe confines of the Soviet Union.

Lucy took the call. Volkov had gone out. He liked to buy their food; he even enjoyed cooking it sometimes, and was putting on a little weight. He seemed to take pleasure in the simplest things, like touring the delicatessens in search of a special cheese, or taking the water bus across the lake and just mingling with the tourists.

She was waiting for him to come back when the telephone rang. It could only be Mischa. No one else knew where she was.

He spoke in Russian. ‘Are you alone?'

‘Yes. Is anything wrong?'

‘No. No, everything is good. The meeting is in two weeks. The twenty-seventh. In London at the Makoff Galleries. There's an exhibition of pre-Revolutionary photographs and memorabilia. It's a perfect cover. But is he ready? Is he strong enough?'

Lucy turned round as the door opened. Volkov was surprised by the brilliance of her smile and the heightened colour in her cheeks.

‘Ask him yourself,' she said. She gave the telephone to Volkov. ‘It's Mischa,' she said. ‘They've set the date!'

She watched him, listening to the one-sided conversation. There was no hesitation. He spoke calmly and with authority.

‘I shall be there,' he said. ‘I'll be happy to address them. No. That won't be necessary. I'll be with Lucy.' He turned and looked at her. ‘As soon as possible,' he went on. He hung up and he held out his arms. ‘I told you it would happen,' he said. ‘Now we're ready to go. In two weeks I shall be speaking to the people who worked for me and campaigned and raised money when I thought I was as good as dead and buried. I'm going to make the speech of my life. A new Russia will be born in the Ukraine!'

They held each other close. Then he said, ‘I must get that key cut today. If it goes well, we'll be on your island by the end of next week. And you can show me the cross. I dreamt of it last night.'

Lucy didn't look at him. She was pale now instead of flushed. The key. He had to get into his wife's office, open the desk and trust that his passport was inside. That was when the idea came to her.

‘Darling,' she said. ‘Why don't I take that wax and get it done for you? Please let me. I know a little place not too far from here. Please.'

Lucy drove in to the centre of the city before she found a locksmith near the Chemin de la Tourelle. The man looked at her suspiciously, the piece of hard white wax in his fingers.

‘You want a key cut from this, Madame?'

‘Two keys,' Lucy said. She forced herself to smile at him. ‘It's a bet,' she said. ‘My friends said I couldn't get it done from a wax impression. I said I could. I do hope you can do it for me?'

‘I could,' he said, ‘but I won't. No responsible locksmith would make a key from a wax impression, I'm sorry.' He turned his back.

At the rear of the shop his young assistant looked up from his work and grimaced at Lucy.

‘It's an impression of my own key.' Lucy insisted. ‘I told you—it's a bet—nothing illegal.'

‘I'm sorry, Madame.' The locksmith cut her short. ‘Jean if anyone wants me, I'll be back in a minute.' He went out through a door in the back.

The assistant grinned at Lucy. ‘Gone to make pee-pee,' he said. ‘Quick. Let's have a look.' He took the wax from her and examined carefully. ‘This is good. Very clear, I can make two keys for you. Come back tomorrow, after five. He's gone then. 50 francs?'

‘That sounds fair enough.' Said Lucy. ‘And I win my bet.'

Two keys. She drove home slowly. One key for Dimitri. And one for herself.

Müller's decoded report was given a yellow sticker. It arrived via the diplomatic bag on Saturday morning. Viktor Rakovsky had left for his
dacha
. A courier was despatched on the strength of that yellow signal. Blue was urgent, yellow was most urgent.

He was fond of fishing. When he wasn't sketching or painting as a relaxation, Viktor took a rod and line down to the banks of the Moscova and fished for the grey roach that lurked in the sluggish water. Mostly he threw them back. They weren't edible and the two cats at the
dacha
couldn't eat too many of them. Viktor kept cats. The cat with the yellow eyes had disappeared into the forest the day the Germans came. He remembered pleading with his mother to take the little creature on the train to Moscow and safety. He loved cats.

He laid his tackle aside and opened Müller's report. He didn't fish that day. He went back to his office and summoned Gusev. Gusev's family didn't see him for the rest of the weekend. The banks of computers were busy, and together Viktor and Gusev read the long print-outs and the cross-references and the counterchecks on the information. At the end, Rakovsky opened a bottle of his favourite Scotch whisky and offered a drink to the young colonel. It was a great mark of favour.

Rakovsky listened to Gusev's summary.

‘The daughter of Yuri Varienski disappeared after her father's death. She reappeared, according to this, in Geneva, where she has made contact with Dimitri Volkov and became his mistress. For the last five years Volkov has been drinking himself to death. He had ceased to be a problem to us. This is the first woman he's been connected with in all that time. He's taken no part in politics since his release. Suddenly he becomes involved with someone whose father was an active anti-Soviet right up till his death. I think, comrade, that we must conclude that she has seduced Volkov in order to use him politically. The surveillance team,' he glanced down checking something. ‘The Swiss surveillance team employed by our agent doesn't mention seeing him drunk at any time. His behaviour is sober and normal. That is remarkable, given his alcoholic addiction.'

‘Very remarkable,' Viktor said slowly. He was thinking while he listened to the logical thought processes of Leon Gusev. Irina had killed Brückner on his orders. Only Irina knew that he was responsible for the collapse of Moscow Centre's operation at the clinic. If Brückner had lived, there wouldn't have been a complaint made to the widow. If he'd let his mother's violator escape punishment … Müller said she and Volkov must be recalled. Ironic, he thought, that Müller had plunged the knife in to her back instead of the other way round. She must be brought home, before any further investigations were made by Eloise Brückner's lawyers. She couldn't be charged with anything once she was out of reach.

But Volkov's infidelity was more important than Irina's blunder. Volkov was not drinking. Gusev deduced that Volkov was in love with a woman who'd been sent to entrap him for political purposes, so Gusev deduced. He paid full attention again.

‘Varienski was the originator of the London-based “Free Ukrainians”. The “Free Ukrainians” are in close contact with Catholic
emigrés
in Europe and the United States. They are a significant part of the dissident organizations we have been monitoring. As we know, they are suddenly very active.'

He cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, comrade,' and took a sip of whisky. He didn't like it. ‘It seems to me that we are missing the key factor. The common denominator between them all. Is it possible that Volkov is this factor?'

He waited for Viktor's response. There wasn't one. He just nodded and said, ‘Go on. Take it further.'

‘Why should Dimitri Volkov, after five years of obscurity, become valuable to any anti-Soviet organization? That question has to be asked. The answer lies in his birthplace in the Ukraine and the reputation he enjoyed among dissidents and refusniks before his arrest and during his imprisonment.'

Viktor interrupted. ‘I know all that. I know how dangerous he was. Go on,' he said again.

‘He could be used as a figurehead. But a figurehead for what?' Gusev enquired and answered his own question. ‘For a full-scale political movement outside the Soviet Union. What purpose would that serve? I can't see the exiles and
emigrés
banding together and achieving anything of importance but limited media coverage.' Gusev paused; he frowned.

Viktor thought,
The keys are clicking in to place in that computer brain of his. I can almost hear them
.

‘His real use would be inside the Soviet Union. Here, he could be exploited by elements already working against the central government. Which brings us back to the Ukraine, where Volkov was born. If there is a link and I believe there is, then that's where we must look. That's where we'll find the heart of this conspiracy. In our present circumstances, we couldn't do anything to stop him returning here and openly declaring himself. And he'd have huge popular support. I'm not suggesting he'd last long,' Gusev continued. ‘Once the Ukraine demanded independence he could drop out of sight. There are plenty of others who'd come forward. I don't have to name them!'