The Relic (5 page)

‘How can I?' she whispered.

‘I want you to go to Volkov in Geneva. Tell him about the Relic. Bring him and our people together. Kiss the cross, Lucy, and swear that you'll do it!'

She hesitated. He was a bad colour and his breathing was uneven.

‘You're the future,' he said. The young have shown us all the way. The students in China who died for freedom, the Germans, the Romanians, our Polish brothers. The day Volkov returns to Russia with the Relic, the Ukrainians will rise and declare independence. And Communism will collapse. It'll die from the heart, from Moscow. All the murdered millions will sleep easy in their graves.'

‘I'll do what you would have done,' she said. ‘I swear it.' For a moment she touched the big central stone of the cross with her lips.

‘Thank you, my darling.' Her father's voice had sunk. ‘Get me some water … my pills …'

She laid the cross back on its satin cushion in the box, made in her father's factory, like the flooring that concealed the safe. She pressed the hidden mechanism and the cover closed over it. She realized that she was trembling.

Her father had swallowed his tablet; his colour was less grey. ‘I'm tired,' he said. ‘But now I'll die a happy man. I'd like to rest now.'

She helped him to the downstairs room that had been turned into a bedroom once he couldn't walk upstairs. As he lay down, he raised his hand and stroked her face.

‘I'm so glad I never had a son. There's an old saying, “A daughter gladdens her father's heart”. How true it's been for me.'

Ten days later he died.

It was a private funeral. There'd be a requiem mass in the local Catholic church for his many friends in Jersey, but only a dozen came to the graveside. Like Lucy, the women were in mourning. It was their custom, and they cherished the old ways. One by one they came and kissed her, murmuring their sympathy. Then they came back to the house for the traditional funeral breakfast. Lucy didn't weep; she had no tears left. Part of herself had been buried that morning—right beside the mother she hardly remembered. He often told her how much he had loved Eileen and how beautiful she was.

His old friend, Mischa, made a solemn speech. He called Yuri by his original name, Warienski, and spoke of his patriotism and his life-long devotion to Ukrainian freedom from the Communist yoke. He reminded them of his generosity in time and money, his involvement with the human rights activists inside the Soviet Union. His letters and articles denouncing the arrest of the bravest of the young intellectual dissidents, Professor Volkov. He had tears in his eyes and Yuri's Russian friends cried openly. Vodka was passed and drunk in Yuri's memory. And then Lucy called Mischa aside. He was the closest to her father and the president of their English association. She brought him in to her father's study and closed the door.

He said quietly, ‘Yuri wrote to me before he died. He said you would take his place.'

‘I'm going to try,' Lucy said. ‘I promised him.'

He said, ‘He asked a lot of you, even when you were a child. Perhaps this is too much. If you change your mind, nobody would blame you, Lucy. One of us could approach Volkov.'

She shook her head. ‘You're known,' she said. ‘You never made a secret of your activities. You'd be watched. Nobody will connect an English woman called Warren, on a holiday in Geneva, with anything subversive.'

Don't mention the Relic, her father had warned. All our organizations have been penetrated by the KGB ever since we helped to expose the Yalta Agreement. They learned we were more than a few exiles shaking puny fists at them from a safe distance … Only Volkov can be trusted. No one else must know.

Mischa said gravely, ‘It won't be easy. Volkov has been silent for five years. He hasn't written a word or given an interview. There have been rumours that he was very ill. And his wife is an infamous woman. She worked in the Lenin Institute.'

‘I know the risks,' Lucy said. ‘But my father believed in Volkov. He said he was a patriot who would never spit on his own country as an exile.'

‘Yuri was an idealist,' Mischa said gently. ‘He wouldn't believe that Volkov might have changed.'

He came close and laid a hand on her shoulder. He had known her since she was a child. He had watched her grow in to a beautiful young woman. She should have married by now, producing grandchildren for her father. But Yuri had dedicated her on the altar of his own fanatical beliefs. And he was sending her out to fulfil his mission from the grave.

He tried once more. ‘You know how much I loved your father,' he said. ‘But I do urge you to consider very carefully. This could bring you in to considerable danger, Lucy. Take time to think about it.'

She shook her head. ‘I'm booked to fly to Geneva tomorrow. Don't worry. I'll be careful. Wish me luck.'

He bent and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I do,' he said. ‘God go with you, Lucy. But promise me one thing. If Volkov is not the man you think he is, abandon it at once and come home.'

‘I promise,' she said. ‘But I know I won't have to keep it. I feel my father's near us. Do you feel it?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘He's here. Open the windows in the house. It's what we do in the old country. It allows the spirit to leave in peace.'

When they had all gone, Lucy walked out to the garden. She sat on the empty seat and stared out at the sea below. Sailing boats glided into view, swaying and dipping like swallows in the breeze. It was so peaceful and secure. Sailing had been her father's hobby. As a child he had taken her out on a simple sailing boat, taught her the rudiments of handling a small craft, navigating the little inlets and outcrops of rock around the coast. She was an apt pupil; she loved the sea and had no fear of it.

The little boat had been replaced by a motor cruiser. Soon it was Lucy who sailed to St Malo and Yuri who crewed happily for her. They spent their holidays at sea; he had taught her to navigate and she took them down to the south of France the year before his last illness.

She thought of that time, watching the sea and the boats below. They had been so happy together, so deeply companionable. She'd had boyfriends, but no one had engaged her heart. That belonged to Yuri and to the man whose faded photograph was still pinned on her bedroom wall. The face haunted her; she kept it as others kept an icon, to remind them of their faith and to give them strength. Imprisoned, persecuted, defiant to the last, Dimitri Volkov was the dream that hadn't faded like his photograph. Mischa was wrong to doubt. Volkov hadn't changed.

She thought of the ancient cross, in its dark hiding place. A thousand years ago it had been given by the tyrant Vladimir when he converted to the Christian faith. Ever since, men had woven legends around it and invoked its mystical powers. Dark superstitions had invested the cross with a God-given power to bless or curse. No Tsar dared take the oath at his coronation without holding it in his right hand. Hands tainted by murder and sacrilege had reached out to seize and destroy it. But the shrine was empty. The priest who had been its guardian had died in torment rather than betray where it was hidden.

A life-span later, the old tyranny was crumbling. A people who had never known freedom were demanding it. All it needed was a man of vision and heroic courage to bring the cross back in triumph to Russia, to rally the millions of Ukrainians against the power of Moscow. Volkov was that man.

It was a smooth flight the next morning. Lucy landed at Geneva airport and took a taxi to Les Trois Fontaines, a modest family hotel in the Rue de la Tour Maitresse. The weather was glorious. It was a lovely city, built round the southern end of the spectacular lake. Her hotel room was pleasant and not too expensive. She explained to the proprietress that she was on a working holiday and would need to rent an apartment.

The first estate agent she visited suggested several properties, but none was suitable. Too smart and highly priced, or too geared to short-term family lets. There was one, the girl suggested, that might suit her at Petit Saconnex, but it was for a six-month tenure. Lucy didn't argue. The setting had to be right. Unobtrusive but congenial. The time didn't matter.

Volkov couldn't be won without careful preparation. He had to accept this strange emissary, to trust her. And she needed a place where they could meet without attracting attention.

She arranged to view the apartment the next day and went on a brief tour of the city. That evening she sought out the proprietress. Unlike many Swiss, Madame liked to gossip. She accepted Lucy's explanation that she was a journalist on a popular English women's magazine.

A journalist with a special assignment. Her curiosity was aroused. A film star? There were plenty living in the region. Pop singer, perhaps? No, Lucy said, hesitating before she let Madame in to her secret. Professor Volkov, the famous Soviet dissident who had been exiled from Russia—her magazine wanted an interview with him that would exploit the women's angle. Nothing political, Lucy shrugged that aside. Just domestic details. How he'd adjusted … what were his hobbies? That kind of thing.

Madame nodded her agreement. Just the sort of thing she would like to read about someone so well known. ‘But, he never gives interviews. Never been seen on TV,' she said. ‘I remember there was an uproar in the Press when he came here first … must have been several years ago. But he wouldn't see anyone or talk to anyone. His wife said he was too ill. I don't think anyone bothers him now. When people settle here they soon become private citizens, never mind who they are. It's our way. His wife's a doctor; she works in a very exclusive clinic up in Cologny. Only very rich people can afford to go there.'

‘I've got to try and talk to him,' Lucy confessed. ‘It would make all the difference in the world to my job if I could write something about him.'

‘You could try his wife,' Madame suggested. ‘But she's never encouraged the Press.'

‘I wouldn't want to bother her,' Lucy answered. ‘If I could just bump into him. He must go out sometimes. They're not in the telephone directory, I looked.'

Madame was sympathetic. She was such a pretty girl and so friendly. It would be a pity if she went back with nothing.

‘I can ask around if you like,' she offered. ‘Hoteliers all know each other; I've got relatives in the business. Everyone goes to bistros and bars at some time. A lot of Swiss have regular places where they eat every day. Let me see if I can find out anything for you. After all, he's a well-known figure.'

Next day, Lucy took a taxi to Petit Saconnex and viewed the apartment. It was in a pleasant block on the Chemin de la Tourelle. She rented it, but she didn't move in. And the next morning, when Lucy came down to take breakfast, Madame hurried over looking pleased with herself.

‘I've got some good news for you,' she said. ‘Apparently he's a regular at the Bistro St Honoré! It's a pleasant little place by the lake on the Place de Trainant. He goes there every morning for his coffee.'

‘Oh, how kind of you, Madame!' Lucy exclaimed. ‘I can't tell you how grateful I am! At least if I go along I can see him.'

‘Smile nicely, my dear, and I expect he'll talk to you,' the older woman said.
What man wouldn't
? she thought privately.

Lucy didn't finish her breakfast. She took a bus to Quay Gustav Ador and walked along. The Bistro St Honoré was small, as Madame had said. Clean and bright like all Swiss cafés and restaurants, with tables where the customers could sit out, sipping their coffee and watching the passers-by.

She took a table set back a little and ordered coffee. The waiter lingered over the order. She was a foreigner and very pretty. He had picked up foreign girls before, by offering to show them the sights after work.

‘You on holiday, Madame?' he asked.

‘Working holiday,' she replied. ‘I'm doing some articles for an English paper. It's my first visit to Switzerland. It's very beautiful.'

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘You staying long?'

‘I'm not sure,' Lucy answered. ‘Tell me,' she said, ‘is that Professor Volkov?' She nodded towards an old man reading a newspaper. He was old enough to be Volkov's father.

‘Oh no. That's Monsieur Fritche. He's one of our regulars, like the Professor.
He
hasn't been in since last Thursday. Maybe he's sick or something. He's here most days.'

‘I've read so much about him,' Lucy prompted. ‘What's he like?'

The young man shrugged. ‘Quiet, doesn't talk to anyone. Just sits around. Wanders off after a couple of hours.' He hesitated, but she had a beguiling smile. He really hoped she might meet him one evening after work. He lowered his voice and said, ‘He's drunk most of the time. He starts on the cognac as soon as he gets here. Never causes trouble, though.'

‘How awful,' she said. There was a sick feeling in her stomach. Drunk! It couldn't be. And the waiter said he hadn't been into the café since Thursday. Sick or something.
Starts on the cognac as soon as he gets here
.

‘Talk of the devil,' the man said. ‘Here he is!'

She recognized him at once from the faded photographs. The tall, slight figure. The face with the distinctive Slavic cheekbones and broad brow. He looked ill. There were bags puffed under his eyes; his dark hair straggled over his collar. He walked with his shoulders stooped under an invisible weight.

‘He's pissed,' the waiter whispered. ‘Same as usual. I better take his order. He still brings in the gawkers now and again.'

Lucy sat very still. She watched him take his place at a table under an umbrella. She saw the careful movements as he shifted the chair and lowered himself into it. As if he were in pain.

‘
Oh God
,' she murmured quietly to herself. ‘What am I going to do?' She was close enough to hear him speak. She started at the sound of the voice. It was deep and heavily accented. It reminded her of Yuri. She flinched at the memory.