The Relic (6 page)

‘Some coffee—and a cognac. Lovely morning.'

And the sneering waiter, writing down the order, looked briefly across at her and winked.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Her father's life-long dream, the hopes of so many helpless people, the saving power of the Relic that men had died in torment to protect … all to be abandoned, sacrificed in vain because a great man was drowning himself in drink.

She ignored the waiter. She pushed back her chair and walked up to his table. She stood in front of him and he looked up.

‘Professor Volkov?'

‘No,' he shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, you're mistaken.'

‘No, I'm not,' Lucy said firmly. ‘I know who you are. Can I sit down?'

He frowned for a moment. She thought suddenly, he isn't drunk. That oaf was wrong. He's
been
drunk, but he isn't now.

‘If you're a journalist, you're wasting your time. I don't give interviews. Please go away. I don't mean to be rude, but go away.'

She pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. She leaned towards him. ‘I'm not a journalist,' she said in Russian. ‘Please can I talk to you? Just for a few minutes?'

Immediately the shutters came down. Suspicion, fear, then blankness. ‘I've nothing to say,' he said. ‘If you don't leave me alone, I'll call the management.'

Lucy shook her head. She spoke gently. ‘Professor, you needn't be afraid of me. I just want to talk to someone I've admired all my life. That's all. Please believe me.'

The waiter arrived, bringing the coffee and a large cognac. Lucy looked up at him. ‘Coffee for me, too,' she said. Behind Volkov's back he pulled a face and winked again.

She said to Volkov, ‘Thank you for not getting him to throw me out.'

‘Who are you? What do you want?' He reached for the cognac; his hand was shaking. He said defensively, ‘I'm not frightened of you. I need this because I've got a hangover.'

‘I know,' she said. ‘Why not take some coffee? It's better for you.'

‘How do you know?' he demanded. ‘You don't know anything about me!'

She answered quietly. ‘I know everything about you, Professor. I've read every word you've written. I know your speeches by heart. I've had your photograph on my wall since I was twenty. The waiter told me you were drunk when you arrived. My name is Lucy Warren. Will you at least listen to me?'

‘Why should I?' he asked. ‘I don't know you. I don't want to talk to you. I don't talk to anyone from home.'

‘I'm English,' she explained. ‘I've never been to Russia. My father was Ukrainian; he taught me to speak Russian. His name was Varienski.'

‘Means nothing to me,' Volkov said. ‘I never knew anyone with that name.' He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a packet of
Disque Bleu
. He put one in his mouth and searched for matches. On the second attempt he lit it.

‘There's no reason why you should know him,' Lucy answered. ‘He wasn't famous, like you. He was an exile who loved his country and thought you were the bravest man in the world. He worshipped you, Professor, and he brought me up to feel the same. He's dead now, but just before he died, I promised him I'd come and see you. That's why I'm here.'

‘Well,' he looked down, fiddling with the coffee cup. ‘Well, you've kept your promise. You've seen the great Volkov at close quarters. At bit pissed from the last three days. Got the shakes. So you can go now and leave me alone.'

‘I've come all the way from England,' she said. ‘Just to meet you. Here, let me give you some sugar.'

‘I don't take it,' Volkov muttered.

‘It'll give you energy. Try one spoon.'

‘You must be English,' he said. ‘English women are so bossy.'

‘If you really hate coffee with sugar, have mine instead.'

‘No, no. It doesn't matter. Now will you please go away?'

‘No,' Lucy said. ‘I won't. You said to the waiter it's a lovely morning. Can't we just sit together and enjoy it. I won't talk if you'd rather not.'

He'd been trying not to look at her. He didn't want to see her, she realized that. With his eyes lowered, he felt safe. Now he gave in and met her eye to eye. His head ached and his nerves clamoured for more alcohol. But she was pretty, with piercing blue eyes like the lake water when the sun shone.

Why would they send her? Why would they try and trap him after all this time? They'd nothing to worry about from the wreck he'd become.

‘Are you real?' he said. ‘They use pretty girls to trick people into saying things. Are you sure you're not one of those?'

‘No,' Lucy said firmly. ‘I'm not. My name is Lucy Warren. I was born in England and, as you said yourself, I'm bossy. You really can trust me, Professor.'

Suddenly, he smiled. It was brief, but it lit the sad, dark eyes.

‘I was locked up for a year,' he said. ‘You learn not to trust anyone after that. I've been very rude. Most people would have gone away.'

‘I'm not most people.'

‘I can believe that,' he said. His cigarette had burned out in the ashtray. He lit another, blew out the smoke, and stared at her. The coffee and the cognac were soothing; he felt better. He thought,
She has the most beautiful eyes. She keeps staring at me. I wish she wouldn't
.

Lucy let the silence continue. Under the table her hands gripped one another tightly with tension. So far so good. He hadn't got up and walked away. For a brief moment she had made him smile. He had drunk the sugared coffee. But one ill-judged word, one mistake and their flimsy contact would be broken.

The waiter was hovering. She avoided his enquiring glance.

‘Anything else, Sir, Mademoiselle?'

‘Have you had breakfast, Professor?'

Volkov shook his head.

‘Would you mind if I had something? I'm starving.'

‘I don't mind. It's bad to be hungry.'

She ordered croissants and more coffee. She didn't want them. Her throat was tight and her stomach knotted. Anything to keep him there, even food that she doubted she could swallow. She said gently, ‘Why don't you eat anything in the morning? Isn't there anyone to get it for you?'

He drained his cognac.

‘My wife leaves early. I'm asleep. It doesn't matter. I haven't felt hungry for a long time. When I was in prison I tried to eat the straw out of the mattresses. They stopped my bread ration for five days.' He put down the empty glass and looked at her.

Lucy couldn't help it. Her eyes filled with tears. One slipped on to her cheek and she tried to brush it away. But Volkov saw it. He leaned a little towards her.

‘Don't cry,' he said. ‘Nobody cries for me any more.'

‘I was crying for all the people like you, Professor Volkov,' she said slowly. ‘The ones who died and the ones who are still locked up.'

He made no reply.

‘Are you forbidden to talk?' she asked him. ‘Did they make you promise?'

‘My wife promised for me. I wouldn't co-operate. Now.' He raised his hand for the waiter.

‘Don't have any more to drink, Please!' Lucy said.

‘That's what
she
says,' Volkov nodded. ‘“Don't drink, Dimitri. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” Please don't sound like my wife.'

He let his hand fall. He had been a handsome man once; but the face was now drawn and hollow-cheeked, the fine eyes sunken and bloodshot. He looked so desolate that Lucy almost gave up.

‘I'm being a nuisance,' she said. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Why is it so important for you to sit and talk to a drunk who's opted out?'

After a moment Lucy answered him. ‘My father said you couldn't be bribed or threatened into keeping quiet. When they were sending dissidents to mental hospitals, you drew the world's attention to what was being done. I had no right to speak to you that way. Please forgive me. If you want a drink so badly, Professor Volkov, I'll go to the bar and get you one myself.'

‘If I'm not going to get drunk,' he said. ‘I'd better go for a walk. We'll pay the bill and I'll say goodbye.'

‘I'll pay the bill,' Lucy said. ‘And if you don't mind, I'll walk with you.'

They walked slowly and in silence for most of the time. Once Volkov paused at the lakeside. Seagulls were swimming close to shore, looking for titbits. He felt in his pocket absentmindedly.

‘I forgot,' he said. ‘I normally take some stale bread from the café. I like to feed them.'

‘We'll get some tomorrow,' Lucy suggested. ‘I won't forget. At home we have a plague of seagulls; they come screaming in over the garden. If you're not careful they'll snatch the food out of your fingers.'

‘You live by the sea?'

‘I live on an island,' she said. ‘Jersey, it's very beautiful.'

‘I've never heard of it. You said you lived in England.'

‘It's one of the Channel Islands; they're English. The Germans occupied them during the war. I was born in England. We only moved there because my father had a heart attack and had to retire. It was cheap and he had made a little money. You pay hardly any tax there.'

Lucy could sense him drifting away from her. She caught his arm, and felt him start nervously.

‘There's a seat over there. Could we sit down for a while?'

‘If you like.'

They sat and he lit another cigarette. He offered her the packet.

‘Do you smoke?'

‘I never really liked it.'

‘My wife chainsmokes. Only Russian cigarettes. They get sent over specially.'

‘You don't smoke them?'

‘I hate the smell.'

‘Why?'

His attention was focused again.
He can't relate to anything outside his own experience. I mustn't talk about myself or he'll drift away
.

‘My interrogator used to smoke them. He'd say, “You'd like one, wouldn't you, Volkov? You'd like a cigarette and a hot meal and some coffee … and shoes? Your feet are cold, aren't they?”'

He gazed out over the placid water.

‘Your wife should give them up,' Lucy said quietly. ‘It's unkind when she knows it upsets you.'

‘She loves me.' He turned his head and looked at Lucy. ‘If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be here now. They took my shoes away when I was arrested. I got frostbite.'

‘I don't know what to say,' she murmured. ‘I've read what happens to prisoners, but hearing you say it makes it so much worse.'

‘There's someone coming,' Volkov said. ‘I hope he doesn't sit down here. What's the time? I forgot to put on my watch this morning.'

‘Nearly twelve,' she said. ‘I think he's going to sit here. Shall we go? I'm not tired any more.'

The man's shadow fell on them, directed by the bright sunlight. Lucy glanced up at him. He was elderly, grey haired, well dressed. He looked ill. He didn't speak. He sat at the far end of the seat and stared out over the lake.

‘Ready?' Lucy whispered.

‘Yes,' Volkov muttered.

They got up and as they did so, the man glanced at them without interest. In turn, their shadows fell on him.

Adolph Brückner had been walking. There was an hour to kill before his appointment. He believed in taking exercise, but his head was starting to ache and he was tired. He saw the seat in the distance with a man and woman sitting on it. He would have preferred to sit down alone, but there might not be another seat for some distance. His head was now throbbing. It wasn't the skull-splitting pain that immobilized him for days on end. Just the warning of the agony that was to come.

He had told his secretary that he was going on a short holiday. His wife knew the truth. She was so worried about him. Adolph was touched by her concern. She loved him in spite of their age difference. He had promised to phone and let her know what happened after the first consultation.

He came up to the seat and sat down, as far from the couple as possible. The last thing he wanted was a casual conversation with strangers. His doctor was a woman. He didn't like the idea of that; he had old-fashioned ideas about the female role, but she was said to be the best. His friend, Peter Müller, had recommended her. He trusted Müller's judgement in this, as he did his knowledge of antiques and works of art. He glanced up briefly as the couple got up. The girl was blonde and pretty. He liked beautiful women and beautiful things. Collecting was his passion. He watched them walk away together.

He stared out over the lake; he couldn't appreciate the splendour of the view. His mood was bitter because he was afraid. Afraid of the headaches, afraid of submitting to a science he had derided as the refuge of fools and weaklings—psychiatry.

He had tried everything else. Brain scans showed nothing. No tumours, no abnormalities. Business pressure was blamed and he went on a long cruise with his wife and his adopted children. It was useless. He lay in his cabin and groaned aloud with the intolerable pain. There was no rhythm in the attacks. They came without warning and as suddenly they stopped, leaving him shocked and exhausted. He had taken his head between his hands, crushing the temples as if he could drive out the excruciating agony. At times he had thought of suicide.

He had been forced to this as a last resort. Switzerland. He muttered the word to himself. Cuckoo clocks and numbered bank accounts. Watches and ski resorts … and clinics. Clinics as discreet as the banks.

A group of children passed by, laughing and shouting. He winced at the noise. He loved children, but he couldn't father any. His first marriage had broken up because he was sterile, and his wife wouldn't adopt. Eloise had been different. He had worn his second wife like a jewel. Thirty years younger, elegant, intelligent, she was a medal Adolph Brückner had awarded himself for his phenomenal success. But his wealth and his power couldn't help him now. Here he was, the famous West German industrialist with his millions, and his influence from the Bundesbank to the Bundestag, sitting on a seat, alone and vulnerable, while the headache tuned up for a terrible concert of relentless pain.