The Relic (9 page)

And Müller added the story of his client's purchase from the French namesake. No namesake, the American said, but his grandfather! The desk set rang no bells with him, he added. And he knew every important item of stock his grandfather had bought and sold. The old man had kept a meticulous record stretching over forty years. He'd check, but he would surely have remembered something so unique. Müller got a call from him that evening at the Sherry Netherland Hotel.

There was no desk set listed. He'd been through the ledgers. The name Brückner was not on his grandfather's list of clients, either, and he was equally meticulous about them. And he regretted that the egg was not for re-sale. His tone suggested that he regarded Müller and his offer as highly suspect. That was when, as Müller put it, he changed hats.

Adolph Brückner had lied about the Fabergé set, which meant that he had come by it dishonestly. And dishonesty was another commodity that excited Müller's interest. Theft, sexual delinquency, scandal—Müller traded in all of them. He had been working for Moscow Centre since 1957, using his contacts in the art world to supply them with agents. And for the last five years he had routed several highly important potential victims via the Geneva clinic—and Doctor Irinia Volkov. Müller alerted Moscow. Brückner would be a very useful tool.

He finished his hot milk, grimacing because he had sat there letting it get tepid. Eloise had told him about Brückner's headaches. No physical cause had been diagnosed. He wouldn't accept that it was psychological. She was in despair. Müller promised to talk to him.

He waited till he knew that Brückner was recovering from a terrible attack. Then, in glowing terms, he recommended the Russian psychiatrist to Brückner. Between them, he and Eloise persuaded him to consult her. It was possible his lies about the Fabergé treasure was part of something far more serious. Once in Doctor Irina's hands, he'd make a good confession. Thinking that, Müller grinned. He had been brought up a Catholic and it was the old injunction to children on the weekly visit to the priest:
make a good confession, Peter
. Brückner would confess, but there'd be no comforting absolution at the end of it.

He rinsed out his cup and went back to bed. Susan was lying on her back, snoring lightly. She had no idea of his other life. No idea of the bank account in Lichtenstein that was topped up so generously every time he pleased his Soviet masters. His controller over the last eight years was at the present moment leading a trade delegation in Berlin.

The Russian was an enigma to Peter Müller. Over the years he had surfaced in the West under a number of aliases and jobs. When Müller first came under his control, he was a military adviser to the East German army. He wore a moustache and cultivated a hard-nosed image, dour and stiff necked. A year later, he appeared as a naval commander attached to the Soviet Embassy in Paris. No moustache and a very different personality. A fun-loving, pro-Western Russian, with an eye for the ladies and the good life.

He had told Müller once that the French Intelligence, SEDECE, had tried to recruit him. He was much amused by the incident. He had, in fact, recruited one of
their
senior officers who'd been caught in bed with one of Rakovsky's young naval lieutenants.

He left Paris to re-emerge as a respected official in the Soviet Trade Ministry. And, this time he used his own name and assumed his real identity. The cloak-and-dagger days were over. He still ran a few selected agents like Müller, but in the new age of Gorbachev and glasnost, intelligence work was more specialized. A lot of the action men, as the assassins were called, and the sleepers waiting to be activated, would have to be retired.

As Müller would be one day, he realized. That made the nest egg in Lichtenstein so important. When Müller talked of retirement to his wife, he wasn't thinking of their pleasant Munich apartment and a holiday house on the Baltic coast. He had the golden shores and sunny skies of the Caribbean in his mind's eye.

He'd make the trip to Geneva on Friday. By that time Irina Volkov would have opened Brückner's skull to see if there were worms inside. He drifted off to sleep.

He was late. Lucy looked at her watch again. It was nearly midday. The same smirking waiter had given up trying to talk to her.

She had slept badly and woken with a sense of apprehension. He wouldn't come. Then, just as she was giving up, he came in to view.

He walked slowly, a traveller without a destination. If there was a ravine at the end of the road instead of a café, he'd step over the edge without looking down. She got up to meet him.

‘I'm so pleased to see you,' she said. ‘Where do you want to sit?'

‘I didn't mean to come. I thought you'd have given up,' Volkov said.

‘I never give up,' Lucy told him. ‘And you wanted to see me again. What would you like? Coffee?'

‘If you like. It's hotter today.'

‘Then let's go into the shade,' she suggested. ‘I've been thinking so much about you.'

‘I wish you wouldn't,' he said.

‘Do you always feel so sorry for yourself?'

It was a quietly spoken question and it took him by surprise.

‘I enjoyed talking with you yesterday. Why are you being unkind?'

‘I didn't mean to be,' Lucy answered. ‘It's just that I'm not sorry for you any more. There's nothing wrong with you now, Professor. Nothing really wrong, or you wouldn't have come back here.'

‘It's my favourite café,' he said. ‘And I think I'd like a cognac.'

‘I'll have one with you,' she said.

‘There's no need. I'm used to drinking alone.'

Lucy opened her bag. ‘I brought these,' she said. ‘Copies of the speech you made about the Helsinki Agreement and the article published just before you were arrested. I was reading them last night.'

He took the photocopies from her almost absent-mindedly. He didn't want to read what he'd said and written when he was in Russia. But a phrase caught his eye.

‘
Liberty is the life of the human soul. The system that denies that to its people must be resisted even at the cost of that life.
' He put the page down.

‘Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to revive a corpse?'

She said quietly, ‘Because you owe a lot of people. Like my father, who spent his time and his money campaigning for you. And all his friends. And
your
friends, Professor!'

She reeled off half a dozen names. Members of the human rights movement. Imprisoned, dead, driven insane.

‘You got out,' she declared, ‘but they didn't. What would they say if they could see you now, if they were able to speak for themselves?'

He hadn't touched the cognac. He looked at her; there was a tinge of colour in his face.

‘I don't have to listen to any of this.'

‘No,' she agreed. ‘No, you don't. You can turn your back on me, just like you've done with them! But you won't. You need me. If you're dead, Volkov, then I'm going to bring you back to life.'

‘Where are we going?' he asked her.

She had hold of his arm. She'd been walking quickly, forcing the pace. Now she hailed a taxi cab.

‘To my apartment. It's not far now. I've just moved in. I want to show it to you.'

When they got out at the entrance to the block he paused. ‘Why am I doing this?'

‘I told you,' Lucy said. ‘Because you need me. We need each other.'

He followed her through the front door, into the apartment. It was a large sunny room, pleasing to the eye.

‘You're very beautiful,' he said.

She put her arms around his neck and gently touched his lips. After a moment she parted them.

He said, ‘I'd better warn you. I'm impotent.'

‘You won't be with me.'

The blinds in the room were drawn; a single light shone on the ceiling above the bed. Adolph Brückner lay on his back and looked at it. He couldn't see Irina; he couldn't see his surroundings. He saw only the little circle of light over his head; it held his concentration.

He felt weightless; there was no pain, no sensation in his body. He had been talking, answering questions that unlocked doors he had kept closed for fifty years.

Irina's voice was cool and distant.

‘You were sent ahead to scout the land,' she reminded him. ‘What happened?' The tape recorder by the bed was taking it all in.

‘We went too far. Boris wasn't looking for partisans. He was looking for some place to loot. I was scared. I thought we'd run into a Red Army patrol. He only laughed at me. He was like a bull. He didn't give a damn about anything.'

She had heard a lot about Boris, the big Ukrainian who'd volunteered to fight with the Germans when they entered his village. A powerful brute who couldn't wait to put on a uniform and rob his own people.

‘We went through a wood,' the monotonous voice continued. ‘We saw this house. Boris said, “We'll get some pickings in here! Come on, let's take a look!” We had our sub-machineguns out; Boris could move like a cat. He didn't bother being quiet. He'd seen through the window. We just shoved the door open and went in. There was a woman. With long blonde hair. She stared at us.'

As he talked he became a spectator. He saw it all happening again, as if it were a play. The blonde woman, terror contorting her face, backing away from him and Boris.

‘She turned and ran in to a room, slamming the door. Boris laughed.' The laugh was ringing inside Brückner's head.

‘Oh no, you don't. I'll get you, you bitch!' And Boris hurling himself at the door and bursting it open. He saw himself following; Boris had the woman by the hair. He was bending her backwards onto the bed, one hand ripping her skirt off. He felt the sexual excitement rise in him all over again as he watched Boris expose her naked thighs and the round belly. She had been silent until then. The scream echoed in his head as the man fell on top of her, his breeches dropped round his ankles. He was thrusting into her, grabbing at her breasts, shouting at Brückner to shut her up … to sit on her head.

Sweat was pouring down his face. He saw himself pinning the woman down, half-smothering her while Boris heaved and grunted, ripping her blouse away.

From far away he heard the doctor's voice.

‘You held her down while he raped her. How many times was she raped?'

‘Boris did it twice. Then turned her over and buggered her. He was like an animal. Then he said, “Here you are, kid. Now you get stuck in.”

‘She was still struggling, kicking out. He held her for me while I got on top. She managed to scream once. It was so loud … like a trapped animal.'

‘Next thing there was a boy in the room. He was punching at me, trying to pull me off by the leg. He was yelling. Boris picked up his gun and smashed him over the head. I heard the skull crack. It made me finish too quickly.

‘She was bleeding. She was bleeding all over the bed. I looked down and saw the boy was dead. I said to Boris, “Come on, let's get out of here.”

‘“Get your pants up,” he said to me. “That little bastard spoiled a good fuck for you.” He kicked the boy's body. Then he started pulling open drawers. Throwing stuff out, looking for money or jewellery.

‘I ran out of the bedroom, I was watching out of the window. I was so scared someone might come and find us. The place was miles from our main force. I was scared of the partisans. I heard a shout from Boris and he came out holding a cross. Holding it up. It was big and flashing with red stones. I thought, “My Christ! He's got something there.”

‘“Well now, get a look at this,” Boris was laughing. He was excited. “The Red bitch's been robbing a church! This might be worth a few roubles, eh? Gold and jewels, lad; gold and fucking jewels!”

‘He told me to go back in and pick up some ornaments he'd found.'

In the shadows Irina sipped water. Her hand shook. She said, ‘What did you steal, Adolph?'

On the monitor his pulse rate had steadied. He was past the worst trauma of the rape and the murder of the child.

‘My desk set,' he answered.

‘Volkov,' Lucy whispered. ‘Wake up.'

He was lying across her, his head pillowed on her breast. She stroked the dark hair, trying to rouse him gently. He stirred and lifted himself, gazing at her. She reached up and kissed him on the lips.

‘I want you to make love to me again,' she said softly.

He said in Russian. ‘You're a witch. A white witch.'

It had been an extraordinary love-making. Compulsive, mindless and without words. Words might have given him time to doubt … to remember the empty shell his body had become. She didn't let him speak; she kissed him till his mouth burned and suddenly his tongue thrust fiercely back against hers. They undressed each other, still in silence.

There was no sophistication in their love-making. She opened herself and grasped him to her and he reached a swift and violent climax. He fell into an exhausted semi-sleep, while Lucy lay passive under his weight and held him in her arms. He was spent, but he was a whole man. She had made him whole. No failure, no impotence with her.

The second time was leisurely and there were many words, even laughter, between them. They were intimates now, finding out about each other, exploring their bodies with sensitive touching.

‘You're wonderful,' Volkov told her. ‘You smell like flowers.'

And he made love with subtlety and tenderness, stifling her sharp cry of pleasure with a gentle hand over her mouth.

Then they both slept in one another's arms. It was dark when they awoke. They lay and watched the lights blink and flicker from the window and Lucy said, ‘I'm going to make you love me, Volkov. I'm going to make you want me and love yourself because I love you. That's a promise!'

He smiled at her. ‘And you keep your promises, don't you, Lucy?'