3

They were the only customers left in Le Réduit; the proprietor was helping clear the tables, and he glanced at the little group of two men and a woman who remained in the corner, their coffee cups empty, a blue halo of cigarette smoke drifting above them. One of the men looked up and beckoned him.

‘We’d like three brandies,’ Paul Martin said. ‘You don’t mind keeping open for us?’

‘Of course not,’ the proprietor shrugged. ‘There’s no hurry. I have a fine cognac I can recommend. It would be a crime to hurry it.’

He thought the blonde girl looked very pale. It hadn’t been a happy gathering: he hadn’t heard anyone laugh.

‘So,’ Raoul Jumeaux said, cradling the brandy in both hands and sniffing it, ‘that was how it ended. The German offensive was a failure, the German armies were broken, and the Russian counter-offensive began. Shuvalov and his Russians and the entire Russian auxiliary force fought for their German masters like devils; I think it was Winston Churchill who remarked on that when the question was being debated. But it failed. The crazy dream of driving out Stalin and the Communists was undoubtedly what motivated men like Yurovsky. The need to stay alive rather than starve and die in German prison camps was what drove thousands of Soviet prisoners to join in. As for those who welcomed the Germans in the Ukraine, Finland, Estonia and the other émigrés who came running to fight with them – they had their reasons. Stalin starved five million of them to death in the Ukraine alone, when they wouldn’t cooperate with his agricultural dictatorship. To them the Germans were liberators. It sounds extraordinary to me to say that – less so to you, Madame Martin. Your generation has seen Soviet Russia for what it really is, a menace to the freedom of mankind. I can see Paul shaking his head. Well – we won’t argue, you and your radical Socialism are no more acceptable to the Russians than capitalism. For these Russians there was only one course; when Germany was defeated, those that were left of them surrendered to the English and the Americans. They hadn’t heard of the Yalta agreement.’ He looked at Anna. ‘They believed, in the most naïve way, that the Allies would understand and protect them.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ Anna said. ‘I can’t believe that nobody knew, nobody tried to help them –’

‘Oh, they did,’ Paul Martin interjected. ‘People like Raoul here, for instance. Some of the British officers and a lot of their troops protested. The Americans – always such a sentimental people, darling, made a terrible fuss. But the politicians had their way and the army carried out its orders. We couldn’t risk offending Stalin. Also there were a large number of Allied prisoners who had been overtaken by the Russian advance. It’s all part of the way the world is run that human beings are used as bargaining counters. And obviously, there wasn’t any sympathy with people like Yurovsky in official quarters. They were regarded as traitors, getting exactly what they deserved. And nobody sympathized with the ex-prisoners-of-war who had found themselves drafted into the German army to fight when they’d been promised their freedom if they volunteered for road building. It’s a dirty world, Anna; I used to try and make you see that, but you only accused me of being cynical.’

‘That gold watch,’ Anna said slowly. ‘With the little photograph in the back. I keep seeing his face. So like Nicholas –’

‘Yes,’ Jumeaux said, ‘Even as a child he looked very like his father. I gave him the watch, you know.’

She raised her head quickly. ‘You? You gave it to Nicholas –’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘I was at the camp at Baratina. Michael Yurovsky asked me to get it to his son. He gave me his own cigarette case as a memento. Finish your cognac, and I’ll get the bill. Now that you know the background, you can see why Nicholas Yurovsky lied to you. You can see that you are dealing with a total fanaticism based on revenge. And despair. He and his friends are the last of their kind. Your man is not a Frenchman, in spite of having a French mother. He is a Russian, with a score to settle. Yurovsky is a political maverick, dangerous now because he’s got money, and he’s been under cover for a long time. We don’t know the source of that money and it’s worrying. He is going to get himself killed in some crazy gesture which won’t make any more difference to the Soviet Union than an ant trying to stamp on an elephant. All it will do is embarrass the Western powers and give the Russians an excuse to blame France. I am a Frenchman, Madame Martin, and my duty is to protect my country’s interests. Some stupid act of anti-Soviet violence is against her interests at the moment. I am satisfied now that you are not involved in any of this. If you want to help Nicholas Yurovsky, then go back and tell him that the SDECE are aware of his activities and determined to thwart any nonsense. Tell him that. If he won’t listen, then my strongest advice to you is to get out of the country and avoid being associated with him. Because if we don’t move against Yurovsky within the next few weeks, then the KGB certainly will. I am speaking to you now as a friend of your husband.’

‘My ex-husband,’ Anna said quietly. ‘We’ve been divorced for a long time. You’ve been very helpful, M. Jumeaux. I really didn’t understand what was happening or why a man like Nicholas should mix himself up in something subversive. I understand it now. And why he lied to me.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Paul asked her. She had finished her brandy and pushed the glass away. It was a decisive gesture. She stood up.

‘I’m going to deliver M. Jumeaux’s message,’ she said.

‘And if he doesn’t listen? Will you do what Raoul advises?’

‘No,’ Anna said. She turned to Jumeaux. ‘Thank you for dinner,’ she said. ‘I’ll take myself home. Goodnight.’

They watched her walk out of the restaurant. Paul Martin swung round to Jumeaux.

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You told the damned story so well she’s going straight back to him!’

‘To deliver my message,’ Jumeaux said. He picked up his pipe and knocked the cold ash into an ashtray. ‘That’s what I wanted. She’s a very determined young woman. She may well persuade him; and if she does, then “Return” will crumble to pieces. It is nothing without him. I always try persuasion first. Come on, it’s nearly midnight. This poor fellow wants to close up.’

‘Nicholas, sit down. It’s very good to see you.’ Anton Kruger was in his seventies, a short, thick-set man, with iron-grey hair and a rugged face; he moved like a much younger man, and everything about him, from his impeccably cut clothes to the Piaget watch and Hermès tie, bespoke money and power. They were alone in the study of his château outside Chartres; a telephone call had brought Nicholas down by car that evening, with an invitation to spend the night. He didn’t like the Château Grandcour; it was not very large, because Anton Kruger was a practical man who insisted upon being comfortable, but it was dark and over-furnished, filled with a mass of priceless pictures, tapestry and furniture. Kruger’s taste was oppressive. He liked size and splendour, and despised simplicity. The study was crammed with heavily gilded French furniture and every table was littered with objects. He looked at Nicholas and smiled.

‘I’m sorry to drag you down here at such short notice,’ he said. ‘But I’m flying to Zürich tomorrow and I wanted a report before I go.’

‘The delegation will be arriving in Paris on June 17th,’ Nicholas said. ‘Staying at the Embassy. There will be a reception at the Elysée, and a performance by the Comédie Française. They’ll visit the usual places, Versailles, the Louvre; they’re due to fly back five days later, after a lunch given by the Chamber of Deputies.’

‘A very full programme,’ Kruger said. ‘I’m sure our friend will enjoy the theatre. He’s become very culture conscious, I hear.’

‘It must be a nice change from his usual entertainments,’ Nicholas said quietly.

‘You mustn’t let personal feelings come into this,’ Kruger said seriously. ‘We’ve waited a long time for such an opportunity. You must act with absolute calculation, complete coldness. I know it isn’t easy, especially for you, Nicholas, but it’s the only way to make certain we succeed.’

He sat back, playing with an unlit cigar. Nicholas Yurovsky was exactly the right type to lead this particular enterprise. Courageous, cool-headed, determined, and with natural authority over the others. Kruger had been completely happy about him until now.

‘Tell me,’ he said gently, ‘is it true that you’re getting married?’

Nicholas looked up quickly. Elise must have told him about Anna.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not now.’

‘An American lady,’ Kruger said. ‘Very rich, divorced. I don’t wish to interfere in your private life, my friend, but was it wise to have personal entanglements at just this time? Is it possible that this girl knows anything about our enterprise?’

Nicholas didn’t hesitate. ‘No,’ he said. ‘She knows nothing.’ Kruger had light-blue eyes; they were watching him with penetration. Nicholas knew more about him than the magazines and newspaper stories that were full of lies which Kruger had circulated about himself. He had made millions, he was involved in enterprises all over the world. He had a contracting business in France, had financed the building of a giant aluminium smelter in the Middle East. He arranged financial backing for overseas projects in return for a percentage of the profits; there were rumours that in his early years he had dealt in arms. He owned a block of shares in the Wedermans Publishing Corporation more as a hobby, because of an interest in the arts. He was the most ruthless operator in private that Nicholas could imagine. Only such a man could have taken up ‘Return’ and made it into an organization capable of striking a serious blow at the Soviet Union. Kruger was the financier, and on a massive scale.

‘We broke up last weekend. I shan’t be seeing her again.’ He faced Kruger boldly as he said it. The grim mouth smiled at him.

‘It’s sad, but just as well,’ he said. ‘I heard that you and she had quarrelled – I wondered what about, that was all.’

‘Not about my work,’ Nicholas said. There was a silence. Kruger found a box of matches and lit his cigar. He puffed for a moment or two.

‘That’s all right then,’ he said. ‘I’ve waited many years for this – we all have. No one and nothing must get in the way. Come, let’s go and have dinner. My wife will be glad to see you. You know, you’re quite a favourite of hers.’

Madame Kruger was an elegant Frenchwoman in her fifties; she had been married to him for thirty years and they were ideally happy. They had no children and seemed to be completely absorbed in each other. So far as the world knew, Anton Kruger kept no mistress and had no interests beyond his enormous business empire, his art collection and his wife. She was a beautiful woman with a gentle manner that Nicholas admired. Very feminine, very soft, yet he knew her capable of immense fortitude and courage. She would have given her life for Anton Kruger. Looking at her smiling across the table, seeming deceptively young in the candlelight, Nicholas remembered that she had almost done so.… Danger of that magnitude created a bond stronger than ordinary love between a man and a woman.

He thought of Anna, half-listening to the conversation which was concerned with a new play the Krugers had seen. If only she had agreed to go to the States, just for that month. Mentally he chided himself for being a selfish fool. Kruger was right; there was no place in his life for a woman, much less marriage. Not until their plan was carried out. He had loved Anna too much to admit that he was involving her in danger, until Paul Martin forced him to face reality. That nagged at him constantly; how did Martin know of his activities? How, when the security of ‘Return’ was so tight that no single member ever met or contacted another outside their organized meetings? He himself had kept a deliberately low profile ever since he met Kruger, avoiding any connection with fellow-Russians. There was no way a journalist like Martin would know his political feelings were anti-Soviet or anything else, unless someone had talked. And that meant they were being watched. He hadn’t told Kruger the truth, because he didn’t want Anna involved and he was afraid that Kruger might suspect her, might believe that he had hinted to her that he wasn’t what he seemed. He didn’t rationalize his lie to Kruger; it had been instinctive. It made him uncomfortable, sitting with them.

‘Poor Nicholas,’ He started, as Madame Kruger spoke to him. ‘How dull this is for you – two old people gossiping about a play you haven’t even seen – have some more soufflé?’

He shook his head; she was smiling kindly at him. He liked and admired her more and more. So feminine and gentle, yet incredibly brave and strong. Without Régine, Anton Kruger often reminded him, I would have been dead, like all the others.…

‘I’m not very hungry, thank you,’ he said. She got up, and looked at her husband.

‘We’ll have coffee in the salon,’ she said. ‘Nicholas looks tired; you’re not to keep him up all night talking.’

‘We’ve had our talk,’ her husband said. She paused and looked at both of them.

‘Is it going well?’ she asked quietly.

‘Very well,’ Nicholas said.

‘Good.’ Her beautiful smile showed again. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing Feodor Gusev. I wonder if he’ll recognize me?’

‘Of course he will,’ Anton Kruger slipped his arm around her as they went out of the room together. ‘You were as beautiful then as you are now. He’ll recognize us all.’

There was no reply from Nicholas’s apartment: he lived in a first-floor flat in a crumbling, elegant eighteenth-century house in the Rue de l’Université, hidden away in one of the dark little courtyards that had survived Napoleon’s planning of the city. It was a simple three-roomed flat, not luxuriously furnished, but comfortable and whenever Anna had been there, untidy. She had found it too dark and oppressive, preferring to have him stay with her. And then there was the escape to the forest at weekends, the warm and cosseting atmosphere of the Auberge St-Julien. But it was odd, Anna thought suddenly, that she had never liked the proprietress, Elise. She put the receiver down. It was one o’clock in the morning. He might be out, or away. The suspicion that he might be with another woman was quickly brushed aside. It was not the moment to be jealous, but she was surprised at how the idea had wounded her. Love, she thought, looking at the silent telephone. This was love, this agony, this determination, this ache above the heart. Never for Paul Martin, nor for any of the men she had known in the States. Only for Nicholas Yurovsky. The son of Count Michael Yurovsky, who had come to life for her that night, as she listened to Raoul Jumeaux. She could see him as clearly as if she had known him all those years ago. A tall, elegant man, unmistakably an aristocrat from a vanished world. Jumeaux had fleshed out the man in the tiny photograph in the back of his watch. She could see Vermeuil and Liliane Yurovsky, and her father, the collaborator, and the two children in the nursery. Nicholas had a sister, Olga. Jumeaux didn’t say what had happened to her.… Anna couldn’t sleep; she poured herself a brandy, and made coffee to go with it. Her kitchen was streamlined, super-fitted. She seldom cooked in it until she met Nicholas. Paul was not a husband who liked dinners at home. He was restless, always on the telephone, dashing out to meet someone, promising not to be long and coming back in the small hours. Life with him had been a nerve-racking existence, full of uncertainties. Full of shadowy figures who were contacts, instead of friends, restaurant meals and bars. Politics dominated the conversation and motivated his life. Even when he wasn’t being aggressive, Paul managed to make her feel a criminal because she was rich and had a mother with extreme right-wing views and the power to advance them. He had used sex like a weapon, and made her feel inadequate there too. Now he was back in her life, playing a new role, the concerned ex-husband who was trying to protect her. The result of his interference was to precipitate a misunderstanding that had nearly parted her from Nicholas for good. She was grateful to Raoul Jumeaux for clearing her doubts; she was certain that hadn’t been part of Paul’s motive in introducing them. That part of his plan had definitely gone wrong. She could sense his reaction in the restaurant, watching her as she listened to Jumeaux.

It was not a story that aroused his sympathy. Jumeaux was more compassionate than he was, and Anna didn’t consider him a type who indulged in sentimentality. Jumeaux had delivered the watch. She took her coffee and brandy into her bedroom, kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed. The room was full of ghosts, flitting between her and the Boucher drawings, the silk walls, mocking the luxury which was her consolation to herself for not being loved. Men and women, and children too. The Cossack General Shuvalov glared at her with his fierce eyes, full of suffering and defiance; there was the sound of weeping and gunfire in her head. The coffee turned cold, as she forgot to drink it. She fell asleep with the lights on, and the last conscious image in her mind was Nicholas’s father. The image changed as she began to dream. It was Nicholas she saw, bareheaded, gaunt, going to his death.

After the Allied invasion of Europe began, Liliane Yurovsky shut up the house at Vermeuil and moved in with her father. Nicholas was six and his little sister four; they didn’t mind going to live with their grandfather; they regarded the big, ugly Château as a second home. Nicholas, albeit still segregated in the nursery with Marie, whom he hated because she showed such a preference for Olga, sensed that his mother was anxious and upset. She never smiled; he often saw her look as if she had been crying. She became extremely angry and punished him on the occasions when he asked when his father was coming back, until he learned not to speak about him. He was very sensitive to the atmosphere of alarm and confusion which was spreading through his family, and he couldn’t understand why his mother and grandfather kept talking about losing the war. The Germans were losing the war, not the French. Marie had explained that to him one day, and he couldn’t see why she sounded so vindictive. The Germans were being driven out of France, she told him. And then a lot of people would have some explaining to do.… She left when they moved out of their house. He had been standing in the hall, holding Olga by her hand, pulling at her to make her stand upright, becaused she sagged at her fat little knees deliberately. His mother was there, looking white and unwell as usual, and there was a jaunty, impudent air about the girl Marie as she said goodbye.

‘Goodbye, Madame Yurovsky. I hope it won’t be too bad for you and M. Druet. I just feel so sorry for the children!’ Then she had walked out of the hall and down the steps to the courtyard. Her father was waiting outside with a handcart filled with her luggage. Olga had begun to cry. ‘Marie … Marie …’ She had loved her nurse. Nicholas was so angry that he let go her hand and she tumbled on to her bottom. To his surprise his mother hadn’t been cross. She had picked up the little girl and comforted her, and for a moment she stroked Nicholas’s head.

‘Don’t cry,’ she said. ‘Don’t cry, darlings – we’ll be all right. Don’t worry. We’re going to grandfather’s. We’ll manage.’

The little boy had looked at her. ‘I’m not crying, Mama. And don’t you worry. I’ll take care of you, till Papa comes back.’ He never forgot that moment. His mother had looked at him, and he saw that in spite of his mistake, she wasn’t angry. Her eyes filled with tears and overflowed.

‘He won’t be coming back,’ she said. ‘They’ll get him too.’ Later that afternoon his grandfather’s car came over to fetch them; there was a big inflatable gas bag on the roof, because for a long time the Germans hadn’t permitted civilian use of petrol. Not even to supporters like Etienne Druet. He hadn’t asked his mother what she meant. There was a shocking finality in her words which was matched by her grief. For the first time she hadn’t seemed to hate his father or be cross at hearing him mentioned. He cried himself to sleep that night. The time passed and like all healthy children he occupied himself playing in the Château gardens and hunting rabbits in the woods with his grandfather’s terriers. Christmas came, a subdued Christmas with very little of the good things he remembered. There were no servants; his mother and grandfather seemed strangely lonely, as if everyone had left them. He saw some Germans come to the Château but he was always kept away from them. Six months later his grandfather was arrested. Among his story-books was a romance about the French Revolution, with some engravings of mob scenes and the guillotine. The way in which his grandfather was taken away reminded him of one of the illustrations. A crowd of people came to the Château. There were two cars and a lot of bicycles; men and women, most of them young, were carrying sub-machine guns and had belts full of rifle bullets slung round their chests. He recognized people he knew among them; the baker and the charcutier, the village schoolteacher and his young wife. He had never seen any of them with guns before. The village gendarme was with them, and there were strangers, wearing berets and combat boots with the trousers tucked into the tops.

They began to hammer on the door of the Château and shout. He watched from an upstairs window, and ran down to find his mother. He was suddenly very frightened. She was in the hall, holding on to his grandfather’s arm; her face was contorted with weeping and fear. Grandfather Etienne had always been a solid figure in Nicholas’s life, benign and confident, the purveyor of expensive presents, someone who spoiled them and took his father’s place after he had gone away to fight for Russia. Nicholas had never forgotten that was where his father had gone. And why. To make Russia free again. They were safe till he came home because Grandfather Etienne was there. Now the old man was weak and trembling, his heavy face had sunk round the jowls and the mouth quivered. There was another heavy crash against the door and his mother screamed. He saw his grandfather pull free of her and go to open it; she flung herself after him, trying to drag him back. He heard his grandfather shout at her.

‘Go away, Lili, for God’s sake, they’ll only take you too! What about the children? Get out of the way! If they break down the door they’ll run mad in here.’

He turned and seized Nicholas’s mother and pushed her towards the stairs. Then they both saw Nicholas, and with a cry of anguish Liliane ran to him and gathered him to her. She was hysterical, he couldn’t understand her because she was sobbing.

‘Niki, Niki, oh, my God, my God save us, help us …’

He saw his grandfather open the front door; his mother was half carrying, half dragging him up the stairs on to the landing. She crouched down behind the balustrade, and they stayed hidden. She was gasping and crying, her tears wetting his face. He put his arms round her and wept with her, as the crowd caught hold of his grandfather. Somebody, he thought it was the schoolteacher, struck the old man in the face. Both his arms were seized, people were pushing him and hitting him with their fists. He had a moment’s glimpse of his face as he was hustled through the door, and there was blood all over it, like a red mask.

He never saw his grandfather Etienne again.

His mother moved out of the Château. They had to walk to the station, he leading Olga by the hand, and his mother dragging their suitcases, because nobody would help them. When his mother went into the village for a few supplies women she had known all her life refused to serve her. Several times people spat in her face.

They moved into their grandfather’s flat in Paris. It had been shut up for a year; he remembered the smell of must and stale air when they opened the door. He had never visited it, and he thought it very bright, full of gilt furniture and pretty ornaments which Olga was always trying to touch. But there was nowhere to play, he hadn’t been able to bring many toys, and he saw no other children. His mother had few visitors, but among them was his father’s mother, Grandmother Zia. She hadn’t visited them very often. He didn’t know why. When she came now, the atmosphere was stiff. He sensed that she and his mother didn’t like each other, although they were always polite. His grandmother seemed to be sorry for his mother. He heard her say once, ‘My deepest sympathy, Liliane – but it is a blessing. He couldn’t have survived such a sentence.’ His mother was wearing a black dress, and he thought with great fear that his father had died. He learned later, when his mother told him, that his grandfather Etienne had had a heart attack. He couldn’t see why, in his grandmother’s words, this should be a blessing. The world was an unsafe, crumbling place, constantly changing and always in a frightening way. He felt sorry for his mother who was getting very thin and seemed too tired to cry or be cross. He felt it his duty to protect her, and he tried hard to put up with Olga, who was infuriating and never did what she was told. He had to help his mother and hold on until his father came home. He had heard his grandmother mention that too.

‘Of course he’ll come back,’ she said to his mother one day. They always talked in low voices when the children were near.

‘He isn’t a Soviet citizen. He’s a prisoner-of-war. The Allies would never …’ He didn’t hear the rest. He went on waiting for his father to come home.

Nicholas woke with a start. His body was cold with sweat; he had been dreaming the same nightmare again, going back through his subconscious to his childhood. Re-living, albeit through the distortion of sleep, the traumas of the time when the war ended. His grandfather had died in prison; it was less than a year, and it seemed shorter, till his mother caught scarlet fever, and gave it to him and to Olga. They were in the same hospital, but there were screens round Olga’s cot, and his mother was in a separate room. His grandmother, Countess Zia, came to take him home when he was better; Olga had died, and they had told him very gently that his mother had gone too. He was eight years old. He reached out for the light by his bedside. There were cigarettes there and a lighter. He sat up and lit a cigarette.

Nightmares about the past were a part of his life; he accepted them and recognized the necessity for the injured psyche to express itself. Otherwise he showed no visible scar. He had learned very early to suppress his feelings, to discipline his mind and toughen his body. His Russian grandmother had taught him that weakness was unforgivable in a Yurovsky. He had gone back to her small apartment in a house in the Rue Fourcray in the 17th arrondissement.

It was let to Russian émigrés like herself. They lived in a tight community, speaking Russian and observing the customs and even the protocol of their long-forgotten world. There was a weekly dinner given by each family, and the grey-haired man who presided at the head of the table worked as a tally clerk in a local factory. But he was always addressed as Prince, and Nicholas had to bow to him. A mad world in a way, Nicholas thought, watching his cigarette smoke drift into the column of light cast by the bedside lamp. But no madder than the one in which he and the Krugers were living. Anton Kruger, with his millions, a new identity established after thirty years, was as bound by this past as the sad little émigrés in the Rue Fourcray had been by theirs. As Nicholas was himself. The call of blood was too strong, the cry for retribution too clear, in spite of the years. They were Russians, all of them, and they had never integrated except on the surface. Kruger least of all. It was exactly three years since Nicholas got the letter inviting him to what was described as a reunion.

It was a dinner party, given in a private room of the Ritz Hotel. Anton Kruger was the host. Some of them had known each other; Nicholas knew none of them, except Volkov, whose parents had been friends of Countess Zia and her group. He had never liked Volkov even when they were children. He had been a wild, unstable boy, inclined to solve everything with his fists. A compensation, Nicholas had once said to himself, for being so stupid. Nicholas had cut loose from all his childhood contacts when his grandmother died. He was nineteen and studying Literature and History of Art at the Sorbonne. Countess Zia had been better off than he supposed. She had left Russia with enough jewellery and some outside investments which had survived the vicissitudes of the French stock markets. He was independent although not by any standards well off. He sold her pearls and a diamond cross she always wore, with the exception of one piece she had asked in her will should never leave the family. He had been going to give it to Anna as a wedding present.

He had accepted Kruger’s invitation against his better judgement; he was curious in spite of himself. They had met in the private room and eaten a magnificent Russian meal, presided over by the famous financier and his French wife, and nothing had been said until the table was cleared and waiters came in with a portable screen and a 16mm projector. The lights went down and one of the waiters stayed behind and began showing them films. There was no sound: Kruger gave the commentary. Nicholas would never forget the atmosphere in the dark room, pierced by the long beam of the projector and the flickering figures on the screen. There were twenty people sitting round the long table, turned towards that screen, watching in total silence, while Anton Kruger talked. There was suddenly a shattering cry from a woman seated not too far away from him; a fat, middle-aged woman who had told him she kept a hotel. ‘My father! My father!’ She had broken down and begun to weep. And then he heard his own name mentioned. ‘Yurovsky.’ He could hear Kruger saying it now. ‘Count Michael Yurovsky.’ It was a very brief glimpse, a face turned momentarily towards him from the grave, sunken and unshaven, a look of total despair in the eyes. When the show was over there was a stricken silence. Even the fat woman had stopped crying.

It was nearly dawn before they began to disperse, and when they did ‘Return’ had come into being. Kruger’s brainchild, Kruger’s proposal for a corporate vengeance which would shock the world. And strip away the lies and the hypocrisy which had hidden the truth from the West. Feodor Gusev. He had appeared in the movie too; there were several shots of him. Nicholas had almost smoked his cigarette down to its filter; Gusev. He was called Grigor Malenkov now, his past identity carefully obscured. A respectable elder statesman with a popular image in the free world. A jolly figure, fond of vodka and folksy jokes. A Khrushchev type, now that Khrushchev himself was dead, and the Soviet needed a link man for détente. Someone more human than the austere Chairman of the Central Committee and President of the USSR.

They couldn’t be too bad if Malenkov was an example of the top rank. Possibly even the ultimate leader.… Cartoonists liked him; that was always indicative of success.

Nicholas stubbed out the inch of cigarette. He was not to be killed. Kruger was adamant about that. People like Volkov wanted to rip him to pieces. Elise too. She had been fourteen when her father was captured. His memory was indelibly fixed in her mind. When she spoke of him at their meetings, her eyes filled with tears. A big, laughing man, with immense vitality for life. A marvellous horseman, a total hero figure to his daughter. Elise certainly couldn’t be trusted. There were times when he wondered if, face to face with Gusev, he could trust himself. He lit a second cigarette, helped himself to the Vichy water which was by the bedside. Kruger liked the old-fashioned embellishments when he had guests. There were cigarettes, mineral water and a little glass and silver jar of biscuits in every bedroom, and, regardless of the time of year, a hot-water bottle to take the chill off the sheets.

In many ways it was a pre-war house; there was a sense of the thirties about the way in which Régine Kruger entertained. The attention to detail was extraordinary. He enjoyed staying there; he had hoped to introduce Anna to them; he was sure the Krugers would have liked her and she approve of them. He had been trying not to think of Anna, occupying his mind with the preparations for Kruger’s plan, keeping the pain at a distance. Now, in the empty hours of the night, he had no defence. It was finished; Kruger was right, when he said it should never have begun. But then neither should his love affair with Régine, all those years ago … he had forgotten the power of the heart when he rebuked Nicholas. He tortured himself, imagining her reaction when she found the letter. She had been badly hurt in life already. Now he had inflicted another wound, and he couldn’t forgive himself. But he knew he had no other choice. Marrying her, with what was ahead of him, would immediately endanger her. He had deluded himself that it would be possible because he loved her, and needed her so much that he wouldn’t face the truth. And it might well be that he and others would be killed. Certainly if they failed, there would be no survivors.

He had no right to lie to Kruger; three long years of patient planning were at stake, the objective was coming closer every day, and he had denied Kruger the truth. And the truth couldn’t be avoided. His cover was partly blown. It was useless to pretend that Paul Martin had made an inspired guess, hoping to influence Anna against him. That explanation was too glib; he had rejected it immediately Anna told him of their meeting in the Ritz. Martin knew something, not much but enough to put the security of the whole group at risk. Anxiety for Anna had overridden everything when he wrote that letter and walked out of her life. Now his first duty was to Kruger and his comrades, to men and women like Zepirov whose entire family had been destroyed, to the orphaned Maximova, von Bronsart with a judicial murder to avenge, to stupid, stormy Volkov, whose mother had committed suicide.…

Above all to Anton Kruger. It would have been easy for him to forget, to enjoy his money and his old age, without concern for the injustices of the past. The bond between him and Nicholas was of a very special kind, more personal than anything he shared with the other members of ‘Return’. He owed his job in Wedermans to Kruger; he hadn’t discovered that until later. Kruger knew he was his father’s son.… He threw back the bedclothes and got up. He needed to get out of the confines of the room, to breathe fresh air and think.

The Château was in darkness; a tall window lit the landing and he groped his way down the stairs. He switched on the light in the hall, unbolted the big front door, and walked out into the cool spring night. The garden was full of scents from flowering shrubs; a three-quarter moon lit the sky. He walked slowly round the path to the side of the house; there was a rose garden and a swimming pool, shimmering in the silver moonlight. All the members of ‘Return’ were bound by the same circumstances of betrayal and death. Yet their existence was known. The idea froze him. He stopped, hands clenched in his dressing-gown pocket.

He had to tell Kruger immediately. If there was a leak, it had to be stopped. He wouldn’t let himself think what it meant if the SDECE were watching them seriously. He turned and walked back to the house. There were lights in the hall and he remembered switching them off; Anton Kruger was waiting for him.

He wore a blue dressing gown, with his initials on the pocket, and he was smoking calmly. He put his arm round Nicholas’s shoulder.

‘I’ve known there was some thing wrong since you came down. Let’s go into the library and have a drink. You’d better tell me all about it.’

‘Madame Martin?’

Anna had never heard the voice before. ‘Yes, speaking. Who is that?’ It was a foreign accent, definitely not French; holding the telephone she felt herself stiffen. It was early in the morning; she felt drained and uneasy, and the unexpected caller worried her. ‘Who is that?’ she repeated.

‘You don’t know me, Madame,’ the voice said. ‘My name is Anton Kruger. I am a friend of Nicholas.’

‘Oh, is anything wrong? Is he all right?’

‘Of course,’ the man sounded soothing. ‘Of course. He’s very well. But I wondered whether you would meet me. I would like to talk to you about him. Privately.’

‘He’s never spoken about you,’ Anna said.

‘I’m on the Board of Wedermans,’ he said. ‘We’ve known each other a long time. I do hope you will meet me. Could I take you to lunch today?’

She hesitated. Wedermans; the name Kruger was familiar, but she couldn’t think why. Perhaps Nicholas had mentioned him and she’d forgotten. If he wanted to talk about Nicholas, then she was certainly going to meet him.

‘Where is Nicholas?’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to call him – he’s been away …’

‘Staying with me,’ he said. ‘Please, don’t telephone him until you’ve talked to me. Could you come to the Tour d’Argent at one o’clock? I would send a car for you, but I think it’s better if you meet me at the restaurant.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Anna said.

‘Excellent,’ the voice said. ‘I shall look forward to meeting you.’

When she arrived at the Tour d’Argent, the head waiter came towards her. It was one of the smartest restaurants in Paris, filled with a fashionable clientele, who came to be seen as well as to eat some of the best food in the world. ‘I’m meeting M. Kruger,’ she said.

‘This way, Madame. He is waiting for you.’ She didn’t notice people looking after her as she passed – in a room thronged with elegant women, superbly dressed and presented, Anna’s natural colouring and beauty attracted the attention of both sexes. The manager, preceding her, was aware of the looks and the interest. He had served Anton Kruger for many years. It was the first time he had ever entertained a young woman. Someone very different from the hothouse Parisiennes all around them, lunching with rich men.

He had a genius for slotting his clients into the proper social niche. The American lady was also of consequence in her own right. He brought Anna to Kruger’s table, summoned a waiter with an imperious snap of his fingers, pulled out her chair himself. The man who rose to kiss her hand was older than she had expected: very heavy set, with broad shoulders and a large head, thatched with white hair. It was a broad face, with bright deep-set blue eyes. Even before he spoke she knew he was a Slav. His hands were thick and powerful, coarse, the right wrist fringed with grey hairs and encircled by a platinum Piaget watch.

‘I am delighted you came,’ he said. ‘It’s very good of you.’ He had an attractive voice, deep toned, very male. She was immediately aware of an abnormally strong personality. Magnetism was not too strong a description of Anton Kruger’s aura. He smiled at her, and his face became very soft.

‘No wonder my Nicholas fell in love with you. You’re very beautiful!’

My Nicholas.

‘I expect you know he’s left me,’ Anna said.

He nodded. ‘Yes, he told me so. Let us order first, and then we’ll talk. Are you in the mood for fish? The sole Colbert is very good …’

She chose without taking any trouble; she felt no desire for food. When the dishes came, she picked at them. Kruger ate sparingly but with a gourmet’s appreciation. He had ordered a fine Chablis which he spent some moments discussing with the wine waiter. Anna watched him, and as she did so, felt that she was seeing a performance, sensitively given, for her benefit. He was playing the rich dilettante, the connoisseur of food and wine; he had said he was on the Board of Wedermans’ publishing house, and this was surprising. There was nothing of the intellectual about him; he radiated power, and the coarse hands and features were at odds with his superbly cut clothes and accessories.

He was what he had made himself, not what he was born. She didn’t wait for him to begin.

‘You’re Russian, M. Kruger?’

He pleased her by showing surprise. ‘Yes. I was born in the Ukraine. You have a sensitive ear.’

‘I wasn’t sure at first. Your French is so good.’

‘I’ve lived here a very long time. Longer than you’ve been alive, I think. I had the good luck to marry a Frenchwoman. She helped with my grammar, but she couldn’t do much about my accent.’ He laughed.

‘Tell me,’ Anna said. ‘Why did you ask to see me? What do you want to tell me about Nicholas?’

‘He’s very much in love with you,’ Kruger said. ‘Do you feel as strongly about him?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I do.’

‘We had a long talk last night,’ he said. ‘He told me about you; he told me about the conversation you had with your ex-husband. That was very disturbing.’

‘It disturbed me,’ Anna said quietly.

‘Your husband was telling the truth,’ Kruger said. ‘Nicholas is engaged in very dangerous work. The reason I said it was disturbing is because I had no idea that anyone knew about it. This has put Nicholas at risk. And more than Nicholas. How did Paul Martin come to hear about his political activities? Did he tell you?’

‘I know how he heard it,’ Anna said quietly. ‘Let me understand this, M. Kruger, are you involved in this too?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Please, Madame Martin, tell me who told your husband.’

‘A friend of his in the SDECE, a man called Raoul Jumeaux.’

She saw his expression change; the little eyes flickered like a camera shutter. ‘I had dinner with both of them last night. Jumeaux told me what happened to Nicholas’s father. To all those thousands of people.’

She paused, not seeing him for a moment. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Jumeaux was there, acting as liaison for the Free French. He was the last person on our side to see Nicholas’s father. He told me the whole terrible story, and he warned me that Nicholas was getting himself mixed up in some mad anti-Russian scheme. He told me to go back and tell Nicholas that the SDECE were watching him and probably so were the KGB.’

She looked at Kruger. ‘Whatever you’re planning,’ she said quietly, ‘they know about it. You’ll never get away with it. Nicholas will just be killed.’

‘And that was Raoul Jumeaux’s message,’ Kruger said; he spoke as if to himself. ‘Now that I know how your husband found out, how did Jumeaux find out? – that’s the next question we’ve got to answer.’

‘I don’t see it matters,’ Anna said. ‘I spent most of last night thinking about it. You can’t hurt the Soviet Union, whatever you do! You won’t even be allowed to make the gesture – the French will simply crush you.’

Kruger smiled at her. ‘Jumeaux was very convincing, wasn’t he? He thoroughly frightened you, so that you would come back and frighten Nicholas. Yes, and perhaps you could persuade him to back out. Isn’t that right, Madame Martin?’

‘Yes,’ Anna admitted. ‘I’m sure that’s why he told me. But you know, I felt he sympathized. Not that it would make any difference, but he obviously understood how Nicholas felt. And you must feel too. Did you lose someone?’

The old man knotted his hands together and leaned his chin upon them. His head seemed disembodied, dominated by the bright sharp eyes.

‘I lost my comrades,’ he said slowly. ‘Men I’d fought with and shared some of the worst battles of the war. Their wives and children too. And my officer; I’d been with him from the beginning. We went through everything together, him and me. Right to the end. Raoul Jumeaux told you about the end, didn’t he, Madame? About the political dilemma of the Western powers, about the agreement made at Yalta that condemned us all? Well, I will tell you about what happened after that. I was there, you see. I’m a big man now, my dear lady, very important, very rich. But I was born Antonyii Krosnevsky in a little village in the Western Ukraine. My father had a small farm, not much, just a few acres, and we all worked on it. I was twelve when the Soviets annexed it. They shot my father, and our land became part of the big collective farm. I joined the Germans when they invaded us. We told them where our local commissar was hiding and they hanged him. We all stood round and watched. I joined the Russian Free Division, and I ended up as Colonel Count Yurovsky’s driver.’

He leaned back suddenly; the wine waiter was beside them, inquiring if there was anything they wanted. The restaurant was filled with people; the chatter of conversation was like an accompaniment to the tinkle and murmur of food and wine being expertly served.

‘Would you like a liqueur?’ Anton Kruger asked her. The waiter hovered by his chair. She shook her head. He turned to the man and smiled. ‘Yellow Chartreuse for me, and a cigar. My usual. Thank you.’

‘We were all taken to Baratina Camp,’ he said. ‘Separated from our officers, of course. We had our Orthodox priests with us; nearly all of the men and their families were Cossacks. I was there because I was taken with the Colonel. He wouldn’t let them send me to the Ukrainian camp. It was too near the Yugoslavian border. He said he needed me, and they let us stay together for the first part. We were being guarded by the English. They were civilized. We were all full of optimism. All except the Count. He used to talk to me. He knew all along what was going to happen. There were some Free French liaising with the English, and some French nurses helping to look after the sick. My wife was one of them.’

He paused, taking the pierced cigar from the wine waiter, drawing on it gently. He sipped the Chartreuse. ‘Thank you,’ he said. The waiter left them. ‘I am going to tell you exactly what happened and why,’ Anton Kruger said. ‘Then I am going to ask you to make a decision; a very important one for us all. And especially for the man you love, Madame Martin. Will you listen to me – it will take some time and it won’t be pleasant.’

‘Please tell me,’ Anna said quietly. ‘I want to know everything.’

One of the terms of the Yalta agreement was the Western Allies’ promise to repatriate all Soviet citizens who had been captured by the Germans and any who had fought for them. Stalin had already announced that any Russian guilty of surrender to the Germans was counted as dead; it was inconceivable that Russia should admit that a million of its citizens had actually joined the German army and fought alongside them. Churchill and Roosevelt’s decision to accept this agreement was due to the desire to maintain good relations with the Soviet Union. Her armies were established in Europe and constituted a threat to peace, and a bargaining point was the return of thousands of British prisoners-of-war whose camps had been overrun by the Russian advance. The extent of the forcible repatriation was not completely realized, until the numbers of Russians involved became evident. Soviet liaison officers were sent to the camps throughout Europe, Britain and the United States, where Russians captured in German uniform were held. One of the largest of these camps, where the Cossack division had surrendered, was at Baratina on the Austro-Hungarian border. Baratina had been a minor concentration camp, and the accommodation housed all the Russian prisoners and their families. Conditions were good; Yurovsky found himself on friendly terms with the British officers and the officer commanding, an austere Scotsman, was scrupulously fair. There was an air of unreality about Baratina; he used to walk round the compound, smoking, and talking to Shuvalov, who had brought his troops to the nearest British column and surrendered. He had no intention of being surprised by the advancing Soviet forces and taken alive. His people would be safe with the Allies. Yurovsky hadn’t tried to argue. The war was lost and so were they. All they could hope for was mercy and understanding from the democracies, who must certainly be menaced now by Soviet armies in the heart of Europe. Shuvalov and he took their daily exercise in the compound. Beyond the officers’ quarters the Cossacks, with their families and their horses, encamped in a huge complex, loosely guarded, expecting to be absorbed into the Allied forces.

The air of hope was sustained by innocence and desperation. Nobody wanted to consider an alternative. It was incredible to Michael Yurovsky that a seasoned soldier like Alexander Shuvalov, should cling to the same illusion as his simple Cossacks.

‘You’re gloomy,’ Shuvalov accused him. ‘What’s the matter with you?’ They had been at Baratina for a month. Nothing was happening, but there were always rumours. Rumours of release, of being broken into units and sent to different camps, rumours even that war between America and Britain on one side and the Soviet Union on the other had already broken out. Michael heard most of them from Antonyii, his driver, who was allowed in to help him and perform orderly duties. There was nothing simple or optimistic about the Ukrainian. He was full of dread, and he talked of escaping and running off into the mountains. Yurovsky knew that only his devotion to him had so far prevented him from doing so. He looked sideways at Shuvalov before he answered. The General had shrunk; his hair was now completely white. He had led his men through some of the most savage fighting on the Eastern front, retreating in a rearguard action against advancing Soviet forces which had cost terrible casualties. None of his wounded had been left alive to be captured; on their side no prisoners were taken. No quarter, but a fight to the death. And defeat at the end, the ruin of the dream which had brought him and others like him back into soldiering, and given their persecuted people hope. Russia had not been freed; the Communist enemy was victorious, and their only thought was to escape that enemy’s revenge.

‘Colonel Macdonald has called us to a meeting tonight,’ Michael Yurovsky said.

‘I know, I know,’ Shuvalov interrupted. ‘He wants to explain to us what the Allies have in mind. Why should that make you suspicious, Michael – you’re always suspecting them of cheating us, and they haven’t done a single dishonourable thing so far. I trust these British. They’re soldiers, men of their word. If Macdonald says we’re going to be resettled somewhere while they think what is best to do for us, then I believe him!’

‘It’s not Macdonald I suspect,’ Yurovsky said. ‘It’s the politicians. He’ll carry out his orders. Whatever happens, it won’t be his fault. But I don’t believe we’re going to escape, that’s all.’

‘You’ll see tonight,’ Shuvalov said. ‘I hear the senior officers and myself are going to be sent to England.’

‘I heard it was Lünnen,’ Michael Yurovsky said. ‘Somebody else will tell you, we’re going to be moved to Rumania, and handed over to the Soviets …’

‘I’d cut my throat now,’ Shuvalov said, ‘if I thought they’d do that! They can’t give us up to them, Michael – we’re not Soviet citizens – we left Russia before 1920! I’m going to face Colonel Macdonald with this talk about Rumania tonight. He’ll have to answer me.’

Colonel James Alastair Macdonald had fought through the worst of the Italian campaign, and right up into Europe. His regiment were among the toughest troops in the British army. He sat in his office with a bottle of whisky on the table in front of him, and faced two men sitting opposite to him. The Englishman of the two was a bland, rather effeminate civil servant, the kind of pedantic civilian for whom the Colonel had nothing but contempt. He had a pale face, long, adorned with horn-rimmed spectacles, and thin receding hair; he was muffled in a British army coat, without insignia, and this affectation also irritated Macdonald. The other man, his camouflage jacket removed, wore the olive grey uniform of the Soviet army. He was short and round faced, his head so close cropped that he looked bald. His age was difficult to judge; Macdonald guessed him to be in his twenties. He had said nothing so far, and Macdonald assumed that he couldn’t speak English. The odious civilian was on hand to act as an interpreter as well. The letters of authority he gave the Colonel were signed by the General commanding the area.

His name was Redway.

‘You have to appreciate the position, Colonel,’ he said. ‘It has been agreed at the highest level that these people must be repatriated to account for their crimes. It isn’t the ethic we’re discussing, and I must point out that this is not really your concern. It is the practical method of separating the officers from the rest. Without provoking a riot. I’ve explained all this to Major Gusev. And I must ask you to hand over to him your list of those officers so that they can be checked against Soviet records.’

Macdonald looked at him. He felt the Russian watching him.

‘There are between thirty and forty thousand people under guard here,’ he said. ‘I haven’t sufficient troops to cope with a serious attempt either at resistance or escape. You’re asking me to gather these officers together, tell them a pack of lies, and get them on a train which will deliver them into Soviet territory. One rumour that they’re being forcibly repatriated, and this whole camp will explode like a bomb. I won’t be responsible for that. If Major Gusev wants these people, then he’d better bring in a detachment of Russian troops and do the dirty work himself!’ He took an aggressive swallow of his whisky. Shuvalov, Yurovsky, the German General von Bronsart had been his mess guests. The thought of deceiving them revolted him.

‘The lists, if you please, Colonel. We can start with that.’ It was Major Gusev who spoke, in perfect English. Macdonald nearly swallowed his drink the wrong way. The round black eyes were expressionless as glass.

‘The General has authorized you to hand them over,’ Redway reminded him. Macdonald stood up. He went to a metal filing cabinet and jerked open the top drawer. He took a folder out and threw it on the desk. He spoke to the Russian.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Some of them won’t concern you. They’re not Soviet citizens.’

‘They’re Russians,’ Major Gusev said. ‘We want them all.’

Antonyii Krosnevsky was in the dispensary. He had queued for two hours, with men, women and children, suffering from minor ailments. He had been suffering from eczema on the backs of his hands; they were raw and itched intolerably. Régine Bourand was the nurse in charge. Antonyii had been struck by her gentleness and sympathy with the sick Cossacks none of whom could speak a word of French. Whenever he came for treatment, he acted as interpreter. Living as the Colonel’s driver servant, he had picked up a little of the language. She was an attractive girl, soft spoken and compassionate, with large brown eyes that he never tired of looking into when he got the chance. He was motivated by three things during his weeks in Baratina. The desire to escape, his anxiety for Colonel Yurovsky, and his love for the nurse Régine.

It was an odd courtship; he continued to queue long after the skin infection had improved, and she continued to treat him. He stayed during the clinics and interpreted. It was Régine who whispered to him that she had seen an army car drive up and a man that she was certain was a Soviet officer go into Colonel Macdonald’s office.

Antonyii was due to go into the officers’ compound that evening. He left the clinic, warning Régine to say nothing to anyone, and tried to decide what to do. The rumours that their officers were going to be resettled were already sweeping through the Cossack camp. It was thought to be a good sign. All round him, fires were being kindled and the evening meal prepared by families from rations given to them by the British army. The Cossacks maintained their customs even as prisoners. The women cared for their men and their children and the men looked after their horses. The atmosphere with the British soldiers was increasingly friendly; since there was little communication possible, sign language served as well. Soldiers were generous to the Cossack children. Goodwill and the futility of trying to escape made life in the camp deceptively carefree. Religious services were held in the main compound; Orthodox priests led the singing of hymns and preached sermons exhorting their people never to return to atheist Russia.

Antonyii wandered miserably from one hut to the next; he talked to everyone, trying to decide upon the general mood. If their officers were taken, would they revolt? If he spread the word that there was a Soviet officer already in the camp, would the reaction be panic, outrage, or the hopeless apathy which had at times permeated the whole compound? … He couldn’t make up his mind. Gradually the decision became clear. He would warn his Colonel, and let the General and the senior officers decide what action to take. One thing was certain. The officers must not be persuaded to go anywhere. Without them, the Cossacks would be leaderless. When he went to the entrance to the officers’ compound, a sentry barred his way with a rifle. No one was allowed into the officers’ quarters that night. They were all at a meeting. In hopeless despair, Antonyii argued and pleaded, trying to make himself understood, not understanding the explanation given to him. All he knew was the rifle with its bayonet at the end, jabbing towards him as he tried to pass.

‘Get back!’ the sentry shouted. ‘Get back or I’ll stick you!’ The Russian turned and stumbled away. Régine had not been mistaken. The Soviets were in the camp, and already the officers were being isolated prior to being moved away. He went behind one of the huts and leaning his head against the wooden wall he wept.

He couldn’t warn Colonel Yurovsky. But perhaps Régine Bourand could. He ran off to the dispensary; it was closed and the Red Cross staff had returned to their own quarters. He spent the next few hours hanging round the perimeter of the wire that separated him from Michael Yurovsky, hoping to see him walk across the compound. When it was too dark to see, Antonyii gave up. He dragged himself back to his hut and crawled into his bunk. A group of men playing dice called him to join them. He mumbled an excuse and turned away.

They were doomed, all of them. He most of all, because he was a citizen of the Soviet Union and had fought in the German army. He was still in uniform, with the flashes of the Cossack army on his collar. Doomed. He would be shot as soon as he was handed over. Or sent to the dreaded labour camps in the north. Better to die than be starved and worked to death.… Better still to escape, and take his chance in the mountains. Security at the camp was still slack. It was easy to slip away now. Tomorrow, after he had tried once more to see his Colonel. Perhaps in the morning they would let him through to the officers’ compound. If they did, he might still be in time.

The air above the ranks of seated Russian officers was dense and blue with smoke. Colonel Macdonald was addressing them. Redway sat on a chair behind him, his adjutant was on the left.

Alexander Shuvalov, accompanied by Michael Yurovsky and a dozen senior officers, was seated in the front rank.

‘As I told you, gentlemen, the trucks will arrive at 1100 hours tomorrow morning and you will be escorted to the station and entrained for Lünnen. There you will be temporarily housed while further discussions about your future take place.’

Michael Yurovsky watched him quietly. The Colonel was sweating; there was a sheen on his forehead and a thick frown between his bushy brows.

He had cleared his throat several times while speaking, and he hurried his words as if he were anxious to finish with them. A man thoroughly ill at ease, doing something he detested. A man of honour who was lying to men who trusted him, men who had given their promise not to escape, precisely because of that trust.

Yurovsky saw Shuvalov get to his feet, and the British Colonel paused. Shuvalov asked his question in French; he looked round for Michael to translate.

‘There are rumours that we are being sent into Soviet-held territory, where we will be handed over to the Red Army. I must ask you, Colonel Macdonald, to deny that this is true.’

Michael Yurovsky saw the British officer turn for a fraction and glare at the civilian who was seated near him. He gave a loud, angry sounding cough.

‘You have my assurance, gentlemen. You are going to Lünnen.’

‘Thank you,’ Shuvalov said in French. He bowed to the Colonel and sat down. There was a moment when Macdonald and Michael Yurovsky looked at each other. There was shame and real distress in the eyes of the British Colonel. Yurovsky took his seat again and spared him, by glancing away. They were going to be handed over. He had always expected it, and now the miserable charade being played out convinced him. Not just the deserters from the Red Army, like the two officers on his left, or the prisoners-of-war who had saved their lives by joining up, but others who had never even lived under Soviet rule.

Men like himself and Alexander Shuvalov. Old enemies who would not be permitted to escape a second time. He could so easily have been killed fighting. An honourable death rather than the firing squad. Poor Shuvalov, suddenly gullible as a child. The heart had gone out of him, although he didn’t realize it. They had all gambled, Yurovsky thought, and they had lost. He needn’t have joined Shuvalov. He could have stayed in safety with Liliane and his children. There hadn’t been any word from them since he left Vermeuil. His letters were returned, with Liliane’s writing scrawled across them: ‘Not known. Return to sender.’ She had never forgiven him. It would go hard with old Druet because of his collaboration. Hard with his family, too. But there was nothing he could do for them. No way he could send a word to his wife, asking her forgiveness, or to his son, in the hope that he would not forget him.

When the meeting was over they filed back to their quarters. Michael took Shuvalov aside. He lit the General’s cigarette and noticed that the old man’s hand was trembling.

‘He’s lying,’ Michael Yurovsky said quietly. ‘I saw it in his face. We’re not going to Lünnen. It’s a trick!’

Shuvalov looked up at him; his eyes were red-rimmed, but his mouth was set in anger.

‘He gave his word! You’ve got this idea into your head and nothing will move it! We’re not going to be handed over, I tell you! We can’t be – don’t you understand? No man can be returned to a country when he isn’t a citizen of that country! Out of the whole lot of us, only about twenty officers were even born in the Soviet Union – we’re stateless persons, some of us took out French citizenship – damnation, Michael, you’re determined to cause a panic …’ He swung away from Yurovsky, stubbing out the cigarette. ‘I order you not to spread this nonsense; you’ll seriously damage morale!’

‘You won’t face the truth,’ Michael Yurovsky said. ‘The British have had their orders – we’re going to be separated from our people, because without leadership they’ll be easier to manage. I know Colonel Macdonald; he’s a decent man and a bad liar. But he was lying tonight and he knew that I knew it.’

‘All right,’ Shuvalov snarled at him. ‘All right, he was lying. We’re going to be handed over to the Reds … so what do you suggest we do, eh? We’ve no weapons. We’ve got nowhere to go –’

Yurovsky laid his hand on the General’s shoulder. ‘We’re going to be betrayed, and all our people with us. Call a meeting of the officers, tell them what we suspect. Refuse to go tomorrow, and call for a mass escape. They can’t stop us, General, don’t you see that? They haven’t enough troops – we can simply march out and away, and if they open fire it’ll be murder, killing unarmed men with their women and children. Good God, man we have twenty-odd thousand horses here, enough to take an army into the mountains!’

Shuvalov reached up and pushed his hand away.

‘This is fantasy,’ he said. ‘We have nowhere to go. I told you this morning I’m not going into the mountains to be hunted down like a dog and take my Cossacks with me – to what? To die of cold and hunger, to be shot down by anyone who sees us? And why, because you have convinced yourself that the British are in league with the Red Army?’ He shook his head, and some of the anger faded. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it. I trust Macdonald. I trust the British. I asked him tonight, and he gave me his word as a soldier. You can escape if you like, my son, but I am going to Lünnen tomorrow with the others.’ He walked away from Michael Yurovsky and lowered himself into a chair, alongside two other officers who were playing cards. He looked old and shrunken, and he didn’t speak to them.

Michael Yurovsky went to his bunk and sat down. Shuvalov was a broken old man; the tiger had died in that last retreat, the fierce spirit was finally quenched; all he could do was to hope for the best against his better judgement. He stayed alone for a long time, grieving for his General.

Raoul Jumeaux found him there; it was quite late and he had come over, bringing a bottle of wine. He was acting as liaison officer between the British and the Free French forces, and he had formed a friendship with the Count as soon as they met. He was a young man, but of the same quiet, civilized turn of mind; they talked about books and stamp collecting, which had been Yurovsky’s hobby as a boy, discovered a mutual delight in the French classical theatre, and enjoyed each other’s company. Jumeaux had come to understand and admire the Russian; he recognized a steadfastness of spirit which distinguished certain men from their fellows. He had no sympathy with the pre-war Russian émigrés on principle; his political leanings were to the intellectual left, but Yurovsky had impressed him as an example of what was the best in a vanished caste. He had also, in spite of himself, conceived a liking for the Russians as a whole. Listening to the singing in the camp stirred emotions he didn’t suspect in himself – the sight of so many thousands worshipping with their priests in the open compounds aroused his compassion and his disquiet. It was a sensation that was growing, as he heard of the officers’ removal to Lünnen.

He and Michael drank to each other; he thought the Russian looked suddenly drawn and much older.

‘I hear you’re being moved out tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I came to say goodbye and wish you luck.’

‘Thank you,’ Count Yurovsky said. ‘We’re going, but not to Lünnen.’

Jumeaux stared at him. ‘What do you mean – I was told this evening.’

‘I think,’ Michael said quietly, ‘that we are going to be handed over to the Soviet army. I’m very glad you came to see me, Capitaine; you could perhaps do me a favour?’

‘But this is nonsense,’ Jumeaux protested. ‘You can’t believe a thing like that? I heard it specifically from Colonel Macdonald’s adjutant. You’re all going to Lünnen to be resettled.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Yurovsky said. ‘But I don’t believe it. I tried to convince my General, but he won’t listen. Nobody will listen. They all trust Colonel Macdonald and are happily packing their bags.’

‘Then why the hell don’t you run for it?’ Jumeaux couldn’t contain himself. ‘Look, Colonel, we’re friends, you and I. You can walk out of the camp with me and disappear! I shan’t say anything – My God, if this is true I’ve never heard of anything so monstrous!’ The young Frenchman had turned quite pale. He had got up and was standing beside the Count, his fists clenched with anger.

‘I’ll help you to get away,’ he said. ‘Don’t you realize what will happen to people like you if you’re given up to the Red Army? It’s unthinkable – surely international law forbids forcible repatriation … it must do.…’

Michael Yurovsky shook his head.

‘You’re a good friend,’ he said gently. ‘But I can’t do what you offer.’

‘Why not?’ Jumeaux demanded. ‘Are you just going to stay and be handed back?’

‘I’ve been with General Shuvalov from the beginning,’ the Count said. ‘We’re comrades from a long way back. From 1919 we fought together; he was like a second father to me when I lost everyone. He needs me now. I can’t leave him.’

Jumeaux stared at him; Yurovsky went on calmly. ‘Try to understand. When a man dies it’s sad enough; when his spirit dies and he still lives, that is the worst of all. I never thought to see Alexander Shuvalov surrender; but he has. His heart has broken. He’ll need me after tomorrow. If I had been the one to die inside, he would have stayed with me. I shall go with him. After all, you may be right. We may find ourselves in Lünnen after all.’ He smiled, and standing, took something out of his pocket.

‘In case I am right,’ he said. ‘Would you give this to my son Nicholas – as and when you can? It’s all I’ve got to give him. It was my father’s gift to me.’ Jumeaux took the flat gold fob watch. ‘My wife lived at Vermeuil, in Normandy; God knows where they are by now, but if you could try and find them, and give this to my son … Kiss him for me, and tell him that I loved him and send him my blessing. Tell him that I died for the freedom of our country.’

Jumeaux took the watch, ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’

‘And this,’ the Count said. ‘Give this to my orderly, Krosnevsky. He’s a good fellow. Would you do me another favour?’

Jumeaux nodded. He was not an emotional man but there was a tightness in his throat.

‘Accept this,’ Yurovsky said. ‘Keep it and think of me sometimes.’ It was an old-fashioned silver cigarette case, with a monogram in gold. Impractical because it held only half a dozen cigarettes. He had seen such things in junk shops, priced at a few francs. Nobody used them any more. He put it in his pocket with the watch and the little amber cigarette holder for Antonyii Krosnevsky.

‘I am going straight to Colonel Macdonald,’ he said harshly, ‘And demand that he tells me the truth. As liaison for the French forces, I have a right to be told!’

He turned and rushed out into the darkness of the officers’ compound. His last memory of Michael Yurovsky showed him standing by the bunk, with his glass raised, sipping the wine Jumeaux had brought him. He reached the British officers’ mess in a state of agitation and mounting rage. It was unthinkable that such a despicable trick should be played on men who had given and honoured their own word not to escape. Unthinkable and quite out of character with the upright commander of the British forces. When he found Colonel Macdonald, he was sitting at a corner table, with the civilian Redway, drinking whisky. Jumeaux stood very still; there was another man, also drinking, sitting beside Redway. He wore the uniform and insignia of a major in the Soviet army. Colonel Macdonald looked up, gestured to Jumeaux to come and join them. He seemed acutely embarrassed and uncomfortable. Jumeaux didn’t speak. He looked at each of them in turn, and then walked away and out of the mess.

The trucks arrived promptly at ten o’clock and the officers began loading into them with their luggage. Antonyii Krosnevsky had not been allowed to attend his officer that morning. Large crowds were gathered on the other side of the wire, watching the General and his officers leave. There was a deep silence, almost a numbness as the Cossacks watched. But it couldn’t be a bad sign, because their officers were leaving quite voluntarily and didn’t seem downcast. Many of them, especially the General, seemed in very good spirits.

Antonyii fought to the front of the wire, pushing and cursing to make his way. There he saw Michael Yurovsky walking towards a large covered truck, carrying his bag. He shouted to him, and Yurovsky turned. He hesitated, seeing Antonyii, and then walked over to the wire. Antonyii was crying, reaching his hand through the barbed strands, begging him not to go, that it was all a trick, the Reds were in the camp.… For a moment their hands touched; blood ran down Antonyii’s bare arm where the barbed wire had ripped him. Yurovsky looked into the distraught face of the young man, and shook his head.

‘It’s no good, my poor friend. I know, I know … be calm now, don’t cause a panic. Make sure you get away. And God go with you. Remember me in your prayers.’

Anton Kruger paused. He did a strange thing; he passed his hand quickly across his eyes. ‘That was the last I saw of him,’ he said. ‘They were all driven away. The train waiting for them was a series of cattle trucks. They were bolted in and driven to Judenburg, where the Red Army took them over. When they opened the trucks, blood was streaming through the cracks in the doors. Many had killed themselves with their own razors, others were hanging from the roof. Nicholas’s father did not commit suicide. Films were taken by Soviet cameramen of that scene and many others like it. He walked out quite calmly, and went up to the Red Army officer who took possession from their British guards. He saluted him. It was a man called Feodor Gusev. He had travelled from Baratina to be there. He tried to be at every reception point. He picked out the first two hundred from his list and they were taken outside the railway station and shot. But they kept Nicholas’s father and the other Tsarist ex-officers. They sent them to Moscow.’

It seemed to Anna as if the noise around them had receded. She was hardly aware of the hum of other conversations; it was as if she and Anton Kruger were isolated from their surroundings.

She felt physically chilled.

‘He gave Captain Jumeaux his gold watch before he left Baratina,’ the old man said. ‘And a memento for me.’ He felt in his pocket, held out his hand to Anna. A small amber cigarette holder with a gold band lay in the palm. ‘I kept it with me,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t part with it even to Nicholas.’

‘How did you get away?’ Anna said slowly. She found it difficult to speak. Her throat was constricted.

‘Through Régine,’ he said. ‘Immediately security was tightened round the camp; the Cossacks were forbidden to wander off into the country. Hundreds of them escaped before they could make the place completely secure. I was caught.’ He put the little holder away.

‘I was given detention as a punishment, and by the time I was released, Baratina was ringed with troops and wire. We all knew what to expect when Feodor Gusev returned, and men were brought before him in batches. He had the lists in front of him, lists given voluntarily by our officers when we surrendered. He spent a month at Baratina, looking for specific persons on that list. My name was not on it, Madame Martin, because I was a Ukrainian, and Colonel Yurovsky hadn’t given any details of my background. He had tried to protect me, you see. But hundreds of others were singled out and sent back by force in small groups. It was a clever technique. Those that Gusev wanted were not returned to the main camp after their interviews. They were kept in a special compound where the troops could manhandle them into transports the following day. All these were marked for death. As for the rest – quite soon the suicides began. Men murdered their wives and children and then killed themselves rather than go back to Russia. Colonel Macdonald and his troops had to be replaced; they were threatening to mutiny. They were tough fighting men, Madame Martin, but they didn’t like using bayonets and clubs on helpless people to beat them into the trucks taking them to the cattle trains. They didn’t like unlocking the huts in the mornings and finding bodies hanging from the roof.

‘When Gusev had finished selecting his victims, the order came to clear the camp. And that was when the Cossacks staged a last resistance. When the transports came to take them away they barricaded themselves into the camp, with the women and children and their priests, and they refused to move. I will spare you the details of how that attempt was broken. But I’ll tell you this. I saw women and children being dragged to those trucks, by soldiers who were weeping as they carried out their orders. My arm was broken by a rifle butt; they picked me up and threw me into the back of a truck. It was full of crying, screaming people, and of unconscious men, bleeding from the beatings they’d been given. And then I saw Régine. Régine with her hair all pulled down, struggling and shouting at the soldiers guarding that truck. She was crying, and they couldn’t understand her. But she was in French uniform and they didn’t dare to mishandle her. One of the officers came up.

‘She began to argue with him – I heard her telling him that I had no business being taken away. “He’s Polish,” she was saying. “He’s one of my orderlies in the clinic …”’

‘“I’m sorry,” the officer said. “He was in with all the others. I can’t let him go. He can see the officer in charge at the depot. They’ve got some Polish workers there. If he’s a Pole he won’t go on the train.” Do you know what she did, Madame Martin, my wife? She climbed up into that truck and travelled with me.’

There were tears in Anna’s eyes. She tried to blink them back but Kruger saw them.

‘When we got to the station she tried to argue for me. The officer had red hair, I remember that. He was very young and he looked sick and nervous.

‘“I’ll call someone over,” he said to her. “They’ll identify him. Some of these poor devils say they’re Polish just to stay behind.” I heard him call out, and I knew it was hopeless. The truck was empty now – there was only Régine and a soldier guarding me. I’ll remember her beautiful face as long as I live. She came up to me and pushed me; she’d bound up my arm.

‘“Run,” she whispered. “Run now! Go on, for God’s sake, run!” I didn’t stop to think, I just did as she said. I ran, Madame. I heard the sentry yell at me and I heard a shot. I turned round and saw Régine – she had thrown herself at the rifle as he fired. That’s how I got away. They were too busy driving the poor wretches on to the train to bother looking for one man. I owe her my life. Not one of those men, women and children who were sent back survived. Those who weren’t shot on arrival died in the labour camps.’

The restaurant was almost empty; the head waiter made a gesture to his staff. M. Kruger was deep in conversation. He was not to be disturbed.

‘And Nicholas’s father,’ Anna asked. ‘And the General … they died, didn’t they? –’

‘Yes,’ Anton Kruger said. ‘It took a long time to find out exactly what happened to them. But I did it. Money can buy anything in the end. It bought me those documentary films and it bought me the details of Michael Yurovsky’s death. After many, many years.’

He had been in the semi-darkness for so long that the bright corridor lights were agony to his eyes. Time had long ceased to have any relevance – night and day were the same in the windowless gloom. He hadn’t been interrogated for a long time; he sometimes dreamed of his questioners, and the round, flat face of the officer who had received him at the railway station was always floating in his subconscious.

He had enjoyed his work. Once, Yurovsky had seen General Shuvalov coming out of that room just before he went in. He had looked distraught and mad, like an old broken doll being dragged along. He blinked in the bright lights, walking with slow steps down the white-painted passage, his eyes watering. His hands were strapped behind him. It had come at last, and he was thankful. He was going to die at last. They had got tired of tormenting him. He mumbled a prayer to himself. He had forgotten about his family, his children. His mind was floating, disorientated, capable of periods of lucid thought but not for long.

Death. He welcomed it. The bullet would be quick, a soldier’s end.

They stopped in front of a door, and when it opened, he was led inside. His eyes cleared and he looked round him. Shuvalov and the German General von Bronsart were already there, so was the seventy-year-old Tsarist General Daslov. He thought it must be them because there was an odd familiarity about the figures in their prison grey. He looked about him for the firing squad. There was none. Then he saw the gallows.

‘Good afternoon, M. Kruger – I hope everything was satisfactory?’

The head waiter held open the door for them.

‘Thank you,’ Anton Kruger said. ‘An excellent lunch.’ He took Anna’s arm and they walked down to the street.

‘My car is over there,’ he said. A big Mercedes began to slide away from the pavement and come towards them. The driver wore a dark blue livery; he handed Kruger and Anna into the back. Kruger pressed a button and the glass partition came up, sealing them off.

‘You are quite sure you want to do this?’ he asked her. She turned and looked at him. She was very pale, but there was a look of determination that owed a lot to the grandfather who had founded Campbell Steel.

‘Nothing in the world would stop me,’ Anna said. ‘I’m with you, and everything I’ve got is with you too.’

‘I’m glad,’ Kruger said simply. ‘I gambled on you, even before we met. I thought you might reach this decision.’

‘There couldn’t be any other,’ Anna said. ‘Last night I would have done my best to dissuade Nicholas. And you. But not now. Now I’d kill that man myself.’

‘He isn’t going to die,’ Kruger said quietly. ‘That would be too easy for him. He’s just going to tell the world the truth.’

‘Nicholas won’t like this,’ she told him. ‘He won’t want me to get involved.’

‘You became involved the moment your ex-husband talked to you,’ Kruger said. ‘Nicholas will accept it when he knows you won’t be in any personal danger.’

‘I don’t mind if I am,’ she said. She put out her hand and touched his arm. ‘I’m going into this with all my heart.’

Kruger took her hand and kissed it.

‘I know you are,’ he said. ‘And it’s a brave and generous heart. You remind me of Régine. Nicholas is very lucky.’ The car had turned on to the A13 leaving the suburbs of Paris behind. It began to pick up speed as it took the road to Chartres, and the Château Grandcour, where Nicholas was waiting for them.