To Bucharensky’s astonishment, Stanov’s office was locked on the outside. He struggled to get his breath back while Yevchenko fumbled with the keys. At last the double doors burst open.
Bucharensky thought the old man was dead. He sat slumped in The Chair, eyes closed, one arm flung awkwardly across his chest, and the room smelled terrible. At the sound of Yevchenko closing the doors, however, Stanov stirred and mumbled as if in pain.
On the desk in front of him lay a sheet of paper. Green stripe on blue flimsy. Flash signal. Urgent.
‘What… time?’
Stanov’s speech was slurred. He seemed to have trouble in recognising Bucharensky. Yevchenko looked at his watch.
‘Seven.’
Bucharensky was trying to read the upside-down signal. Something about ‘arrest’…
‘Were… you… sleep, colonel. A… pologise.’
‘It’s nothing, comrade Marshal.’
Stanov indicated the signal with a slight movement of his head. His voice echoed with plaintive surprise, the voice of a man faced with some outrageous breach of the rules.
‘It’s happened ’gain. Sure of it. Betrayed.’
The race through the darkened streets, the motorcycle escort, the howling sirens, Yevchenko’s grim silence… everything fell into place. The smell Bucharensky had noticed earlier when he first came in. Human sweat. Terror. But only here, in this room. Outside, no one knew. Yet.
‘It’s time for you to go.’
The old man seemed to be only half in this world. His wide-eyed stare missed Bucharensky’s eyes by inches. Kyril’s heart contracted as he read the signs. A stroke. Not serious, perhaps, certainly not fatal, but a stroke nonetheless. The security-empire which was all he had ever known since he was a boy was teetering on the brink of the abyss. Outside, somewhere in the city, Kazin was waiting. Had he heard?
An icy hand seemed to clutch Bucharensky’s heart. He knew the KGB. Kazin had heard.
‘We are not ready.’
‘I know.’ The arm draped across the old man’s chest shuddered in a feeble gesture of despair. ‘Nothing… prepared. Your detailed schedule…’
He tried to rise, sank back, made his greatest effort yet.
‘You must leave… today. Mus’ talk… soon. Not now… tired… sleep…’
Yevchenko took Bucharensky roughly by the arm and hustled him out before closing the double doors behind them. Bucharensky opened his mouth to speak but Yevchenko laid a forefinger to his lips.
‘He is right. You must go. Leave everything to me. But for the moment you have seen nothing. You know nothing. You have just arrived. Keep in character. Run a lightning check. Give out a few weeks’ detention all round for inefficiency. Make them hate you more than ever before. Go.’
Bucharensky swung on his heel and made for the lift. After only a few steps, however, he was arrested by a croak from Yevchenko.
‘The diary!’
Bucharensky froze. The old colonel came quickly to his side.
‘Is it up to date?’
‘Yes. I finished it last night. A piece of luck, that.’
They spoke in rapid whispers, their faces close to the wall, but even so Bucharensky looked nervously around. This diary was the linchpin of Stanov’s plan. It lay concealed in a drain in the grounds of Bucharensky’s new apartment-block, not so well hidden but that the KGB would find it when they ransacked the place after his ‘defection’. It purported to be the daily record of Kyril’s slow awakening to the presence of a traitor in KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square. On the third floor. The generals’ floor…
It was the record of someone identified only as ‘Lisa’ – the Fox. Bucharensky and Stanov between them had devised this pseudonym for the traitor, and it was through the pages of the diary that the KGB must be made to hunt.
‘It is in its proper hiding-place?’
‘Yes. I always replaced it myself, it was never kept in the flat.’ Bucharensky could not keep the anxiety from his voice. ‘Will it work, d’you think?’
‘How could it not?’ Yevchenko sounded surer than he felt. ‘You stood at Stanov’s elbow all this time. Closer even than I did. He is old and sick. Your sharp eyes would see many things that escaped his, that is what they will assume. And you would not be the first to keep a written record, evidence for later. “Who is Lisa?” they will ask. All except one. The one who knows who “Lisa” is…’
Bucharensky was unconsciously clutching the lapels of Yevchenko’s tunic, almost pleading for his reassurance.
‘The traitor will see through it… He will realise that it is a trap, we do not know his real name…’
‘No! Did the old man and I not help you write that diary? Did we not dictate every sentence, every word? It has our blood in it, that book! There is more than enough to convince the traitor that you really know. Listen to me…’
Yevchenko took Bucharensky’s arms and shook them free of his coat. Their suppressed tension was beginning to find expression in raised voices.
‘You were almost certain of the identity of the traitor. Then, you were sure but you lacked final proof. All this is plain to anyone reading the diary. It will work!’
In the silence that followed they could hear only their own laboured breathing. Bucharensky gave Yevchenko one last, imploring look, straightened his uniform and, without another word, marched off down the corridor.
The old colonel was right: he must act true to form. It was the start of the morning shift and to the great misfortune of those who were yawning their way on duty in KGB headquarters, Colonel Ivan Yevseevich Bucharensky had unexpectedly arrived.
In the office of the Chairman, Stanov remained slumped helplessly before the cable which lay on his desk. ‘ORIOLE’ ARRESTED, it read. NEST SEARCHED + PRODUCT FOUND + ASSIST AGAIN ASSIST + URGENT URGENT URGENT
‘I, Victor Gregory Loshkevoi, wish to make a statement…’
The Russian sat at the rickety table which took up most of the floorspace in the tiny cell, forehead resting on his hands. The black writing at the head of the ruled A4 sheet coiled before his tired eyes. He desperately wanted to sleep but knew that he must keep awake. A statement. The one thing he did not wish to make. He had proved it by saying nothing at all for six hours while they worked on him in shifts, always going over the same ground, again and again, until at last they had left him alone with his exhausted, over-stimulated thoughts, and a sheet of paper on which someone had already written the words, ‘I, Victor Gregory Loshkevoi, wish to make a statement…’
Keys jangled down the corridor and stopped outside his cell. Loshkevoi spread his fingers and through the gap saw the grille swing open to admit a pair of official-looking dark blue legs.
‘This is what you asked for earlier.’
A second sheet of paper landed on top of the first. Loshkevoi screwed up his eyes in concentration. A list. Names.
‘Solicitors. They all do Legal Aid work if you’re short.’
Loshkevoi slowly raised his head. The voice was young. He saw it belonged to a fresh-faced constable in shirt-sleeves. Seeing him look up, the boy – to Loshkevoi he was a mere boy – smiled. Loshkevoi immediately lowered his gaze in the only defence he had against the insidious psychological warfare of love – and – hate.
‘Cuppa tea?’
A cracked mug of reddish-brown liquid was deposited at Loshkevoi’s elbow. He ignored it.
‘That one’s pretty good.’ The young constable jabbed a thumb at the last name on the list. Loshkevoi said nothing.
‘They’re all okay. Except him.’
Again the jab. Through half-closed eyelids Loshkevoi read the name. Sculby.
‘Claims he’s never lost a case in this court. Way he operates, I’m not surprised, meself.’
With more jangling of keys the constable let himself out. He was about to clang the grille to when he seemed to hesitate.
‘Seriously,’ he said. ‘Do yourself a bit of good. You have that Mr Roberts. He’s all right, he is. One of the boys. Know what I mean?’
As the keys clanked back down the corridor Loshkevoi nervously fingered the list while he strove to concentrate. The police obviously wanted to see Roberts on the case. The other names meant nothing to Loshkevoi. His head was going round and round with sheer fatigue. I, Victor Gregory Loshkevoi, wish to make a statement…
Never lost a case… not surprised…
‘Sculby,’ he said aloud.