The dimly lit room was hazy with smoke and the throaty reek of cordite when Kyril stepped gingerly over the threshold. Royston had not moved. He still sat in the corner chair, the gun lying loosely in his lap.
As the two men saw each other they half-heartedly lifted their weapons, only to let them fall again.
‘We have not much time,’ said Royston, putting the gun back in his coat-pocket. ‘You saved me the trouble of coming to find you. My men have orders to stay on the outer wall come what may, but the shots are going to bring them to the house before long. Where are Loshkevoi and Barnes?’
Kyril looked up wonderingly from the scene of carnage at his feet. One man lay across the doorway, his back split open by some incredible force. Another, younger, man lay half over the arm of the sofa, most of his ribcage and neck smashed to pulp. Blood was everywhere, on the floor, the walls, the ceiling…
‘Why…?’
Royston hesitated. ‘There was noise outside in the corridor. When I warned them not to go out they became suspicious, they wouldn’t listen. Besides, we don’t want any witnesses. It was necessary to get rid of them. Especially the younger one,’ he added bitterly. ‘I ask you again… Loshkevoi and Barnes?’
‘Loshkevoi is on his way out,’ Kyril said quietly. ‘The other man is…’ He gestured at the nearest body, and Royston nodded.
‘A pity about Loshkevoi, then. My marksmen have orders to shoot anyone who doesn’t have the password. If he tries to run for it he doesn’t stand…’
Voices and the sudden crackle of gunfire outside brought very different expressions to the faces of the two men. The smoke had almost cleared now. Royston spoke rapidly. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Loshkevoi said they called you Michael. I guessed who it was. You’re Royston.’
‘You’ve heard of me?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve heard of you.’
‘Good. That saves us a lot of time. I guessed what was happening. These two wanted to go after you. I hope the sight of them will help you decide what is to happen next. You don’t trust me, Bucharensky, and that’s tough, because now you have to make up your mind about me faster than you’ve ever done anything before in your life. You heard the shots outside. In ten minutes, maybe less, this house will be overrun. In your mission, you have succeeded. Oh yes, I understand your mission very well. You were supposed to panic the traitor into making a mistake, weren’t you. That and Loshkevoi… Stanov knew he’d lost control of Loshkevoi a long time ago. It was obvious you’d make for him. And it worked. The traitor sent Sikarov, to kill you before the regular KGB could catch up and twist the name out of you. But you won, all along the line. If you leave now, you can still make it back to Moscow as well. Here’s a passport.’ Royston reached into his coat pocket, looking to see if the gun jerked in Kyril’s hand. It did not move. He read doubt in the man’s face, doubt and exhaustion. ‘Money. A credit card. You can be out of the country before daybreak. The password is “Icepex”, though I doubt if you’ll need it…’
Kyril looked up sharply. ‘What?’
‘Icepex. As in Icepex G. 17, Bucharensky. Oh yes, it’s true. The Kremlin Kommandant, formerly the Palindrome Directive, before that Line “H”. I’ve been attached to it for years. Seventeen because today is 30th March, work it out Bucharensky…’
‘You’re lying!’
Kyril was rocketed into a whirling, insane vortex of uncertainty. The Kommandant… no, it could not be true. But Icepex… no one knew about that, not even the Deputy Chairmen… or maybe the Deputy Chairmen did know, but…
‘You have to be lying.’
Still the gun in Bucharensky’s hand did not move.
‘My casename is Pisa. Italy, Bucharensky. What does that tell you, eh? How many people know about the Kommandant and its casenames? You do, for one. You stood by Stanov’s chair for months. You couldn’t fail to know.’
Kyril held his hands to his eyes, trying to shut out the insidious voice. Royston knew all the details of his mission. Perhaps he could have deduced those, it wasn’t so difficult, but… Pisa. G. 17. Icepex. They couldn’t be faked. No one outside the Kremlin knew those things. Except perhaps a handful of the most senior Deputy Chairmen. Except Stanov!
‘The name, Bucharensky, the name. I must have it. I know you wouldn’t tell any mere defector in place, no one would, but you’re looking at a member of the Kommandant, and I am ordering you to give me the name.’
There was a long silence. Kyril’s head was going round and round. Could he afford to trust Royston? Could he afford not to? Three men only were in a position to identify the traitor: Povin, Bryant and himself. Why make a fourth? Besides, he had no proof. Povin, Michaelov, Stanov… He was at the centre of a maze, they were all using him.
‘Think, Bucharensky. Rodina…’
Kyril looked up, his eyes widening. ‘You… say that… to me?’
Rodina. Motherland… the very name had an aura about it; spoken aloud it made Kyril want to weep. For a second he saw the rolling green hills of his childhood, heard the river frothing down to the plain, could feel the sun on his back. Russia…
‘What… what do you want me to do?’
Royston released his pent-up breath. ‘This is the plan. I will turn my back on you. You use the gun to stun me: not so hard that I am killed but hard enough to make it convincing. They will come to find me. You overpowered me and got away, that is what they will think. But in case you do not make it, I must have the name. You must have a fall-back. I am all you have. The name, Bucharensky, the name…’
The room was going up and down. Kyril struggled to clear his head. He was so tired, all he could think of was sleep. Perhaps Royston was right. He had to be genuine; to offer to turn your back on a man and invite him to knock you out… But which name?
Povin.
Yes. Povin was the traitor. Loshkevoi said so, as Stanov had told him he would, right at the start. Stanov had not lied about Loshkevoi, after all.
And yet… what had Sikarov been trying to say in his last moments? Was it really Michaelov? If so, Michaelov was the traitor, for he had sent Sikarov to London. The First Deputy Chairman of the KGB, second only to…
Stanov.
Why had Stanov left him all alone in the field, defenceless, a running target? Why had he chosen Kyril out of so many others? Was it because of Vera? Did he foresee how Kyril would react, what Stanov would do? A cunning fox, Stanov…
Fox… Lisa…
Why did Vera have to die? Why?
Rodina. For the Motherland. For Russia…
Kyril looked into Royston’s eyes. It was all true. He really was a member of the dreaded Kommandant. Either that, or Stanov had told him its innermost secrets…
Stanov… Stanov… Lisa…
Kyril was surrounded, trapped. Royston might represent his last, his only chance of sending home the vital name.
Kyril swallowed, licked his lips and opened his mouth to emit the little puff of breath that would herald ‘P…’
No.
He had not reached the end of his mission. This was only the beginning! Inspiration filled him, seemed to raise him a few inches off the floor. The truth lay elsewhere, in Moscow. And that was where he must go to find it.
Kyril’s eyes narrowed to fine slits. The light hurt them, they were suddenly sore. Think. One thing at a time. Royston. It was necessary to get rid of Royston. Nothing dramatic, now. Nothing obvious. Reassure him. That’s right, make him think you believe him. Win him over. Give him a name… any old name, except the prime, the number one suspect…
Somewhere inside Kyril’s head Sikarov’s dying scream reverberated.
‘It was Michaelov,’ he said casually.
Royston nodded and turned his back. Kyril did not reverse his gun, as he would have to do if he were to stun the other man. Instead he stepped forward, his finger tightening on the trigger.
But as his brain commanded the final pressure that would trip the trigger mechanism his tired eyes saw the strange thing that was about to happen. A black, smoky hole exploding outwards from Royston’s pocket as the gun, concealed there since shortly after Kyril first came in, was fired. A sudden pain, very sharp, very severe, in his chest. Kyril’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Royston was rising up… no, that was wrong, he, Bucharensky, was sliding to the floor. It was very dark in the room, although he knew that the light was still burning. His brain transmitted its last message. Royston had stood with his hands in his pockets, and reversed the gun…
Bucharensky died.
Royston leaned against the wall and stayed like that for several minutes. From every angle it looked good.
Above all, Royston knew relief. Now Kyril could never betray him. The agony was over.
He knelt to the Russian’s body and took the gun from his hand, exchanging it for his own. The coat with the black-fringed hole in the pocket he folded up carefully and placed by the door, ready to go with him when he left.
Kyril had committed suicide, that is what they would all think. The price of failure. Such a pity that before he took his own life he had to kill the foolhardy Sculby, whose overwhelming bravery got the better of him at last. That would go down well. The trendy lefty lawyer had nearly redeemed himself after all, no doubt in remorse for his duplicity in visiting the Bradfield woman (presumably on Stanov’s orders) and his treachery in proposing a deal to Kyril. A good thing he had had the forethought to bug Sculby’s offices. The tape of the lawyer’s nocturnal conversation with Kyril played over very nicely. The phrase ‘For love of the Motherland’ sounded particularly well.
Royston raised his arms above his head and stretched. Noises from below indicated that the rescue-party had reached the front door. Time to find a hiding-place from which to emerge, pale and trembling…
After the debriefings, the inquests, when things were quiet again, Royston would write a postcard. Michaelov, that is what the apparently innocent, coded message would say. Bucharensky got the name, and then he died before he could be interrogated. But he got the name. Michaelov.
Stanov had been right about so many things. Loshkevoi, himself turned traitor; Sikarov, sent by Michaelov. The Bradfield woman. Stanov had been right about that also.
Royston was looking at the future. And it worked.