Chapter 5

The watcher had set up a little tripod, with his binoculars fixed to it, trained on the bay below. He was eating out of a tin, hidden under a camouflaged sun shield. He had his equipment laid out ready. The automatic weapon was quite small, less deadly than the Armalite he preferred, but it fitted easily into the struts of his backpack, the firing mechanism and ammunition sealed up in cans of food.

He was a big man, fit and well-muscled. He’d trained with the French paras and been dismissed after serving a four-year gaol sentence for robbery. He hadn’t hesitated when the offer of this kind of job came along. He had no political loyalties or prejudices. He had skills to offer which the French army had provided and he didn’t care who paid him.

He had a bicycle hidden under more camouflaged sheeting outside. He had made one excursion in to St Hélier to leave the message for the woman at the restaurant. His instructions were to stay on watch and out of sight. He had spied out a little delicatessen in the village a mile down towards the bay. When he had to make the coded call to the hotel, he could use the phone he’d seen at the back of the shop. He had his story ready.

It was sweltering under the canvas. The sweat ran down into his eyes. He spooned up the last of his cold meal, tossed the empty can aside and swigged from a bottle of beer. It was tepid. He swore; he was impatient to get the job over, slip back to France and collect his money.

His instructions were clear. He was to monitor what happened at the house when the Russian woman and her goon arrived. Their job was to kill the girl he’d seen take out the boat, and her companion, after forcing them to hand over a cross. From this, he judged it better not to intervene if he heard screaming. When the Russians emerged, he was to eliminate them both, the woman with a shot to the head that could be seen as self-inflicted. Her body was to be disposed of among the other corpses, with a handgun left beside her. That had come in in pieces, in his saddlebag behind the bike. The body of the man she’d brought with her could be buried or thrown into the sea.

A single radio call to Carteret would bring a contact to the same restaurant in St Hélier, where he would hand over the cross and get himself on to the next ferry to St Malo.

He wiped his mouth and his sweating face and peered through the binoculars. He saw the small boat, its sail furled, cutting through the slight swell into the bay. Adjusting the focus, he was able to see the girl quite clearly. Blond, blue shirt, shorts. A man with her. He watched the boat slow, inch into its berth at the jetty and drop anchor. He remained absolutely still, concentrating like an animal stalking its prey.

The man helped the girl out, and put his arm round her. They walked up from the sparkling sand to the pathway among the rocks. Up to the little road that ran along the coast, and out of sight until they came into view again, climbing up the steep, grassy incline to the lower reaches of the garden, then through the wooden gate, and up a brick path among the flower borders.

He tightened the focus, bringing them into close-up. She was a goodlooking piece. The man looked like a Slav of some kind. She unlocked the front door and they went inside.

The watcher unscrewed his binoculars and folded down the tripod. He sent the radio signal to Carteret first. ‘Targets One and Two in place. Operation activated.’

He crept out, keeping low and hauled the bike from under its cover. A few minutes later he was pedalling towards the village and the delicatessen. It was pleasantly cool inside and he wiped his face with his forearm. The woman behind the counter said, ‘Good afternoon. Hot, isn’t it?’

He smiled at her. He had strong white teeth and he was not bad looking, in a coarse way. She smiled back.

‘You have any Orangina on ice? And I need to make a telephone call, Mademoiselle. Can you help me? I’m meeting a friend in St Hélier and I’m going to be very late.’

‘There’s a phone through there,’ she said. ‘You’re French? On holiday?’

‘Only a week unfortunately,’ he shrugged. ‘I like to do a bit of walking, biking round the island and swimming. I’m going home tomorrow. I’ll take three Oranginas; I’m gasping. Can I use the phone?’

‘Just give me twenty-five pence for the call,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the drinks. Bottles or cans?’

‘Bottles’ll do fine.’

He grinned at her and made for the telephone. He dialled the number.

A voice said, ‘St Margaret’s’.

He spoke as softly as he could.

‘Can I speak to Miss Szpiganovitch …’

He added a choc ice to his purchases and ate it outside the shop quickly before it melted. He went back the way he’d come and slipped under his shelter to watch the house. He guessed the Russian woman wouldn’t waste time coming after them.

‘I can’t believe we’re home and safe,’ Lucy said.

He picked up a photograph in a silver frame. ‘This is your father and mother with you? She was very pretty.’

‘She had lovely colouring,’ Lucy said. ‘It doesn’t show up there. It’s very good of my father.’

‘I wish I had met them,’ Volkov set the photograph down. He came to her and put both hands on her shoulders.

‘It’s time to show me the Relic,’ he said.

The shutters were fastened in her father’s study. Volkov had to open them. Her hands were painful and very stiff. Sunshine poured in, lighting a million dust motes in its beam.

Everything was as he’d left it. The desk with his selection of pens, the shabby blotter he wouldn’t replace because it was a Christmas present from his benefactor, Major Hope, the calendar with the date long past.

She said, ‘Move the desk out and pull up the rug.’

Volkov pushed it aside and rolled up the bright Persian rug. The surface of the parquet glowed dark in comparison with the sun-bleached floor. Lucy stepped forward and pressed the fourth square on the left. The flap rose up.

‘Can you get the box?’ she said.

He knelt down to lift out the plain wooden box, and put it on the desk.

‘This is what my father dreamed of,’ she said. ‘This very moment.’

The catch was simple, it slipped up and the lid rose. Slowly, reverently Volkov lifted out the gold cross. Red lights danced and flashed as he examined it; the frame was the honey colour of pure gold.

‘A thousand years of our history,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘It belongs to you, now,’ Lucy spoke quietly. ‘It will give you the power to free millions of our people. It’s the proof that Communism didn’t win.’

He held it between both outstretched palms. ‘It makes me afraid.’ He looked up at her. ‘Am I strong enough, Lucy? Can I really go home and offer myself as a leader?’

‘You must,’ she answered. ‘You have the Holy Relic. You’ve got no choice. You’ve been chosen.’

‘I could look at it forever,’ he said. ‘I could just sit here and look at it.’

She came close and said softly, ‘I’ll leave you alone for a while. I felt the same when my father showed it to me. Don’t ever doubt yourself, my love. You were born for this. I truly believe that.’

She slipped out of the room.

It weighed very little. The workmanship was as delicate as lace. The big central stone was rounded and roughly polished so that its facets caught the light.

A bloodthirsty tyrant had commissioned it as a proof that he was converted to the Christian faith and would bring peace to the land and mercy to its people. There had been little peace and no mercy from the moment it disappeared from its shrine. Millions starved to death, were deported and murdered. Millions more were slain in Russia’s most terrible war.

With the sun shining on him, Volkov’s hands looked as if they were dipped in blood. He had never uttered even a mental prayer in his life. He didn’t do so then. Lucy saw the hand of God. He felt the touch of history. Destiny had chosen him. She was right. He had no choice.

He laid the Relic back in its box, replaced it in the cunning floor cavity and pressed the section of the wood down. It fitted into the parquet, invisible in the design. The rug was laid on top, the desk manoeuvred back into place. A dead man had guarded his treasure well.

Lucy came to meet him when he left the room. He looked very pale. She put her arms round him and they held each other. They didn’t speak.

‘Remus!’

She didn’t knock. She opened the door and saw him lying on the bed, his shoes kicked off, his mouth agape, dozing.

His eyes opened and he jerked upright. ‘Matiushka!’

‘Get ready,’ Irina commanded. ‘You’ve got work to do. I’ll be downstairs. Hurry.’

She went down to the hallway. ‘Rudi’ had telephoned and rung off without leaving any message. She’d turned her back on the woman’s curiosity and gone upstairs to fetch him.

They were on the island together. Celebrating their escape. Touching each other. She allowed herself a few seconds of mental torture before blotting out the image of Volkov with his hand on the woman, his mouth closing on hers. She was trembling.

Remus came downstairs. He moved very lightly for such a heavy man. Like a dog, he followed her outside.

‘Get in the back,’ she ordered. It would take twenty minutes or so to negotiate the narrow country roads to St Catherine’s Bay.

‘You know what to do?’

He nodded.

‘Don’t be too hard,’ she reminded him. ‘I only want him stunned. Just long enough to tie him up.’

‘Just a tap on the neck,’ he promised.

‘They must give me the treasure they stole.’

She saw his reflection in the driving mirror. His eyes were bright and he had wet his lips. He had always reacted like that; violence excited him.

‘You’ll torture the woman,’ Irina instructed. ‘To make him tell us. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll make her watch while you work on him. One of them will break. Probably him.’

She bit her lip. She hoped so. She couldn’t imagine sweeter music than the screams of Lucy Warren. But to see Dimitri suffer …

‘Men give in quickly when their women squeal,’ Remus grunted.

Irina drove as fast as she dared on the twisting roads. Twice they met an oncoming car, had to pull to the side to let the other pass. She didn’t want to lose the light. It was better to rush the house in daylight. The back-up was close by, she knew that. But he wouldn’t be needed. Remus was at the right pitch of controlled brutality. She could feel the energy emanating from him in the confines of the car. He was like a coiled spring.

She slowed down and took a right turning off the road, which twisted and wound its way through green countryside and little wooded hills. There, just ahead of them, was the driveway leading to the house. On her left Irina could see the blue sparkle of the sea in the bay below, with its little marina and the few boats bobbing up and down on the evening tide.

She stopped the car under some trees. She could see the white painted façade up ahead. They wouldn’t be visible.

He was so quiet she didn’t hear him close the rear door. And then he was beside her. ‘You’re serving the State, Remus,’ she said. ‘You will punish our enemies.’

The watcher grunted. He’d seen the car and guessed where it was going. There wasn’t another house in sight. He was right. They hadn’t wasted any time. He bent low, watching the woman and the man begin to circle round the house to the back. He decided it was time for him to move in closer. He took his weapon and began to run, bent double, down the gentle rise to the level of the distant garden. As soon as he was out of sight of any passing car on the road above, he straightened and broke in to a fast loping stride that brought him to the shrubbery a hundred yards from the house. He waited. He heard a sharp scream that was cut short. He grinned. They were inside.

Irina saw them through the french windows. They were slightly open to admit a light breeze; the sun was sinking and it was suddenly cooler.

She heard her husband say, ‘My darling, I want you to rest. I’ll go and get us something to eat.’

And, for the first time, Lucy Warren, speaking in Russian. A melodious voice, a little deep. It would find a new pitch very soon, Irina promised.

‘I’ll come with you. You don’t know where things are kept.’

‘I’ll find them. You sit down.’

‘Now!’ she hissed at Remus.

He launched himself with the speed and lightness of a great predator. He was through the door and into the room before she could even start to follow. She saw Lucy Warren jump and heard the brief cry, choked at its source as Remus swept her to the ground. She lay dazed, without moving as Irina stepped into the room. Remus put a finger to his lips. They heard Volkov running from the kitchen.

The door was flung open and he shouted, ‘Lucy! What …’ when Remus snapped the ridge of his right hand up and across, striking Volkov on the side of the neck. He collapsed, instantly unconscious as the blood supply from the carotid artery was halted by the blow. Remus left him there, while he hauled the girl onto the sofa.

Irina came close. He slipped a luggage strap out of his pocket. He buckled her arms tight to her sides, rolled his handkerchief in to a ball, then forced her mouth open, and thrust it inside.

‘She’ll give no trouble, Matiushka,’ he growled. ‘Now I’ll fix him.’

Irina stood looking down at them. He’d used two straps to secure Volkov by the hands and feet and pushed him into an armchair facing the girl. She was lying where he’d thrown her, her eyes wide open, her mouth distorted by the crude gag. Irina turned away from her; one hand instinctively touching her head.

‘He’s coming round,’ she said.

Volkov was moving, wrestling with the straps. She saw his horrified expression and heard him gasp her name as he saw her.

‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘It’s me. Look over there, Dimitri. My friend is going to amuse himself with your whore. Let her scream, Remus. Nobody can hear her.’

They were giving the girl a hard time. The watcher wondered what that old bastard was doing to her.

Volkov was begging. ‘Irina, stop him, stop him. Oh, Holy Christ!’

He writhed and jerked in helpless agony, when the man tore the bandages off Lucy’s hands and gouged his fingers into the raw skin. The sobs of pain drove him to a frenzy. He was shouting, pleading with his wife. Irina didn’t answer. She just watched. She heard him curse her, beg her, cry out in horror as Lucy’s shirt was torn from her and his wife’s lighter flickered into flame in the man’s hand and hover before her breast.

‘Wait!’ Irina commanded. She turned to Volkov. ‘Where’s the cross, Dimitri?’

‘Don’t … Don’t tell them!’ Lucy cried out.

She swung round, and snapped. ‘Shut her up! Tell me where you’ve hidden the cross,’ she said. ‘Otherwise he’ll burn off the nipple!’

Volkov didn’t hesitate. He shouted, hoarse with anguish.

‘I’ll get it! I’ll give it to you. Tell him to leave her alone. Don’t hurt her any more.’

‘You tell me and I’ll get it,’ Irina said.

He loved her. He loved her more than Irina imagined he could love anyone. His cries of agony and pleading rang in her ears.

He said now, ‘You can’t. You won’t be able to work the mechanism. Send him with me.’

Irina shook her head. ‘Oh, no. You’d try something. I know you would. He stays with her and I wait here. Remus, I’m going to untie him. If he tries anything kill her.’

He took his hand away from Lucy’s mouth, hooked his forearm under her chin.

‘You do what you’re told,’ he said to Volkov. ‘Or I’ll break her neck.’

Irina unbuckled the belts. For a second she thought Volkov was going to lose control and throw himself at her. She saw him resist the temptation. How much he must love that girl.

‘If I give it to you, will you let Lucy go? I’ll come back to Russia with you.’

She said coldly, ‘Bring me the cross or I’ll tell him to burn her.’

He stumbled out. She took a cigarette from her bag, and snapped her fingers.

‘I’ll have my lighter, Remus.’ He handed it to her. ‘Don’t choke the girl yet,’ she said. ‘I want him to see it.’

Lucy closed her eyes. Her hands were on fire. His arm was like a band of iron on her throat. She didn’t want to see the woman’s face. It was a mask, the eyes glittering, in exultation at her victims’ agony. Lucy’s death was in those eyes. She shut them out and prayed for unconsciousness.

Volkov threw open the door to Yuri Warienski’s study. He heaved the desk out of the way and threw the rug aside. He was trembling, blinded by helpless rage and fear for Lucy. He might plead, he might bargain, but it wouldn’t save her. As soon as he handed over the Relic, he knew that they would both be killed. He stamped on the floor and the cavity opened.

Volkov forced himself to kneel, and lift out the wooden box. He had no thought or fear for himself. He looked desperately round the room. There must be something, something he could use. He wrenched open the desk drawers. Nothing. Then he saw it. It had fallen to the ground when he pushed the heavy desk aside.

A silver paper knife. A thin, sharp blade with a chased handle. He picked it up, felt the tip with his finger. With enough force it would penetrate a human body. Volkov stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, out of sight. He carried the box in both hands and walked back down the passage to the sitting room. He couldn’t hear anything. Silence. One chance in a million. He was going to take it.

Irina drew on her cigarette. Her hand was steady. She felt calm and drained. There was no dilemma about Volkov now. No doubt, no hope left. He belonged to the other woman. He would die with her.

Remus said, ‘He’s taking a long time, Matiushka. You want me to look for him?’

‘No,’ Irina said. ‘He hasn’t run away. He wouldn’t leave her.’

As the door opened she turned slowly. She ground out her half-smoked cigarette on the carpet, and held out both hands when she saw the wooden box.

The point of the silver knife pricked Volkov’s back.

‘Let her go, Irina,’ he begged. ‘Don’t punish her for what I’ve done.’

There was a smile on her lips. ‘The cross,’ she said. ‘Give it to me.’

Volkov lifted the lid and plunged his hand inside. He brought the cross out into the light. It flashed red fire. He stepped close and put it into her outstretched hand. As she grasped it, he sprang at her. The cross fell to the ground. He had her arms pinned down and the knife point was aimed at her throat.

‘Tell him to untie her,’ he said. He crushed her hard with his left arm. ‘Go on, tell him to let her go! Or by the Holy Christ I’ll kill you.’

He was gripping the handle of the knife so hard his knuckles were bone white under the skin; she felt the muscles holding her go taut. He raised the knife to strike. His strength was manic; she could hardly get her breath. She opened her mouth and found strength of her own.

‘Kill her, Remus!’

But the arm had fallen away from Lucy’s throat. Remus had left her. He was staring at the cross. Volkov held the knife suspended. The man bent down and picked it up.

‘My cross!’ he said. ‘That’s my cross!’

‘Remus,’ Irina screamed at him. ‘You heard me. Kill her!’

He didn’t move. He was staring at the Relic. ‘Gold and fucking jewels,’ he said and a grin spread over his face. ‘I’ll be rich!’

‘You’ll be punished,’ Irina hissed at him. ‘You’ll go back to the Gulag. Do as you’re ordered!’

He glanced at her. The little eyes were bloodshot and gleamed with cunning.

‘You made a dog out of me. You made me lick your feet. Now you want to steal my cross.’ His voice rose to an infuriated roar. ‘You don’t give me orders any more, you bitch! You’re not stealing my cross!’

He lunged at her and Volkov dropped his knife. The man struck with lightning speed at Irina’s windpipe. It shattered and she fell.

‘Not Remus!’ the man cried. ‘Boris!’

The watcher heard the shouting. It was time for him to act. He came up to the windows at a run, his weapon at the ready.

Volkov rushed over to Lucy. He unfastened the straps and urged her to make a run for it.

But it was useless. She was in a state of shock, unable to move.

Boris stood in the middle of the room, Irina dead at his feet, holding the cross up to the light. He looked a them and smiled. It was a terrifying sight. He looked like a happy child.

‘I gave it to the kid. I gave it to Yuri. I thought they’d shoot me. But there was a bastard of an officer—he said, “Not this one—he’s strong! We’ll work him till he drops dead in his own shit.” But I fooled them, I didn’t die.’ He glared round him, and his voice rose in fury. ‘I did their dirty work. They scrambled my brains and I did what she told me …’ he turned and kicked Irina’s body.

‘They sent me to a stinking hole as a reward—no doctor, no medicine, just a stinking dusty hole. I saw my kids die. My woman cried … But now, I’ve got my cross back. My cross!’ The rage died in him; he gurgled with laughter. ‘It’s going to make me rich!’

The watcher took in the scene in seconds. The woman dead, the targets still alive, the goon gloating over something red and gold. He moved nearer.

Boris heard the sudden movement, and sensed an attacker.

The burst of close range shots caught him in the chest. He spun and staggered under the impact. The cross slipped out of his hand. He gave a terrible roar of rage and anguish. With a burst of superhuman strength he threw himself on the watcher before he could fire again. His hands found the man’s throat and locked around it in his death throes.

The two men crashed to the ground. Boris lay, a dead weight, upon the watcher’s body.

He had managed to break his neck before he died.

There was no report of any crime. The network in France had no information for Moscow. Since the last radio message to Carteret, Jersey had gone silent. The Warren house was closed up. Volkov and Lucy had disappeared. So had Irina’s team.

Leon Gusev was very nervous. He didn’t sleep. His work suffered. He considered himself a ruined man for having agreed to Rakovsky’s plan. Now it seemed as insane as it appeared brilliant at the time. He fretted and wondered whether he might help his case by confessing his part in the failure before he was actually arrested. It meant denouncing Viktor, but even so—Viktor understood his feelings.

Viktor sent for him three days before the Makoff Galleries private view. He offered him whisky. Gusev refused it. He didn’t have to pander to him now. Besides he hated the taste of the stuff. Viktor had been drinking a lot of it lately.

‘Well, Leon, you’ll be out of your misery soon.’

‘How?’ Gusev asked him.

‘The reception is on Thursday. If Volkov’s going to make an entrance, that’s where he’ll do it. Our embassy has a man in place there. On the catering staff.’

He actually laughed. Gusev felt his stomach heave.

‘Volkov will come out of hiding,’ Viktor went on. ‘He’ll appear among the faithful like Jesus, walking through the walls into the upper room—with the Holy Relic to prove he’s risen from the dead.’

He finished his drink.

‘With the connivance of the British, of course. They must have been waiting for us in Jersey. My guess is our three are dead. They wouldn’t have been taken alive.’

Gusev saw a faint hope.

He said, ‘The British will not want to foment trouble for us. They may be holding him so he can’t come out in to the open. They don’t want to see bloody revolution here!’

‘We’ve already sounded them out.’ Viktor retorted.

Gusev looked up frowning.

‘I didn’t know.’

‘I reported the whole business as soon as it went wrong,’ Viktor said calmly. ‘Before you had a chance to make up your mind to do it. We’re not living in the old days. We wouldn’t be shot or sent to the Arctic circle. Just retired and disgraced for failing in our duty. You can be honest with our President. So whatever happens, we’re prepared. No, the British didn’t respond. If they wanted to avoid trouble for us, he could have been quietly deported. They said nothing. They knew nothing. Which means they have him. He’s in England and by Thursday he’ll be in London. Don’t worry, Leon. I emphasized your resistance to the plan. You won’t get promoted, but you won’t be posted to Armenia either.’

He stood up. ‘What worries me is how did the British know? Our security was absolute.’

‘Müller?’ Leon Gusev suggested.

‘No,’ Viktor dismissed it. ‘He only knew Volkov had left Switzerland. How could he know about Jersey?’

‘He knew about St Vladimir’s Cross,’ Gusev pointed out. ‘If he tipped off the British, they’d expect Volkov and Warren to end up there to collect it.’

Rakovsky sat down again, and stared at the brightly polished toe cap of his shoe. He was a fastidious dresser.

‘You think he’s turned double?’

‘You’ve run him for years. You know him. Do you think it’s possible?’

‘In the beginning he worked for a political ideal,’ Viktor said slowly. ‘But for a long time I’ve felt he was working for money. He’s greedy. I think you could be right, Leon. We’ll look into it. He has one little job left to do for me. After that …’

He gave Gusev a cold smile. ‘I’ll find a way to retire him.’

He had introduced himself as Ian Freemantle. He was representing the Foreign Office. His companion, James Harper, was from the Home Office. The head of the Jersey police force brought them in his car.

Volkov saw them come up the steps of the old manor house, two tall men in lightweight suits, with briefcases in their hands. He recognized officialdom at a high level.

The police had made him and Lucy very comfortable. She’d been treated for shock and the injury to her hands, and she was recovering well. They weren’t under arrest, but it was accepted that they wouldn’t leave the house.

‘You realize, Mr Volkov, that you’ve put Her Majesty’s Government in a very awkward position?’ Freemantle said.

‘I know,’ Volkov agreed.

‘You have asked for political asylum at a most sensitive time in our relations with the Soviet government.’

‘I know that, too,’ he answered. ‘I’m sorry. But they did try to murder us.’

Freemantle had been shown the photographs of the dead Soviet agents, and the equipment and weaponry found at the watcher’s hidden campsite. A serious KGB operation within British territory. That was very awkward, too. The Jersey police had given him graphic details of the ordeal suffered by Lucy Warren, a British subject. Their attitude had been aggressively sympathetic to the Russian and the girl.

‘You are also an illegal immigrant. Miss Warren has committed a serious offence in that respect.’

He saw Volkov flush angrily.

‘She was trying to save my life. Is that a crime in your country?’

Freemantle glanced at his companion.

‘No charges will be brought, Mr Volkov,’ Harper said. ‘My colleague was just making a point.’

Volkov looked at them with contempt.

‘There have been enquiries from the Soviet authorities, unofficially, of course, and we have denied all knowledge of you up till now.’ Harper continued. ‘We have been considering what line to take, if we do decide to grant your request and admit you to the United Kingdom as a political refugee. It poses a number of problems. You’ll attract a lot of media attention.’

Volkov remained silent.

‘Worldwide, in view of your past political activities.’

‘I spent a year in prison,’ Volkov pointed out. ‘It wasn’t just making speeches.’

‘And five years in exile,’ Freemantle remarked.

There was instant antagonism between him and the Russian. He objected to the man’s attitude. Britain owed him nothing. He had the government’s decision in his briefcase, but he was going to drive a hard bargain.

‘We would need assurances from you, Mr Volkov, that you would not engage in anti-Soviet activities.’

Harper played the emollient role again.

‘That means you refuse interviews and media coverage and avoid criticism of the present Soviet regime. In other words, Mr Volkov, we would offer you a temporary entry visa, but play down any suggestion that you were seeking political asylum. If all went well that visa could be extended and a request for residency would have sympathetic consideration from the Home Office.’

‘So it’s your Foreign Office who’s objecting to me?’ Volkov asked Freemantle.

‘Legally we could have deported you. That’s still an option.’

‘Then you would get all the media attention,’ the Jerseyman spoke up. ‘I don’t think it would look good for any of us. And I don’t believe that the States here would sanction any action of that sort, sir.’ He made the last word sound an insult. ‘We have kept the facts of the case sub judice as you asked, but I don’t think I could guarantee that, if any force was used against Mr Volkov.’

‘There’s no question of force,’ Harper interposed. It was clear that he was the senior of the two, and Freemantle was obliged to retract. ‘Is there, Ian? I think you meant it hypothetically, didn’t you?’

‘It didn’t sound like that to me,’ the Jerseyman said.

‘Then I expressed it badly,’ Freemantle capitulated. ‘I felt Mr Volkov’s attitude was provocative. There is no question of him being deported.’ He looked disdainful. ‘What my department is anxious to avoid is embarrassment to the Soviet President at the present time. There are a number of anti-Soviet activists making a nuisance of themselves already.’

James Harper stood up. ‘Perhaps you’d like time to think about it?’ he said to Volkov. ‘Your country has made remarkable progress in the last few years. People are enjoying a degree of freedom that was unthinkable before Mikhail Gorbachev. Surely the last thing to do is destabilize the situation and give the hardliners their chance to put the clock back. If you could see this attempt to silence you in that perspective, Mr Volkov, you might take a different view. I understand that one of the participants was your wife. There must have been a personal element in the attack on you and Miss Warren. Why not consider the wider implications? We’re at Government House until tomorrow morning. We can call back later.’

Volkov didn’t answer. Then he said, ‘You’ll give me a visa if I promise to say nothing to call attention to myself. In other words to stay quietly in the background. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. That is exactly what we mean. Please give it careful thought.’

Volkov didn’t leave his chair to shake hands with them. He waited till the room was empty before he got to his feet. He watched them out of the window, the Establishment personified, getting into the official car, driving away to their rendezvous with the governor of the island.

Then he went upstairs to Lucy’s bedroom.

‘Have they gone?’

She came towards him. He’d wanted her to be present, but that was not allowed.

He nodded.

She looked so pale and frail after that terrible experience.

‘What did they say?’ she asked.

He was tempted to lie. But he had never lied to her.

‘They’ll give me a temporary visa—with conditions. One of them threatened me with deportation,’ He silenced her anxious gasp, ‘No, no my darling, it was only a threat. Our friend, the commissioner, soon stopped that. He’s a real friend. They can’t send me back, but they can keep me here until after the meeting in London. It’s the day after tomorrow.’

Lucy looked up at him. He was over-protective. She insisted she was strong, and recovered mentally as well as physically.

‘What conditions?’

‘No publicity. No statements. Nothing critical of the Russian regime. I can stay in England as a private individual so long as I keep quiet.’

‘You can’t do that,’ she said. ‘You have the Relic, you can’t accept those terms! It would be Geneva all over again!’

‘We could make a life together,’ he said slowly. ‘There’d be another opportunity—later, when you’re recovered properly. My darling, I can’t involve you in any more. I can’t stop thinking of what happened—and it was my fault. I brought you into danger. I’m not going to do it again.’

‘Volkov,’ Lucy said, ‘Listen to me. I went looking for you. I started this—I put your life on the line. And we’re going to see it through together. You’ve got to attend that meeting. When they come back, say you’ve decided on a quiet life. Agree to everything so long as they fly us out tomorrow and we get to London in time. If you don’t you’ll have betrayed yourself and everything you believe in. And what that brute did to me will be for nothing.’ He drew her close and kissed her.

‘We’re together,’ she reminded him. ‘That’s what we promised after that dreadful day. Promise me. No going back.’

‘I promise. In my heart I hoped you’d say that. I’ll lie in my teeth to the “gentlemen” from London. I’ll go to the meeting.’

‘And when you get there,’ Lucy asked him, ‘what are you going to do?’

‘There are a lot of things I want to say. It won’t be the speech I wrote in Geneva. The Ukraine doesn’t need a rabble rouser, or a martyr. The people want statesmen, politicians who can get the better of Moscow. That’s what I’m going to tell Mischa and the rest of them.’

Freemantle and Harper caught the morning plane back to Heathrow.

‘I never thought he’d give in so tamely,’ Harper said, settling into his seat after take-off.

‘I’m not so sure he has,’ Freemantle countered. ‘The girl’s father was a bloody nuisance even before Perestroika. All these emigrés are the same. They love to sabre-rattle, while we have to cope with the mess afterwards. We’ll have to keep a sharp eye on them.’

Harper opened his newspaper.

‘There’s not a lot we can do about it if he does,’ he said.

‘He’s really got up your nose, hasn’t he Ian? Forget about it. We’ve got the undertaking signed; we’ve done our bit.’

They’d been booked in to a hotel in South Kensington. Special Branch reported that they’d done a little shopping and spent their first evening quietly at the hotel. At six the following evening, they left in a taxi and were followed to the Makoff Galleries in St James’s Street. There was a private view of pre-Revolutionary photographs and memorabilia.

At ten minutes past eight, the Press and the first television crews gathered outside the galleries. Ian Freemantle was on his way home to Sussex, listening to the car radio when he heard the news. He changed gears with such force that they screeched in protest.

‘The bastard!’ he said. ‘I knew we couldn’t trust him!’

It happened after they’d been to the theatre and to supper. Peter Müller had chosen a new play and booked a table at an intimate little nightspot where a pianist played sentimental music and couples could inch their way round a tiny square of dance floor. The play was witty and frankly erotic. He noticed how often Eloise laughed, turning to smile at him.

At one moment he bent close and whispered, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was going to be so naughty.’

‘It’s delicious,’ she murmured.

Müller’s wife was involved with a charity meeting and couldn’t come with them. Their dinner at the Hofburg had been a great success, but instinctively Müller knew Eloise wasn’t ready. She was still conscious of her widowhood, still loyal to Adolph’s memory. But he could feel the sexual restlessness in her, and the constant moistening of her lips with the tip of her tongue made him sweat with desire.

He was going to have her that night, he knew it. He thought she probably knew it, too. The play set the mood for the slow piano music and the body contact as they circled, hardly moving, their cheeks close together, his pelvis pushed forward till their groins were touching. She must feel him through her thin dress.

At her door he asked her softly, making his voice very low, ‘May I come in?’

He discovered that she wanted him to be strong and insistent, to take command of her. Once only, as he abandoned her wet mouth for her throat and neck, did Eloise protest.

‘We shouldn’t,’ she murmured.

‘Adolph wouldn’t mind,’ Müller said. ‘He’d want you to be happy.’

It was better than he’d imagined. He lay in Adolph’s bed and made love to her until he was drained and slack. But he didn’t sleep. When she dozed off he woke her with powerful caresses, demanding that she service him. She was imaginative. She surprised and delighted him. She filled him with fresh energy and at last he exhausted her.

There was no sham about her when she slept. She lay back with her mouth open and snored. Müller whispered to her. He stroked her. She didn’t move. The rhythmic ugly breathing didn’t check even for a second. She slept as if she was drugged. Carefully he got out of bed. He drew on his trousers and slipped on surgical gloves. He paused by the bedroom door and waited, listening. She was not going to wake till the morning.

He had made this journey in his imagination many times. The long corridor leading to the ballroom. He had brought a pencil torch with him; the tiny spotlight was enough. He moved on, barefoot without a sound.

There was the first consul table, the bluejohn vase, its ormolu mounts gleaming in the beam of light. The third gilded flower head on the left of the larger carving. He pressed it cautiously and it moved under his finger. The second consul table, its vase, its carved flowers. To the right this time. Again the slight depression as he touched the flower.

One more to go. And there it was. The bronze elephant clock, its trunk rising lewdly in the torch light, its clockface in the centre of the gilded howdah. He had steady hands, but they were sticky with sweat in the tight gloves. With a tentative finger he moved the minute hand. The clock chimed. He jumped back. He’d forgotten the chime. It sounded so loud in the heavy silence. He shone his torch on the ballroom door and turned the handle. It opened. He closed it behind him. He didn’t dare switch on the lighting system. There was a security guard on patrol outside the house. The insurance company had won that battle.

He followed the spot of light until he was in front of the cabinet and the treasures inside it sparkled as the beam played over them. It was never locked, because Brückner liked to open it at will and handle his possessions. He loved the feel of the Fabergé animals. He was fond of saying so to Müller.

He lifted out the clock and the calendar. They fitted into each of his pockets. He took a deep breath. Now, everything in reverse. The clock set to twelve-thirty. Another nerve-tingling chime, but this time he was prepared for it. Third gilded flower on the left of the consul table going back, third flower on the right of the next one.

The room was alarmed again. The theft wouldn’t be discovered until someone went into the ballroom. That could be weeks. He crept back to the bedroom, peeled off the gloves, transferred the little objects to his jacket. She hadn’t moved. He stepped out of his trousers and joined her in the bed.

He couldn’t leave the house before she woke: he wanted it to be a memorable leave-taking.

‘I’m going to fly to Kiev and meet him,’ Viktor Rakovsky said. ‘I’m to welcome him home. That’s the official line.’

No action had been taken against Viktor. Not even a rebuke. Dimitri Volkov, followed by a planeload of media from all over the world was on his way back to the capital of the Ukraine. Viktor was clever, but not as clever as the master tactician who was directing him. Volkov must be walking in to a subtle trap, a political embrace that would eventually crush him.

Leon Gusev said, ‘Why didn’t he produce the Relic? What’s he planning? So far we’ve heard him saying the same thing to everyone. I’m going home to offer myself in the service of my fellow Ukrainians. If they’ll accept me. All good humble stuff and the West are loving it. He’s the biggest hero since Solzhenitsyn. The nationalists are planning a big demonstration. He’s just what Rykhoh wanted.’

‘What Rykhoh doesn’t want is for the government to upstage them, and that is what we’re going to do. I’m leading a group of Politburo members and we’ll be there to shake his hand as he steps off the plane. We’re not going to make a martyr of him, whatever he does. We had our chance and we bungled it. Thanks to Müller’s treachery.’

It was the accepted view that their agent, Peter Müller, had warned British Intelligence of the attack planned in Jersey. It had mitigated the official anger at the failure of Viktor’s department.

‘And if he preaches sedition, with the Relic as a rallying point? Are we going to kiss and hug him because of what the West thinks? I can’t see it working. I can only see disaster.’

‘That’s what I said to the President,’ Viktor admitted.

‘Then I am relying on you, Viktor Alexzandrovich, to see it doesn’t happen.’ That was the response. He hadn’t repeated it to Leon. Leon was still young and inclined to be nervous. He suffered from the legacy of the past.

‘I’m leaving in half an hour,’ Viktor said. ‘You can watch it all on television.’

He waited alone for the official car to take him to Sheremetov airport. They were catching the internal flight to Kiev, scheduled to arrive an hour before the Illuyshin jet came in from London. Volkov had made a point of refusing Western air transport. ‘I’m a Russian. I shall go home on a Russian aircraft.’

He’d said that during a final interview. Bringing his wife. He had married Yuri Varienski’s daughter in a Catholic ceremony in London. That closed the file on Irina. It was significant to Rakovsky that none of the activists who’d been present at the Makoff Galleries when he called the Press and television, was coming to the Ukraine with him. None had asked for entry visas. Whatever Volkov was planning, he was doing it alone.

Only the Relic could have given him this new authority, the steadfast sense of purpose that came across in every interview. Volkov was no longer the firebrand who’d talked himself into arrest and persecution. Viktor had monitored every appearance before the television cameras and studied every word. This was a man with a mission and the maturity to accomplish it.

He’d noted his wife, too; she had dignity and a quiet beauty. They were a disturbing pair. She must be an unusual woman, Viktor judged, to have rescued the lost soul in Geneva and inspired him to escape and take up the challenge. She looked as if she’d suffered some baptism of fire. He recognized the marks it left; he’d borne them himself all his life.

Müller had sent the desk set back to Moscow via the embassy. For a few hours it had stood on Viktor’s desk in the same room in the Lubiyanka where Lepkin had wound the clock and changed the calendar every day, until he brought them home to the house in the woods and gave them to Viktor’s mother. He remembered his mother putting the clock and the calendar on the shelf above the stove. His brother, Stefan, had been forbidden to handle them. He himself was content to draw the exquisite trifles and admire them from a distance.

He found he couldn’t bear to look at them. By the evening he had formally presented the Fabergé set to the State and it was put on display in the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad. It was out of the reach of human greed.

It was time to leave. He went down in the lift and out on to the square, where his car was waiting. At the intersection he joined the cavalcade of officials on their way to the airport. The Illuyshin had left London on time and would touch down on schedule.

Susan Müller picked up the telephone.

‘Hello?’

‘This is Eloise Brückner.’

She wasn’t really concentrating.

‘Hello, how are you? I’m just watching this Russian arrive on television. Isn’t it fascinating?’

‘I want to speak to Peter. I’ve been robbed!’

‘How terrible!’ Susan Müller exclaimed, still eyeing the screen. The jet had landed and was taxiing along the runway. A group of men were gathering on the tarmac.

‘Look, Eloise, could I call you back?’

‘No.’ The voice was shrill. ‘Just tell Peter I know he did it. I’m going to the police.’

Susan immediately forgot about the scene at Borispol airport.

‘Peter? You’ve got a goddamned nerve. You must be crazy!’

‘I showed him how the alarm worked.’ Eloise’s voice was rising hysterically. ‘He’s the only person who could have done it. He stole the desk set! The first night he slept with me! Just tell him, he’s not going to get away with it!’

The line went dead. Slowly Müller’s wife put the phone down. ‘The first night he slept with me.’ Her husband had told her he’d bought back the gold boxes and sold them immediately for a huge profit. He had assured her that when he stayed the night it was only to comfort a nervous woman. She believed him when he said that it was always innocent. She wanted to believe him. And he had stopped seeing Eloise Brückner. She was becoming too demanding, he explained. It was time to phase out.

‘Oh, Peter,’ she said. ‘You shit. Just for business!’

She switched the set off. After a few minutes she calmed down. She was a practical woman. Anyway, if he had screwed the bitch, he’d soon dropped her. That’s why she was accusing him. He would never be involved in anything like theft.

She rang Müller at the shop and told him what had happened.

‘I can explain,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her.’

He sent the prints round to the Brückner house by special courier. He put a note inside the envelope: ‘My dear, I thought you might like to have these as a memento of our wonderful first night together. I treasure my set. Peter.’

When they woke that first morning he had persuaded her to pose for him. She had been excited by the idea. ‘We can look at them together,’ he’d suggested. She had adopted every erotic pose he suggested and then photographed him naked in turn. She had supplied the camera from one of Adolph’s collection. They’d joked about it. A little different from his holiday snaps. She wouldn’t put them in the album. Best of all, since Adolph was such an enthusiast, it was possible to take photographs by remote control. Müller had staged a series of unusual couplings, which the camera recorded. Eloise Brückner wouldn’t go to the police and risk these photographs being produced as evidence. He wasn’t in the least alarmed by her threat.

In their apartment overlooking the Bremner Canal, the Dutch couple were also watching television.

‘Isn’t it amazing, Derk,’ she turned to him. They were side by side watching the replay on Amsterdam television. ‘Just think, we helped that man get out of France!’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It makes you feel part of history. Nobody’d believe us if we told them.’

His wife smiled broadly.

‘I’ve told everyone!’ she announced. ‘Your sister says I should write about it for the newspapers.’

‘No, Beta, you mustn’t do anything like that! We don’t want a lot of journalists asking us questions. We were just doing a kindness. We leave it at that, eh?’

‘All right, but it’s amazing all the same. They’re coming out of the plane now. Look at all those people!’

‘Ssssh,’ he admonished. ‘Beta, listen to the commentary.’

She had a bad habit of talking through a programme, if she got excited.

‘I’m nervous,’ Lucy whispered to him as the plane door opened and the stewardess beckoned them forward.

‘Me too,’ he admitted. ‘It’s so long since I’ve been home. Last time I left in handcuffs.’

The sunlight was blinding as they came down the steps and on to the tarmac at Borispol. They saw the flashing cameras and the television crews behind a simple barrier. He breathed in the earthy sun of his country, the whiff of dust and pine trees borne on a hot breeze, and suddenly his heart lifted and he was happy. He caught her hand and walked towards the group of dignitaries: the President of the Ukrainian parliament and his deputy; bureaucrats, one high-ranking army officer, and another smaller group ahead of them all. The representatives of Central Government in Moscow, making his welcome official. There were handshakes, warm smiles. The media captured every moment of it. Viktor Rakovsky was almost the last to greet him.

‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘I represent our Foreign Ministry. There’s a reception and a Press conference arranged for you. I hope you had a smooth flight?’

‘Very smooth,’ Volkov said. He brought Lucy forward. ‘My wife,’ he said.

Viktor shook her hand. He wondered how Irina had died.

‘Welcome to the Soviet Union, Comrade Volkova.’

She answered him in Russian. ‘Thank you.’

It had all been arranged beforehand.

Viktor said, ‘Before we go in to meet the Press, I’d like to speak to you in private. Just a few minutes.’

‘I thought you’d suggest something like that. What ministry are you representing?’ Volkov looked at him coldly. ‘I believe you were a friend of my late wife’s father.’

‘I’ve known all the family for a long time,’ Viktor answered. There was a dark hatred in Volkov’s gaze. His task was not going to be easy. ‘This way.’

He ushered them ahead of him; his manner was friendly, even deferential. They were VIPs and they entered the exclusive lounge reserved for the highest Party members when they used the airport.

‘A drink?’ he enquired. ‘What would you like? We have excellent Russian champagne or vodka.’

‘I don’t drink,’ Volkov said.

Lucy shook her head.

‘Then I’ll have to toast to your homecoming on my own,’ Viktor said.

He poured a measure of vodka into a glass and raised it to them.

‘What do you want from me?’ Volkov cut the pantomine short.

‘I want your assurance that you haven’t come back to cause civil unrest in the Ukraine.’

Viktor had dropped the pose. He stood taller than Dimitri Volkov. He was a man of years and hard authority facing an adversary.

‘I bring you a message from the President himself. We welcome you back. We apologize for the harsh way you were treated in the past. We hope you will forgive and forget, and agree to work towards a Russia where such things can never happen again. If your intention is to stir up unrest, then we are not going to stop you. That’s the measure of the changes Mikhail Gorbachev has made. You speak a lot about democracy and justice, Comrade Volkov. You always did, when there was no hope of either under the old system. That is being swept away. But we need peace to do it. Peace and stability. Any other way means bloodshed and misery. Are you prepared for that?’

To his surprise it was Lucy who answered. ‘Dimitri would never want that!’

Viktor said quietly, ‘Have you brought the Relic with you?’

‘I think it’s time for the Press conference,’ Volkov replied.

‘One more question, Comrade Volkov. What happened to your activist friends in London? They’ve left you to lead their crusade on your own.’

Volkov took Lucy by the hand.

‘They didn’t like my speech.’

Viktor opened the door for them and stood aside. He watched as Volkov took his place before the journalists and television crews. He looked very slight standing there with the lights beating down on him. Viktor moved closer to the woman who was responsible for it all. She was watching Volkov; she didn’t seem to notice him standing beside her.

‘I’ve heard his broadcasts from London,’ he remarked. ‘He’s a fine speaker.’

‘Yes,’ Lucy answered. ‘He speaks as he thinks.’

‘You know what he’s going to say?’

‘We wrote it together.’

‘With help from your friends in British Intelligence?’

‘They’re no friends of ours!’

Her vehemence surprised Viktor. For a moment, they turned their attention to the Ukrainian President, who was paying tribute to Volkov’s stand against tyranny.

‘We understood they saved his life in Jersey,’ said Viktor.

She stared at him. ‘It was the cross that saved us. They came when it was all over. We owe them nothing!’

He believed her. Perhaps Müller hadn’t betrayed them after all.

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said. ‘My husband is going to speak now.’

Volkov glanced briefly at his sheaf of notes and put them away in his pocket. He adjusted the microphone, and looked out over the expectant faces, the TV cameras, the journalists, with their notebooks ready.

A slight flush appeared on his cheeks; he brushed his hair back from his forehead. In the audience Lucy tensed, knowing the gesture so well. Then he spoke, and his voice was clear and resonant.

‘My friends. Thank you for your kind words and your welcome. I would never have believed I’d live to see this day.’ He paused, and took the notes out of his pocket again. ‘I wrote all this when I knew I was coming home. With help from my wife, who’s here with me. But I don’t need any notes. I can speak from my heart. When you’ve been silent for five long years, you can’t imagine you’ll ever stand up, face an audience and talk openly again.

‘I left this country in handcuffs.

‘But I was luckier than many of my friends who weren’t sent into exile. Some are still in prison. Most of them are dead.

‘Times have changed, they told me. Russia has changed. I have to accept that because I’m here. But as long as one man or woman is in prison because of their beliefs, then nothing has really changed.

‘The President has spoken about what happened to me. He talked about injustice and suffering. But for seventy years we have all been in chains. My country, the Ukraine, was perhaps the worst victim of oppression. Our culture, our religion, our land were all taken from us. Millions died. Stalin built upon their bones. But our people refused to abandon hope, held on to their faith that one day they would be free.

‘I suffered, but I survived. I’ve witnessed cruelty and wickedness, but I’ve also seen courage, nobility, and love.’ He paused and sought out Lucy in the crowd. Her blue eyes were fixed upon him. He raised his voice.

‘In Europe the people have torn down the prison walls and cast off their chains. Just as we must do now.’

Volkov felt the silence. No one moved. They had gambled and lost.

‘My experience is living proof of the folly of violence. Violence achieves nothing. It degrades us, if we have any part in it. It is self-defeating because the human spirit cannot be crushed for ever.

‘For myself I forgive the past. I want to serve my people, if they’ll have me. I want to devote my life to the cause of liberty, of every man’s right to speak his mind and to live without fear. I have no political ambitions. I belong to no organization. I have no supporters. Only my wife, to help me. I am home and I look with hope to the future. But first, I have brought something with me that belongs to the Ukraine.’

If only I had a gun, Viktor Rakovsky thought, I’d kill him now …

He heard Volkov clear his throat, and give a little cough.

‘But what I have brought home doesn’t just belong to the Ukraine. It belongs to Russia and to all the Russian people.’ He looked straight at Viktor. ‘If the President of our Parliament will escort us we’d like to go now to the Cathedral of St Sophia.’

Someone started to clap. Soon they were all applauding. Rakovsky came face to face with him for a moment. ‘I misjudged you, Volkov,’ he said to himself. ‘You are a patriot.’ Then he stepped back into the crowd and walked away.

It was over. The media had departed. The demonstration organized by the Ukrainian nationalist party had dispersed with a feeling of anti-climax. St Sophia’s Cathedral had emptied, the arc lights were dismantled, the commentators were gone; the Patriarch had made a speech and announced plans for a Mass of thanksgiving.

The Volkovs had retreated to a hotel suite provided for them. They refused all invitations for the evening.

St Vladimir’s Cross glowed red inside its shrine above the high altar. People of all ages started coming in little groups to stare up at it.

Many stayed to pray.