Document Z (25 page)

That night she burned her magazines. It was a bonfire of
Home
Beautiful
, the plastic smell of the thin film, wasting. The first magazine flamed and went out. She tore pages from the next, gave the flames air and they took off. Two dozen editions of
Australian Women's Weekly
. Lift-outs she'd saved from the papers. All burning between four bricks, dark and oily smoke staining the sky. She had intended to take them home, a kind of record or a history of the country over three years. But it wasn't worth the risk now, transporting contraband literature. Not much point compounding the trouble they were in.

Inside, Volodya was drinking beer, listening to the radio. She opened each of the drawers in the kitchen, trying to recall what was the ministry's property and what was theirs.

‘Furniture,' she said.

‘Hmm.'

‘Should we sell the furniture? The things we own.'

‘Give them to the Golovanovs.'

He was right. Ivan and Masha deserved everything that could be gifted. She made the list in biro.

Wool hearth rug

Small mahogany coffee table

Blue lined curtain and rod

Two-bar electric radiator

Cork tablemats

Condiments set

Brass dish and red glass dish

Pewter teapot
Waffle iron
Two asbestos mats

Stove towel

Glass nutcracker

Bed rug

Table lamp and shade

Clothes basket

Axe

Hand axe

‘The things in the garage?' she said.

‘What?'

‘The stepladder. The pick. The shovel. The rake.'

‘Those things aren't ours.'

‘The hurricane lamp. The box of tiles.'

‘Box of tiles?'

‘The wheelbarrow and the garden hose.'

‘Not ours.'

‘A hand fork and a pair of shears.'

‘Isn't there a catalogue? A manifest?'

‘The fuel bin. Pieces of wood.'

They went to sleep late. Or she went and he stayed listening to the radio. She woke when he came to bed, the mattress sinking away, pale light like the moon on the walls. She put her hand in his but he removed it. She listened to his breath and her own breath. It was hot under the sheets and he tossed them away. The darkness was a half-darkness. The room was the same as it had always been, but the night felt weathered and unordinary. Patterns in language and in the world.

‘Volodya,' she said.

‘Yes?'

‘You know we will turn out like the Rosenbergs if we stay.'

Sunday. He stood on the landing in the secret section, listening for sound. Nothing. He walked to his office, unlocked the door, stood there. He went to Prudnikov's office and opened the door. The man was there, seated at his desk, staring at the mouthpiece of his telephone.

‘Vladimir,' said Prudnikov.

‘Hello, Petr.'

Prudnikov waved the telephone receiver. He put his finger to his lips and they walked into the hall.

‘The phone,' he said. ‘I have become suspicious of it.'

‘Oh?'

‘It drops volume at unexpected times. On other occasions, I'll be sitting there working and I swear the receiver emits a low humming tone.'

‘Bugged?'

‘What can we do? Can we test it?'

‘Tomorrow, we'll take it to pieces carefully.'

‘Okay.'

‘Meanwhile, don't have conversations in your office. If it is bugged, it is more useful not to let them know we know.'

‘Good, Vladimir. This is what we will do.'

The MVD chief nodded. Then he asked Prudnikov to fetch the safe key. The man went into his office and came back. Petrov told him he might be some time. Why didn't the cypher clerk enjoy the afternoon, not sit here locked up like the damned?

In his office, Petrov worked for twenty minutes before he opened the safe. The 1952 letters were kept in a marked paper sleeve. He took them to the desk and flipped through them as if looking for something. Names. Instructions. Plots and para-noias. He weighed the pages in his hand, went to a drawer, drew out a notebook and removed the covers and the spiral. He took the pages from the notebook and sat them inside the paper sleeve. He took the 1952 letters and put them in an envelope. Then he put the sleeve in the safe and locked it.

He was relieved at how calm he could be. Now you are spying, he thought. Death right here in front of you and yet your hands have stopped their shaking.

He put the envelope in the strongbox. Shoved it at the very bottom, underneath everything else in there.

This is what it means to get your life back. Documents in the wrong safe. Proof of the old life for a new life. Five thousand pounds. What was that? A farm, a car, appliances and a little left over to live.

In part, he knew it wouldn't be that simple. In part, he was certain it would be the simplest of things.

He closed the strongbox and returned its key to his pocket. Prudnikov came out from the back room looking groggy. The clerk resealed the safe key, the two men standing in silence, saying nothing for the sake of the phone.

He woke late the next day and had a shower, feeling lighter. He went to the back porch to dry himself and took a huge, comforting breath of garden air. It felt good to stand there naked. He sat in the chair and smoked a cigarette. He'd bought a packet of Turf, trying a new brand: ‘The REAL smoke with the true tobacco taste'.

Generalov called him to his office just after 10 a.m. The man was affecting his commander's look, standing in the centre of the room, serious and domineering, as if a battalion of lives rested on his shoulders, maps of the battlefield and theatre of action on the walls.

‘Comrade,' the ambassador said.

Petrov stood there silent. Soon—perhaps just a week from now—he wouldn't have to listen to this prick.

‘I have received some information,' the ambassador went on.

‘Information?'

‘It concerns you.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yes. A matter of security.'

A wave of blood suddenly crossed his body.

‘Someone has written to me,' said the ambassador. ‘It's a note in Russian. Here. Read it.' Generalov passed the letter over.

Parts of your maps or plans are being known or disclosed
, it said.
Zalivin is a very big foolish man. For this I congratulate you.
With regards, KH
.

‘What do you make of that?' asked the ambassador.

Petrov read it again. Zalivin, big and foolish? He had a sudden sense that it might be a code—a reference, perhaps, to him.

‘I don't know,' he replied. ‘Do you know this KH?'

‘I have no idea,' said the ambassador. ‘I think it is an anti-Soviet letter. It concerns me. I think perhaps it is related to you.'

‘I don't know.'

‘Maps and plans. What does that mean?'

‘I would be guessing.'

‘It sounds like something to do with you. Things to do with your secret work.'

‘I doubt it,' he said. ‘The congratulations wouldn't make sense.'

‘You must take it as anti-Soviet. I think the sentence means to be ironic.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘More evidence of ineptitude.'

‘What?'

‘Maps and plans. I think your intrigues are a laughing stock, widely known.'

Petrov said nothing.

‘Tell me,' said the ambassador. ‘Who are the MVD's contacts in this country?'

‘Who says we have any?'

‘Let's not be rude.'

‘I won't tell you.'

‘You are trying again to be difficult. This is the function of you and your wife. Tell me who the contacts are. I may be a long time here. It is important that I know.'

‘You want me to help you?'

‘That's right.'

‘Yet you sack my wife and turn everyone against us.'

‘They turn against you by free will. Tell me the names. I can make things a step more difficult.'

‘I won't tell you. The MVD is not that cowed yet.'

The argument actually relaxed him, banishing thoughts of discovery. Generalov was staring. He had one hand splayed on the table and the other behind his back. An odd position, crooked and tilting forward.

‘That's all,' he said suddenly.

By the tone, Petrov knew the man was surprised. He had expected to win. He had expected Petrov to betray the names. He left the office feeling victorious. And the bastard's biggest surprise was yet to come.

He was sitting with Kislitsyn at the bar of the Kingston Hotel when he saw Michael Howley and another man come into the room. The Security men took seats on the far side of the bar and Petrov glanced at them while Kislitsyn spoke about an article he was reading on the Russification of Latvia. The two men were careful watching him, cautious about where they looked. His impulse was to join the two tables, introduce the rival services and get everyone a drink. When Kislitsyn went to the toilet, Howley gave a direct glance. Petrov acknowledged him, bought a bottle of wine from the bar, and when Kislitsyn returned he left. It was hot out, darkness coming.

Evdokia was in the lounge room with Masha, reading aloud a letter from Masha's daughter.

He opened the wine and drank.

‘I'm taking Jack for a walk,' he said.

He got the dog and lit a cigarette. He walked along Lockyer, saw the man at the wheel of a car, walked up Lefroy. When the car pulled alongside, he opened the back door and Jack leaped in.

They took Blaxland Street, crossed Captain Cook Crescent and then took La Perouse.

‘The outskirts,' said Petrov, joking.

‘That's right,' said Howley.

Jack's huge nose sniffing at their ears.

‘You're visiting Canberra?' said Petrov.

‘We're worried about you. We've taken a room at the Kingston, number eight.'

‘Close by.'

‘Yes.'

‘Who is the second man?'

‘That's Mr Carter.'

‘Carter should stay away. I want to be near you only.'

‘Alright.'

They turned onto Carnegie, a projected road, the dirt somewhat flattened and gravelly, shifting beneath the tyres.

‘How's our confidence?' asked Howley.

‘I've prepared things.'

‘That's good.'

‘Yes, but there is one problem.'

Petrov told him about Generalov's letter. He saw Howley stiffen.

‘Let's get you out now,' the man said. ‘I have the request for asylum and the money in the car.'

‘No, we wait for Sydney in one week.'

‘Are you sure you've told no one of your plans?'

‘Beckett. Yourself. The doctor.'

‘What about your wife?'

Jack's breath smelled of rot. Petrov didn't answer.

‘I'll drop you back,' said Howley.

‘Room eight,' said Petrov.

‘Yes. Ask for George.'

Stealing what didn't exist. He burned the paper sleeve marked 1952 and Evdokia signed the certificate of destruction. The real letters stayed in the strongbox. This is easy, he thought. This is something I should have done a long time ago.

He knew Evdokia was under increasing strain. She was running low of Australian pounds and he was buying all the basics.

There was another meeting of the Party. He sat there thinking,
This is the last Party meeting I'll ever attend
. Kovaliev put forth a motion commending the work of the Party women. The ambassador moved an amendment removing Evdokia from the list.

Howley met him at the corner of Blaxland and Frome, bugs and moths running derelict orbits around the street lamp. He gave the man his rifle. He wanted to bring the Remington across with him, to the other side of the curtain. He couldn't very well carry it on the plane to Sydney.

Three days to go.

Friday morning, he went to see Prudnikov about the phone.

‘Comrade Petrov,' the man said strangely. There was both worry and austerity in his face. ‘Last night a raid was conducted.'

‘A raid?'

‘Yes. The ambassador and I made a raid on the safes.'

He stood as still as possible, trying to ward away whatever was about to change.

‘In your safe we found documents that should not have been there,' said Prudnikov.

You are a failure. Whatever you do, you drag yourself further towards death.

‘Comrade,' Petrov whispered.

‘You should be more careful, Vladimir. You've committed a bad breach of regulations.'

‘Regulations?'

‘Yes. Generalov waits in his office.'

He hardly moved. ‘What documents are you speaking of, Comrade?'

Prudnikov shrugged. ‘Oh, some memorandum you rec-eived from the Australian Communist Party. Some cables you were writing that should not be kept in a consular safe.'

Consular safe. They had raided the downstairs office. The upstairs strongbox was untouched.

He went to the ground floor and to a bathroom and wiped his face, staring at himself in the mirror for a long time.

Generalov looked smug. ‘Comrade Petrov,' he said, ‘keeping secret files in the wrong places?'

‘An accident, Ambassador.'

‘I will have to report it to Moscow.'

‘Yes. Of course.'

‘You admit the charge?'

‘If you bring the charge, I will sign it.'

‘The penalties can be severe.'

‘I admit the charge. I am not afraid. I admit to charges when they are true.'

The man shrugged and Petrov left the room. He drove to the TAA office and collected the air ticket for Sydney. Kislitsyn approached him upon his return and they sat in his office, discussing the fallout of the raid.

Evdokia burst in. He saw in an instant how furious she was. It was the frustration of someone angered and then injured, a weakness shaking her voice.

‘Volodya,' she said. ‘Is it true?'