Natasha's Dream (18 page)

God Almighty, was that coffin for Natasha?

He asked Herr Fredric if the Soviet Embassy had supplied the name of the deceased person.

Herr Fredric referred to a file. He nodded. The name, he said, was Vasily Borovitch Bukov.

That meant nothing to Mr Gibson, apart from the fact that it relieved him of the worst of his immediate worries.

It had been three days since a member of the Soviet Embassy staff had taken over the hearse?

Yes, and he had been accompanied by another man.

Where was the hearse going? What was its destination? Did Herr Fredric know?

Herr Fredric did. ‘Ekaterinburg,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘It’s in the Russian Urals,’ said Herr Fredric gently.

‘Yes, I think we’ve all heard of Ekaterinburg,’ said Mr Gibson.

‘I imagine a Soviet citizen here, a member
of their embassy staff, perhaps, has died and is being taken back to his birthplace for burial.’

‘To Ekaterinburg?’ Mr Gibson’s thoughts chased each other in a disorganized rush. ‘Are you sure? It must be all of two thousand miles away, a round trip of four thousand, and more likely to take three weeks, not two.’

‘The coffin is being transferred at Warsaw, from where our hearse will be driven back to us.’

And what, thought Mr Gibson, would be in the transferred coffin? The body of a man called Bukov, or the body of Natasha? Would she have been murdered by the time Warsaw was reached? But if she was to be murdered, why take her out of Berlin? Hans had said she was in the hearse when it drove off, and that there were wreaths on the coffin. The coffin contained the body of Bukov, whoever he was? But if there was official clearance from the Soviet Embassy, the coffin could be put on a train, the usual thing to do when such a long journey was involved. It seemed, however, that it was to be carried to Warsaw in the hearse, and then transferred to another. And for some extraordinary reason, Natasha was required to accompany it? She had said the Bolsheviks had
been after her for years. But Ekaterinburg? That was the destination? What had that infamous town to do with Natasha? God in heaven, was it
her
birthplace? Had she been living there when the Russian Imperial family and her own family were murdered? She always refused to say where she came from. She said she could not talk about it without suffering pain.

The hearse had been in the hands of that Bolshevik commissar for three days. Clearly, he had been keeping an eye on Natasha, waiting for an opportunity to pick her up, an opportunity he had been afforded this morning. But what part would the hearse have played if there had been no opportunity at all? According to what Hans had said, Natasha showed no resistance, only a look of distress. But Mr Gibson could not believe she had gone willingly. What he did believe was that the hearse had begun its journey to Warsaw.

He thanked Herr Fredric Schmidt for being so helpful and forthcoming, and departed in a hurry. Hans was waiting for him in the car. He slid in, and Hans saw his worried expression.

‘It is bad news, Herr Gibson?’ he said.

‘I hope not, Hans. How far from Berlin is Warsaw?’

‘About five hundred kilometres,’ said Hans.

‘That’s about three hundred miles,’ said Mr Gibson, and knew that if he was to do something for Natasha he had not a moment to lose. ‘Hans, show me the way to the nearest motor garage. I must have the car filled with petrol.’

‘Yes, mein Herr.’ Hans, born to be a businessman of efficiency, did not take long to bring Mr Gibson to a garage.

While the tank was being filled, Mr Gibson asked Hans if there was a shop nearby where a map of Poland could be purchased. Hans was out of the car at once, his club foot swinging rapidly as he dodged in and out of traffic. He was back quite quickly, with a map of post-war Poland that included the border areas of Germany and Soviet Russia. Berlin was on the western side of the map.

‘Thank you, Hans, you will have a fine future,’ said Mr Gibson. Having paid for the petrol, he found a generous amount of money for the boy. Hans gasped.

‘Mein Herr, you have given me too much.’

‘I have only given you what you have earned, my young friend. I must say goodbye now. I shall see you again one day, I hope.’

Hans watched him drive away, seeking the
road to Frankfurt-on-Oder and the Polish border. Whatever the cause of his worry, the boy wished him luck.

Someone had rung the apartment bell not long after Mr Gibson’s departure that morning. Natasha refused to answer it, to go anywhere near the door.

‘What is this?’ the dour-faced porter said a few minutes later.

‘Money,’ said a man with a scarred face and hard grey eyes. Another man, with pale eyes, stood unblinking at his elbow. The porter stared at the crisp new banknotes being offered to him.

‘What for?’ he asked.

‘For the loan of the key to apartment number twenty-nine.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said the porter.

‘Of course you can.’ The accented German of the man was thick but firm. ‘My niece is in that apartment, living in sin with the occupant after running away from home.’ The hard grey eyes regarded the porter impassively. ‘I need the key, for she’s there, but won’t open the door to me. But no one need know you helped me. One can always say that she did open the door.’

‘It’s against all the rules,’ said the porter.

‘There are always times when rules can be broken with a clear conscience. I wish to save my niece from ruining her life. Your rules are not more important than that. I would prefer you not to argue about it. Here is the money, more than you earn in a month, probably. Take it and let me have the key. It will be returned to you.’

The porter, unnerved by the cold eyes, crumbled. Silently, he produced a bunch of keys. He released one and handed it over. He took the money. After all, if he was asked questions, he could always say what he had been advised to say, that the young woman must have admitted her caller.

Natasha, busy in the living room, heard the sound of the apartment door being opened. That meant Mr Gibson was back sooner than she expected, much sooner. Much sooner? She ran out into the lobby. There were two men. One was just closing the door. The other, in a belted black raincoat and dark hat, was the man who had given her many nightmares. She turned white and stood rigid.

‘It has been a long time,’ said Commissar Vasily Bukov, ‘much longer than I anticipated.
It would be better for you not to scream. Just put your hat and coat on, and come with us.’

The other man hustled her back into the living room, then stood watching her as she faced up to Bukov. With the unbearable memories reawakening, Natasha felt a surge of such fierce hatred that fire scorched her fear.

In a low, vibrating voice, she said, ‘I have known many people, and among them have been the evil and the cruel. But not one, not one, was as evil and cruel as you. Even a man who murders a widow for her purse would spit on you. Even Satan would stand apart from you. Even your own mother could not bear to have you in her house or acknowledge you as her son.’

The dispassionate expression of the swarthy commissar did not change, but a little redness entered his eyes.

‘It is over for you,’ he said. ‘It is also over for me. We both have an appointment to keep in Ekaterinburg. Put your hat and coat on.’ He nodded at his companion, who left the apartment.

‘I will not put my hat and coat on,’ said Natasha. ‘Nor will I go with you. You will have to kill me first.’

Commissar Bukov smiled mirthlessly. ‘I have not come to kill you,’ he said.

‘You have come to poison this place,’ said Natasha fiercely. ‘Wherever you go, you leave your poison. Murderer, torturer, assassin, slayer of children, how are you able to show yourself in the light of day when you belong to the pit of darkness? What is your latest count of innocent children? How many have you murdered today, how many yesterday? And why do you murder them? Is it to drink their blood?’

The commissar, hands in his coat pockets, looked disappointed in her.

‘You were a child yourself, an obstinate and stupid one, on a certain occasion,’ he said. ‘I did not expect to find you still a child. Obstinacy and stupidity, these are common to many of us, even in our maturity, but most of us put away childishness. I find your infantile remarks irritating. I expected better of you after all these years.’

‘What right has an evil man to expect other people to improve on their faults?’ said Natasha, stiff, tense and pale.

‘You and I have an appointment to keep. I tell you again, put your hat and coat on. The weather is cold.’

‘Never, never. How did you get in? Who gave you a key?’

‘I have many keys. One fitted.’

‘Go – go, do you hear?’ Natasha hid her desperation under anger. ‘I would rather walk with the devil than with you. And my friend will be back soon.’

‘I shall be ready for him.’ The commissar’s mirthless smile appeared again. ‘He is your loving friend?’

‘He is a man.’ It was a proud, defiant statement. ‘He is a man as you are not.’

‘Very well. We’ll wait for him.’ Vasily Bukov extracted a German revolver from his raincoat pocket.

‘I am to be killed in front of his eyes?’ said Natasha, her blood running cold.

‘I repeat, I have not come for that,’ said Bukov. ‘But, as you know, I am quite capable of killing your friend. Quietly.’ He fitted a silencer to the revolver, turning it into a long and wicked-looking weapon of death.

Natasha’s face became white and stricken. ‘Yes, you are very capable,’ she said, ‘and at this moment you need to kill someone. It will give you pleasure. You Bolsheviks have wallowed in the blood of Russians. You have murdered
millions, and are murdering still more. Nor do you care that you are despised by the free peoples of the world. If I were waiting here for an innocent child instead of my friend, you would slay it without even a single sigh.’

‘The workers’ revolution cannot afford sighs. Sit down, Natasha Petrovna, and we’ll wait, both of us, for your friend who you say is a man.’

Natasha darted for the kitchen, for a chance to reach it and slam the door on him, and then to break the window of the dining recess and scream to the street below. But Commissar Bukov caught her at the door. He caught her by the arm and swung her round. He threw her on to the sofa.

‘Animal!’ panted Natasha.

He thrust the revolver at her, and the snout of the silencer bit into her shoulder. The red was in his eyes again, and Natasha knew he wanted to kill her. He was livid in his hatred of all those who would not lick the jackboots of Russia’s commissars. But because he did not pull the trigger of his revolver, even though she was sure he wanted to, the thought flashed into her mind that something stood between him and his maniacal desire to put her to death. He had said he had not come to kill her. That
it would happen somewhere else, she had no doubt. That it would not happen here and now was plain in her mind. She must not leave the apartment with him, she must keep him here until Mr Gibson returned—

No! He would kill Mr Gibson. Dear God, help me.

‘As soon as my comrade returns,’ said Bukov, the red light receding, ‘you will come with us. If not, your friend will lose his life and you will be carried out of here unconscious. My comrade has his own way of inflicting senselessness on stupid people. Don’t you think it a less selfish and more charitable thing to do, to come quietly with us, and so save the life of your friend? Or is your love for him a careless and indifferent love?’

Her dark-blue eyes filled with anguish and torment. ‘To hear such an animal as you speak of love is to listen to the unbelievable,’ she whispered.

‘You are still as stupidly obstinate as you were seven years ago,’ he said, ‘and you will bring death to your loving friend as surely as you brought it to your family.’

Her tormented soul cried out. The pain was searing and unbearable. ‘To do that,’ she
gasped, ‘to put my family to death – that was cruelty at its most evil.’

‘Such things were either necessary or unavoidable. The Revolution triumphed. What pity are you showing at the moment? You are content to watch your friend die, it seems. And what good will that do? We shall take you, in any case. I should have preferred you to leave quietly with us—’ He broke off at the sound of the apartment door being opened again. He clapped a hard hand over Natasha’s mouth. She wrenched and clawed at his wrist. His comrade came in, as wooden-faced as ever. He was wearing a long black coat and a black hat.

‘It’s outside,’ he said. The language being spoken was Russian.

‘We have to wait,’ said Bukov. ‘We are up against—’

‘I will come,’ said Natasha. ‘Where are you taking me, where am I to be executed?’

‘I told you, you and I have an appointment to keep. In Ekaterinburg. Put your hat and coat on.’

She did so. Her anguish was worse than it had been yesterday, when Count Orlov was threatening to have her locked away in an asylum. Mr Gibson would come back to an
empty apartment. She would be gone, she would never see him again, and he would wonder why she had gone, not knowing it was to save his life, not knowing how passionately she loved him.

‘Will you allow me to write my friend a note?’ she asked quietly.

‘No. Wait. Pack some of your clothes. Then simply write one word. Goodbye. Quickly.’

She packed some of her clothes. She had no luggage case, so she used a large shopping bag. On a piece of paper, she wrote the word ‘Goodbye.’ But she signed it, ‘With all my love, Natasha Petrovna.’ She left it on the living-room mantelpiece.

The note and her taking of some clothes might have made Mr Gibson think she had acted on her own initiative. That occurred to her, as it had already occurred to Bukov. But Mr Gibson, in his quick, worried search of the apartment, did not see the note, and nor did he go painstakingly through the clothes in a careful check of them. He saw what were there, in her wardrobe, and hurriedly concluded she had taken nothing except what she was wearing.

But there was Hans. From inside a doorway a little way down on the other side of the street,
the boy saw the two men come out of the block, with Natasha between them. Her bulging shopping bag was under the arm of the pale-eyed man. Hans involuntarily waved to Natasha, but Natasha was unseeing of everything except what was in her mind. She entered the hearse with Bukov and his comrade, sitting between them, and Hans watched the hearse move off with a wondering look on his face.