The Company of Saints (12 page)

‘Venice?' she cut in.

‘We don't see a connection,' was the curt reply.

‘Well I do,' she answered. ‘And maybe you should look very closely into this Hélène Blond.'

The listener curled his narrow mouth into a sneer. He was not going to be told what to do. ‘We have,' he said. ‘Her story checks out. She is not a suspect.'

‘If there are any developments,' Davina said, ‘will you keep us posted?'

‘Of course,' he answered. ‘I see no reason to expect a third assassination.'

‘I believe there will be,' she said. ‘And it could be we're next on the list.'

‘You think there is a list?'

‘I'm certain of it.'

‘I don't agree.'

‘You don't have to,' she retorted. ‘You've had your turn.' She rang off.

The President hadn't attended the weekly Politburo meetings for over two months. His colleagues were surprised to see the papers and the carafe of vodka in place at the head of the table. Borisov knew he was coming down from his apartment on the top floor of the Kremlin. He knew because he had already been up to see him, long before the others were setting out in the motorcade that swept through the traffic in the centre lane of Moscow's highways. Zerkhov looked better than usual: his face had a healthy pink tinge and his hooded eyes were bright under their heavy lids. Borisov knew that the colour was skilfully applied, and the brightness due to eye drops. The doctors had spent the early morning upstairs, checking and giving a last-minute injection to stimulate the faltering heart. They stood up to welcome him, the eleven most powerful men in the vast Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, men responsible for every facet of life within the borders of an empire that stretched from the Caspian to the North Atlantic, and from Europe to the mountains of Afghanistan. Education, Communication, Internal Affairs, the Army, the Navy, the Soviet Air Force, Agriculture – always a festering sore in the Russian economy – Foreign Affairs – particularly important in the nuclear age – and the most vital of all, the Director of State Security, Igor Borisov.

It amused Zerkhov to look round at his colleagues and make them uneasy. Which ones were plotting to take power as soon as he was dead? He knew their names. Which were the hard-liners who had kept very quiet since the death of their spokesman, Rudzenko, the year before? A stroke, the official story called it. Zerkhov knew better. His protégé Igor had a versatile medical team who worked for the KGB. They could simulate anything with drugs these days. The disciples of neo-Stalinism had said very little since Rudzenko died. What a magnificent funeral he had been given. The obedient crowds had lined the streets to honour what
Pravda
called a champion of Soviet Communism. A narrow fanatic, bigoted and lusting for conflict. Borisov had killed him because, whatever happened, Zerkhov wasn't going to let Russia fall into the hands of men like him again.

There were three men in particular who worried Zerkhov. His old friend and colleague Nikolaev, Soviet Foreign Minister, a bulwark of the Russian Establishment, a survivor who had trimmed to the winds of Stalin and Khrushchev. But in his heart he flew the colours of repression and eventual nuclear war at the masthead. A powerful, clever, experienced politician who had a hunger for power. He had been a Rudzenko man. And then there was Marshal Alexander Yemetovsky, who controlled the Army. Tall, imposing and built like a tank. He had risen through the Great Patriotic War, performing acts of great daring behind the German lines, graduating to command and then to the General Staff. A brilliant young man – almost too brilliant, for Stalin's paranoia had singled him out as a potential rival. Once the war was won, the marshals and generals were pushed out of the limelight. There was no room for more than one hero in Soviet Russia. Luckily for Yemetovsky, Stalin had died before he had ordered his removal. Like all soldiers, Yemetovsky was not a man who saw peace as a solution. The massive arms build-up which was draining the Soviet economy was his guarantee of Russia's final victory over the West. To Zerkhov it was her guarantee of safety from attack. Yemetovsky and Nikolaev. And Mishkoyan, a cunning Armenian, greedy for power, a merciless persecutor of dissidents and Jews. These three could strike at Borisov, together or singly, and win the power struggle.

Listening to the Ministers' reports, item after item on the agenda, Zerkhov's thoughts drifted away. He had lived long, fought hard for his power, and served his country well. He didn't mind dying. His body was tired, and the cold he had caught at Rudzenko's funeral in Red Square had made a home in his lungs. There would be another more magnificent procession through the Moscow streets before the summer ended. Borisov would stand among the mourners around the coffin. Zerkhov knew that dead men took their influence to the grave with them. Igor would have to fight the final battle for himself.

The Soviet Foreign Minister was going to visit the President of East Germany. From there he would make a trip to Poland. Zerkhov listened to the discussion about how hard the Polish military government should be pressured. He interrupted, and immediately the rest were silent. ‘We are waging a propaganda war against the defence systems of the Nato Alliance and the Western world,' he said. ‘And for the moment we're winning that war. The controversy over nuclear deterrents has pushed the Polish question off centre stage. We don't want to bring it back.'

‘The West has accepted the situation there,' Foreign Minister Nikolaev pointed out. ‘They made a lot of noise, as they did when we took action against Afghanistan. They were never going to help Poland.'

‘Afghanistan is different,' Zerkhov grunted impatiently. ‘Nobody cares what happens to a pack of brigands. But the Poles are a very sensitive issue. Not least because of the Pope.'

There was a murmur round the table. Some glanced furtively at Borisov. Had he instigated that attempt? Was it a KGB failure? Nobody had ever put the question. Only Zerkhov knew if the rumours were true, and he had imposed a silence on the subject.

‘I shall impress the general with our views,' the Foreign Minister said, ‘but the visit can be cut short if necessary. That will minimize its importance. I need only spend a day and a night in Warsaw after I leave East Berlin.'

Zerkhov smiled slowly. ‘Just long enough to threaten a little,' he said, and they all laughed. ‘He's a good man – he's got the situation well under control. You'd know best about that, Comrade Borisov?'

‘The activists are still in custody,' Borisov said. ‘And the sting has been taken out of Walesa. He knows if he steps over the limit he will be removed from public activity again. I think we can feel confident about Poland now. On our advice they made no martyrs, and a revolt can't sustain itself without them.'

Zerkhov turned to the Foreign Minister. ‘You leave on the 21st – the week before the visit of Chancellor Hauser to London. Comrade Mailsky –'

The man in charge of Internal and External Information said, ‘Yes, Comrade?'

Deferential, but not genuine, the old man knew. Too soft rather than too hard. That would be equally dangerous for the future.

‘I think we should make a gesture that will embarrass Bonn,' Zerkhov suggested. ‘A speech in Berlin – a call for reduction in American arms in Europe, specifically the Cruise missile deployment in West Germany. We can imply that our S20s will be reduced.' There was a mutter of agreement.

Marshal Yemetovsky said, watching his civilian colleagues, ‘But without making any commitment.'

‘You don't have to worry, my friend,' Zerkhov said. ‘We want them to disarm. We aren't going to make that mistake ourselves. You'll have your missiles.'

He reached out and poured the vodka. Just a little, not enough to make him sleepy. He sipped it slowly. Another half an hour – he didn't want to cut the meeting short. He saw Borisov watching him. He trusted the man; in his way he loved him. Borisov was no fanatic, no Savonarola preaching the purity of ideas and baptizing in blood. He was a realist, a pragmatist, a man in touch with the modern world. He had learned English and he spoke very good French and German. He was young and strong. He could rule Russia for twenty years or more, and bring her safely through the coming power struggle with the rest of the world. The massive machinery of Soviet government would function by itself for quite a time. Nothing could be changed quickly, but changes must come.

The half an hour was up. He gave a signal to Borisov, who stood up, and within a few minutes the meeting ended. Zerkhov walked to the door and managed not to stumble until it was closed behind him. The nurse waiting outside took his arm, and the stalwart young soldier who shadowed him everywhere supported him. They had a collapsible wheelchair waiting, and he was lowered gently into it, and taken upstairs in the lift.

After the meeting Borisov returned to his own office in the Lubyanka building on Dzerzhinsky Square. He didn't try to concentrate on work immediately. He called for a glass of tea. Zerkhov was facing death like a lion – his only concern was for his country. Borisov would weep for Zerkhov, who had been more of a father than his natural one. And, like a father, he had willed him his vast inheritance. But Borisov would need time to scatter his rivals, and to gather allies before the vital election took place in the Kremlin. The leader was always elected. But the days when the votes came out of a gun barrel were gone. Now it was the man who could muster support with promises of power-sharing who won. Borisov would have to deal in ministries and promotions before he could defeat his opponents. Russia was civilized now, as Zerkhov had remarked; nobody was shot for disagreeing. We have become bureaucrats, he told Borisov. Men in serge suits, with ties and pocket handkerchiefs. Nobody wears the Stalin tunic any more. But there were those who would like to, and he told him again who he thought these men were.

Borisov pressed his buzzer. He had a male secretary now. Once, there had been a girl. A girl with gold hair and a skin that was smooth as silk. For a long time after her death he imagined that he saw her shadow pass along the corridor or even heard the quick tapping of her heels outside his door. He had loved her, and she had betrayed him. The man who answered his call had held her down while another poured vodka and barbiturates down her throat. ‘Alexei,' Borisov said, ‘I want to talk to you. Sit down.'

Alexei did as he was told. Sometimes, in spite of his loyalty and efficiency, Borisov disliked him for behaving like a robot. The girl had smelt of apple blossom, a scent he gave her when they became lovers. He put her out of mind.

‘Comrade Nikolaev is going to East Berlin on the 21st. I want you to make the arrangements for his safety. He is also paying a visit to Poland, just for a day and a night.' Borisov reached out for a cigarette; the lighter was in Alexei's hand a second later. ‘I want a special detachment to look after him,' he went on. ‘Maximum coverage wherever he goes.'

‘What about his regular protection, Comrade?' Alexei's eyes never quite held the gaze of his superior. But he was a faultless killing machine, as well as a most efficient secretary, trained in all the skills. I wish I could like him, Borisov thought suddenly. I can trust him as I can't trust any other person, but I'm uncomfortable having him near me for long.… ‘You have my authority to replace them,' was the answer he gave. The bodyguards for all the members of the Politburo were provided by the KGB. Only the President had his personal squad, his Preobrazhensky Guard, as Borisov privately called them, remembering the guardians of the tsars. ‘No criticism is intended, make that clear to Colonel Varvov. But after what happened in France, we can't take any risks.' He drew hard on his cigarette.

‘They haven't caught anyone then?'

‘No,' Borisov said quietly. ‘And I don't think they will. Make the arrangements, Alexei. Pick your men.'

She knew that Humphrey had something unpleasant to say as soon as he came into the office. He had an unctuous expression on his lugubrious face, and a gleam of malice in the eye. Davina was on the telephone. She said, ‘Sit down, I won't be a minute,' and went on talking. By the time she had finished her conversation and turned to him with a friendly smile, he looked less self-satisfied.

‘Sorry to disturb you,' he said, ‘but I thought I might as well tell you what I've discovered about that other business.'

‘What business?' she asked him. She knew very well.

‘Your personal business,' he said acidly. ‘The inquiries you asked me to make.'

‘So I did,' Davina said. ‘With all the fuss going on before Hauser's visit, I forgot all about it.' The lie didn't deceive him. He saw the nervous reaction when she reached for a cigarette. For some months she'd stopped that revolting habit. If it was due to the lover's influence, that was one good thing Humphrey could say about him. The only good thing. He leaned forward and put a thin file on her desk. ‘There's not much new in it,' he said, ‘except the parts I've underlined. I hope it'll be a help.'

It didn't take long to read. She didn't linger over the passage Humphrey had scored for her attention in green ink. She could study that later. It was concerned with money. Large sums of money. ‘Thanks, Humphrey,' she said.

He didn't get up and leave. He wasn't going to let her slide out of it. He had a homosexual lover, and she was bedding down with a crook. ‘He's put himself in a very vulnerable position, I'm afraid.'

‘It looks like it,' she agreed. She felt numb for the moment. She wanted to get rid of him before the numbness turned to pain.

‘What a stupid, dangerous thing to do,' Humphrey persisted. ‘He must have been mad to take such a risk.'

‘If you started rooting round the private transactions of half the heads of corporations in this country, you'd find they had all sailed close to the wind at some point in their career.' She got up – it was the only way to dismiss him.