Triple (15 page)

TRIPLE

land, his grandmother as the Unions and himself as the People. Still the

boy did not understand. In a rage the father locked the boy in a wardrobe

in the parental bedroom. That night the boy was still in the wardrobe when

the father began to make love to the mother. The boy, watching through the

wardrobe keyhole, said, "Now I understandl The Party rapes the Motherland

while the Unions sleep and the People have to stand and sufferl"

Everybody roared with laughter. The tea4ady shook her head in mock

disgust. Rostov had heard the joke before.

When the committee went reluctantly back to work, it was the Party

Secretary's man who asked the crucial question. "If we refuse to give the

Egyptians the technical help they're asking for, will they still be able

to build the bomb?"

The KGB man who had presented the report said, "There is not enough

information to give a definite answer, sir. However, I have taken

background briefing from one of our scientists on this joint, and it

seems that to build a crude nuclear bomb is actually no more difficult,

technically, than to build a conventional bomb."

The Foreign Ministry man said, "I think we must assume that they will be

able to build it without our help, if perhaps more slowly."

"I can do my own guessing," the chairman said sharply.

"Of course," said the Foreign Ministry man, chastened.

The KGB man continued, "Their only serious problem would be to obtain a

supply of plutonium. Whether they have one or not, we simply do not

know."

David Rostov took in all this with great interest. In his opinion there

was only one decision the committee could possibly take. The chairman now

confirmed his view.

"My reading of the situation is as follows," he began. "If we help the

Egyptians build their bomb, we continue and strengthen our existing

Middle East policy, we improve our influence in Cairo, and we are in a

position to exert some control over the bomb. If we refuse to help, we

estrange ourselves from the Arabs, and we possibly leave a situation in

which they still have a bomb but we have no control over it.91

The Foreign Ministry man said, "In other words, if they're going to have

a bomb anyway, there had better be a Russian finger on the trigger."

Ken Folleff

The chairman threw him a look of irritation, and continued, "We might,

then,,recommend to the Secretariat as follows: the Egyptians should be

given technical help with their nuclear reactor project, such help always

to be structured with a view to Soviet personnel gaining ultimate control

of the weaponry."

Rostov permitted himself the ghost of a satisfied smile: it was the

conclusion he had expected.

The Foreign Ministry man said, "So move."

The KOB man said, "Seconded."

"All in favor?"

They were all in favor.

IMe committee proceeded to the next item on the agenda.

It was not until after the meeting that Rostov was struck by this

thought: if the Egyptians were in fact not able to build their bomb

unaided-for lack of uranium, for instance-then they had done a very

expert job'of bluffing the Russians into giving them the help they

needed.

Rostov liked his family, In small doses. Ihe advantage of his kind of job

was that by the time he got bored with them-and it was boring, living

with children--he was off on another trip abroad, and by the time he came

back he was missing them enough to put up with them for a few more

months. He was fond of YnrL the elder boy, despite his cheap mill ic and

contentious views about dissident poets; but Vladimir, the younger, was

the apple of his eye. As a baby Vladimir had been so pretty that people

thought he was a girl. From the start Rostov had taught the boy games of

logic, spoken to him in complex sentences, discussed with him the

geography of distant countries, the mechanics of engines, and the

workings of radios, flowers, water taps and political parties. He had

come to the top of every class he was put into-although now, Rostov

thought, he might find his equals at Phys-Mat No. 2.

Rostov knew he was trying to instill in his son some of the ambitions he

himself had failed to fulfill. Fortunately this meshed with the boy's own

inclinations: he knew he was clever, he liked being clever, and he wanted

to be a Great Man. The only thing he balked at was the work he had to do

for the Young Communist Izague: he thought this was a waste of time.

Rostov had often said, "Perhaps it is a waste

82

TRIPLE

of time, but you will never get anywhere in any field of endeavor unless

you also make progress in the Party. If you want to change the system,

you'll have to get to the top and change it from within." Vladimir

accepted this and went to the Young Communist League meetings: he had

inherited his father's unbending logic.

Ddving home through the rush-hour traffic, Rostov looked forward to a

dull, pleasant evening at home. The four of them would have dinner

together, then watch a television serial about heroic Russian spies

outwitting the CIA. He would have a glass of vodka before bed.

Rostov parked in the road outside his home. His building was occupied by

senior bureaucrats, about half of whom had small Russian-built cars like

his, but there were no garages. The apartments were spacious by Moscow

standards: Yuri and Vladimir had a bedroom each, and nobody had to sleep

in the living room.

There was a row going on when he entered his home. He heard Mariya's

voice raised in anger, the sound of something breaking, and a shout; then

he heard Yuri call his mother a foul name. Rostov flung open the kitchen

door and stood there, briefcase still in hand, face as black as thunder.

Mariya and Yuri confronted one another across the kitchen table; she was

in a rare rage and close to hysterical tears, he was full of ugly

adolescent resentment. Between them was Yuri's guitar, broken at the

neck. Mariya has smashed it, Rostov thought instantly; then, a moment

later: but this is not what the row is about.

They both appealed to him immediately.

"She broke my guitarl" Yuri said.

Mariya said, "He has brought disgrace upon the family with this decadent

music."

Then Yuri again called his mother the same foul name again.

Rostov dropped his briefcase, stepped forward and slapped the boy's face.

Yuri rocked backward with the force of the blow, and his cheeks reddened

with -pain and humiliation. The son was as tall as his father, and

broader: Rostov had not struck him like this since the boy became a man.

Yuri struck back immediately, his fist shooting out: if the blow had

connected it would have knocked Rostov cold. Rostov moved quickly

83

Kon Folleff

aside with the instincts of many years' training and, as gently as possible,

threw Yuri to the floor.

"Leave the house," he said quietly. 'rome back when you're ready to

apologize to your mother."

Yuri scrambled to his feet. "Neverl" he shouted. He went out, slamming the

door.

Rostov took off his hat and coat and sat down at the kitchen table. He

removed the broken guitar and set it carefully on the floor. Mariya poured

tea and gave it to him: his hand was shaking as he took the cup. Finally he

said, "What was that all about?"

"Vladimir failed the exam."

I'Vladimir? What has that to do with Yuri's guitar? What exam did he fail?"

"For the Phys-Mat. He was rejected."

Rostov stared at her dumbly.

Mariya said, "I was so upset, and Yuri laughed-he is a little jealous, you

know, of his younger brother-and then Yuri started playing this western

music, and I thought it could not be that Vladimir is not clever enough, it

must be that his family has not enough influence, perhaps we are considered

unreliable because of Yuri and his opinions and his music, I know this is

foolish, but I broke his guitar in the heat of the moment."

Rostov was no longer listening. Vladimir rejected? Impossible. The boy was

smarter than his teachers, much too smart for ordinary schools, they could

not handle him. The school fof exceptionally gifted children was the

Phys-Mat. Besides, the boy had said the examination was not difficult, he

thought he had scored one hundred percent, and he always knew how he had

done in examinations.

"Where's Vladimir?" Rostov asked his wife.

"In his room."

Rostov went along the corridor and knocked at the bedroom door. There was

no answer. He went in. Vladimir was sitting on the bed, staring at the

wall, his face red and streaked with tears.

Rostov said, "What did you score In that exam?"

Vladimir looked up at his father, his face a mask of childish

incomprehension. "One hundred percent,' he said. He handed over a sheaf of

papers. "I remember the questiOns. I remember my answers. I've checked them

all twice:

84

TRIPLE

no mistakes. And I left the examination room five minutes before the time

was up."

Rostov turned to leave.

"Don!t you believe me?"

"Yes, of course I do," Rostov told him. He went into the living room,

wherethe phone was. He called the school. The head teacher was still at

work.

"Vladimir got full marks in that test," Rostov said.

1he head teacher spoke soothingly. "I'm sorry, Comrade Colonel. Many very

talented youngsters apply for places

"Did they all get one hundred percent in the exam?"

-rm afraid I can't divulge----~"

"You know who I am," Rostov -said bluntly. "You know I can find out."

"Comrade Colonel, I like you and I want to have your son in my school.

Please don't make trouble for yourself by creating a storm about this.

If your son would apply again in one year's time, he would have an

excellent chance of gaining a place."

People did not warn KGB officers against making trouble for themselves.

Rostov began to understand. "But he did score full marks."

"Several applicants scored full marks in the written paper----?9

lqbank you," Rostov said. He bung up.

The living room was dark, but he did not put the lights on. He sat in his

armchair, thinking. The head teacher could easily have told him that all

the applicants had scored full marks; but lies did not come easily to

people on the spur of the moment, evasions were easier. However, to

question the results would create trouble for Rostov.

So. Strings had been pulled. Less talented youngsters had gained places

because their fathers had used more influence. Rostov refused to be

angry. Don7t get mad at the system, he told himself: use it.

He had some strings of his own to pull.

He picked up the phone and called his boss, Feliks Vorontsov, at home.

Feliks sounded a little odd, but Rostov ignored it. "Listen, Feliks, my

son has been turned down for the Phys-Mat."

85

Ken FoReff

"I'm sorry to hear that," Vorontsov said. "Still, not everybody can get

in."

It was not the expected response. Now Rostov paid attention to Vorontsov's.

tone of voice. "What makes you say that?"

"My son was accepted. 91

Rostov was silent for a moment. He had not known that Feliks' son had even

applied. The boy was smart, but not half as clever as Vladimir. Rostov

pulled himself together. "Then let me be the first to congratulate you."

"Thank you," Feliks said awkwardly. "What did you call about, though?"

"Oh ... look, I won't interrupt your celebration. It will keep until

morning."

"An right. Goodbye."

Rostov hung up and put the phone gently down on the floor. If the son of

some bureaucrat or politico had got into the school because of

string-pulling, Rostov could have fought it: everyone's file had something

nasty in it. The only kind of person he could not fight was a more senior

KGB man. There was no way he could overturn this year's awards of places.

So, Vladimir would apply again next year. But the same thing could happen

again. Somehow, by this time next year, he had to get into a position where

the Vorontsovs. of this world could not nudge him aside. Next year he would

handle the whole thing differently. He would call on the head teacher's KOB

file, for a start. He would get the complete list of applicants and work on

any who might be a threat. He would have phones tapped and mail opened to

find out who was putting on the pressure.

But first he had to get into a position of strength. And now he realized

that his complacency about his career so far had been erroneous. If they

could do this to him, his star must be fading fast.

That coup which he was so casually scheduling for some time in the next two

or three years had to be brought forward.

He sat In the dark living room, planning his first moves.

Mariya came in after a while and ' sat beside him, not

speaking. She brought him food on a tray and asked him if

86