'It's not for my health's sake, you know!'
'Sorry, sir,' Maxim said, just able to resist glancing at his companion.
'You have to be undertaking an ordinary investigation — understand? You have to convince everyone that you're doing a police job because Captain Vrubel has been murdered. His mistress reported his disappearance…' He lowered his eyes for a moment. The name filed on the official notification to Missing Persons was that of his wife — her maiden and professional name. But it had to be good — because he did not know who might engage himself in checking the checkers.
His own excitement had long since drained away as he set up the two-pronged investigation — Maxim and Ilya to Finland, himself to the Far East. Kapustin had agreed that the action of the Separatist Movement in Khabarovsk was unexpected, even suspicious. And had consented to his personal investigation of the bombings, together with a team from the SID who would study the forensic realities. Vorontsyev's target was Ossipov, and military truth.
Because he had been able to convince Kapustin, and presumably Andropov himself, that Ossipov had to be perhaps the most important single link in a chain that they could not see. Not only had he bobbed up, a cork of suspicion, but the death of the whole KGB team was too fortuitous to be accidental.
He had slept little, his mind turning like his stomach with rising nerves. He said, for perhaps the third time since they had arrived at Cheremetievo, 'We dare not trigger the thing we're trying to prevent.' He knew they regarded his sombre face as that of a rather boring uncle, intent on restraint, on dampening youthful spirits. He felt the necessity to communicate to them, and the difficulty of doing so. They were being entrusted with an investigation he would have handled himself; and they understood the gravity, the weight. But they did not feel it as he did.
'We'll be careful, Major,' Ilya said. 'We know what's at stake.'
'Good. Just Vrubel, then. Arouse as little suspicion as possible. But act normally, please! You are in SID, and that should frighten people. Don't be too low-key.'
'No, Major.'
He gave it up. It was like rehearsing children in a lesson. Parrot-fashion they repeated what he taught them, but they did not understand. He was filled with sudden foreboding.
They sat in silence for the few remaining minutes, then their Leningrad flight was called, and he stood up with them, and they shook hands. He was despondent as he watched them move away down the tunnel towards the plane. He was afraid that they would miss something, something important. He should have gone himself.
He got himself another coffee from the machine, winced at its acrid taste, and lit a cigarette. He picked Pravda from the plastic bench, and scanned the inside pages. The official story of the explosions in Khabarovsk was to lay the blame where it had been claimed by telephone — the Separatists.
He folded the paper, and tossed it aside.
Kapustin had not been willing to be rushed into a premature judgement. He had not shared Vorontsyev's moment of inspiration when Ilya had repeated the telephone message. Kapustin, and Andropov saw the wider picture — which was largely grey, unformed. Kapustin wanted to know why Ossipov was involved, and he could not tell him. He could not even imagine a plausible explanation. Instead he clung to the fact that Ossipov had needed a double, to avoid surveillance. To meet someone, receive orders.
Another unit of the SID had begun to investigate the Moscow Military District hierarchy. The excuse was a trumped-up bribery charge against senior officers — or was it misappropriation of military equipment? He could not remember. But he was certain they would discover nothing that related to Group 1917. Again, he felt an urgency envelope him, choking yet electric, spasms to his muscles and brain, urging activity.
He looked up, and Natalie was standing beside him. So unexpected was her appearance, he was disorientated for a moment. It was from the past, the scene, especially the careful smile, and her arrival was apposite.
Then he said, 'What in hell's name are you doing here?'
Once more he was conscious of the way in which her smile flickered like something working from an interrupted current, then re-established itself. She was determined not to be angered, or put off. He wondered whether that was what penitence was like.
'I came to see you,' she said. 'You didn't ring.'
He was suddenly suspicious.
'How did you know I was here?'
'Mihail Pyotravich told me.'
'Told you — when?'
'Don't interrogate me!' she flashed, and the revelation of her known temper convinced him there was no need for suspicion.
'He doesn't know I'm here,' he said, as if relenting, but falling into that sullen, pouting mood and expression she so detested.
She smoothed her features before he could react to her look, and said, 'He was with — oh, Kapustin, I think, early this morning. He told him.'
'Oh. Well?'
'I'm coming with you — I have a few days before we begin rehearsals for Cosi — Mihail told me, I think, so that I could think of it… If I hadn't, I'm sure he'd have suggested it!' She laughed. It was false, winsome in a play-acting way. But her laughter was one of the things most unnatural about her.
'I'm working!' he snapped, but he sensed his own powerlessness; like the beginnings of a head-cold. She confused his thinking, somehow — overshadowed him. It wasn't sinister — rather he had drawn comfort from it, at one time. Something to do with his childhood, he assumed. Need to be dominated — mother-fixation…
'What the hell—?' he said, aloud. Her face narrowed, then he added, 'All right. Sit down — but don't get in the way!'
'Very well, Alexei — certainly, Alexei!' she chorused, mimicking her pretence of subordination, of dutiful wifehood, from the early days. He could not prevent the smile, even though he almost choked on the sudden sense of loneliness memory brought him; and despised, for an instant, the dependence he was demonstrating.
She moved the small leather travelling-case to her side, smoothed the long leather coat beneath her, and crossed her long, booted legs. She was desirable, even now, he thought. Yet he said, 'Just don't interfere when I'm working, that's all.'
'I won't. But you won't be working all the time, will you? We will have time to — discuss things?' He would not admit the suggestiveness of her tone.
'I suppose so.'
It was with relief that he saw the approaching figure of Blinn, the Deputy Senior Forensic Officer of the SID; tall, gangling, hang-dog. He looked like that American film actor — what was it? Matthau. Walter Matthau. Yes. He had seen him in a film, a couple of years ago, at the Dom Kino, by virtue of his privileged rank. Behind Blinn were two others. Then minutes before their flight was called. His thoughts turned to Khabarovsk, and seven dead men.
Already — and it was the shortness of the time that terrified him — Folley was finding it increasingly difficult to retain any firm hold on experience. Even though he had not been beaten again since his arrival at the house where they were now keeping him, he was blindfolded, his ears filled with wax, thick gloves on his hands. He was kept in a cellar, he imagined, because he climbed steps when they wanted to talk to him. Already, he was grabbing the stuff of their coats — uniforms, he thought — when they took him, leaning against them, trying to make them talk to him.
He had done the things they had done to him — undergone the white noise, the spreadeagling, the lack of sleep, the hooding. He should — was — able to withstand it. They were only the techniques used on Proves, in the earlier stages of interrogation, and he had been trained to take them — easy ride, they called it in 22 SAS.