A trowel was handed to him, to make the token gesture, which he did and then moved away from the graveside. Chebrikov was already ahead, striding more quickly now, and Yuri accepted that the chairman’s presence had been as symbolic as that of the others and that there was to be no conversation between them, not even an empty phrase of sympathy. As he followed, Yuri supposed he would have to consider a headstone. He decided at once against anything as ostentatious as the majority of the monuments. For the first time he realized his father had been buried separately from his mother. When she’d died, the man had not occupied such an exalted position, he guessed: so she hadn’t qualified for a place in Novodevichy. Where, he wondered, was her resting place? So much he didn’t know; would never know.
‘You are to remain in Moscow for a few days?’
Yuri turned at the question, startled to find himself addressed by Kazin. Despite the cold and the continuing sleet, the man’s face had a glisten of perspiration. ‘I am being allowed to settle my father’s affairs, Comrade First Deputy,’ he said with strained politeness. Less than a metre separated them, Yuri judged: irrationally he wondered if he could reach out and throttle the other man before there could be any intervention. Yuri gripped and ungripped his hands, annoyed at the reflection: he was thinking like the plots in those absurd adventure series on American television.
‘Quite so,’ said the Directorate chief, as if he already knew. ‘Before you return to America I want a meeting between us.’
The fear that Yuri had experienced at the grave engulfed him again, worse this time. It would be wrong for him to ask the reason, he realized. ‘When, Comrade First Deputy?’
‘Tomorrow,’ decided Kazin. ‘Make yourself available at three.’ The man turned after the peremptory demand but almost at once looked back. ‘Precisely at three,’ he bullied. As he continued towards his car, Kazin thought that absolute power was like an aphrodisiac. Better than an aphrodisiac, in fact.
Yuri watched the man get into his car, conscious that he had an advantage in the warning from his father of which Kazin was unaware. It was a fleeting attempt at self-assurance. What good was the warning to him now, Yuri asked himself. He was quite exposed: quite exposed and helpless.
Yevgennie Levin wrote carefully and in as much detail as he felt was possible. Anything from the debriefing was obviously precluded but there was a lot from the outing through the Connecticut countryside. He did not identify any township by name, of course. He referred to Litchfield simply as an historic place, although he described the rooftop vantage points (‘to watch the sea where there is no sea’) and talked about the strange defoliation (‘like the horrific pictures that came from Vietnam’) of the elms and spruce and firs as he had travelled along the Naugatuck Valley, although he did not identify that, either, because he did not know its name. He wrote about the house, too, setting out its size and fittings and assuring Natalia that her mother and Petr were happy, fully aware as he wrote that it was a lie.
It was not until the last page – the fourth – that he tried to answer the accusation that had reduced Galina to tears and caused Petr’s outburst when Natalia’s letter had arrived.
‘I have not abandoned you, my darling,’ he wrote. ‘None of us have abandoned you. We would never do that; could never do that. I have been promised that you will be able to join us here, one day…’ Levin halted, realizing the exaggeration but deciding to leave it, guessing her need. ‘That day – that one day soon – we will all be together again as a family, loving together as a family, complete as a family. Please have patience. Trust me. Know that I love you.’ Levin stopped again, eyes blurred over the paper. Moscow should not have done this to him: to any of them. Presented with the situation again, Levin knew he would have abandoned the entire project and returned to Moscow, to whatever awaited him there. Quickly he stopped the run of thought. Had he returned to Moscow, wrecking what had taken so long to establish, the destruction of the family would have been even more complete, his being parted from them for years in some corrective gulag. Levin blinked, clearing his vision, reading the letter through and deciding there was no more he wanted to say. He repeated his love and was sealing the letter when Petr came into the den in which Levin spent most of his time; Bowden had left for the day only an hour before.
‘I’ve just written to Natalia,’ said Levin.
‘When’s Proctor collecting it?’
‘Some time this evening.’
‘Would he take one from me as well?’
‘Of course.’ Levin was curious, detecting the absence of the animosity to which he had now become accustomed from the boy.
As if in confirmation of his father’s thoughts, the boy said: ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘Mistakes: my mistakes.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Behaving as I have.’
Levin smiled, hesitantly but hopefully. ‘It hasn’t been easy, for any of us,’ he encouraged.
‘I haven’t made it easy for anyone,’ confessed the boy. ‘I want you to know that I’m sorry.’
‘I didn’t expect this,’ admitted Levin.
‘I’ll never lose the feeling about being Russian,’ said Petr in apparent qualification. ‘I’ve just come to realize that my attitude is ridiculous. What’s happened has happened.’
‘I never expected it to be so difficult for you,’ said Levin in further admission. ‘You always seemed to like everything about America: clothes, television… things like that.’
‘Because I’d never known it before,’ explained the boy. ‘I used to fantasize what it would be like, going back to Moscow with things that none of the other boys had: imagine the impression I would create.’
‘Now you can have them permanently,’ reminded Levin.
‘I’ve apologized to my tutor as well,’ disclosed Petr. ‘Did you know he used to teach at Forman School in Litchfield, that little town we went to the other day?’
‘No,’ said Levin. ‘I did not know.’
‘He says I’m doing well now.’
‘It’s good to hear,’ said Levin. ‘In fact everything’s good to hear. Your mother will be pleased.’
‘Natalia will be able to come one day, won’t she?’
‘I promise she will,’ said Levin. He wished he were sure.
‘Why did you do it? Defect, I mean.’
Levin hesitated, wondering if there would ever be a time when he could tell the boy the truth. One day, maybe: but not for a very long time. Inadequately, he said: ‘I felt it was best.’
Petr appeared about to speak when David Proctor entered the room, earlier than Levin had expected. Levin said at once: ‘Petr and I have been having a conversation. About his being here.’
‘I’m apologizing for the way I’ve behaved,’ came in Petr, unprompted. ‘I’d like to say sorry to you, too, Mr Proctor. I haven’t been very pleasant.’
The FBI supervisor began his habitual spectacle cleaning, smiling short-sightedly in the boy’s direction. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to accept things,’ he said. ‘Took longer than I expected but I knew you’d get there, in the end. Well done.’
They were stupid, all of them, thought Petr. He wasn’t the least bit sorry for the way he’d behaved. Just that it had taken him so long to realize the restrictions he was imposing upon himself, by the constant opposition. From now on he was going to be the best son and the best pupil imaginable, until he was able to get away from this prison of a place to a proper classroom that the Forman lecturer had said, three days before, was essential if he were to learn properly. And he was going to be the ideal student until the first day they relaxed. Then, knowing now where he was, he was going to catch the first train from the first station back to New York and to the Russian delegation at the United Nations there. His fool of a father might have defected, but Petr Levin hadn’t. And they were going to know it – his father and Bowden and Proctor – when he denounced them all, as publicly as the Soviet mission would allow him to denounce them.