“No.” she said. She reached down and picked up her purse. Feeling inside she found a lighter and a half-packet of American cigarettes. She lit one and stood by the window.
“There’s a man down there,” she said, without turning. “He’s standing in the doorway opposite.”
Letsukov came to the window and stood for a moment, looking down.
“I think I see him.”
She glanced sideways at him. “I’ll go now,” she said.
On the back of the chair she could just make out her coat. She picked it up and threw it over her arm. “Are you worried about that man down there?” she asked Letsukov.
“No. Why should I be?”
“Most Russians would be.”
In the dark she saw him shrug. She was close to bursting into tears.
“I can’t believe we’ve been so profligate,” she said. “I can’t believe we’ve spent all that feeling we had between us.”
She watched his shadowed figure, willing him to speak. “Say something, Alex. Say something to me.”
“I can’t.” His voice was little more than a whisper. “I’ve nothing to say.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “I’d like to come and see you again. Just one more time maybe…”
Beneath her fingers his arm was motionless.
“No,” she said. “Clearly not.”
She walked past him to the door. “Good-bye Alex.”
There was an ancient elevator in the old prewar apartment block, but she ignored it. Running down the stairs her heels clacked on the carpetless stone. In the lobby she pulled on her coat and hurried outside searching the street for a cab.
She had completely forgotten the man in the doorway opposite. But now as she stood on the sidewalk he came away from the shadow and crossed the street to enter Letsukov’s apartment building behind her.
Slowly she walked 20 or 30 yards along the street then crossed over to the other side. From there she could see into Letsukov’s second-floor window. His light was now on. A man in a leather jacket was standing with Letsukov in the doorway of his room.
So it was over. Whatever the significance of this mysterious visitor, her affair with Letsukov was over.
She continued to walk down the street with slow paces, her hands deep in her pockets. It was a pleasant late summer evening, not too cold. It was a pleasant late summer evening and her affair was over. Over as abruptly as it began all that time ago in Paris.
She could see the green light of a taxicab approaching. She hailed it not caring if it stopped. The cab brakes squealed. The door opened. She got in.
At first Letsukov had thought that Carole had come back. He had crossed quickly to the door and opened it, still wearing his bathrobe.
“Comrade Letsukov?” A tall young man in a black leather jacket said.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“May I come in? I have a message for you.”
Letsukov drew back the door and let the man in.
“I’ve been waiting hours out there. I’d begun to think the woman lived here.”
Closing the door Letsukov looked round to see the stranger had thrown himself comfortably into an armchair and was stretching his legs.
“Very nice though, Comrade. Foreign? American I’d say.”
“Who are you?” Letsukov asked again.
“A fair enough question,” the man nodded. “I might be one of those thieves you read about all the time now. But I’m not.”
“Are you from the police?” Letsukov said.
The man laughed. “Not me, Comrade. Why? Were you expecting someone from the police?”
“No.”
“Ah… it’s the way I am, is it?”
“Perhaps.”
“Offensive to you? You learn very quickly in the KGB, I was a sergeant once. My name’s Mart.”
“What sort of name is that?”
“It’s an Estonian name, Comrade, what we used to call a Christian name.”
“All right,” Letsukov said, “why are you here?”
“Give me a cigarette,” the man reached across and took Letsukov’s packet of Belomors.
“Before I was KGB, I was a merchant seaman. Traveled the world.”
Letsukov recovered his cigarettes from the stranger and took one from the packet.
“You travel a bit yourself, I hear, Comrade. Paris even.”
Letsukov lit his cigarette. He was sure that, despite denials, the man was from Colonel Pleskov’s office in the Lubyanka. No doubt demanding a further report on his affair with Carole.
“I traveled to Paris a long time ago,” he said.
“So I heard. And topped someone while you were there, you bastard.”
“Save yourself the hypocrisy. You know better than anyone why I did it.”
“I don’t know why and I don’t want to know,” the man said airily.
“I’m entitled to be given your rank and full name,” Letsukov said. “If not, I phone the militia station right away.”
“I’ve no rank,” the man said. “And I’ve no full name, it’s safer. And if you try to get out to that phone I’ll tear you to pieces. I learned to fight in Hamburg, New York and the old London docks. A member of the Soviet Merchant Marine has to.”
“Tell me what you want, and get out.”
“If I had my way, I wouldn’t have come here in the first place.”
He got up, took Letsukov’s cigarettes and again lit himself a cigarette. He was probably in his early thirties, blond and hard-faced.
“I’ve come from Leningrad,” he blew a plume of smoke into the room then drew again on the cigarette, holding it between index finger and thumb like a worker.
“We’ve been working on your case, Comrade, my friends and me. You once made certain offers of help to the wife of Joseph Densky.”
Letsukov remained silent.
“More recently you were in the Ukraine. Making more offers of help. But… how far are we to trust you?”
Letsukov inhaled sharply through his teeth. “If you’re who you say you are, you have to decide that for yourself,” he said.
The man went back to the chair and sat on the arm. “Do you know Estonia?” he asked.
“I’ve been to Tallinn.”
“I was born there,” the man said. “Do you know the KGB general in command?”
“He was present at a reception for a few moments when I was there.”
“General Avgust Pork, there’s a name to frighten children. Have you got any vodka, Comrade?”
Letsukov brought a glass, and a liter from the kitchen. “General Pork has been very active lately,” the man unscrewed the bottle and poured a large measure into the glass. “He’s been up to his favorite trick, beating workers in the little room below his office.”
“Trade Unionists? Joseph Densky’s followers?”
“Keep your mouth shut and listen,” the man said. He gulped a mouthful of the vodka, swilled it round his teeth and swallowed it.
“Yes, you’ve got influence all right or you wouldn’t get such good vodka. Where was I? General Pork and his favorite tricks. Workers, Comrade, nationalist workers. But then everyone’s a nationalist in Estonia and Lithuania, all except the KGB, of course, and some of them, too. I was.”
“You carried out the beatings for Pork?”
“I never killed anyone, Comrade. I never murdered a nationalist in Paris.”
Letsukov brought himself a glass and poured some vodka from the bottle. “Get on with it,” he said.
“Those workers Pork has been beating up this week, perhaps some of them have been talking, giving names. We want to know, Comrade. We want to find out if anyone talked.”
“So that you can warn the men in danger?”
“That’s right. So what help can you give us?”