Letsukov sat at his secretary’s desk listening to the coughing of the sergeant echo in the corridors. He copied out the three names and pushed the piece of paper into his pocket.
He had saved three. And sacrificed himself. What point in starting a fire? He found it difficult to think clearly. He was trembling.
A fire. At least that might disguise the fact that he had been after the Estonia file, might give those three men just a few more hours?
He broke open two more filing cabinets and piled the reports around the wooden desk leg. Lighting the papers he watched the flames rise and begin to die away. He threw on more papers but again the blaze quickly reduced them to a smoldering pile. In self-disgust he took his coat and left the office.
At the elevator he saw the guard. “I was telling you, Comrade,” he pressed the elevator button, “I was telling you what the doctor told me. Give up smoking he said or you’ll be dead in a year.”
The lift came and Letsukov took it to the ground floor. A meeting on one of the lower floors had just broken up. Officials and secretaries flowed out of the building onto Razina Street.
The Estonian, Mart, stood in the middle of Red Square and ran his eyes along the Kremlin wall. He had decided to see it once in his life. He had no wish ever to see it again.
He looked at his watch. Just after seven o’clock. Dusk was falling. Over the Kremlin, searchlights leapt into the sky isolating the bright red banners of the Soviet Empire undulating in the evening breeze.
He didn’t trust the bureaucrat Letsukov. Any man who killed for the KGB would certainly betray for the same masters. Yet he had no choice but to go back to Letsukov’s apartment. It was still possible that Densky’s wife was right.
He was aware of a figure shuffling up beside him. He looked down and saw a fat, balding man standing next to him. He was paring down slivers from an apple with an Army jackknife and eating off the blade.
“Your first time in Moscow, Comrade?” the fat man said.
“The first time,” the Estonian agreed cautiously.
“Greatest city in the world.”
“True enough.”
“Beautiful girls,” the fat man pointed to one of the milling tourist groups standing in the square. It was a mixed factory party with eight or ten young girls with tight skirts and carefully curled hair.
“Beautiful,” the Estonian said.
“Where are you from, Comrade?”
“A long way from here. Up near Estonia, Pskov.”
“I thought I recognized the accent. Now don’t go, Comrade,” the fat man laid a hand on the Estonian’s arm. “You here with a factory party, or on your own?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because in my business it’s best to know who you’re talking to. A factory party is it?”
“The others have gone off to the circus. That’s not for me.”
“For the little ones, I agree. What sort of thing is it interests you, Comrade? Those beautiful girls, for instance?” He cut a slice from his apple and slipped it adroitly into his mouth.
“Every man’s interested in beautiful girls,” the Estonian said. “Good night, Comrade.”
He began to walk away but the man hurried after him. “Not so fast, Comrade. You may be losing an opportunity here.”
“What sort of opportunity?” He kept walking.
“You like films? I can take you to a place where they show films, American films, that’d make your mouth water. Girls doing it with girls — everything.”
“Fat man, I was in the Soviet Merchant Marine. I’ve seen porn films in the city where they were made.”
“Ah…” the man was clearly disappointed. “Then listen, you want to make a few hundred rubles?”
“I’m not a film star.” They had almost crossed the square. The twisted, sugar-candy domes of St. Basil’s rose above them.
“My name’s Sasha,” the man said. “They call me Fat Sasha.”
“Do they?”
“Now this is a really good deal,” Fat Sasha threw the apple core away. “How long are you in Moscow for?”
“A few days.”
“Good enough. Don’t walk so fast. I can’t talk.”
The Estonian walked on, if anything increasing his pace. “Do you know what a surprise party is?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you. Some of the wives of Red Army, Soviet Army I should call it these days, senior officers give parties. They have places you wouldn’t dream of out in the country. Colonels’ wives and above. These ladies, not always old, they have everything. You think of it, they’ve got it.”
“Except one thing.”
“But they’re real upper-class women. Furs, champagne… diamonds. They give these parties for each other. Surprise parties.”
“And they invite you, Fat Sasha? Is that the surprise?”
“Never… more’s the pity. But they like a half-dozen young waiters. You take the point. You have to do your bit after dinner is served with any one of them who chooses. But it’s not often that one of our boys leaves without three hundred rubles in his pocket.”
The Estonian’s hand came down on Fat Sasha’s neck gripping it like a pair of iron fire-tongs.
He squealed in pain wriggling to get free. In the shadows beside the cathedral the Estonian gripped harder. “Listen, Fat Sasha, I ought to take you along to the nearest militia station. Porn films you’re offering, sex parties… and you’re slandering the wives of Soviet officers.”
He pushed the fat man against the wall. “Yes, I could take you in or beat you to a pulp here and now.”
Fat Sasha flinched.
“Or there is another way.”
“I’ve got money,” Sasha dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of ruble notes. “A hundred rubles,” he said.
Groups of people drifted past them, too far away to see what was happening or too indoctrinated with the necessity to avert their eyes.
“No, you can do something for me,” the Estonian said. “Keep your pimp’s money, I’ve got an errand for you instead.”
Carole turned the car into the lane beside Letsukov’s apartment building and cut the engine. It was a four-year-old British Jaguar which they had bought from David Butler when they first arrived in Moscow, but its red paintwork still stood out among the drab gray and black Volgas like a gleaming beacon of the West.
For a few minutes she sat in the car pretending to debate to herself whether she would go up. He had made it clear enough last night that he wanted the affair to end. But something, apart from the misery that she found she felt at not seeing him again, something else troubled her. Every time she had felt she was getting closer to him, he had deliberately pulled away.
She thought perhaps it was the American in her that needed an explanation. Certainly it was not the Slav element in her makeup, if indeed that existed in anything but a biological sense. Or again perhaps she was simply trying to invent an excuse for one more meeting.
She didn’t welcome the idea that she would probably humiliate herself. But she was prepared to risk it. She got out of the car and walked round to the front entrance.
The janitor was standing on the step, sniffing the evening air. Climbing the stairs she reached the landing and stood opposite Letsukov’s door.
She could turn now and go. But the sounds of movement inside were a powerful magnet. She stepped back across the landing as if to reduce the compulsion to knock on the door.
The ancient lift rattled, rose one floor and stopped. A fat man pulled the gates half open and eased himself out onto the landing. He was heading for Letsukov’s door when he saw her. He must have recognized by the clothes she wore that she was a foreigner. He hesitated, took a step back, another forward, and stood by the door.