Bearpit (2 page)

Kazin focused upon the memorandum to which Malik had identifiably assigned his name, one of the man's first actions upon his transfer. Not obviously self-destructive, acknowledged Kazin. Nor could it be construed to be nepotistic. It just had to be made to seem that way. And it would be. Gorbachov might be causing tidal waves within the KGB but Victor Ivanovich Kazin didn't intend being washed away by them. It was others who were going to be engulfed.

So far the scarcity of sex hadn't made the sheep look any more attractive but Yuri Vasilivich Malik wondered, in private amusement because there were so few other sorts of joke in a place like Afghanistan, just how long it would take for them to seem beautiful. There were only two unattached women – a secretary and a translator – with both of whom Yuri was sleeping and with both of whom he was bored. The wife of the Third Secretary was clearly available and he was sure the wife of the Third Secretary was also interested.

But so far Yuri had held back, unwilling to take any careless risks with his first embassy appointment. He only wanted to be fucked in the literal sense of the word. He already considered himself fucked every other way.

Yuri, a slight but compact man, fair-haired and blue-eyed and permanently diet-careful against becoming heavy, which he knew he could easily do, was unable to forgive his father's refusal to intervene to prevent his posting to this stinking sewer of a place. Talk of inseparable divisions between Chief Directorates was so much bullshit: just like the lecture about the necessity of avoiding political infighting within the organization was so much bullshit. Yuri was … was what? Surprised wasn't strong enough. Bewildered was better: bewildered because his father had never before refused him, in anything he had asked. Until now, when he'd made the most important request of all.

One realization brought another: that from now on Yuri Vasilivich Malik was the only person likely to help Yuri Vasilivich Malik.

Even his Kabul sex life was linked to that philosophy.

Both the secretary and the translator sensed his indifference and both tried with the desperation of single women in an environment of attached men to keep him in their beds, willing to share him unprotestingly and to innovate any sort of sexual experimentation he cared to suggest.

Yuri suggested a lot. And not all of it sexual. Yuri was circumspect, never appearing obviously to question but simply to listen sympathetically as they pillow-gossiped their day-to-day activities. It gave him access to the innermost secrets of the Kabul embassy; secrets, he was sure, unknown even to the official KGB security officer who was supposed to be informed of everything.

‘There's a lot of Eyes-Only traffic being directed to the
rezident
from Moscow,' disclosed the secretary, whose name was Ilena and who worked exclusively for the Kabul KGB controller, Georgi Petrovich Solov.

‘What about?' said Yuri, the casualness successfully concealing his immediate interest.

They had just finished one of his favourite ways of making love and she still lay with her mouth wetly against his thigh. She said: ‘I've not seen it all: it looks as if a major operation is being planned.'

‘A lot of extra work for you, then?' he lured.

‘I could find out more,' she offered at once, anxious to please him in everything.

‘It's inevitable I shall be involved, eventually,' Yuri encouraged. ‘You wouldn't be doing anything wrong in letting me know early.'

2

Vasili Dmitrevich Malik was a huge man, barrel-chested, bulge-bellied and well over six feet, maybe as tall as six and a half feet. And the disfigurement appeared strangely to accord him even greater height, from how he held himself because of it. The injury occurred during the Stalingrad siege, long before General Zhukov's relief forces had encircled von Paulus' attackers. No one had ever been able to establish how it had happened – certainly not Malik, who'd mercifully been rendered immediately unconscious – but the consensus was a shrapnel ricochet from an incoming Soviet shell. It would have had to have been a very large and very sharp piece of metal. Malik's left arm had been instantly severed high at the shoulder, which had further been crushed by the impact. It was still only October, 1942 – almost three months before the lifting of the Nazi assault – but even by then only the most basic medical treatment had been possible. The doctors had been able to save his life by sealing the obvious wound, although they'd had little anaesthetic left either, but there were no facilities in the holed and cratered makeshift field hospital to rebuild the shattered shoulder. It had set pressed high, almost in a hump. Malik had completely adjusted to the loss of his arm, not needing any assistance after the first six months, but the right side of his body remained lower than the left and as he had grown older he had developed the tendency to walk with something resembling a limp. In the last five years it had been necessary to have his right shoe reinforced, to compensate for the constant pressure.

What other – and different – types of pressure was he going to encounter because of the transfer of Chief Directorates, Malik wondered. A lot, he guessed: some that were impossible, at this early stage, even to anticipate. It was inevitable that Victor Kazin, a man he had once considered his closest friend, would regard the split directorship as a reduction of his authority. Logically it had to be so despite the insistence of KGB chairman Victor Chebrikov at the appointment interview that it was merely a provisional division of the largest and most important Chief Directorate within the organization. How long had it been, since his last proper encounter with Kazin? It would have to be almost forty years, he supposed: the three of them at the Gertsena apartment, Olga sobbing emptily and he and Kazin holding back when each had wanted physically to tear at the other: kill each other. Certainly that's what he'd wanted to do. Kazin would have won if it had come to that, Malik conceded, because he'd hardly healed by then. He remembered realizing that at the time but he'd still wanted to try because the hatred was so strong. So what about now? Was there any hate left? No, Malik decided at once. It was all too long ago; too distant. There was no hatred, no disappointment, no urge to cause hurt. He'd actually found it possible to love again, Malik remembered; love again completely. He wondered if he would have difficulty in recognizing the other man.

And he was going to have to recognize him. Recognize him and work with him. An experiment, the KGB chairman had called the decision to divide the Directorate control: an experiment from which greater efficiency was expected. If only the chairman had known what real sort of experiment he was creating!

Malik sighed, staring around the still-new office, momentarily unwilling to confront the necessary decision. It had been naive expecting the approach to come from Kazin; preposterous, even if he had just been the newcomer into the other man's domain. And he was anything but that. His had to be the offer, not the other way around.

Kazin's agreement to Malik's request for a meeting took three days, which Malik considered pointedly too long, almost childishly petulant; he, not Kazin, had been the victim, after all! Kazin's memorandum stipulated the encounter should be in his office – making Malik go to him – rather than somewhere neutral like the Dzerzhinsky Square headquarters. Passingly Malik thought of suggesting an alternative but just as quickly dismissed the idea: it would have been matching petulance with petulance. He did not want any longer to fight.

Kazin's office was at the front of the Directorate headquarters and obviously better established than that of Malik. The furnishings were predominantly Scandinavian, all light wood except for a conference area to one side where there were dark leather chairs and a couch and a long, chair-bordered table around which at least a dozen people could have assembled. Kazin's desk, which was quite bare, even the blotter unmarked, was directly in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the traffic-clogged ring road. There was complete double glazing, creating a disorienting effect of scurrying vehicles devoid of noise, television picture with the sound turned down.

Malik hesitated immediately inside the door, unsure now that they were at last face to face how to proceed. Malik's immediate impression was of Kazin's weight. When they were friends the man had been stocky, but Malik had never imagined his becoming this fat. Kazin seemed bloated, like an inflated carnival figure. Malik knew he would not have recognized the other man if the encounter had been unexpected.

From the far side of the room, seated behind his desk, Kazin examined Malik. The hair, which Kazin remembered to be deeply black, was absolutely white now but still thick, and Malik wore it surprisingly long, almost an affectation. And the stance was peculiar. After the return from Stalingrad and that one confrontation there had not been many meetings – not with Malik, at least – so Kazin's strongest memory was of the man before his injury: certainly there was no recollection of him like this, oddly sloped and lopsided. Old; until this moment he'd never thought of Malik as being old.

‘Victor Ivanovich,' greeted Malik, not moving.

‘Vasili Dmitrevich,' responded Kazin. He did not rise from his high-backed seat.

They remained motionless, each looking expressionlessly at the other. It was Malik who moved, limping uninvited further into the room. There was a stiff-backed seat near the desk but Malik ignored it, making much of bringing one of the leather chairs from the conference area and lowering himself heavily into it.

‘I did not seek the transfer,' announced Malik at once.

Kazin said nothing.

‘And there's no feeling left, about what happened before.'

Why was the lying bastard even bothering! Kazin said: ‘Comrade Chairman Chebrikov explained the idea to me: an experimental division from which a permanent decision could be made.'

He'd made concessions enough, Malik decided. By rights Kazin should be the supplicant, not him. Malik said: ‘So there has to be a working arrangement, difficult though it might be.'

You can't begin to imagine the difficulties I am going to create, thought Kazin. Stiffly he said: ‘Comrade Chairman Chebrikov defined the responsibilities, too.' And allocated you Afghanistan, Kazin thought: he could not have devised the trap better himself. The division of the First Chief Directorate between them was not going to be the demotion that everyone would regard it as being: it was going to be the opportunity for which he'd dreamed, all these years. His chance: the chance he was not going to miss.

‘Olga's dead,' said Malik, in another abrupt announcement.

‘I know,' said Kazin. Like I know the very day and the very year and the very cemetery plot in which she is buried: the plot I have discreetly visited so often and from which I have so often cleared the wind-flustered leaves and so often tidied the stones and where I have held so many one-sided conversations. One-sided conversations where ‘why' had been the most frequently uttered word, the most frequently uttered question.

‘It's too long ago for anything to be left between us,' persisted Malik. Was it important, to make such an effort? If Kazin were going to have conceded any sort of response – the proper sort of response – it would have come by now.

‘I don't understand,' protested Kazin, who did but who was enjoying the other man's efforts to rebuild bridges across divides too wide ever to be crossed again.

Malik sighed determinedly. He said: ‘Whatever happened, happened. It's past. Gone …' He hesitated and said: ‘Olga and I were very happy, afterwards. She loved me. I loved her.'

Fool! thought Kazin. He wanted to speak: was desperate to hurt the other man as he knew the words would hurt him, but Kazin held back because the words weren't any longer enough. With a difficulty he thought he managed to keep from Malik, Kazin said: ‘Yes. It all happened a very long time ago.'

‘I did not seek this.'

‘You already made that clear.'

‘I'm prepared to try: not to forget – we neither of us could ever forget – but to try.' Malik felt once more that he was prostrating himself too much.

‘So am I,' said Kazin, a remark for his own benefit. ‘I am prepared to try.' Starting with the meeting which is directly to follow this, he thought.

Deciding upon a test he felt necessary, Malik said: ‘Did you know that my son served in this Chief Directorate?'

‘No,' said Kazin immediately.

The man was lying, Malik knew at once. He'd already checked the posting records and identified Kazin's signature on the authorization for Yuri to be sent to Kabul. Malik was glad he had not interfered when Yuri had asked him to block the assignment.

Malik stood, towering over the other man in his unusually apportioned height. He regretted the movement at once, recognizing it to be physically intimidating, which it was not intended to be. He said: ‘I hope we will be able to work successfully together,' already resigned to the fact that they would not.

Kazin said: ‘I hope it will be successful, too,' and knew it would be, although differently from how Malik imagined.

KGB activities in Afghanistan are the responsibility of the Eighth Department of the First Chief Directorate, whose head was Igor Fedorovich Agayans. He was a gauntly featured, almost ungainly bachelor whose flop of prematurely grey hair appeared permanently to curtain his forehead. It came forward as he entered Kazin's rooms and he thrust up to clear his vision, smiling in apparent apology. Because regulations were specific Kazin had already received copies of the organization's monitoring doctors reporting the medical evidence – the increasingly spreading psoriasis and sleeplessness needing ever stronger barbiturates – and Agayans' uncertain demeanour supported their assessment of nervous stress. Which had been the diagnosis returned upon himself, Kazin remembered in abrupt irritation. The doctors were bloody fools. He made a conscious effort to quieten his pumping leg and took his nibbled finger from his mouth. Nervous, possibly; but not stressed. He didn't need any soothing balms or multi-coloured tablets. He said: ‘The memorandum from Comrade First Deputy Malik demanded that efforts should be made to locate
mujahideen
cells for possible punishment.'