Mazurka (5 page)

So that was the reason for this midnight summons! For a moment Epishev didn't speak. Greshko's sentence, so baldly stated, floated through his mind.

“Dead? How?”

“Shot by a gunman in a railway station in Edinburgh about six hours ago.”

“A gunman? Who?”

“I have no more information,” Greshko said. “I only learned about the assassination less than two hours ago,” and he twisted his neck to peer at the bedside telephone, as if he expected it to ring immediately with more news. So far as Greshko was concerned the phone was both a blessing and a threat. His various contacts and sympathisers around the country could always keep in touch with him, but at the same time they always had to be circumspect when they called, because they were afraid of tapped lines and tape-recorders, and so a curious kind of code had evolved, a sub-language of unfinished sentences, half-phrases, substitutions, a terminology whose caution Greshko disliked. He had always preferred forthright speech and down-to-earth images and now it seemed to him that more than his exalted position had been stripped from him – they'd taken his language away from him too.

Epishev asked, “How does this affect us?”

Greshko smiled, a weird little expression, lopsided, like that of a man recovering from a severe stroke. And then suddenly he looked bright, more like the Greshko of old, the one who had regarded the delegation of authority as a fatal weakness. This was Greshko the ringmaster, the man who guarded the computer access codes of the State Security organs with all the jealousy of an alchemist protecting his recipe for gold, a man as cold as the tundra and whose only love – and it
was
love – was for his precious KGB, which was slowly having the life sucked out of it by the new vampires of the Kremlin. Epishev imagined he could hear the brain working now, whirring and ticking, then taking flight.

Greshko said, “Our main concern is whether Romanenko's message has fallen into the wrong hands or whether it reached its intended goal. If it
was
intercepted, then by whom? And what did the message mean to the interceptor? The problem we have is that we were never able fully to ascertain the
content
of the message. The only way we might have done that would have aroused Romanenko's suspicions, and that wasn't worth the risk …” Greshko drew the cuff of his pyjama sleeve across his mouth and went on, “We know Romanenko had planned to pass it along in Edinburgh to his collaborators, we also know the message was an indication that all the elements of the scheme were successfully in place – but we don't know the
extent
of the information it contained. Was it some vaguely-worded thing? Or was it more specific? Could a total stranger read it and understand
exactly
what events are planned inside the Soviet Union a few days from now? Was it written in some kind of code? You see the threat, of course, Viktor. In the wrong hands, this information could be disastrous for all of us.”

Epishev was silent. From his long association with Greshko, he knew that the old man's questions were not intended to be simply rhetorical. Greshko had no time for verbal sophistry. When he asked questions, he wanted answers. The correct answers. It was really that simple. Romanenko had gone to Edinburgh to deliver a message. Greshko needed to know what had happened to it. A great deal depended on finding out. Epishev placed his palms together, rubbed them. There must have been a look of some uncertainty on his face because Greshko said, “You still haven't overcome your fear, have you, Viktor? You're still unconvinced, aren't you?”

Greshko reached for a small bottle on the bedside table. He opened it and held it up to his mouth. It contained Brezhnev's old remedy for all illnesses, valerian root and vodka flavoured with
zubravka
grass. Greshko was convinced that it was the only thing that kept him alive.

“I'm not afraid, General,” Epishev replied. But he wasn't absolutely sure.

“Everybody feels fear at some time or other, Viktor. There's no shame in saying so. I know you, Viktor, and I know what runs through your mind. Romanenko was an enemy of the State. He was involved in a conspiracy against our beloved country. Right? And since you are being asked to take part in this same conspiracy against a State you've served so faithfully for most of your life, the words treachery and sedition pop into your mind, don't they, Viktor? But that's muddled thinking! The State you served no longer exists, Colonel. The Russia you love is being dismantled in front of our eyes – and if something isn't done quickly, it will cease to exist in any recognisable way.” Greshko paused and snatched a couple of deep breaths, his shrunken lungs filling to their inadequate capacity.

“Viktor,” Greshko said, and his hand went out once more to touch the back of Epishev's wrist, a chill connection of flesh that made Epishev want to shudder. “Any major blow against this new regime has a damned good chance of destroying it and that should be a cause for rejoicing. Romanenko's conspiracy can only hasten the end of those charlatans who've seized power. They've encouraged certain freedoms. They've told those ethnic minorities that their rights are to be respected, haven't they? They've manufactured a climate in which every dissident moron feels it his duty to argue and squabble with the State. So let them suffer the consequences of what they've created in this country. The quicker they're booted out of office, the better. The means don't matter a damn.”

Greshko paused a moment. “And the beauty of it is that there are no files on Romanenko in any KGB office! There's nothing on any of the computers! There's absolutely no trace of Romanenko's association with this conspiracy! We've been watching Romanenko for years, and we've known what he's been planning because he lived in our damned pockets and never suspected a thing because we were always careful …” And he laughed, because his own foresight delighted him. When he'd seen the changes coming after the death of Brezhnev, and then later the demise of the hapless Chernenko, he'd taken the trouble to remove all kinds of information from the KGB, knowing a day would come when it would be useful to him. And that day, Epishev thought, had arrived with a vengeance.

“Are you with me, Viktor? Are you still loyal to me?”

Epishev replied, “I've never been disloyal to you, have I?”

“There's a first time for everything, Colonel.”

“Not where you and I are concerned, General.” The idea of disloyalty would never have entered Epishev's mind. It was more than just the fact of his gratitude to the old man and the years of their alliance, it was a question of shared beliefs. Like Greshko, Epishev thought that the Soviet Union was heading hurriedly toward disintegration. As if it were some massive star whose course has been suddenly changed, the republic was doomed to explode from internal pressure. Those fresh winds everyone said were blowing through the country were as poisonous as radioactive clouds. And Epishev, like Greshko, had absolutely no desire to breathe them.

“Then we're agreed, Viktor. Romanenko's plan must be carried through to the end. Regardless. We may not like the idea, but we have no choice except to go along with it if we want to see our country restored to what it was. In other words –
the plan must succeed.”

Epishev knew what was coming now. He had known it ever since Greshko had announced Romanenko's murder.

“When you go back to Moscow tonight, you'll see the Printer,” Greshko said.

It might have been routine, except for the fact that Greshko had absolutely no authority any more, save for what he bestowed on himself. It might have been standard operating procedure. But it wasn't. Greshko though, like a great actor, was able to create the illusion of all his old power.

“When the Printer has your papers ready, you leave the country.” Greshko was buzzing now, barely able to keep his hands still. “You have that authority. You don't need a written order. You'll find out what has happened to Romanenko's message. If it fell into the right hands, then we have nothing to worry about. If it's in the possession of the wrong party, and the outcome of the whole scheme is threatened, you will eliminate that threat. It's simple, Viktor. There are no ambiguities.”

Eliminate that threat
. Epishev wondered if he still had the heart for that kind of task. When he was younger, it had come easily to him. Now, even though he enjoyed such tasks as interrogation, even if he didn't object to rubber-stamping papers that condemned people to imprisonment or death, he wasn't sure about killing somebody directly, somebody whose breathing you could hear, whose eyes you could look into, whose fear you could smell. He hoped it wouldn't come to that. Perhaps Romanenko's paper had arrived at the appropriate destination. Perhaps everything was already in its rightful place and Greshko's precautions were, although understandable, nevertheless unnecessary.

He stood up, stepped away from the bed. He looked a moment at Volovich, but it was impossible to tell what Dimitri was thinking. After all the years together, he still couldn't read Volovich with any ease. Was Dimitri going along with this? Greshko, with all his old arrogance, had obviously assumed so, otherwise he wouldn't have been so open. Dimitri hadn't been made privy to everything because Greshko had insisted on limiting the Lieutenant's knowledge as a matter of routine security, but he knew enough to understand what he was involved in.

“We're not alone, you know,” Greshko said. “There are hundreds of us, Viktor. Thousands. I'm in daily contact with men, some of them in positions of great authority, who feel exactly as we do. And these men are ready to take over the reins of power at a moment's notice. Some of these men are known to you by name. Some of them you can call on for help overseas. You know who I mean. Others prefer to remain anonymously in the background. I mention all this to make you feel less … solitary, shall we say? We're all dedicated to the same thing. We're all patriots.”

Epishev went a little closer to Dimitri Volovich. He caught the sickly citric scent of Volovich's Italian hair oil. It was awful, but anything was better than the odour surrounding Greshko's bed.

“This is the most patriotic thing you have ever been asked to do,” Greshko said. “If it helps, think of yourself as a loyal officer of a small, elite KGB that operates secretly inside the larger one. Think, too, of how this elite KGB is connected to some of the most powerful figures in the country, men who are just as discontented as ourselves.”

Epishev was already thinking of the drive through darkness back to Moscow and the visit to the Printer. He was thinking of identification papers, a passport, airline tickets.

“Remember this,” Greshko said. “If there are complications and you're delayed outside the country, I want to be informed. I want news, no matter how trivial it may seem. Don't call me directly on my telephone. Volovich here will be the liaison. Every day, Viktor. I expect that much. But let's be optimistic. Let's hope the business is straightforward and our worries needless.”

There was a sound from the bedroom door. The nurse stepped into the room, carrying a tray which held small medicine bottles. “I need my patient back,” she said, and she smiled cheerfully.

“It's feeding time at the zoo,” Greshko remarked. He winked at Epishev, who turned away and, without looking back, left the bedroom.

On the road to Moscow a fog rolled out of the fields, clinging to the windshield of the car. Volovich drove very slowly even when he'd turned on the yellow foglamps. Epishev sat hunched in the passenger seat. He blinked at the layers of fog, which parted every now and then in the severe glare of the yellow lights, only to come rushing in again.

“Does it constitute treason, Dimitri?”

Volovich stared straight ahead, looking grimly into the fog. “I never think about words like that.”

“I'm asking you to think about them now.”

Volovich shrugged. “I take my orders directly from you. Always have done. I'm a creature of habit, and I'm not about to change at this stage of my life. If you're asking whether I'm loyal, the answer is yes. Besides, I never think about politics.”

Epishev leaned back in his seat. He closed his eyes.
Politics
. This was no mere matter of politics. If Volovich chose to simplify it for himself, that was fine. But it came down to something that was far beyond the ordinary course of Party personalities and rituals. What was going on here was a struggle between the old ways and the new, and Epishev – who loved his country as fiercely as Greshko – knew where his own heart lay. There were flaws in the old ways, but it was a system that worked in its own fashion, one that people had come to accept. And if there were failings, they were temporary, and inevitable, because the road to Communism wasn't exactly smooth – or even straight. The Revolution had never promised an easy path. Epishev, who had been a Party member for more than thirty years, and before that a dedicated child of the Komsomol, knew what the Revolution had intended. Like an ardent suitor with a faithful passion, he had committed his life to this one mistress. He tolerated all her failings and loved all her glories. And sometimes, when he thought about the Revolution – which he saw as an ongoing process, unlimited, as demanding as it was endless – he experienced an extraordinary sense of iron purpose. He was in the slipstream of history. Everything he did, every task he carried out, no matter how distasteful, had been shaped by the historic forces that had overthrown the Romanovs in 1917.

But to toss all this away! To open windows and throw the old system out! To change the purpose of the Revolution! And to do all this with such indecent haste! Heresy was hardly the word.

Epishev stared into the fog and sighed. He had absolutely no choice but to go along with Greshko. Anything else would have been complete hypocrisy. It didn't matter if Greshko was motivated by pure patriotism, or the promptings of a dying man's monumental ego, because Epishev knew his own reasons were good. He was, as Greshko had correctly pointed out, a patriot. He knew no other way to be.