The Company of Saints (30 page)

‘You didn't hate her, did you?'

‘No. I told you, she was my best friend.'

‘How did you feel when you heard she was dead?'

‘Very upset.'

‘Her mother was very kind to you, wasn't she?'

A shrug. It annoyed him when she did that.

‘How did you feel when you heard she was dead too?'

‘Upset.'

‘You didn't know the people who killed them, did you?' Without waiting for an answer – ‘You didn't slip down and let them in, Hélène and then run upstairs, while they went into the room and shot them?'

The scream was in her mouth when he repeated that question, over and over again. No, I didn't let them in. There wasn't a ‘them'. It was me! I went in and fired and fired until they were dead! She hadn't let the scream out and she wasn't going to say those words. He wasn't winning, but the stress was making her dream that terrible dream again, until she was torn between the longing to sleep and the dread of what would come when she did. And through it all she kept thinking of the English woman who hadn't come to see her. The one who was too important to be bothered by Hélène Blond. Why do I care, she asked herself. Why do I chafe and fume because she isn't here? Because I feel her in the background – like knowing my mother was downstairs even when she wasn't coming up to punish me. She's there, and that's part of the fear and the rage that fills me. Like my mother, she can come whenever she feels like it and make me cringe with fear. But she can't. You've forgotten what they taught you, Hélène. You are the one who can make other people afraid. You saw the terror in their faces that night when you came into the salon and pointed your gun?

And she decided what to do. She wanted to engage in conflict with this woman who had brought her mother back into her dreams. She wanted to defy her and mock her as she had done with the two men. Then she would feel in command of herself once more. Then she would think of making a deal for her safety by telling them a little more about Ma-Nang, about the people who had sent the car out to kill her when she went to them for help. And the beauty of it would be when she refused to talk to the Englishwoman and sent her away humiliated. She would talk to the first man, the younger one who tried to win her confidence. Hélène thought about it, planned how the interviews would go, and became excited. She had a peaceful sleep and the next morning she told Humphrey Grant that she wanted to see Davina Graham. She refused to trust anyone else.

Borisov made a series of visits. He made them unofficially. The Minister for Communications. The Minister for Agriculture. The new Foreign Minister who had replaced his opponent Nikolaev. And the head of the Soviet Navy. He took each one into his confidence. The President was desperately ill. He had given orders that nobody was to be told until Borisov had time to alert the men that Zerkhov trusted. Borisov was not only his messenger but his preferred candidate for the Chairmanship of the Party, and the Presidency. He didn't pretend modesty. He stated a fact and in each case he showed a letter. The letter came from Zerkhov and was addressed to each of them. He let them read it, but he didn't leave it with them.

He asked for their support in the Politburo when the time came, and he named the likely contenders who would try and take power for themselves. The most dangerous, he said, was Marshal Yemetovsky. This found favour with the Minister for Communications, who hated Yemetovsky, and also with the head of the Soviet Navy, who was a bitter rival. Second to Yemetovsky was the Minister for Internal Affairs: Mishkoyan, the Armenian. An old man with red hands – a ferocious oppressor of dissidents and Jews, who had maintained his position by destroying younger men who might have replaced him. A ruthless survivor from a past that should be set aside for the history books. The future of the great Soviet Union would be dark indeed if it were to be entrusted to him. Without exception, the others agreed with that. They had reason to dislike Mishkoyan. Each had a different reason, but the result was the same. They hardened in opposition against him and were in favour of the man strong enough to shunt him aside. Igor Borisov presented himself as that man. It wasn't high politics or patriotic duty that moved the negotiations in his favour. There was serious bargaining on all sides. Promises were exchanged and undertakings given of support. By the end of the first thirty hours, Igor Borisov felt himself strong enough to go forward as an official candidate as soon as Zerkhov's death was announced.

The first rumours began inside the Kremlin. They spread to the departments and to the foreign embassies whose spies were operating in the city. Zerkhov was dying. At any moment Russia would be without a leader. The reports went through to the Western capitals, and Borisov reckoned that he would have to lift the embargo sooner than he intended. His work was mostly done, the ground as well prepared as he could make it.

Marshal Yemetovsky called a conference of his senior officers. Mishkoyan gathered his supporters for a meeting and outlined his plans. By consent, the candidates remained in Moscow, waiting for what most of them believed had already happened. Like crows perched on the railings, they poised themselves for the gunshot that would announce Zerkhov's death and set them wheeling and swooping in their pursuit of his power. The rumours that he was dying were followed by rumours that he was dead and that the death had been concealed.

The intelligence services of the world also waited for confirmation. Diplomats and correspondents everywhere were drawing up their lists of candidates.

Yemetovsky was favoured by most, and his hard-line attitude produced despondency among the peace lobby. They had little hope of persuading their own governments to disarm unilaterally if a man who declared his belief in war came to power in Russia. Mishkoyan the Stalinist was next; a brutal clampdown on the intellectuals and arts was forecast. His dark Armenian face appeared on newspapers and television screens. He provoked alarm and echoes of the Cold War. Then there were the moderates, and they had their supporters. Two members of the Politburo who were known to favour detente and had no reputation for suppressing liberties at home. Their faces appeared too. Nobody mentioned the name of Igor Borisov.

Poliakov had set himself up in the filing section. He had been given a computer, a trained operative and Colin Lomax. For the first two days he unfolded a series of meaningless historical data, stretching back to the early days of the Bolshevik triumph over Trotsky. The Counter-Revolutionary War of 1919, its commanders on the Red side, the subsequent actions and counter-actions of the two armies, the suppression of all throughout Russia and the architects of Soviet atheism.… Poliakov dug deep and conjured old atrocities and tyrants out of the past, poring over them, making his notes, muttering away in Russian.

The computer was fed with questions that seemed to Lomax completely unrelated. So did the answers it gave. But there was an enthusiasm and a suppressed excitement in the old man that was infectious. Lomax and the operator felt they were nearing a discovery, although neither had the least idea what it could be. Poliakov was sleeping in the building. He hadn't asked for a drink or suggested going home. He seemed absorbed.

Lomax reported to Davina each evening, and was back in Anne's Yard as soon as Poliakov had his breakfast the next day. She was still wearing Walden's bracelet. Lomax had arranged for her to go to Cartier on Friday afternoon and have it opened. When he told her she said, ‘Oh, good. I'd forgotten about it.' And she called her mother at Marchwood and arranged to go down on Saturday afternoon and spend the night there with Colin Lomax. As she told him afterwards, her mother sounded very pleased indeed that he was coming. ‘And Charlie isn't there,' she added. ‘She's in Malta, with her new boyfriend. Mum thinks they'll get married.'

‘And the best of British luck,' Lomax retorted. He caught hold of Davina and kissed her very hard. It was a plus to have someone like Mrs Graham on his side.

On Thursday morning Humphrey was waiting for her when she came into the office. She looked at him expectantly. ‘Humphrey? Any news?'

He pulled a face. ‘So far as I'm concerned she's refused to answer any more questions. She's being totally obstructive and I believe there's nothing more that I can do. I told her yesterday that I would recommend her deportation to France before the end of the week.'

‘And how did she take that?' Davina demanded.

‘She didn't seem to care,' he answered. ‘She's impossible to shake, Davina. She sat there and glowered at me and said she wouldn't talk because I wasn't the top person. I could have slapped her for the way she said it. She wants to see you, and nobody else will get a word out of her. That's the ultimatum she gave me. Personally, I would get rid of her as quickly as you can.'

He looked pinched and angry, Davina noticed. The girl had known how to get under his skin. ‘I can't do that, Humphrey,' she said. ‘I can't throw away what Colin achieved without trying everything. If she says she'll talk to me, then I'll have to go and see her. I don't want to, because I know you're the best person for the job. But if she won't cooperate with you, what can I do?'

He surprised her then. ‘I wouldn't advise you to go near her, if you want the truth. I don't think she'll tell you anything, or has any intention of doing so. She's playing a game with us, and this is a delaying tactic. I think she's a thoroughly nasty piece of work, and I'd be much happier to give her to SEDECE.' He got up and stretched a little. He was painfully thin, she thought. ‘And I'm not saying this because I mind being replaced. Please don't think that.'

‘I wouldn't dream of it,' Davina said. ‘Why don't you have one more try? Tell her to get ready, have a car waiting to take her to the airport. That might do it.'

He shook his head. ‘That's wasting time,' he said. ‘And it puts us in a hopeless position if she calls the bluff.'

‘In that case, I'd better go down tomorrow and see her myself. Just once. I won't let her fool around, Humphrey – and I want you there with me.' She stopped, frowning. ‘I wonder why she sleeps so badly? Isn't she showing any signs of strain at all?'

‘She looks ill,' Humphrey said. ‘Certainly it's taking its toll, but not enough. Not nearly enough, considering how much pressure she's been under.'

‘Well,' Davina said, ‘I'll give it one more chance. Why don't I go today? What's the point in waiting till tomorrow?'

‘Isn't that pandering to her self-importance? I must say, she has the most enormous vanity. Everything's geared to getting attention. The way she said it. “I'm not talking to anyone like you. I'm too important to deal with anyone but the top!” It was incredible for a young girl like that!'

‘I haven't got time to worry about whether she thinks she's scored a point or not,' Davina decided. ‘Tactically you're right, Humphrey, but we can't take the chance. We've got to break through before we have another murder. It's about time, you know. There's been damned nearly one a month. I'll go down this afternoon.'

‘What I'm looking for,' Poliakov announced, ‘is an ancestor.'

‘A what?' Lomax stopped studying the last computer printout.

‘An ancestor,' he repeated. ‘Ma-Nang. The Company of Saints, in a Mongolian dialect, of all things. Now what kind of man would think of calling a group of trained assassins a name like that?'

‘Somebody with a bloody funny sense of humour.'

Poliakov shook his head. ‘A sense of irony. A sense of blasphemy. Are you a Catholic, Major?'

Lomax shook his head. ‘I was brought up Presbyterian.'

‘Then you wouldn't understand what I mean,' the Russian said. ‘This is a subtle blasphemy, not the hell and brimstone kind. An insult. You have to be a Jew or Orthodox or Roman Catholic to hate the God of your forefathers in that way. It's a sort of compliment, if you think of it. Remember Chesterton's detective, Father Brown? He proved that the atheist was really a believer because he wouldn't spit out a consecrated host. The man who thought of Ma-Nang would spit
on
it. You don't hate what doesn't exist, as Father Brown said. Do you like Chesterton, Major?'

‘I haven't read him since I was a boy,' Colin Lomax admitted. He wondered if he dared remind Poliakov of his original point. ‘But why an ancestor?'

‘Because the attitude is pure 1920s,' the Russian retorted. ‘The hostility towards Christianity is so old fashioned. First they suppressed religion. Prison, confiscation, even death. Then they derided it. They blasphemed, if you like, to make people laugh at it and feel fools if they believe anything. But that was sixty years ago. So whoever our man is, he has inherited this feeling. That's what I mean by an ancestor. If I can find someone with this attitude who has left a mark on the history of the times in Russia, then I can trace forward, through his family, even the families of his associates. I have several people already. Not Arkaniev. He was an idealist as well as a persecutor. He wanted to tear out organized religion the way doctors want to exterminate plague. He'd have said they were the same thing. Arkaniev was a fanatic and a butcher. His methods were abandoned because Stalin realized that all they were doing by shooting priests was making martyrs. So they mocked and derided and for a long time they were successful. The Church died. And then, like its founder, it rose again. Religion is alive in Russia and I don't mean the Baptists, who are so brave and are suffering so much. I mean in the secret souls of the Russian people. Only children and old women go to church, they say. The man we are looking for has a background somewhere in religion. He mocks it for his own benefit. He doesn't believe in God, Major, but he certainly believes in evil. Now – let me think again. There was an incident in the Ukraine in '24. Here – here it is. Look at it and see what you make of it.'