The Relic (27 page)

Gusev said, ‘It would be chaos. Under the present conditions, I think the State would collapse. And you think that's where we'd find them?'

‘I'm sure of it, even without your electronic toy,' Rakovsky answered. ‘Varienski had kept the cross hidden. His daughter would never have risked bringing it to Geneva. She and Volkov are making for that island to get the cross so he can declare himself in public. Concentrate your people there. As soon as they're sighted, we must be ready.'

‘He has no visa,' Gusev pointed out. ‘He can't get into the UK without one.'

Rakovsky smiled sourly. ‘He can if he goes by sea,' he said. ‘That's how I'd do it. Let them get there, Leon. Watch the airports, but do nothing, even if they're identified. Have our team waiting for them at the girl's house. Our first objective is to get that cross. In our hands, it could
unite
the Soviet State under one leader.'

A car met Irina at Sverdlovsk airport and drove the short distance from the big Siberian city to the village on the western side of the Bashkir River. It was a poor place, a huddle of rough one-storey buildings connected by tracks that were frozen solid in winter and choking with dust the rest of the year. The inhabitants scratched a meagre living from the land, growing a sparse crop of cereal, keeping the mangey hens that roamed scavanging for food in the yellow earth, cutting wood to keep warm against the savage winters. It was isolated, primitive and an earthly paradise for anyone released from the Gulag and allowed to live there.

She had christened him Remus, because he might well have been suckled by a wolf. He had no name, only the number that proved he existed. When she saw him first he had forgotten his name. He was as wary as a wild animal, cunning, vicious in his determination to survive.

She hadn't seen him for ten years. She told the driver to wait and covered her nose with a handkerchief against the acrid smell of human waste. There was no drainage system. The people living there dug holes in the ground.

It was the nearest of the little wooden buildings; a woman in the long skirt and shawl of the region directed her with a wave. The
Irtusky
, the foreigner, lived over there.

He was eating when Irina came through the door. A woman, the one he'd chosen to live with him, was serving him from a bowl, standing beside him while he ate. The plate was clean; the earth floor swept, pine table scrubbed white.

‘Remus?' she said, and he stopped with the spoon to his mouth, squinting at her. ‘How are you?' she said and came towards him.

He put the plate down, scrambled to his feet, knocking the stool over. The woman shrank back, receding in to the background.

‘
Matiushka! Matiushka
, is it you?'

Little Mother. By the time Irina had finished with him, that was what he called her. He peered closer and his mouth split wide open in a delighted grin. She noticed that he had lost several teeth.

‘It
is
you!'

He stood towering over her, still so tall and built like a great tree in spite of his age. He bowed down from the waist. She held out her hand, smiling at him.

‘You look well, Remus,' she said. ‘Have you been well?'

‘Well enough. She looks after me. I beat her if she doesn't!' He laughed like a bear grunting, deep in his throat. He turned and said to her in the dialect, ‘Get the lady some goats' milk to drink, you lazy bitch!' To Irina he said, ‘Sit down, please. I have a nice chair. I made it myself. She'll bring something for you after your journey.'

He hadn't changed, she decided. His response to her was the same mixture of respect and humble obedience. For such a brute he had become doglike in his dependence. She sat down in his chair. There was a big sofa cushion, covered in the bright regional embroidery.

‘Bring me the stool,' he shouted over his shoulder, and the woman scurried forward, setting it for him to sit on.

‘Does she understand?' Irinia asked him.

He shook his grizzled head. ‘She speaks only dialect,' he said. ‘This is an honour,
Matiushka
. A great honour.' He beamed his broken smile at her.

She took the cup of goats' milk; the smell revolted her. She had always been a goddess figure who must be revered and obeyed and never made angry. She put the cup down and said, ‘Are you happy here, Remus?'

‘Very happy,' he said eagerly. ‘I have food, a warm stove and the woman. She's a good woman. I don't have to beat her often.'

His records said they'd had two children. She saw no sign of them.

She said, ‘How are your children, Remus?'

‘They got sick and they died,' he said flatly. There wasn't a gleam of emotion in the deep set eyes. ‘Last year. There was a lot of sickness here. She won't have any more. She's too old.'

‘I'm sorry,' Irina said. ‘But you didn't catch the sickness?'

‘No. I'm strong. I've always been strong,' he said.

Irina nodded. ‘Yes. I remember how strong you were. Would you like a younger woman? If this one is too old?'

He looked over his shoulder at the swaddled figure, standing mute against the wall. Irina missed the expression on his face. It would have surprised her.

‘No,' he said after a moment. ‘I don't want a new one. She's a good woman.'

‘Well, then, would you like to move to a new place?'

His brow furrowed. He shrank into himself. He looked an old man.

‘What have I done wrong,
Matiushka
?'

‘Nothing, nothing,' she soothed. ‘I'm very pleased with you. You did good service, Remus. That's why I've come to see you. I'd like to put you to work again. Just once more. Then you can move away from here to somewhere not so isolated. Wouldn't you like that?'

‘I'm content,' he insisted. ‘But—yes. Yes, I'd be glad to live nearer my own people. This is a dead and alive hole. What do you want me to do?'

‘Come on a long journey with me,' she said quietly. ‘Forget about your life here. Speak Russian again. Dress like a Russian. And punish two people who are enemies of the State. You'll be rewarded. I'll send you to a nice village a thousand miles south. No more winters here, Remus. What do you say?'

He looked up at her. ‘Just show me the traitors,
Matiushka
,' he said.

‘Good,' Irina stood up. He was on his feet immediately, waiting respectfully. ‘Now you're coming back with me. You won't need anything. Say nothing to the woman.'

He pointed to the cup of milk. ‘She can take this away and drink it herself. It's all right when you get used to it.'

He spoke briefly in dialect and the woman did as she was told. He followed Irinia in to the dusty heat. His Siberian wife lurked by the window out of sight. He had told her he was going into the city and would bring her back a necklace. She watched impassively as the car started up, its wheels churning more dust, and disappeared out of sight.

They landed at Sheremetov airport. Irina had bought him a suit of clothes in Sverdlovsk and had him shaved by a barber. He sat like a rock in the plane throughout the long flight down. No nerves, only a mild curiosity. He ate the in-flight food ravenously. She allowed him to drink vodka. Alcohol had never disturbed him.

He said, ‘I'm very happy
Matiushka
. When I've done what's needed, can I have the woman in my new village?'

For a moment Irina hesitated. He had no emotional attachments. He hadn't blinked when he talked of the death of his children. He had never loved anything or anyone. That had made him so receptive to the programming.

‘Why do you want her?' she asked. ‘There are other women.'

‘She suits me,' he said.

Irina nodded. He was over seventy. At that age he wouldn't want to be bothered by a change of companion. He had his slave. Let him keep her.

He was lodged in a house on the outskirts of Moscow. Irina briefed him. She was in charge of him.

‘You are a Pole, Remus. Your home is in Kraków and you have a Polish passport and an entry visa into England. Your name is Stanislaus Szpiganovitch. You are visiting friends. I will speak for you,' she said. ‘But you must have the right answers ready if an official asks you. And you understand Polish, don't you?' The Ukrainian dialect was very similar to the Polish language. ‘And I am your daughter,' she went on. ‘I am Polish, too. My name is Marie Szpiganovitch and I am keeping you company on the journey. We are a simple Polish father and daughter from Kraków.'

He laughed in his throat, growling at the joke of it all.

‘
Matiuskha
,' he rumbled. ‘How can my little mother be my daughter?'

‘Because I say so, Remus,' she reminded him and he agreed at once.

‘Yes, yes. As you say.'

He didn't make any more jokes. He looked hunted and confused because she wasn't pleased with him. It was a marvellous experiment, Irina thought. A pity it had only been effective with so few of the intake. After ten years it only needed a look and a change of tone to bring him to instant obedience.

‘This is Remus,' Irina said.

He got up and bowed. Viktor nodded to him. He was standing at attention, like a soldier or a long-term prisoner. He was fit and tough for his age. He hadn't gone to seed in his sojourn in the Siberian village. The eyes were guarded, Viktor noticed. Whatever he thought or felt was carefully blanked out. And he followed Irina's every movement.

‘You're going on a journey,' he said.

‘Yes, Comrade Excellency.'

Viktor raised his eyebrows in surprise at the form of address.

‘That's how we addressed all persons in authority,' she explained. ‘Didn't we, Remus? It impressed them with the difference in their status and ours, you see. Remus has been one of our best pupils. Tell Comrade Excellency about what you did in Bashkir.'

He actually grinned at them. ‘I got rid of a wasps' nest,' he said.

‘Muslims who were stirring up trouble,' Irina explained. ‘It was the start of the fundamentalist movement; Iran had been taken over and we had copycat movements here.'

‘I remember,' Viktor said. ‘I remember there was trouble in Bashkir and Azerbaijan.'

‘Tell him about the wasps' nest,' Irina prompted.

‘There was a mosque,' Remus said. He rubbed his nose with a thick forefinger. ‘At Birsk, I think that was the name of the place. They were all meeting there, the men in one part and the women upstairs. They're made of wood, those mosques.

‘It was quite easy. I jammed the main doors shut. Lucky I'm strong. It was a heavy wedge more like a tree trunk. Then I just threw a couple of molotovs through the window. Like we did in the war with enemy tanks. It's the only way to get rid of wasps. Smoke them out.'

Viktor heard him chuckle.

‘Remus eliminated the leadership that night,' she said. ‘We were very pleased with him.'

‘Killing doesn't trouble you?' Viktor asked.

‘I kill enemies of the State,' he said. ‘That's good.'

‘Yes,' Viktor agreed after a pause. ‘Yes, it is good. Irina, could we speak for a moment? I wish you luck,' he said. He couldn't bring himself to offer a hand to the man. He remembered that fire at Birsk. Over two hundred people had been burnt to death. It was attributed to a rival Muslim faction, and the fundamentalist movement in Bashkir collapsed.

Outside the room he said to her, ‘And that is the product of your experiment? He is a monster.'

‘He was born one,' she said. ‘We merely made use of the material. As you are doing now.' Her tone was sharp.

‘This is your idea,' he corrected her. ‘After this is over, I want him eliminated.'

Irina shrugged. ‘I didn't think you were so sensitive, Viktor. You knew what we were doing at the Lenin Institute. You didn't object to my work at the Amtel. You certainly won't object if Remus kills Volkov and Warren and I come back with your precious cross.'

‘I shall be the first to congratulate you,' Viktor said and forced himself to smile. ‘I didn't mean to criticize, Irina. It was my first encounter with a mass murderer. Now, I've approved the cover story and the plan. Gusev's done an excellent job.'

Stanislaus and Marie Szpiganovitch travelling from Kraków in Poland to pay their respects to the daughter of his old friend, Yuri Warren. With the strong religious and ethnic ties between Poland and the Ukraine, it was entirely credible. The papers were perfection: passports, visas, the best products of the forgery section.

Remus carried no weapons. It appeared he could use his hands better than most marksmen could use a gun. He knew exactly what was expected of him.

The wasps' nest at Bashkir was the climax of his service. He had committed half a dozen individual murders in the brief time he was on special duties. She didn't mention that to Rakovsky. His squeamishness irritated her.

‘All we're waiting for now,' she said, ‘is news.'

‘We expect it any moment,' he answered. ‘Warren's house on the island is being watched. You and Remus will leave for Warsaw tonight. As soon as we hear they've arrived on the island, you fly direct to Paris and by charter plane to Jersey. It's been organized down to the last detail.'

And the trail has been laid both ways, he thought, saying goodbye to her and setting out for his office. All those years ago, his father had taken the same route through the Moscow streets, with Ivan driving, carrying the Holy Relic as a bargaining counter for his family's life. He, as a little child, had seen it, glowing red and gold on the white counterpane of his mother's bed. And sketched it secretly.

He had made a pilgrimage to the place where his mother and his brother, Stefan, were buried. A quiet spot under the trees near the old house, long destroyed. He had marked their grave with a simple stone obelisk, engraved with their names. From that house of death, the cross had travelled with their murderer, all the way to the camp at Spittal and to an orphaned boy who'd been given it by a condemned man.