Authors: Endgame Enigma
“Uh-uh. Shouldn’t have taken the name in vain.” Mungabo’s voice murmured from behind him. Nolan was approaching through the next section, where Smovak and Vorghas were engrossed over a game of chess. He sat down at the end of the table a couple of places from McCain. McCain folded the papers he had been drawing on and tucked them into his jacket pocket.
“How are you finding things?” Nolan inquired casually.
“I’ve seen better.”
“The place isn’t so bad?”
“On the whole, I’ll take Manhattan. You never give up, do you?”
Smovak looked up from the next table and groaned. “Oh God, you two aren’t starting all that again, are you? Look, I’ll tell you what the difference between capitalism and communism is. With capitalism, man exploits man; with communism it’s the other way round. See? Ha-ha-ha!”
“I just want you to see that it isn’t all black and white.” Nolan said.
“I never said it was.” McCain answered. “But I do know that where I come from, you live how you want, you go where you want, and you say what you want, without needing a permit from any commissar. And US soldiers don’t shoot US citizens in the back for trying to leave the country. That mightn’t be black and white to you, but it’s getting pretty close for me.”
“But what about the inequities, the injustice…”
“Unlike in the classless society? Oh sure. Everyone in Moscow drives a Cadillac?”
“Crass materialism. The cravings of greed. Can’t you see that it’s competition and rivalry that lead to conflict? Such things can’t be permitted in today’s world. We must impose harmony, which can only come through serving the collective good. Peace must be the objective, at any price. If we fail in that, then everything else is lost anyway. You must agree with that.”
“No objective is worth
any
price.” McCain said.
“Not even preventing a global nuclear war?”
McCain shook his head. “No.”
Nolan stared disbelievingly. “What price could conceivably be too high to pay for that?”
“Submitting to the kinds of things that some people have had inflicted on them in recent times.” McCain said. “If it meant seeing kids being put into gas chambers by thugs, I’d rather fight and risk the consequences. If it meant having innocent people dragged from their homes to be worked to death as slave labor, I’d rather fight. If it meant giving up the right to be me, I’d rather fight.” He sat back in his chair and regarded Nolan oddly for a couple of seconds. “I don’t understand what it is with people like you. You come from the best-fed, best-educated, healthiest country, that gives you more opportunity than anywhere, anytime in history, and you want to tear it down…. Where d’you come from, out of curiosity? Want me to guess? Pretty-well-off family, was it? Was that the problem – you felt guilty because you were rich in a world where not everyone was rich?” McCain saw a flicker of discomfort cross Nolan’s countenance. He nodded. “Well, you could always have made yourself feel better by giving it away. But that wasn’t good enough, was it? Everybody else had to be made to give theirs away, too, so you could be equal.” Smovak and Vorghas were watching from the next table; Rashazzi and Haber were listening, also. At that moment the door opened and Scanlon came in. He stopped when he saw them all watching McCain. McCain went on, “It was rage and envy against a world that didn’t
need
people like you. You didn’t have anything to offer that people wanted freely, by choice. So get rid of freedom, eh? We’ll
make
them take notice of us. Pull down the system, paint everybody gray, and we can all be happy nobodies together.” He got up and turned away to go back to his bunk. “Fuck you, Nolan. We’ll keep our bombs. If you think you can take what we’ve built, come on and try. But don’t try selling me a guilt trip that says it’s my duty to give it away.”
Nolan stood up flushed and tight-lipped, and marched toward the door without saying anything. The light above came on, the beeper beeped, and he was gone. The two scientists stared for a moment longer and returned to what they had been doing.
“Hear, hear.” Smovak murmured barely above his breath, and looked back at the chess game. Mungabo was cackling delightedly in the top bunk by McCain. Scanlon moved over to his own bunk opposite and sat down. “I see ye’ve been getting a piece o’ the indoctrination.” he said to McCain.
“Doesn’t he ever quit?” McCain asked.
“He’s worse with the new fellas.” Scanlon said. “Either he makes a friend, or he shuts up…” he nodded at McCain, “and sometimes somebody shuts him up. It’s a little peace well all be having for a while now, I’m thinkin’.” Scanlon watched until McCain turned his head toward him, then pulled the top of his jacket aside to reveal the top of a metal flask. He winked, and his voice fell to a whisper. “From a little still that somebody’s got running in a place I won’t mention. As good as poteen, but I can’t vouch for how well it compares to your own mountain dew. Maybe a drop or two later, eh?”
“Sure. Is there a price?”
“Oh, let’s say it’s on credit. When I need a favor, I’ll let you know.” Scanlon scratched the side of his nose pensively. “But then again, from the tail end of what I just heard, I’d say you’ve already earned it.”
“Well, I never argue with a guy who’s buying.”
Scanlon gave McCain a long, curious look, as if weighing him up. “And it’s not as if that system of theirs is anything for himself to be getting so excited about.”
McCain looked uncertain. “What system? You mean Nolan? The Russian system?”
“Ah, sure, and what else would I be talking about?” McCain frowned, wondering what this had to do with anything. Scanlon rolled his eyes pointedly, indicating that walls had ears.
“They don’t trust anyone, either.” McCain replied, nodding to show that he understood. “It’s kind of a conditioned reflex. Did you know that Tolstoy’s serfs didn’t want him to free them when he tried? They thought it was a trick. They wouldn’t have a school either. They said the only reason he wanted to educate the kids was to sell them to the czar as foot soldiers.”
Scanlon shook his head solemnly. “That’s terrible, now.”
“I wonder what does it.”
“Centuries of living under rapacious rulers.” Scanlon said, “A system that did nothing to discourage exploitation.”
“You mean like the Brits?”
Scanlon stared back fixedly for a moment. “Let’s go for a walk outside,” he suggested.
“It seems to me that you’re already well on your way to understanding the way things are in Zamork, Lew,” Scanlon said. “I’ve a feeling you’re from some kind of a background that hasn’t exactly made you a newcomer to such things, but what it might be I’ll leave as your business.” They had come out through the door at the rear of the B Block mess area into the general compound, which contained its usual evening crowd of gray-clad figures standing, walking, talking, watching. “What do you make of the place so far?”
“Strange kind of a prison,” McCain answered.
“It is that. And have ye had any thoughts as to why that might be?”
McCain could see nothing to lose by being frank. “It’s an information mine,” he said.
“Now there’s an interesting thought,” Scanlon answered.
“Mines have miners in them. Also, there has to be something to dig. But in this mine it’s hard to tell the difference.”
For McCain’s conclusion was that the whole place was set up for the gathering of sensitive information – the practice of which had always been a Russian passion. From foreign intelligence operatives like himself to Russian domestic dissidents, Zamork was full of people who knew a lot about the enemies of the regime at home and abroad, and their intentions – a priceless trove of information to be gathered. It followed that the place would also be full of others put there to do the gathering. He was unlikely to be the first to have arrived at such a conclusion, and no doubt that was why nobody trusted anybody. The theory fitted, too, with the laxness in discipline beneath the superficial pretense: the authorities
wanted
the inmates to mix, talk, and go through the motions of defying the system – and the looser their tongues became in the process, the better.
They passed a group practicing gymnastics on homemade equipment, and Scanlon steered McCain toward a gathering in the center, where an improvised choir a dozen or so strong was delivering a hearty rendering of a Romanian folk song. “Well, Mr. Earnshaw or whoever you really are, I’ve decided to take a chance on ye.” He had to lean close to McCain and shout into his ear to be heard. McCain noticed that mast of the others around them were behaving similarly and taking no notice of the singing whatever. He smiled faintly as the meaning of the choir dawned on him.
He turned his head toward Scanlon. “Why?”
“Three things ye did that stoolies don’t do.”
“Such as what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Scanlon said. McCain thought he already knew, anyway. He hadn’t posed as a transfer from elsewhere in Zamork, which would have provided a reason for being familiar with anything a new arrival wouldn’t know about; he hadn’t denied that he spoke Russian; and he hadn’t shown any eagerness to tell a cover story and get it accepted. Scanlon went on, “And besides, I pride meself on being a sound judge of people.”
“Okay, Kev, I’m glad to hear it. So what do you want?”
“To buy your soul. What else would you expect from the devil himself?”
“Who said it was for sale? In all the stories I’ve read, it never turns out to be a good deal.”
Scanlon clapped him on the back. “Aha, always the cautious one, eh! That’s good. Now, I’m thinking that there’s some of us as might be able to be of a little help to ye.”
“I’m interested. Go on.”
“My understanding is that you’ve been trying to obtain certain information through the official channels via Luchenko.”
“I asked him for an interview with the commandant,” McCain agreed. “I brought it up the day I arrived, and again three days after that.”
“And what was the result?” Scanlon asked.
“Nothing. I think they’re jerking me around.”
“What was it that ye wanted to know – in general, if you take my meaning? You don’t have to be specific.”
“I was with a colleague when I was arrested. I just want to get some news.”
Scanlon nodded and watched the singers for a while, who had switched to a song that McCain recognized as the melody of part of a Brahms violin concerto. Then, as if abandoning that line of conversation suddenly, Scanlon said, “It’s not that Russians are incapable, you understand. But their system doesn’t give them sensible goals to aim at. They’re not rewarded for being efficient. They’re rewarded for achieving the Plan, even if the Plan makes no sense.” He paused, and added absently, “It leads to a lot of corruption – endemic to the society, you might say…. A man will get nothing done without paying the right price to the right person. And then again, if you look at it the other way round, there isn’t anything that can’t be done, provided you know who to ask.”
“If Luchenko needs greasing, he should find a way to say so,” McCain said. “I don’t read minds.”
“Ah well, it’s his way to let people stew until they get anxious. It raises the price. But then, on the other hand, maybe it isn’t Luchenko that ye need to be dealing with at all.” Scanlon paused, giving McCain a sidelong glance, and moved his head closer as he came to the point. “Some of us have a little understanding with one of the guard officers, who has access to central record information. I can put you in contact with him. He’ll be able to find out if there’s any news of your friend.”
“And what will he want out of it?” McCain asked.
“What does anyone want out of anything? Money, drink, sex, a good time. A new coat for the wife, if he has one, or bikes for the kids. Asian and Western goods still fetch fabulous prices on the Soviet black market.”
“Look, this may come as a surprise, but I didn’t come here stocked up for a long stay. And I don’t think of myself as all that pretty.”
Scanlon went off on one of his apparent tangents again. “Tell me something, Lew, is it a fact that ye’ve been something of a Russian scholar in your time? You seem to know a lot about them.”
“I majored in modern history and languages. That’s not uncommon for a journalist,” McCain said. Both statements were true. It was best if cover identities drew as much from reality as was practicable.
“Did you ever read Dostoyevsky?”
“Sure.”
“Then ye’ll have heard of the secret society of thieves who as good as ran the Russian criminal underworld back in the times of the czars. They penetrated the prison system, too, got themselves special treatment, and sometimes intimidated the authorities. Also, they had a communications network that bordered on being uncanny.” McCain nodded. And as Solzhenitsyn had described a century later, they were still around and doing a thriving business long after the Revolution. Scanlon drew on McCain’s sleeve and they began walking slowly across the compound, keeping their distance from the walls, “It works like this,” he said. “The organization is still around. Today it’s turned into a sophisticated operation called ‘the Cooperative, ’ and survives through having connections into all the state bureaucracies, even the KGB. And it exists here, too.”
“In Zamork, you mean?”
Scanlon waved a hand vaguely. “Around
Tereshkova
, generally.”
“Do we know who?”
“Not unless they want you to. But there are account numbers in the Exchange that you can voucher points to, which through processes that we needn’t concern ourselves with will end up as rubles in a Moscow bank. Through a code system, you authorize your creditor – in this case the guard officer that I mentioned – to draw it out. So whether he wants a blonde for himself or a bike for the kids, he’ll find the wherewithal waiting for him when he goes back on his next Earthside leave. Then, when you finally get out, you settle your accumulated account with the Cooperative in US dollars, yuan, or yen – plus interest, naturally.”
“In other words they’re offering a loan service for bribing the guards.”
“Exactly.”
“How much does this cost?”
“Well, it’s not cheap, I’ll admit. But then again, we’re not talking about the world’s most secure line of investment either.”