The Relic (15 page)

Her internal phone rang. The patient was recovering consciousness. Her mother was being treated for shock by one of the junior physicians and the husband was creating hell. Could she
please
come down and deal with the situation? Irina hurried out. She forgot to call the apartment again, and decided by two in the morning that she might as well stay at the clinic for what was left of the night.

Volkov had woken early. He was restless and excited. Lucy watched him in wonder.

‘I nearly had a drink yesterday on that boat,' he told her. ‘I went to the restaurant and put the money down for a large brandy. Then I thought of you. It was easy then, my darling. I can't believe how easy it was. It's over. I know I'll never drink again!'

‘You've got to get away from here,' she insisted. ‘We can go to England. Mischa will organize meetings. He has contacts inside the Ukraine. We can't plan anything till you're safe and out of their reach.'

Volkov said, ‘I disappear and then I reappear very publicly. I do all the things I didn't do the first time. I give interviews. I hold a Press conference. I've thought it out already. I draw so much attention to myself that they won't dare touch me.'

‘We shouldn't waste time,' Lucy said. ‘We should get away from Switzerland.'

He was bold and confident, almost euphoric. Suddenly she was afraid. Afraid for him and for herself. And the fear was growing as he made his plans. She came up and put her arms round him.

‘We could leave here tomorrow. Why don't we? Why don't we just go to the airport and get on a plane?'

He shook his head. ‘We can't travel together,' he said. ‘And there is a practical problem—I have to find my passport.' He frowned. ‘It may be out of date. It may have been renewed. I wouldn't remember. Irina took care of everything. I was just a piece of luggage to be labelled and sent wherever they wanted. You speak to Mischa. Ask him if he could help with papers. Say I'm sure it won't be necessary, but just as a precaution. Meet me at seven at the St Honoré. We'll hide ourselves in a corner and celebrate!'

He hugged her tight. ‘I feel like Lazarus,' he said. ‘Out of the tomb and into the sunshine! How much I love you, Lucy! Seven o'clock—at our café.'

Then he was gone and she watched him striding away down the street. Now he was a traveller with a destination.
This
was the Dimitri Volkov the world had watched in admiration.

But the fear stayed with her, its cold hand on her heart.

The big Illuyshin jet made a smooth landing at Sheremetov airport. Viktor watched the descent over the city he loved. He was glad to be home. He had always felt the same elation at the end of his long tours abroad. When he came back to Russia he shed his aliases. He was himself.

The official Zil, with his driver, was there to meet him. There were no airport formalities for him and the rest of his delegation.

It was a warm evening and the air was sweet. He opened the window after they turned in to the country. His
dacha
was in the woods on the banks of the Moscova river. He loved Moscow, but he didn't like living there. His
dacha
was home to him. The forest and the lapping water of the great river were a balm to the spirit.

His housekeeper came out to greet him. He kept his mistress in an apartment in Moscow. He never brought women to the
dacha
. He made his way to the upper floor. He opened the door of a big airy room with views down to the great river itself. The old man sitting in his chair by the window turned round and smiled at him. Ivan! Cancer had eaten in to him, but he was still alive. A wraith with bright eyes in his gaunt face. He was too feeble to leave his room now, but Viktor had the window specially made so he could sit and watch the river.

Viktor embraced him. The body was a skeleton wrapped in a winding sheet of clothes, but the eyes were bright and the smile was glad.

‘How have you been, Little Father?'

‘Well, son, well. And you?'

Viktor offered him a drink. A very small drink, since he had only half a stomach. In the old days Ivan could swallow a bottle of vodka and keep his legs.

‘I want to show you this,' Viktor said.

He put an exercise book on the old man's lap. The cover was faded from bright red to pink. It was creased and frayed. He turned the pages. The childish drawing of rabbits sitting under the trees among the spring daffodils; his sketch of Ivan on the sled, of Lepkin dozing in his chair by the stove. The cat with yellow eyes crouched in the long grass in pursuit of a bird.

The old man nodded. ‘Your drawings,' he said. ‘You could have been an artist.'

‘A bad one,' Viktor answered. ‘Anyway it wasn't a time for painting pictures, Little Father.'

The sketch was from memory, but he had an eye for detail. He had drawn the cross he'd seen so briefly, and coloured the stones red and the setting yellow. Ivan looked at it and didn't speak.

‘I can't remember why I drew that,' Viktor prompted.

‘It belonged to your father,' the old man said at last.

‘To Lepkin?'

‘No, your real father. The minister Rakovsky. I think he gave it to Lepkin as a bribe.'

‘How do you know?' Viktor asked gently.

‘I saw him look at it in the car when we were driving to the Lubiyanka. It was tied up in a parcel. I saw him in the driving mirror. I thought, he's got something valuable there. He's in trouble; he's going to buy someone with that cross. It was full of red jewels. He didn't know I could see him. I saw a lot of things, but I never let on. It was safer to look stupid.'

‘You're a fox, Little Father,' Viktor said.

The light was fading. Clouds were creeping up over the edges of the trees and the river's surface was turning black. His father had given the cross to Lepkin. A bribe, Ivan had said. Viktor watched the darkness spreading. Lepkin had saved Rakovsky's family. He'd married the widow and been a father to Rakovsky's children. Rakovsky had bought their lives with that cross.

He took the drawing book and said, ‘I have work to do. I'll come up later and say goodnight. Is there anything you want, Little Father?'

‘Some tea,' the old man murmured. ‘And that stuff that stops the pain.'

‘I'll send the nurse,' Viktor promised.

Viktor had dinner alone. He went up to see Ivan and found him asleep.

‘He was uncomfortable, comrade Rakovsky,' the nurse explained. ‘I increased the dose as you instructed. He drank some tea and then he slept.'
No pain, no sorrow, no cloud to blur the sunset of his life
.

That was his decree for the man he loved best in the world.

‘Watch him tonight,' he instructed. ‘Call me if he wakes or he asks for me.'

The next morning he was assured by the nurse that Ivan had slept peacefully and eaten a little breakfast. He was in good spirits. There was no immediate danger.

Viktor went in to his Kremlin office. The necessary papers were provided for him, the travelling arranged, and by noon he was on an Aeroflot plane to Geneva.

He was met at the airport. He travelled on a Polish passport. His occupation was given as manufacturer of industrial components. He went unnoticed through Swiss immigration. Poles were travelling freely these days, seeking business, and Western commercial and technical expertise. He spoke perfect Polish. Also excellent German and fluent English.

He had learned his languages at the highly sophisticated KGB school in Leningrad. He had been recruited on the strength of his life with the partisans. He was the kind of material Stalin's Intelligence services needed in the Cold War.

The taxi took him through the city and up into the countryside beyond the lake, where the Amner clinic commanded its famous views. He was shown up to Irina's office immediately.

He hadn't seen her for five years. She had changed. She was slimmer, more sophisticated. He noticed the artful make-up, the elegant hair style. A very good-looking woman.

He was fond of women; he enjoyed their company and he liked making love. He wondered whether she had taken a lover during the last five years. Then he remembered that it was Volkov who was being unfaithful.

They shook hands. They were on first-name terms. He and her father were friends.

‘It's good to see you, Irina. You're looking very well. Swiss air suits you.'

‘Thank you. You look well too, Viktor. Please sit down. Can I get you a drink? It's not too early?'

He smiled. ‘It's never too early. But I won't have anything. How is your husband?'

She shrugged slightly. ‘The same. He's never recovered from Müller's visit.'

She still held that grudge, he noted.
Müller, beware
, he thought.

He said, ‘That was a long time ago. Müller wasn't to know he'd come off your medication. And I haven't come all this way to listen to the same complaint, Irina. You've made it officially and it's been noted. I want to see Adolph Brückner. How is he?'

‘I've kept his sedation to a minimum. And I haven't advanced his re-education since I got your message. His family are agitating to get him home. I'm glad you've come; it was getting difficult to stall them.'

‘So far he's responded well?' he asked.

‘Well enough. The trouble is, he hates himself. There's a strong suicidal tendency. That's why I've decided to let his wife and children come and see him. He needs motivation. I can advance the programme; that's no problem. He's already highly suggestible.'

Rakovsky listened to the cool voice describing the intensive hypnosis and subliminal suggestion that would distort Brückner's mentality. Visual images flashed on and off at fractions of a second to imprint themselves on the subconscious mind. Images of guilt, of fear, of the excruciating headaches he had inflicted on himself which only the doctor could hold in check. Obedience and trust. The treatment hammered them into the defenceless mind. Trust in the doctor. Obedience to the doctor.

‘I'm glad you've come,' Irina said again. ‘I insisted that Müller contact you at once. He thought it was a fantasy. I had such difficulty persuading him to take Brückner's story seriously. I had to practically draft the report myself!'

Oh yes
, Rakovsky noted,
Müller had better beware
. He said, ‘I'd like to see him now.'

‘Of course. He's had some medication. He'll be pliable.'

They went down in the lift. Irina spoke to the nurse on duty in the corridor.

‘I have a visitor for Monsieur Brückner.'

He stood back while she approached the bed. Fifty years had passed. The man lying there was in his seventies. He was white haired, with dull eyes and a slack mouth; saliva dribbled from one corner.

‘Wake him up!' Rakovsky commanded.

Irina bent over and shook him. She shook him hard. ‘Adolph! Adolph, pay attention!'

He focused on her, he mumbled something. Viktor came to the edge of the bed.

‘He can see you,' she whispered. ‘He's sedated, but he might recognize you.'

‘It won't matter,' was the answer. ‘I'm going to question him. Tell him he's got to answer me. Go on, tell him!'

Irina glanced quickly at Rakovsky. There was a terrible rage in him; she could feel it like an electric charge in the room. She raised her voice to the tone of command that meant, obey me or you will suffer for it.

‘My friend is going to ask some questions. You'll answer them, Adolph. You tell him everything he wants to know. You understand me?'

‘I understand.' The voice was tremulous.

Viktor Rakovsky came very close to him. He loomed over the prostrate man in the bed. ‘Tell me about the cross that was stolen,' he said. ‘Describe it to me.'

‘It was gold. Very old workmanship. With big red stones. It was so beautiful.'

‘How many stones?'

‘Seven. Boris counted them. Three in the traverse and four in the body. He kept saying he'd be rich.'

Rakovsky's hands were clenched in to fists. Irinia thought he was near to striking the old man. She had begun to feel uneasy. This was no ordinary interrogation.

‘How big was the cross?'

‘Bigger than my hand. He let me hold it once. It felt so light.'

The description fitted exactly. Filigree goldwork, seven red spinels. The right measurement. He leaned closer, nearer to Brückner. Brückner was watching him with wide, frightened eyes.

‘What happened to the man you call Boris? Tell me!'

‘I don't know. He was SS. I heard they'd all been killed. The Reds never took SS prisoners.'

‘No,' Viktor said. ‘They didn't. You raped the woman in the house, didn't you?'

Irina protested. ‘Please, you mustn't talk about that. You don't know what harm it could do now.'

She came and caught Rakovsky's arm. He thrust her away. He seized Brückner by the jacket of his pyjamas. He heaved him upright.

‘You raped her, didn't you? You held her down for the other one. Didn't you?'

‘Yes.' It was a quavering cry. ‘Yes.'

‘You raped my mother and you're going to die for it. You understand me? You hear me? You're going to die for what you did to her.'

Behind him, Irina gasped. He didn't hear her.

‘You should have shot me. I was the boy hiding in the cupboard, gagging my little sister so she wouldn't cry out. You made a mistake. You didn't kill me. Now you're going to be punished. You're going to die!'

Brückner screamed. It was a thin sound of rising terror.

Viktor turned to Irina. She was filling a syringe. She paused for a moment, staring at him.

‘Is it true?
You were there?
'

‘It's true,' Rakovsky said. ‘What are you giving him?'

Brückner was moaning, tossing to and fro.

‘I'm going to knock him out,' she said. ‘I don't want that busybody nurse coming in if she hears him.'