Face Me When You Walk Away (26 page)

‘That's clever of you,' praised Illinivitch.

‘Did you know?' pressed Josef.

‘Of course. I knew he was a homosexual, too. But even I didn't imagine he would seduce the man.'

Illinivitch wouldn't have cleared the permission to allow Endelman to accompany them on the trip, Josef decided. That meant that from Moscow's point of view, the decision was Josef's alone.

‘Why did you come to America?' asked the negotiator. ‘It wasn't necessary for the Presidential reception.'

‘The scandal I had created between the photographer and Balshev, to use against Devgeny, had been too well hidden,' said Illinivitch, simply. ‘You were being far too successful in disguising what was going on. So I used the reception as an excuse to get here, to create a situation that you have been avoiding.'

Josef ignored the last part of the sentence. ‘I
have
remained successful, haven't I?' he boasted.

‘New York was very close, wasn't it?' returned Illinivitch, swallowing the lure. He really was very stupid, thought Josef.

‘Semyonov has been very thorough,' said the negotiator.

‘He's a very able man,' said Illinivitch. ‘Although we must be fair. In the beginning, Vladimirov helped with the investigation into Endelman. You've no idea how carefully we had the man investigated.'

‘Semyonov is a protégé of Devgeny's,' mused Josef. ‘How, I wonder, have you got his report of the drug party so quickly?'

Illinivitch laughed at Josef's suspicions. ‘Because he thinks I'm supporting Devgeny, not opposing him,' explained the deputy Minister, convincingly.

‘You've done a great deal of planning,' agreed Josef, returning to a familiar theme. ‘You must have powerful support in the Praesidium.'

Illinivitch smiled again. ‘You'll get the names when I get your unconditional support,' he rejected. ‘Being the liaison man has enabled me to make many friends. So far you've shown no friendship, merely guarded interest.'

The deputy Minister sat back, staring up at the ceiling, an artificial pose.

‘I can use that drug party,' he said, after a long silence. He was like that Swedish count whose name he couldn't remember, thought Josef, attempting something beyond his ability.

‘Wouldn't it be embarrassing if there were newspaper leaks that Nikolai might have been a guest there?' he asked, smiling. ‘Imagine that appearing in the Jack Anderson column on the very day of the Presidential reception. I wouldn't be surprised if the President wouldn't cancel the whole thing.'

Josef looked at Illinivitch for several minutes. It was the moment of decision. He had to commit himself now, categorically. The risk, he thought, was appalling.

‘I will not sacrifice Nikolai,' he announced. ‘Particularly to the detriment of my country, to settle an imagined score with anybody. If newspaper stories appear linking Nikolai with that party, I shall leave America immediately, fly back to Moscow before the Presidential reception and give to the Praesidium a full report of what you have been demanding that I should do throughout the tour.'

For a moment, Illinivitch sat, completely still, robbed of any movement.

‘And whom do you imagine would believe you?' he sneered, finally. ‘You'd need evidence to convince anyone. And at the moment, the only person who stands to be utterly disgraced on the evidence available is yourself. You don't imagine Semyonov or Vladimirov would confirm what you say, do you?'

He was right, thought Josef. Here at least the man had been clever. He wondered if Illinivitch were as frightened of an inquiry as he was.

‘You really are very immature,' said Josef, sadly.

Illinivitch glared, his face colouring.

‘Don't you see how you've been outmanoeuvred?' demanded Josef. ‘To be the danger that Devgeny suspects you of being, you would have to be in Moscow, where you can gain allies and alienate him away from his supporters. Here you're just where he wants you, far away so he can whittle down whatever support you ever had. You're dead, Illinivitch. You've been outwitted and you've lost. Utter one word of what happened in New York and I shall go back to Moscow and denounce you.'

Illinivitch began to shake, but it was anger, not fear, Josef thought. He wasn't prepared to call his bluff, Josef realized.

‘So we've both failed,' conceded the deputy Minister, with difficulty. ‘But I remain on the Praesidium, which is something you have forgotten. I'll make you a solemn promise, Bultova. If Devgeny fails to get you purged, and I don't think he will after the disaster of this tour, then I'll have you back inside a prison camp within a year.'

Josef laughed, an uncaring sound, and for a moment thought the other man was going to hit him. His face suffused into a puce colour and his hands bellowed open and shut. If he hits me, thought Josef, it'll hurt like hell and my eyes would probably water with the pain, which would be embarrassing, because Illinivitch would think I was crying. With great effort, the deputy Minister got himself under control.

‘You'll regret this,' he said.

‘Perhaps,' said Josef.

Later, as he undressed upstairs and took his customary sleeping pills, Josef found himself humming.

*

There seemed no need, so Pamela hadn't bothered to wash. Her hair was matted and unkempt and she ran her hands through it, grimacing at the tangles, pulling faces at her own reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Nikolai's eyes had been red-veined and rheumy, like hers were now, she remembered, that night they got drunk at the dacha. She shuddered. The recollection still embarrassed her. She looked for her glass and found it on the bedside table. Funny. She couldn't remember putting it there. She stared at its emptiness, like someone gazing stupidly into an empty wallet after encountering a pick-pocket. The bottle was on the lower table. She'd have to do something about the mess, she thought, before Josef returned. He had that fetish about tidiness. She shrugged. But he wasn't returning for several days yet. She wondered why he hadn't telephoned in the last few days. She stood at the window, watching the barbushkas far below chip and hack at the snow. She hoped Josef would be home by Christmas. Perhaps they could go to church. She'd like that, she decided. Perhaps, if she made a promise which God knew she meant, He'd listen. She really would keep her promise.

‘Honestly,' she said, aloud, in the empty, dirty apartment. She heard the delivery flap click and turned, staring at the box. From her mother, she predicted. So there was no hurry. Time for another drink. Like a child saving the best part of a birthday trifle until last, she waited fifteen minutes before seeing what had arrived. It wasn't from her mother, she realized, recognizing the Moscow franking and the officialdom of the envelope. Careful not to spill her drink, she opened it. It was a short letter. It had been impossible, it said, to guarantee a re-entry visa if she chose to leave Russia. She squeezed her eyes shut, then re-focused, reading the letter again to ensure she hadn't misunderstood. She dropped the rejection on the hall table and went back into the sitting-room, refilling her glass from the emptying bottle. She wondered why she didn't feel any disappointment.

20

It would have been easy for Endelman to have given him sufficient heroin the previous night, Josef realized, as he drove to the Hay Adams. He had even suggested it on the aircraft coming to Washington, but the photographer had lied about having to make contact with a Washington supplier, waiting for Josef to begin an argument he would have to lose. Why was it necessary, wondered Josef, for everyone to see him run errands? He felt a coldness, but no anger. Endelman was lounging in his room overlooking the White House. He'd regained some of his former elegance, thought the Russian.

‘How very prompt,' said Endelman. He was enjoying the role of bully, thought Josef.

The Russian put his briefcase by the chair and sat down. ‘I've got to be,' replied the negotiator. ‘Have you any idea the state Nikolai is in?'

Endelman made a careless gesture. ‘He'll be better an hour from now. You know, Josef, you really are like a clerk. My memory of you will be of a fat little man with a briefcase welded to his arm.'

‘And my recollection of you will be of a man who knowingly set out to destroy someone with more talent than you could imagine.'

‘Nikolai knew what was happening,' rejected Endelman.

‘How many times did you meet Semyonov before you came to Stockholm?' asked Josef, unexpectedly.

Endelman shrugged. ‘Two or three times,' he confirmed. ‘A letter came from some Ministry in Moscow after Blyne had requested permission for me to accompany you, suggesting I call upon the guy.'

‘Did he know you were a heroin addict?'

Endelman laughed at him. ‘I don't wear a lapel badge.'

‘But you don't go to much trouble disguising it.'

‘Why should I?' asked Endelman, aggressively. ‘I'm not particularly ashamed. Or of being a fag. I can afford both.'

‘So it wouldn't have been difficult for anyone to find out?'

Again Endelman laughed, mocking him. He was excited at the confrontation, Josef knew.

‘Not employing the methods that you're used to, no,' agreed the photographer. ‘Are you trying to frighten me that there's a dossier on me in Moscow, for seducing their favourite author?'

Josef smiled and Endelman looked surprised. The Russian stood up, holding out his hand. Endelman shook his head.

‘What's the matter now?' asked Josef.

‘So far,' said the photographer, ‘the exchange between Nicky and me has been, shall we say, for love. But we both know there isn't any love left.'

‘How much?' asked Josef, simply.

‘It's not easy any more,' said Endelman, wanting to prolong the meeting. ‘It's getting tighter on the Mexican border. So the stuff's scarce. It's inevitable that the price will go up.'

‘How much?'

‘And I do feel you should contribute to all the stuff I handed over free of charge, don't you?'

Josef stood, refusing to join in Endelman's game, waiting for the demand.

‘I think,' continued the photographer, ‘that a thousand dollars would be fair. After all, Nikolai made some of his most impressive public performances strung out on what I'd given him.'

‘That's bullshit.'

Endelman raised both hands, palm upwards, in feigned horror.

‘But we can't afford to fall out, can we?'

‘I've only got five hundred now,' said Josef.

‘We don't extend credit,' said the photographer.

‘You know you'll get it,' said Josef. It would be another occasion when he would have to come running, the negotiator thought. Endelman would like that.

From the bedside drawer, Endelman took the glassine envelopes and handed them to the Russian.

‘I want the money,' he insisted.

‘You'll get it,' said Josef.

Nikolai was hunched, cross-legged, in the middle of his bed when Josef returned to the embassy. He had been crying, Josef saw. The sheet was pulled-up, rope-like, and was creased and filthy where the writer had sat clutching it, like a baby sometimes holds its bedding for comfort. He grabbed the envelope from the other man and prepared his injection. Some of the powder fell on to the bed and he carefully brushed it back into the spoon. It was sexual, thought Josef, the slow entry and withdrawal of the needle. A bubble of blood popped up on Nikolai's arm as he withdrew the hypodermicand Nikolai stared at it, hypnotically. It looked like a tiny cherry, thought Josef. Or a nipple. Sex again. Abruptly, the writer smeared the mark with his thumb, looking up at Josef.

The negotiator felt a sudden moment of pity for the other man. He looked so frail and small, as if he were collapsing inwardly. Countries had tossed him about like children playing with a ball until it became dirty and punctured. And, like children, there weren't any regrets.

Before leaving the embassy that morning, Josef sought out the doctor, a bullish, shock-haired Georgian named Ravil Shevardnadze. The doctor's genial greeting soured within minutes of their conversation, and he grew angry, but Josef argued patiently, frequently reminding the man of his rank. Fortunately, the hostility of Illinivitch and Vladimirov had not permeated through the embassy. Josef finally got his way, as he knew he would.

Before the reception, there was more publicity sightseeing to the John F. Kennedy Memorial Centre and the Lincoln Monument, and lunch at the National Press Club. They divided into ridiculous, hostile camps, the ambassador and Illinivitch isolating themselves, Nikolai and Endelman together but hardly talking and Josef thrown into constant contact with Blyne, to which he did not object.

‘Not like a scene out of happy families,' mocked Blyne, as they drank before lunch.

Josef smiled, knowing there was no hostility in the American's remark.

‘Ridiculous, isn't it?' he said.

‘Yes,' agreed the publisher. ‘I don't envy your position.'

‘No,' said Josef, sincerely. ‘Neither do I.'

Vladimirov had chosen to be the interpreter, as Semyonov had in New York. Illinivitch stood to one side looking more at Josef than at the writer.

‘What are you going to do about Matheson?' asked Josef.

‘I don't know,' said Blyne, as if the matter were not important. ‘He fouled up.'

‘Have you fired him?'

‘Not yet.'

‘I don't think you should,' said Josef. There were too many casualties already, he thought.

Blyne looked surprised.

‘What happened to him would have happened to either of us if we'd been there,' said Josef.

‘Probably,' agreed the publisher, doubtfully.

‘There's no doubt,' stressed Josef. He stared across at Endelman, who was quietly taking pictures. Throughout everything, Josef realized, the man had remained the complete professional. They all had, he supposed, reflectively.