The Dark Chronicles (83 page)

‘Brezhnev was there, you say? Was he smoking?’

I nodded.

‘What colour was his cigarette holder?’

That was easy. ‘Amber.’

A look of awe came across his face. I thought it best not to mention that this fact was in all the Service’s files and had even been reported in the world’s press.

He stopped tapping his foot and looked back and forth between Sarah and me for a few moments, squinting. Then his mouth hardened.

‘All right,’ he said, finally. ‘You’re going to need papers, and I know the best forger in Moscow. But let’s get out of this car.’ He turned to me. ‘And take off the jacket and cap, for God’s sake – we’ll never persuade him to help if you’re in that get-up.’

We left the car where it was and walked. After about fifteen minutes we arrived at a block of flats, the concrete painted a pale green. It was lower than the one we’d been parked outside but in the same style, square and unadorned, with rows of tiny balconies jutting out onto the street. The front door had no one guarding it, and was unlocked. Maclean didn’t break his stride; he just opened the door and walked in.

The hallway and stairwell were a shambles, the paint peeling from the walls and broken bottles and rubbish scattered around. We climbed a narrow flight of stairs and Maclean knocked on the door three times with his fist, waited a few seconds, then rapped twice. There was a shuffling noise, followed by the sound of a latch dropping, and then the door finally swung open. A man with a beard and thick spectacles peered out sceptically.

‘Good morning, Anton,’ said Maclean. ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced like this, but we met a few months ago, at Zimshin’s party. Do you remember? I need your help. I wouldn’t usually think to impose on you, but it’s of the utmost urgency.’

Anton looked us up and down for a moment, then peered over our shoulders to see if there were any more of us. Finally, he opened the door all the way and gestured us in.

*

We followed him through a tiny hallway and into the living room, which was dark, tiny and smelled strongly of alcohol and cigarettes.
It was also a tip: piles of books and papers took up most of the available space. A few stools were arranged around a table, along with a thin bed that had a blanket strewn across it: Anton had evidently been resting there when we rang the doorbell. Greying socks and underpants hung over a radiator, which had a saucepan tied to one of its corners with string – presumably to catch any drips – while a battered tape recorder emitted Bob Dylan at low volume from the top of a glass-fronted bookcase.

Anton gestured for us to sit in the stools while he propped himself on the edge of the bed. He was wearing a frayed shirt and baggy drawstring trousers held up with braces and his thick dark hair was swept back in majestic disarray. Judging by the titles of some of the books strewn about, he was a physicist of some sort. He was also clearly a dissident, because he was about my age and it was a Monday morning, so he should be in the same sort of office I’d just fished Maclean out of. Instead, he was at home, and for a scientist in this country that meant he must be in disgrace or at least under some form of suspicion. So my information about Maclean had been right: he did move in dissident circles. But would this one be willing to stick his neck out for a complete stranger? He was already rather angry, waving his arms accusingly at Maclean.

‘Please explain yourself,’ he said. ‘And it had better be good, because I have no idea what precautions you took coming here.’

‘We weren’t tailed,’ said Maclean. ‘But these people really do need your help. They’re British, and they need to get out of the country with some very important information that affects all of us.’

Anton looked at Maclean in astonishment, and then at me and Sarah.

‘More British spies? Are you a madman?’ He clenched his fists and stood up from the bed. ‘Sorry, I thought this was serious. Get out, all of you. Now.’

Sarah tugged at my sleeve. ‘Let’s go,’ she whispered. ‘There must be another way.’

I shook my head and walked over to a pair of glass doors that led to
a small balcony. I pulled the curtains aside slowly, almost expecting to see a mushroom cloud on the skyline. Silly of me. We wouldn’t see it – it would just come. There probably wouldn’t even be a Four-Minute Warning.

I glanced down at the street a few feet below. A handful of people were trudging by, coats wrapped tight against the chill, and I watched them for a few moments. But there didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about them. I tugged the curtains back together and walked over to Anton, who looked like he was about to roll up his sleeves to fight me. I placed the attaché case on the table, opened it and took out Yuri’s threat assessment.

‘Is this a forgery?’ I said, handing it to him.

He took it reluctantly, peering at it through his spectacles.

‘No,’ he said, after he’d read a few lines of it. ‘This appears to be a genuine military intelligence document. How did you get hold of it?’

‘Never mind that. Read the last sentence, please.’

He turned the page and read it aloud. ‘“Our assessment at this time is that we must consider launching a nuclear strike, perhaps within the next twelve hours.”’ He looked up at me, then at Maclean and Sarah. ‘There must be some mistake,’ he said. ‘This cannot be right.’

I took a breath.
Stay calm
. ‘If it weren’t, we wouldn’t be here. I listened to Brezhnev order ballistic missiles primed less than four hours ago. He and his generals are in a bunker as we speak, contemplating a full-scale nuclear attack on the West. If they do, the West will counter-attack. We, and millions of others, will die. We want to try to stop this happening, but we need your help.’

There was silence for a moment, except for Dylan, who was continuing his lament about the state of the world in the corner of the room. Then Anton started asking me a lot of questions, but I cut him off and explained that there wasn’t any time. Maclean’s colleagues might soon be wondering where he’d got to, and I couldn’t afford to spend the day going over the intricacies of the B-52 flights and the mustard gas accident.

‘Are you going to help us or not?’

Now he took a breath. He poked a finger at his glasses, then turned to Maclean.

‘Do you trust these people? Are they telling the truth about this?’

Maclean tilted his head. ‘I don’t want to take the chance they’re not, do you?’

Anton thought about that for a moment, then stretched out his hand to shake mine.

‘Where do you need to go?’

We all breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Finland,’ I said.

‘I see. Like Lenin! Well, you will need a lot of papers for that. I take it you don’t have any at all?’ I shook my head. ‘Okay. Everyone needs to have a domestic passport, with
propiska
. An institutional work pass, a work book and of course
kharakteristika
. We will just have to hope that will be enough.’

‘You mean they might ask for more than that?’ I said.

‘Yes. Some things require a
spravka
, a special permit.’

‘What sort of things?’

He shrugged. ‘Staying in a hotel, going to the hospital – even entering some libraries.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘We won’t be doing any of those.’

I sounded more confident than I was.

‘All right,’ said Anton. ‘Let’s get started.’

*

Maclean left shortly afterwards – the last thing we wanted was for people to start wondering where he had got to. He agreed that if he heard anything about the situation from his colleagues he would try to return, using Anton’s door knock code again.

Once he’d gone, Sarah and I helped Anton clear some space in the living room. The bed was a folding one, and it turned out that the bookcase opened on a hinge and the bed went in it, stored upright, along with the blanket and pillows.

‘Now,’ Anton said once everything had been packed away. ‘I
think it might be best if you both clean yourselves up a bit first. And let’s see if we can do something about your hand.’ I’d taken off the gloves. ‘Wait here.’

He pushed open a door to the right of the radiator and I caught a glimpse of a tiny bathroom housing a toilet and a washbasin. A few moments later he came back in with a first-aid kit. I winced as he applied antiseptic and a bandage, but thanked him for it. He motioned for Sarah to use the bathroom, and she nodded graciously and went in to wash herself. Then he turned back to me.

‘We should also change your appearance. They will have a very detailed description of you by now, I think.’

He took off his spectacles and passed them over. I placed them over my nose, and blinked at the strength of them. I removed them at once, but agreed that they were a simple and effective prop.

‘And some clothes,’ said Anton. He squeezed past a pile of books and slid out a drawer in his magical bookcase. After some rummaging around, he removed a heavily wrinkled jacket and a gaudy cheesecloth shirt. I unbuttoned Bessmertny’s shirt and put both on. Anton passed me a hairbrush, and I arranged my hair so that it fell forward.

Sarah came out of the bathroom, her face looking a lot fresher, and muffled a laugh at my appearance. Anton smiled and did some more rummaging until he had located what looked like a black transistor radio. But I saw a lens sticking out of the front, and realized that it was, in fact, a camera.

‘You have a darkroom here?’ I asked.

He smiled, pleased at the question. ‘It’s an instant camera,’ he said. ‘A copy of the Polaroid – very new, and very rare. I can’t tell you what I had to do to get hold of it. I’ve also had to make some very special modifications. It has completely changed the way I can make documents. Now, please stand over there.’

He pointed at an area of wall beside the bookcase. I moved towards it, and he fiddled about with the camera and positioned me as he wanted.

‘Can you see?’ Sarah asked him.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, but it seemed to take him quite a while to line up the shot. But once he had done it and taken the photo, he stripped off the backing sheet and we waited for the image to appear. It took about a minute. Bizarrely, instead of one image appearing, four did, precisely like passport photographs.

‘Four lenses,’ said Anton, beaming. ‘It took me almost a month to figure out how to do it.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said. ‘What do we think, though? Will it pass muster?’

Sarah peered over and had a look. ‘It’s great,’ she said. ‘I doubt many people would recognize you from that.’

I grimaced. It wasn’t most people I was worried about, but men at a roadblock examining every vehicle, armed with a description. But I smiled at her nevertheless. ‘Let’s see how you fare, then.’

Anton looked up at me with surprise. ‘Oh, no!’ he said. ‘You misunderstand. I only have a set of papers that will fit you. I don’t have any way of making papers for your friend.’

I stared at him. ‘Well, that’s wonderful to hear. But how the hell do you think we’re going to get over the border if only one of us has papers?’

‘It’s all right, Paul,’ said Sarah quietly. ‘It’s best you get away – you know where the U-boat is, after all. I’ll find a way out somehow, don’t worry.’

‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘I’m not leaving you here for the likes of Yuri to…’ I pressed my nails into my palms. ‘There has to be a way,’ I said to Anton. ‘You must have some documents you can adapt.’

He shook his head. ‘You’re lucky I have some that will suit you. All I can suggest is that the young lady might be able to fit in the boot of my car, if she is willing. It’s a small space, but it should be possible.’

We glanced at each other, my earlier remark about putting her in the boot of Bessmertny’s car hovering between us. But it was a good offer. It wasn’t as good as papers, but a car was much safer than trying our luck with public transport.

‘I’m willing,’ Sarah said.

‘Good.’ I turned back to Anton. ‘Where’s your car and what does it look like?’

‘It’s parked on the other side of the street – a yellow Moskvitch. There are windscreen wipers in the glove compartment if you need them. And the radio has a special receiver installed. If you press the middle button, you should be able to hear what the
militsiya
are saying. That might come in useful.’

He took a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them over.

‘Thank you,’ I said, taking them.

‘I wish I could do more. Now I have to get to work. My equipment is in the other room, and I would ask that you not observe. Please understand that this is not because I don’t trust you…’

I nodded. He was worried that if we were caught, the authorities would torture us to discover the techniques he’d used to forge our papers. I was pretty sure they would have other things on their mind in that case but, after all, he was risking his freedom for the sake of two strangers and I didn’t expect him to abandon his own self-interest entirely.

‘How long will it take for you to prepare the documents?’ I asked him.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps an hour?’

Christ. It seemed like an age, considering the situation I’d left behind in the bunker. But there was no way round it: without at least one set of papers, there was no way we were going to get out of the city, let alone the country.

Anton fetched a packet of stale-looking biscuits from the kitchen, poured us a couple of glasses of water and handed out two cigarettes, before retreating to the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

I lit the cigarette and gladly inhaled it. Sarah walked over to the tape recorder and found a cassette of Bach organ preludes, which she put on to replace Dylan. Something about the way she was standing, facing away from me, alerted me that something was wrong.

‘Will you really be okay in the boot of a car?’ I asked.

She nodded her head fractionally, but didn’t turn. I thought about it for a moment, and realized she was frightened. I picked up the attaché case, opened it and took out the papers, fanning them across the table.

‘I looked at some of these in the café, but there’s much more of it, as you can see. A lot of it will be guff, I’m sure, but there might be something here that helps us know how they’re thinking, and might help us stop this. Care to go through it with me?’