The Defector (16 page)

“You miss your father, don’t you?”

“Yes…” It was a whisper.

“And do you think he’s dead, or gone over to the West?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She hesitated and then said in a rush, “My mother thinks he’s gone over. She told me he was upset because a friend had been arrested. She doesn’t say too much. We try not to think about it.” Poliakov took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. His hand trembled slightly as he lit one. He had gone far enough, and common prudence advised him to leave the conversation there. But there was misery and fear in the girl’s face that angered him beyond caution. He felt over come by pity and indignation.

“If your father has gone over to the West, what would you feel towards him? Don’t be afraid to answer; don’t you see my life is just as much in your hands now?” She looked up at him.

“Why are you asking me these questions? How do I know you aren’t working for the police?”

“You don’t know,” he said.

“You’ll have. to take that chance. How would you feel about your father?”

“Ashamed…” she said slowly.

“But glad too. Because he was alive.”

“Would you ever forgive him see him again if he came home?”

“Of course,” she murmured.

“But it wouldn’t be possible. It wouldn’t be allowed.”

“And would your mother say the same as you?”

“I don’t know,” Irina answered.

“I can’t speak for my mother. She cries every night, I know that.”

“All right.” Poliakov slipped off the table; he gathered her essay papers in a neat pile.

“I want you to think about one thing. How would you feel if you could see your father again. And how would your mother feel. Think about it. I’ll talk to you again at the end of next week. Go on now. ” She got up and for a moment stood in front of him, not knowing how to leave. He placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Go on,” he said gently.

“I have to take another class. And don’t betray me, will you, Irina Ivanovna?”

“Never,” she said.

“Never in my life.” She turned and hurried away, her head bowed to hide the bright colour and the unshed tears. That evening, Poliakov went round to a colleague’s apartment and, against a loud background of radio music, told her that he had made the first approach to Sasanov’s daughter and the reaction seemed favourable. She could convey that message the next time she met Elizabeth Cole from the Embassy. But before she did so, there was an item published in Pravda and lyiestia reporting the discovery of Colonel Ivan Sasanov’s body washed up on the beach in the south of England. It was stated that he had committed suicide by throwing himself off a nearby promontory called Beachy Head; the badly decomposed body had been trapped in rocks and only just released by heavy seas. The Colonel had been suffering from depression and had received medical treatment before leaving the Soviet Union with the trade delegation. The body was being flown back to Russia for burial.

“Well,” Davina said.

“That closes the file for you.” She handed him the English newspaper, with its secondary headline Soviet Colonel’s body found.

“So I’m officially dead,” Sasanov said.

“Suicide I see. And I’m going home to be buried. What about my family? They’ll believe this they won’t trust any approach to them that your people can make.” He threw the paper aside.

“Your Intelligence have got together with ours,” he said angrily.

“They’ve agreed to save everyone’s face by accepting a body and saying it’s mine. Our Service thinks I was burned at Halldale, and your Chief is pretending that they’re right. This is not what was agreed.”

“The fire hadn’t happened,” she pointed out.

“We probably had to release the body prematurely. Don’t worry about your family; they’ll be contacted and told the truth. But they’ve got to be sounded out first moving too quickly could wreck everything.” She hesitated, and then decided that he had better face the possibility of failure.

“Supposing we get a negative response,” she said.

“Supposing your wife and your daughter don’t want to come over? You mustn’t take too much for granted. You’ve been away eight months. That can be a long time to be alone and under suspicion.” He looked up at her, frowning.

“I know my family. My wife knew what I was planning, even though I never said it. She knew when I left for England that I wasn’t coming back. She won’t have turned against me. Neither will my daughter. They’ll come. ” He picked up the newspaper and began to read it. Dav-ina didn’t argue; she knew that on this one point he was beyond reason. His family would join him. That was the end of it. She went out and made a shopping list. They were living in a block of flats in Shepherds Bush;

the block was owned and staffed by the Brigadier’s department. People came and went on short visits; no flats were available to anyone outside. They had provided her with a different car after the journey back from Halldale. To her surprise she and Sasanov had changed over to the escort car in central London. One of the security men had driven hers away. Precautions were very strict. Sasanov was not allowed to leave the flat in daylight. He had to take fresh air and exercise at night, and wherever he went with Davina, they were shadowed by two armed men. The atmosphere became tense between them. They had far less freedom than at Halldale and Sasanov was fretting at the restrictions. He re-read the story about the discovery of the body. burial in Russia. He imagined the anguish of his wife and daughter and he burned with anger. What did Davina mean when she talked of moving too quickly? He had been stung by her remark that eight months was a long time. He trusted his wife, but no one knew better than he the pressures suffered by innocent relatives in cases of disloyalty to the State. Perhaps they had not been strong enough. Perhaps they would accept the substitute body and be glad to believe he was dead and they could start life again. Moving too quickly could ruin everything. So could delaying too long. He wasn’t going to gamble everything on British caution. It looked more than possible that his wife would reject an approach for fear of a KGB trap. He got up and went into the bedroom. He found what he was looking for in a drawer. When Davina came back he was in the kitchen, drinking tea and waiting for her.

“I want this given to my wife,” he said.

“And I want her answer. I’ll be ready for debriefing when I get it. Tell the Brigadier that I don’t want to wait, and I know he doesn’t either. “

“You’re sure,” Davina said.

“You’re sure you want to risk this?”

“There’s no risk,” he said.

“This will prove I’m alive. It can go in the diplomatic bag to Moscow.” Davina turned over the postcard of Stonehenge at sunset and looked at the back. One side of it was covered in Cyrillic writing; the space for the name and address was left empty.

“Why this?” she asked him.

“Why not a letter?”

“Because of what I’ve written on it,” he said.

“She will know it comes from me. Will you do this today?”

“I’ll try,” she said. She saw the look on his face, and said quickly, “All right, I’ll get it sent off this afternoon.” She began to make lunch for them; he had gone back to the sitting-room. She tried to ignore the inexcusable depression that had begun when he gave her the postcard. He wanted his wife and daughter. She had always known and accepted that. It was no time to be possessive, to spoil the relationship they had by resenting his need for his family. She felt so guilty she left the cooking and came into the room where he was sitting, and put her arms round his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” she said.

“I’ll get everything moving, if that’s the way you think is best. You don’t need to snap at me.” He reached up and touched her face.

“I’m sorry. But I want them to stand at the grave and know that I am still alive. I want Fedya’s answer in my hands.” She left him, with a cheerful expression on her face, and the inevitable sinking in her heart. By five o’clock the postcard had been delivered to the appropriate authority and was sealed in an envelope for inclusion in the next diplomatic bag for Moscow. The Ilyushinjet landed at Moscow airport just after six in the morning. The coffin was taken off and loaded into a small van, which sped away towards the city centre. By nine o’clock the body was lying under a bright light in the private mortuary owned by the KGB, and there were three men grouped around it. One was a police surgeon;

the other two were high-ranking officers of the KGB dressed as civilians. The taller and older-looking of the two stared down at the discoloured, mutilated corpse for some moments without speaking. Then he spoke to the surgeon.

“How much will an autopsy tell us?”

“Approximate date of death, General; length of time in the water; age;

whether he died from drowning or was killed and put in the sea. Analysis of the organs depends upon the degree of decomposition. “

“What you mean,” the General said sarcastically, ‘is that you can’t make a positive identification with Ivan Sasanov. ” He gave the surgeon a baleful look and was gratified to see him wince.

“The teeth, General…” he said hurriedly.

“Dental records will prove whether it’s Sasanov.”

“Dental treatment can be faked,” he said abruptly.

“But have it checked anyway. Tatischev.” He glanced at the younger man beside him.

“You’ve got all the records?”

“Here, Comrade General.” The file containing all Sasanov’s medical data was passed to him. He read through it slowly, glancing at the grisly remains on the table as he did so.

“Yes,” he said suddenly.

“That’s interesting.” Both men looked at him expectantly.

“Tatischev - put a call through to Dzerzinsky Street. Tell them to pick up Sasanov’s wife and bring her here. ” He turned away and said to the surgeon,” while we wait; have that thing covered up. ” He walked out of the mortuary room, followed by Tatischev who hurried to a telephone. Fedya Sasanova knew who she would find when she answered the persistent ring on her doorbell. They seemed to tower over her as she stared at them, though in fact neither of the men was tall. Fear invested them with height and bulk and gave them a menace which was quite imaginary. They asked her very politely to come with them, and waited in the narrow passage as she pulled on a coat. Her hands were trembling too much to do it up properly, and the coat hung awkwardly from the wrong buttons. She sat in the back of the Zil, one man driving and the other beside her. Her companion offered her a cigarette, which she refused. They had been told not to frighten her. Her fear reached a crescendo as the car swung into Dzerzinsky Street and she thought she was being taken to the KGB offices; her vision swam and she thought she was going to faint. But the car went past the dreaded building and turned left.

“Where are we going?” It was almost a whisper, and the man beside her leaned down as if he were deaf.

“To the city mortuary,” he answered.

“Your husband’s body is there.”

“Oh,” she murmured, job, I didn’t know it had come. Thank you, Comrade; thank you for fetching me. for a moment I was confused. ” She didn’t go on and he looked out of the window to let her collect herself before she said something stupid. They brought her into the mortuary room and she hesitated, staring at the shape lying on a table, shrouded in a green plastic sheet with a brilliant light beamed down upon it. For a moment the men standing near were in deep shadow. When the General stepped forward, she recognized him immediately. He held out his hand, and took hers; he noticed how cold it was, and the tiny nervous tremor.

“General Volkov - They had known each other socially for nearly twenty years; he had a dacha in the same select area, but it was bigger than theirs, in keeping with his rank. He had been Ivan Sasanov’s immediate superior when he first came to Moscow. He had been responsible for the arrest and punishments of the dissidents. Antonyii Volkov. He had sent Belezky to the psychiatric hospital.

“Your husband’s body arrived from England this morning,” he said.

“I know this will be very distressing, Comrade Sasanova, but I am afraid we want you to make a positive identification. You must be brave; it will be difficult to recognize him. Tatischev will get you a brandy. ” He took her by the arm and guided her to the table; the brilliant light almost blinded her when she tried to look up. She stood there waiting, staring at the green plastic, gripping both hands together in front of her ill-fitting coat, and tried to think clearly. If it was her husband under there. if he were really dead, and not in hiding. God forbid, she thought, using the word quite unconsciously. And yet, if he were dead if it could be proved he hadn’t defected they’d be reinstated. Irina would have a future;

she could sleep without nightmares and open the front door without fear. Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of her husband dead;

they slipped down her cheek, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. She wanted him to be alive; her reaction to the news that his body had been found, a suicide by drowning, had been desperate grief. And then the doubt came, growing stronger by the hour. He had not been suffering from any mental illness, or receiving any treatment. Those items printed in I vestia were lies. And if they were lies, then so might the body be. She glanced timidly at Volkov. What did he expect her to say-what did he want her to say? Tatischev was beside her with a glass of brandy. She took a sip.

“A little more,” he suggested.

“It’ll be a shock for you.” She obeyed, and after a further moment’s pause, Volkov asked her, “Do you feel strong enough to look at the body, and take time? Time to examine it closely and make absolutely sure?” She nodded. The brandy was burning its way down. The surgeon stepped forward and removed the green plastic. She gave a gasp and turned away, shutting her eyes. Tatischev caught her elbow and gently turned her back.

“You must look,” he said.

“Not at the face, look at the body only. ” She opened her eyes and kept them focused on the horrid corpse, avoiding the ghastly bloated, eyeless deformity that was the head. The brandy had helped her; slowly she steadied herself and her memory supplied clues. There were no hands. It was impossible to tell whether the man she had loved was the pitiful horror below her. But she studied it, searching for recognition. If he were dead, she and Irina would be safe. She put a hand up to her mouth, and then searched in her bag for a handkerchief. She wiped her lips and then her eyes.