The Bearpit

22

The sleet started as the cars approached the Novodevichy cemetery, neither snow nor rain, just adding wet to the cold and making everything greyer. The colour – or lack of it – was one of Yuri’s most positive impressions: dark cars, dark-clothed men, dark-earthed burial place. Even the sprigs and flower arrangements on the other, existing graves seemed withered and old, bleached of any brightness.

The uncertainty at the line-up to the grave was not from any respect for the man they had come to bury but one of protocol because Victor Chebrikov was attending. The KGB chairman chose his own place actually alongside Yuri: earlier the man had nodded, once. Yuri knew that anything further, like conversation, had to be initiated by Chebrikov, so he didn’t speak. He supposed the man’s presence indicated a great honour in memory of his father, like his signing the obituary in Pravda. It seemed immaterial. The self-awareness surprised Yuri. Very recently being in the presence of Victor Chebrikov would have mattered to him a very great deal.

The cortege set off through the graveyard with appropriate slowness and Yuri, who had never before been in a Soviet cemetery, became conscious of the size and ornateness of the burial place. The markers were nearly all elaborate slabs of stone or marble and many were fronted with huge, glass-protected photographs of whoever had died: the monument to a bemedalled soldier whose name Yuri could not read was actually in the shape of the five-pointed stars which adorned the Kremlin towers. More important in death than in life, thought Yuri.

Except in his case, he decided, in immediate and necessary contradiction. The formation at the graveside put Chebrikov and Yuri directly opposite the other mourners, with the coffin in between, and Yuri gazed across the separating gap at six expressionless men for whom he was sure the ritual was a required political act, like putting their names as well to the Pravda report. Apart from Chebrikov the only other people he knew were Vladislav Belov, director of the American section through which he worked and Victor Kazin, from the inquiry. He’d spoken only to Belov, who had mumbled regret and at once shown up the insincerity by hurrying on immediately to practicalities. Because of his father’s rank Yuri would be allowed to retain Kutuzovsky Prospekt until he could arrange the disposal or storage of his father’s possessions, but the Lenin Hills dacha had to be vacated at once, that afternoon if possible. He would, of course, be allowed to remain in Moscow for a few days. Completely missing was the reaching-out attitude of their previous encounters.

Yuri was only passingly interested in his division chief, his concentration entirely upon the twitching, grossly fat Victor Kazin. His initial, extraneous thought was not of what had happened to his father and of this man’s part in it but that his mother – any woman – could have gone to bed with such an ogre. Yuri thrust it aside, annoyed. That was past and this was present. He accepted now that he had been wrong in dismissing his father’s talk of killing. Belov had talked of a hit-and-run accident being investigated by their security division and Yuri knew that security division to be headed by the man against whom his father had also warned. The bastards had killed him.

Kazin was gloating. So much so that as they filed into the cemetery a few moments earlier he’d abruptly had to bring himself up short, conscious that he was smiling his satisfaction. And there was every reason for satisfaction. He’d only thought of Malik’s death as removing the potentially disastrous threat. Definitely not beyond: not of being summoned before Chebrikov, as he had been the previous day, and told that the experiment had been abandoned and that he was once more sole head of the First Chief Directorate. Everything! reflected Kazin, bursting with excitement: he’d achieved everything! More, even, if more were possible: not only had he defeated Malik but he had emerged unchallengeable. It was very difficult not to smile; not to laugh aloud.

The son was very different in appearance to the father. Shorter, slighter and definitely of the necessary Western appearance. Kazin, who recently and sometimes worryingly experienced difficulty in remembering precisely the chronology of events, particularly those affecting the now dead man, tried to recall a previous reflection about the son, relieved when it came. Like father like son: that was it. Except that they were not alike, physically. Not important. Still the bastard son of a bastard father. And he had been a bastard, the person whom the inquiry had proved to have interceded in Afghanistan: caused most of the difficulty in the first place, in fact. Maybe not in the first place, Kazin corrected, straining again for the right chronology: but definitely someone who had brought about a lot of trouble. If it hadn’t been for his interference, the Afghanistan entrapment would have worked. And there would not have been any condemning, although now thankfully forgotten, inquiry. Deserving of punishment then; thoroughly deserving. Like father, like son.

The idea came to him complete, without any need for refining consideration, and Kazin needed every degree of control he possessed not to smile this time, in anticipation. It was perfect: absolutely perfect. Destruction of the younger Malik and further, positive, proof to the Americans that Yevgennie Levin was a genuine defector. It was almost the moment anyway to disclose to the chairman the complete details of the Levin operation. It was going to be an impressive coup, to mark the resumption of his absolute and proper control of the Directorate. Kazin turned to look further along the line towards the head of the American section. Could he trust Belov to initiate the idea he’d just had? The man would object, he guessed: argue there was no reason to provide further proof to support Levin, like he’d argued against triggering the defection while the girl was still in the Soviet Union. Kazin decided he wasn’t sure about Belov any more; not as sure as he had once been. Better to set it up himself. There would even be some vicarious pleasure in personally briefing Yuri Vasilivich Malik. Like father, like son. To be removed, like father; permanently.

Belov was conscious of Kazin’s attention and answered the look, but Kazin turned away immediately. Belov accepted it had been fortunate that he’d been kept at arm’s length by Vasili Malik. If the dead man had responded to the obvious invitations, Belov knew he’d be in a bad position: more so now that Kazin had been reconfirmed in the previously shared leadership, entrusted with unfettered and unquestionable control. Lucky then: but still uncertain. Kazin had survived the political jungle of Dzerzhinsky Square by judging, practically instinctively, his supporters and his opponents. So Belov anticipated the man would be conscious of his distancing himself, particularly after the inquiry. For some time he was going to have to take every precaution, every care: at least until the Levin operation was disclosed and he was identified as its architect. Maybe then he’d be less exposed. Belov felt a stir of relief: that couldn’t be much longer. A month or two, hopefully.

The coffin was lowered unsteadily into the grave, almost disappearing by the time it reached the bottom. Yuri watched its descent, wondering what was being buried with it. His safety, he decided; the protection the old man had always given him in place of love and of which, until recently, he had been so absolutely unaware. So what did he feel? Hardly sadness: not the grieving-son-for-lost-father sort of sadness. Their relationship had never been one for that sort of emotion. Hadn’t had time to develop, in those last few months of vaguely proper awareness. Regret, of course, but not the normal regret in such circumstances, either. It was for himself that he felt sorry. At the complete knowledge, yawning before him like the visible hole that was now being filled with sticky black earth, that for the first time in his life he had no one to look after him in perhaps the most bizarre environment in the world, fulfilling perhaps the most bizarre function in the world: that people he was sure – he knew – had killed his father now controlled him, as a puppet master controlled a marionette. And that there was nothing whatsoever he could do to protect himself, to avoid jumping when a string was pulled. Or to prove the truth about what had happened to the old man. At last Yuri accepted the sensation he had so rarely known in the past and so far always refused to acknowledge, because this time it was stronger than it had ever been before and he could not ignore it any more. He was frightened; very frightened indeed.

A trowel was handed to him, to make the token gesture, which he did and then moved away from the graveside. Chebrikov was already ahead, striding more quickly now, and Yuri accepted that the chairman’s presence had been as symbolic as that of the others and that there was to be no conversation between them, not even an empty phrase of sympathy. As he followed, Yuri supposed he would have to consider a headstone. He decided at once against anything as ostentatious as the majority of the monuments. For the first time he realized his father had been buried separately from his mother. When she’d died, the man had not occupied such an exalted position, he guessed: so she hadn’t qualified for a place in Novodevichy. Where, he wondered, was her resting place? So much he didn’t know; would never know.

‘You are to remain in Moscow for a few days?’

Yuri turned at the question, startled to find himself addressed by Kazin. Despite the cold and the continuing sleet, the man’s face had a glisten of perspiration. ‘I am being allowed to settle my father’s affairs, Comrade First Deputy,’ he said with strained politeness. Less than a metre separated them, Yuri judged: irrationally he wondered if he could reach out and throttle the other man before there could be any intervention. Yuri gripped and ungripped his hands, annoyed at the reflection: he was thinking like the plots in those absurd adventure series on American television.

‘Quite so,’ said the Directorate chief, as if he already knew. ‘Before you return to America I want a meeting between us.’

The fear that Yuri had experienced at the grave engulfed him again, worse this time. It would be wrong for him to ask the reason, he realized. ‘When, Comrade First Deputy?’

‘Tomorrow,’ decided Kazin. ‘Make yourself available at three.’ The man turned after the peremptory demand but almost at once looked back. ‘Precisely at three,’ he bullied. As he continued towards his car, Kazin thought that absolute power was like an aphrodisiac. Better than an aphrodisiac, in fact.

Yuri watched the man get into his car, conscious that he had an advantage in the warning from his father of which Kazin was unaware. It was a fleeting attempt at self-assurance. What good was the warning to him now, Yuri asked himself. He was quite exposed: quite exposed and helpless.

Yevgennie Levin wrote carefully and in as much detail as he felt was possible. Anything from the debriefing was obviously precluded but there was a lot from the outing through the Connecticut countryside. He did not identify any township by name, of course. He referred to Litchfield simply as an historic place, although he described the rooftop vantage points (‘to watch the sea where there is no sea’) and talked about the strange defoliation (‘like the horrific pictures that came from Vietnam’) of the elms and spruce and firs as he had travelled along the Naugatuck Valley, although he did not identify that, either, because he did not know its name. He wrote about the house, too, setting out its size and fittings and assuring Natalia that her mother and Petr were happy, fully aware as he wrote that it was a lie.

It was not until the last page – the fourth – that he tried to answer the accusation that had reduced Galina to tears and caused Petr’s outburst when Natalia’s letter had arrived.

‘I have not abandoned you, my darling,’ he wrote. ‘None of us have abandoned you. We would never do that; could never do that. I have been promised that you will be able to join us here, one day…’ Levin halted, realizing the exaggeration but deciding to leave it, guessing her need. ‘That day – that one day soon – we will all be together again as a family, loving together as a family, complete as a family. Please have patience. Trust me. Know that I love you.’ Levin stopped again, eyes blurred over the paper. Moscow should not have done this to him: to any of them. Presented with the situation again, Levin knew he would have abandoned the entire project and returned to Moscow, to whatever awaited him there. Quickly he stopped the run of thought. Had he returned to Moscow, wrecking what had taken so long to establish, the destruction of the family would have been even more complete, his being parted from them for years in some corrective gulag. Levin blinked, clearing his vision, reading the letter through and deciding there was no more he wanted to say. He repeated his love and was sealing the letter when Petr came into the den in which Levin spent most of his time; Bowden had left for the day only an hour before.

‘I’ve just written to Natalia,’ said Levin.

‘When’s Proctor collecting it?’

‘Some time this evening.’

‘Would he take one from me as well?’

‘Of course.’ Levin was curious, detecting the absence of the animosity to which he had now become accustomed from the boy.

As if in confirmation of his father’s thoughts, the boy said: ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘Mistakes: my mistakes.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Behaving as I have.’

Levin smiled, hesitantly but hopefully. ‘It hasn’t been easy, for any of us,’ he encouraged.

‘I haven’t made it easy for anyone,’ confessed the boy. ‘I want you to know that I’m sorry.’

‘I didn’t expect this,’ admitted Levin.

‘I’ll never lose the feeling about being Russian,’ said Petr in apparent qualification. ‘I’ve just come to realize that my attitude is ridiculous. What’s happened has happened.’

‘I never expected it to be so difficult for you,’ said Levin in further admission. ‘You always seemed to like everything about America: clothes, television… things like that.’

‘Because I’d never known it before,’ explained the boy. ‘I used to fantasize what it would be like, going back to Moscow with things that none of the other boys had: imagine the impression I would create.’

‘Now you can have them permanently,’ reminded Levin.

‘I’ve apologized to my tutor as well,’ disclosed Petr. ‘Did you know he used to teach at Forman School in Litchfield, that little town we went to the other day?’

‘No,’ said Levin. ‘I did not know.’

‘He says I’m doing well now.’

‘It’s good to hear,’ said Levin. ‘In fact everything’s good to hear. Your mother will be pleased.’

‘Natalia will be able to come one day, won’t she?’

‘I promise she will,’ said Levin. He wished he were sure.

‘Why did you do it? Defect, I mean.’

Levin hesitated, wondering if there would ever be a time when he could tell the boy the truth. One day, maybe: but not for a very long time. Inadequately, he said: ‘I felt it was best.’

Petr appeared about to speak when David Proctor entered the room, earlier than Levin had expected. Levin said at once: ‘Petr and I have been having a conversation. About his being here.’

‘I’m apologizing for the way I’ve behaved,’ came in Petr, unprompted. ‘I’d like to say sorry to you, too, Mr Proctor. I haven’t been very pleasant.’

The FBI supervisor began his habitual spectacle cleaning, smiling short-sightedly in the boy’s direction. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to accept things,’ he said. ‘Took longer than I expected but I knew you’d get there, in the end. Well done.’

They were stupid, all of them, thought Petr. He wasn’t the least bit sorry for the way he’d behaved. Just that it had taken him so long to realize the restrictions he was imposing upon himself, by the constant opposition. From now on he was going to be the best son and the best pupil imaginable, until he was able to get away from this prison of a place to a proper classroom that the Forman lecturer had said, three days before, was essential if he were to learn properly. And he was going to be the ideal student until the first day they relaxed. Then, knowing now where he was, he was going to catch the first train from the first station back to New York and to the Russian delegation at the United Nations there. His fool of a father might have defected, but Petr Levin hadn’t. And they were going to know it – his father and Bowden and Proctor – when he denounced them all, as publicly as the Soviet mission would allow him to denounce them.