The Bearpit

37

It took Yuri the time to pass through the entry formalities on the ground floor and reach Belov’s quarters on the sixth storey to evolve his approach. Where he was almost immediately off-balanced. The reception from the other man was different again from what it had been before, neither the surprising affability of their earlier meetings nor the frozen reserve of the cemetery encounter. Yuri searched for the word and decided it was weariness: Vladislav Belov appeared bowed by some sort of fatigue. The remainder of the IBM mainframe computer blueprints had once more been carried in a film cassette and as before Yuri went patiently through the hand-over ritual, waiting.

‘I am seeing you personally to inform you of changes,’ announced Belov. He had decided to do exactly as he was told; recall the man, announce some unknown reassignment and avoid getting involved from then on. That was the way to avoid any difficulties for himself: just see his time out. Fifteen years, he thought, agonized: a lifetime! What else could he do?

‘Involving me?’

‘You are being withdrawn from New York.’

‘Upon the instructions of Comrade Directorate chairman Kazin?’ anticipated Yuri.

Belov blinked at the astuteness of the question. With stiff formality, he said: ‘It is not permissible to discuss or question reassignments.’

‘I would like to show you something,’ said Yuri, going to the documentation that bulged his briefcase. He handed across the table the photograph he had taken of the defector and his son in Connecticut: the pictures were blurred and grainy but brought up under a magnifying glass it was just possible to make an identification, which Yuri knew because he had done it.

‘Who are they?’ demanded Belov, examining them first without enlargement.

‘The man is Yevgennie Pavlovich Levin. The boy is his son, Petr,’ said Yuri simply.

‘What!’

Yuri was tensed for the response from the other man, whom Kazin had instructed could not be told, wanting to learn from it. But he learned nothing: it sounded like outrage, which Yuri could not understand. There could be no turning back, not now. He said: ‘When I was in Moscow on compassionate leave after the death of my father, I was ordered by the Comrade First Deputy to locate Levin, which I did. He and his family are near a small township called Litchfield, in Connecticut…’ He paused and then announced: ‘The American authorities were warned, in advance.’

Belov sat shaking his head and once again Yuri’s inference was of overwhelming tiredness. ‘Why?’ said the man, his voice exhausted like the rest of him. ‘Why?’

Defectors were pursued, thought Yuri curiously. He wished he could infer more from the other man. ‘I would also like to present to you irrefutable evidence that my father was murdered,’ Yuri plunged on, producing the police files, with what he had discovered himself that day uppermost. ‘And by whom,’ he finished.

Belov read, head bent, for a long time, the sound of concentrated breathing the only noise in the room. Yuri could see the traffic streaming around the peripheral road but not hear it through the double glazing. Would the taxi driver by now have cleared anything incriminating from his home? Yuri guessed he probably had: already converted the incriminating dollars, too.

The lassitude had gone from Belov when he finally looked up. In its place was an attitude of intense wariness. He said: ‘Who else has seen this?’

‘No one, not in its complete form.’

‘There are no copies?’

‘Not in its complete form,’ reiterated Yuri, wary himself.

‘Is there anything else?’

Yuri hesitated, unsure. But why unsure? If he’d made a mistake it was irreparable so there was no safety in holding back what his father had accumulated. He passed over the second dossier and again there was uninterrupted silence for a long time. When Belov looked up again he did not immediately speak but remained gazing blank-faced across his desk.

Say something! Do something! Yuri thought desperately. Anything! As forcefully as he could, Yuri said: ‘My father was killed to prevent his pursuing an inquiry that would have proven the involvement of Colonel Panchenko in the death of Igor Agayans.’

‘Yes,’ said Belov at last. It was not so much an agreement with Yuri’s insistence but a personal acceptance of all that he had read during the previous hour. He went on: ‘How did you trace Levin?’

‘Through the letters between the family and the daughter.’

‘He stopped her leaving, didn’t he?’ said Belov, again in some private conversation. Concentrating more, he said: ‘Did you realize Levin was trying to convey as much as possible, about his acceptance?’

‘Acceptance!’ queried Yuri, baffled once more.

‘An incredible man,’ said Belov admiringly.

‘The man is a traitor.’

‘Yevgennie Levin is carrying out a service to his country unparalleled in Soviet intelligence,’ corrected Belov. ‘All the indications are that he has succeeded brilliantly, although we will not get confirmation for many months, when he can make contact.’

‘Make contact?’ said Yuri weakly.

‘After his absolute infiltration into the CIA,’ announced Belov. And he talked on, in complete and chronological detail, a catharsis for the impotent frustration he felt at being cheated by Kazin. Belov recounted the manipulation of John Willick and explained how the apparent disclosures by Levin coordinated with those of Sergei Kapalet, in Paris. And how they were to get a secondary benefit by the recall to Moscow of Kapalet to continue as an apparent source, through which they could feed whatever disinformation they chose to Washington.

‘Unbelievable!’ said Yuri, in genuine awe.

‘On the contrary,’ said Belov, wanting to boast. ‘From what the CIA have done already we know it is all believed. Absolutely.’

‘Your idea?’ said Yuri, guessing the man’s need and wanting to bring the conversation back to his father.

‘It took years to formulate and put into practice,’ confirmed Belov. ‘And Kazin has taken the full credit: I was congratulated, for peripheral assistance. I believe Kazin is paranoic: certainly mentally unstable in some way.’

Pleased with the direction of the remark, Yuri indicated the material lying between them on the desk and said: ‘And now you can bring him down.’

Belov snorted a laugh that had no humour, shaking his head bitterly. ‘Panchenko, certainly. But there’s no proof of anything against Kazin except for the negligence for which he’s already been found culpable and apparently forgiven. It will be his word against Panchenko’s.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ said Yuri, aghast. Everything wasted! he thought: everything! He said: ‘Kazin is involved!’

‘I don’t have any doubt either,’ said Belov. ‘But there’s not enough here to do anything about it: certainly insufficient for me to go to Chebrikov himself.’

It was more than just lack of evidence, Yuri guessed. Belov was unwilling to become linked to an attack that might misfire: headquarters survival politics about which his father had lectured him before his posting to Afghanistan. Exasperated and not caring that it showed, Yuri said: ‘So no action is taken against him! He goes on doing what he likes, to whom he likes! Someone you think to be paranoid!’ What sort of nightmare would he be coming back to, if he were brought back from New York with Kazin still in control?

‘Nothing can be done against him: nothing that is sure to succeed,’ said Belov, confirming Yuri’s thoughts.

‘There is,’ insisted Yuri, as the idea came.

‘What?’

Yuri found it easy to explain and Belov was nodding, in growing agreement, before he finished.

‘Yes!’ said Belov, excited. ‘Yes, it could succeed that way!’

Their contact procedure was arranged before Kapalet’s transfer from Paris and Wilson Drew responded instantly the Russian initiated it, hurrying early to the Museum of Early Russian Art at the monastery on Pryamikova. Despite the American being ahead of time, Kapalet was already watching, although the need for self-protection no longer existed as it had in Paris.

He approached Drew in an icon room dating from the time of Peter the Great and said: ‘Very different from France.’

‘You can say that again!’ complained Drew. He thought Moscow was the pit of all pits.

‘I’m not enjoying it either,’ said Kapalet, which was true.

‘Is it always going to have to be this sort of place?’

‘We’d be far too obvious in any restaurant.’

‘You got something about Latin America or the Caribbean?’ asked Drew eagerly. There were daily demands from Langley and there had been six separate messages from the Crisis Committee when he’d advised them of the contact summons in advance of the meeting.

‘I don’t think I’m going to be able to help about that: not immediately anyway,’ said Kapalet. ‘But I think I’ve got something better.’

‘There couldn’t be anything better,’ said the American, disappointed.

Kapalet gazed around, apparently to check that they were unobserved, and handed Drew the plastic carrier he held.

‘What is it?’ asked Drew.

‘Part of an internal security investigation,’ disclosed Kapalet, as he had been instructed by Belov. ‘It’s creating absolute pandemonium at headquarters. It’s all in Russian, obviously, so you’ll have to get it translated to make your own assessment. I think it’s dynamite.’

Dynamite was actually the word Langley used in the cable of congratulation to Drew, within twelve hours of the dossiers arriving in the diplomatic pouch. The cable also said he’d been promoted two grades, which meant a salary increase of $2,000 a year. Drew conceded Moscow had some advantages, after all.

John Willick knew himself well enough to accept he would not have the courage unaided, so he queued at various liquor stores, hoarding the vodka. He bought the cheapest, because he guessed he’d need a lot, and when he tried it before the real attempt, a sort of rehearsal to ensure everything would go right, its harshness caught his breath, making him cough. Which in itself was a useful test because it meant he’d have to take his time, drinking it.

He chose a Friday night because there was no debriefing on a Saturday, so no drivers would be calling for him. There were six bottles and he lined them up like pins in a bowling alley, starting from the left. The alcohol burned at first, making his eyes water, but it was easier once he became accustomed to it. He didn’t feel drunk at all after the first bottle and worried he might not have collected enough, but his head began to go before he reached the end of the second, so he knew it would be all right. He began to belch so he stopped drinking for a few moments, not wanting to risk losing the effect by vomiting.

Willick decided he was ready halfway through the third bottle. He felt quite rational – knew exactly what he was doing – but there was no nervousness, none of the usual snatch in the guts.

He’d bought the rope on another shopping expedition, thick, heavy-duty stuff that he’d tested to carry his weight by hanging from it by his hands, looped around the curtain support which was high enough for the purpose. He’d assembled it and prepared the knots before he’d started drinking and moved the chair over now, needing it to climb up. He tugged, needlessly, ensuring the strength again and slipped the noose over his head, hesitating at the very last moment. And then he kicked the chair away.

He was even unsuccessful in killing himself properly. He’d tried to get the knot behind his ear, the way he’d thought it was done, but it slipped around so his neck didn’t break, killing him instantly as it should have done. He choked to death, instead. It took twenty minutes for him to die, ten of them conscious and in agony.