The Benefactor index: Chapter One - Pochka
Throughout November, I will be participating in National Novel Writing Month, where the aim is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
As I am treating this as a writing exercise, anything that I produce will be posted on this blog, one chapter a time. The text will have been edited for spelling and coherence but is otherwise a rough first draft, written at speed. There will be no second draft.
Prologue - A sin of gold
Chapter One - Pochka
Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers
As I am treating this as a writing exercise, anything that I produce will be posted on this blog, one chapter a time. The text will have been edited for spelling and coherence but is otherwise a rough first draft, written at speed. There will be no second draft.
~
The Benefactor Index
By Sam Redlark
Prologue - A sin of gold
Chapter One - Pochka
Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers
Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Chapter Four - Street without drums
Chapter Five - Swans to the snow
Chapter Six - Further from the eye
Chapter Seven - The nephew of vodka
Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
Chapter Nine - The enemy of the good
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old
A line of six narrow shadows, evenly spaced apart, had settled like prison bars on the frost-covered wall of the Spring Palace. They stretched vertically under the floodlights, in alignment with the pillared architecture, almost to the summit of the building, where their darkness was swallowed by the greater darkness that lingered in the perpetual damp, underneath the pronounced overhang of the roof cornice. From Garin's vantage, just outside the courtyard, he was unable to determine their source. He assumed that they were being cast by a row of flagpoles. The fourth pole from the end was listing slightly, as if it had been pushed out of its upright position, possibly by a vehicle.
The fresh covering of snow crumpled under his footsteps and those of his two companions. The white clouds of breath they exhaled repeatedly failed to establish a foundation in the cold air and rapidly dispersed in the night sky.
They were now drawing level with the open side of the courtyard. A firing squad, composed of six soldiers, were lined-up against one wall, holding their long-barrelled rifles upright. Garin's gaze travelled along the formation until it reached the man who had allowed his gun to slant on his shoulder.
“It is a cold night for an execution,” he remarked. “The bullets will freeze in the guns.”
Chapter Four - Street without drums
Chapter Five - Swans to the snow
Chapter Six - Further from the eye
Chapter Seven - The nephew of vodka
Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
Chapter Nine - The enemy of the good
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old
~
Chapter One – Pochka
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| image generated by Craiyon |
The fresh covering of snow crumpled under his footsteps and those of his two companions. The white clouds of breath they exhaled repeatedly failed to establish a foundation in the cold air and rapidly dispersed in the night sky.
They were now drawing level with the open side of the courtyard. A firing squad, composed of six soldiers, were lined-up against one wall, holding their long-barrelled rifles upright. Garin's gaze travelled along the formation until it reached the man who had allowed his gun to slant on his shoulder.
“It is a cold night for an execution,” he remarked. “The bullets will freeze in the guns.”
“A good, clear night to gaze up at the stars,” said Trusov. “Under such conditions, I would refuse a blindfold.”
“They will be like that for ten hours,” said Avilov. “The prisoner will be led out at dawn.”
Avilov was the First Deputy Minister of the Ministry of Health. He paused in his tracks, while he removed a half-drunk bottle of red wine from inside his woollen coat. Raising it to his lips, he took an excessive gulp without meaning to. The liquid felt like a warm bruise as it forced its way down his throat.
“They will be like that for ten hours,” said Avilov. “The prisoner will be led out at dawn.”
Avilov was the First Deputy Minister of the Ministry of Health. He paused in his tracks, while he removed a half-drunk bottle of red wine from inside his woollen coat. Raising it to his lips, he took an excessive gulp without meaning to. The liquid felt like a warm bruise as it forced its way down his throat.
He offered the bottle to Garin, who declined.
“Trusov rooted it out for me,” said Avilov. “Did you know, Pavel, that he is able to determine the quality of wine purely by the way that it catches the light inside the bottle? He never fails.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. The maroon droplets clung to the waterproof fabric like melted rubies.
“You are too kind, comrade,” said Trusov. His fingers brushed a downy snowflake from the sleeve of his uniform before it could be absorbed.
“And you are too modest,” countered Avilov. “Your special genius is wasted in the army.”
The Courtyard was behind them. They continued to follow a snow covered path that meandered like a white river between low banks. Ahead of them the Wedding Tower was lit up like a fairytale castle in winter – a glacial confection of coral-coloured bricks, bedecked with frost-white pillars and ornate window frames. The ribbed turquoise canopy of the cut-off steeple was skewered by intricately-carved white pinnacles. Pointed arch windows, each one bearing its own star-crowned spire, poked through on each of the four dominant sides. A white railing bordered the flattened peak.
Avilov lowered his voice.
“The Chairman has been taken ill,” he said. “I will disclose more, just as soon as we have put some doors and walls between ourselves and the others.”
“Who is aware?” asked Trusov.
“The people who we are about to join. A few others who will be joining us soon,” said Avilov. “Serov has pulled up at the fence. Chendev is ringmaster tonight. Take your directions from him.”
“The KGB is in charge. Wonderful,” said Trusov.
“Where is the First Deputy Chairman?” enquired Garin.
“He is indisposed.”
“In exactly what manner is he indisposed?”
“He is holidaying with his family in the resort at Limskamsk.”
“The Chairman is at death's door, I presume,” said Trusov. “Meanwhile his deputy is away skiing,”
“When you know more, you will understand why time is of the essence,” said Avilov. “We cannot wait until everyone is here who should be here...”
He took another gulp of wine, then immediately spat it out. A mucousy splatter of saliva mixed with dark sediment marred the fresh snow, like the bloody sputum of a tuberculosis patient. He tossed the wine bottle which landed almost upright, buried up to its middle in a shallow drift, as if it had been tossed into the surf by an island castaway.
“As far as the army is concerned, Chendev does not want any of this going through Tarasov,” he said. “We will have to undermine him and deal with the consequences later. I will need you to get me the First Deputy Minister of the Ministry of Defence.”
“Which one? There are four,” said Trusov.
“Whichever one will nod his head and make the least amount of trouble.”
“That will be Ogarkov.”
The Party Headquarters had been grafted onto the rear of the Spring Palace by a generation of minimalist architects who preferred to express themselves using the medium of bare concrete. The ugly fusion of the two buildings had been named by the residents of Moscow as 'Beauty and the Beast.' Any taxi driver in the city would reliably deliver a passenger to the door of one of the other when they were referred to in this manner.
The lobby was a vast transitory space, void of human life. Rows of glass chandeliers hung down from the beige expanse of an embossed, diamond pattern ceiling, like inverted, four-tier wedding cakes, investing the room with a hazy electric glow, lightly mottling the opaque surface of the smooth, pearlescent floor. An incongruous assortment of potted palms, varying in height, crowded the space in front of a line of floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, showing cross-sections of the wintry landscape that lay beyond through narrow gaps between the dangling strip blinds.
On either side of a wide, loosely defined central aisle, two columns of brown sofas, with tightly scalloped backrests, were aligned, either back to back. or facing onto one of several functional wooden tables.
At the far end, accessible through multiple sets of paned doors, was a sprawling, wood panelled reception area. A very large piece of abstract wall art depicted the American flag captured in the moment of disintegration, the warped stripes twisting around one another like tangled ribbons, while the misshapen stars dripped down to form a molten puddle.
The wet soles of their shoes impressed an advancing column of footprint-shaped bruises into the ugly pattern of the thin brown carpet. A woman behind the reception desk, wearing a sleeveless brown cardigan, lifted her head, long enough to identify the three interlopers before returning to her work.
“We are just along here,” said Avilov.
The room that they entered was in stark contrast to the dour foyer of the building – brightly lit, with tastefully patterned, pale-yellow wallpaper filling the space between sets of engaged square columns. The polished herringbone wood floor was garnished here and there with rectangular rugs, where upholstered cherrywood chairs with scrolling legs and armrests, were gathered around matching tables. A pair of oil paintings, that Garin knew for a fact had been stolen from a gallery in France, while on loan from the US, hung on opposite walls, A small crowd was milling about in groups of threes and fours, eating and drinking food and wine that was being carried in by soldiers on round, silver platters. They seemed to mostly be ministers and deputy ministers, along with their aides, with a few military personnel mixed in.
Fynyov, an old nemesis from Garin's days in the police force, was seated with his back to him at a square coffee table, with a pair of middle-aged men who were dressed in naval uniforms. He reached towards a silver samovar in the centre of the table and turned one of the four small taps on the side, releasing a dribble of strong black tea into his cup.
A short-haired brunette woman, with pronounced pink eyelids and badly misshapen ears, recognised Trusov.
“I think the cold has followed you inside,” she said to him, before moving on.
“Who was that?” enquired Garin.
“That is Elina Zherdev,” replied Trusov. “She is Serov's secretary. A competent and efficient woman. After tonight, I am hoping that I will be able to convince her to be defect to the army and work for me.”
“There is Serov,” said Avilov, subtly nodding in the direction of a mop-headed, vaguely-Chinese looking man, wearing a black suit and tie, who was standing on his own in the middle of the room. When he saw Avilov, he smiled, revealing an upper row of tiny teeth that resembled a line of inadequate gemstones, crowding the length of a piece of badly-designed jewellery.
“Look at him,” said Avilov. “He is finished after tonight. He allowed Chendev to take the reins from him without a struggle. Even his secretary is avoiding standing next to him.”
“He has no influence over events?” said Trusov.
“Chendev is ignoring him completely. He has completely cut him out of the decision making process.”
Garin finished his appraisal of the people who were gathered in the room.
“Why this group?” he enquired.
“Some were already here and could not leave,” said Avilov. “Some are here for a purpose.”
“I might ask: Why is the Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communications here?” said Trusov.
“I am here because I was ordered to be here,” said Garin.
“It is telling who was ordered and who has not come,” said Avilov.
“I do not know that man,” said Garin.
He pointed from the waist towards a very tall, broad shouldered individual with a high forehead and neatly-combed hair, who was standing stiffly at the back of the room, where he towered over those around him. He was dressed in a shirt and tie. Underlying his obvious social awkwardness, Garin could detect, in his bearing and fixed expression, a poorly expressed air of superiority.
A man wearing a dishevelled army uniform, that was sagging under a chestful of carelessly-pinned medals, glanced over his shoulder.
“Ah, Trusov, you are here at last,” he said, turning around to face the General. “And you do not have a drink yet.”
“Everything in time,” said Trusov. “Your uniform appears to have grown tired of the army, Vadim.”
“I am on the way to being led out to pasture, I think,” said the man. “I will go gracefully before anyone can push me. I plan to retire to the coast where I will find a young woman who is willing to rub the circulation back into my feet.”
“This is Vadim Gribkov. He is Chief of Chemical Troops,” said Trusov. “We were soldiers together. This is Pavel Garin...”
“You are the former policeman – the hero of Hramevek Square,” said Gribkov, smiling. “You saved one of my nieces. She has since died from unrelated causes.”
He took hold of Garin's arm and steered him around so that they were facing away from the crowd.
“The man who you are referring to is Czeslaw Bobrik. He is Chief of Main Administration of the Asbestos Cement Industry. He is here tonight as a guest of Chendev.”
“What business does a builder have here?” said Garin.
“Maybe they are constructing a new hospital around our ailing Chairman,” mused Trusov, under his breath.
“I will tell you an open secret,” said Gribkov. “There is a dead man in Chendev's suite. A big man. Big beard. I think he is Eristov. The one who killed all those women. Before he died he screamed intermittently for hours. Everyone here in this room is pretending that they didn't hear it. I believe that Chendev arranged for him to be force-fed powdered cement.”
“When was this?” said Trusov, his brow furrowing.
“All yesterday. Again this morning, for a short while.”
“You saw the man? With your own eyes?”
“Chendev asked me to his suite to sign some papers. That is why I was here in the building when the state of emergency was called. Chendev was there with Bobrik. They were wearing overalls and respirators There was another man moving around in one of the bedrooms, but I could not see who it was.
“I first saw a pair of legs poking out from behind a settee. As I was making my mark, Brobrik raised the body up by the shoulders. It was then that I saw the face of the dead man. That expression! Even in death the terror had not left the eyes.”
“Chendev knows how to arrange things so that a man remembers his own death.,” said Trusov.
A soldier entered the room bearing a round silver tray of effervescent champagne flutes. As a small but eager crowd began to jostle around him, he deposited the platter, along with its remaining contents, on top of a cherrywood bureau and retreated to the wall. Serov extended one arm through a gap in the scrum. His fingers were within a few inches of claiming the stem of the final glass, when it was snatched away by Gribkov.
Bobrik was holding one of the champagne flutes a few inches from his face, carefully studying the contents, as if he was a scientists who was scrutinising a bubbling test tube. Garin, who had been quietly observing the man, watched as his eyes flicked mechanically in the direction of the dejected Serov who was lingering, unacknowledged, on the fringes of a conversation. The builder turned to face the wall for a few seconds. When he turned back around it was as though he had adjusted his expression in private, calibrating a quarter inch of a smile into the left corner of his mouth.
“Deputy Chairman,” he said. “You are without a drink. Please take mine.”
Serov regarded Bobrick with a combination of gratitude and puppy-dog incredulity; an expression that elicited a disdainful downward scowl from his secretary, who was watching from the other side of the room. She reached for a glass of red wine on the table next to her, stooping to meet it halfway. After she had taken a small sip the harmony was restored to her lips.
“Thank you, Cormrade,” said the Deputy Chairman, as he took the glass.
“And you, Comrade, please take mine,” said Gribkov to Bobrik. “We will not delay in setting past wrongs to right.”
Brobrik gave a cursory thanks as he took the glass. He sidled further along the wall, away from the main crowd. On top of the occasional table alongside him, there was a bronze statue of a downhill skier, perched in a semi-crouch on a slanted rock, his arms trailing straight out behind him, though the ski poles were missing. On the pretence of examining the piece, Bobrik discreetly poured his champagne into the soil of a neighbouring potted palm.
As Garin returned his attention to the group around him, Avilov handed his champagne flute to Gribkov.
“Take mine,” he said. “I should not drink anymore, I may be called upon to supervise a medical procedure later.”
“Let us all swap drinks with each other!” roared Gribkov, boisterously.
He gaze alighted on Garin.
“Except you,” he said. “You do not have a drink.”
“I will not be drinking,” said Garin. “A health problem.”
An expression of concern seeded itself in Gribkov's face.
“Unrelated to injuries that you sustained in the line of duty, I hope.”
“Trusov rooted it out for me,” said Avilov. “Did you know, Pavel, that he is able to determine the quality of wine purely by the way that it catches the light inside the bottle? He never fails.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove. The maroon droplets clung to the waterproof fabric like melted rubies.
“You are too kind, comrade,” said Trusov. His fingers brushed a downy snowflake from the sleeve of his uniform before it could be absorbed.
“And you are too modest,” countered Avilov. “Your special genius is wasted in the army.”
The Courtyard was behind them. They continued to follow a snow covered path that meandered like a white river between low banks. Ahead of them the Wedding Tower was lit up like a fairytale castle in winter – a glacial confection of coral-coloured bricks, bedecked with frost-white pillars and ornate window frames. The ribbed turquoise canopy of the cut-off steeple was skewered by intricately-carved white pinnacles. Pointed arch windows, each one bearing its own star-crowned spire, poked through on each of the four dominant sides. A white railing bordered the flattened peak.
Avilov lowered his voice.
“The Chairman has been taken ill,” he said. “I will disclose more, just as soon as we have put some doors and walls between ourselves and the others.”
“Who is aware?” asked Trusov.
“The people who we are about to join. A few others who will be joining us soon,” said Avilov. “Serov has pulled up at the fence. Chendev is ringmaster tonight. Take your directions from him.”
“The KGB is in charge. Wonderful,” said Trusov.
“Where is the First Deputy Chairman?” enquired Garin.
“He is indisposed.”
“In exactly what manner is he indisposed?”
“He is holidaying with his family in the resort at Limskamsk.”
“The Chairman is at death's door, I presume,” said Trusov. “Meanwhile his deputy is away skiing,”
“When you know more, you will understand why time is of the essence,” said Avilov. “We cannot wait until everyone is here who should be here...”
He took another gulp of wine, then immediately spat it out. A mucousy splatter of saliva mixed with dark sediment marred the fresh snow, like the bloody sputum of a tuberculosis patient. He tossed the wine bottle which landed almost upright, buried up to its middle in a shallow drift, as if it had been tossed into the surf by an island castaway.
“As far as the army is concerned, Chendev does not want any of this going through Tarasov,” he said. “We will have to undermine him and deal with the consequences later. I will need you to get me the First Deputy Minister of the Ministry of Defence.”
“Which one? There are four,” said Trusov.
“Whichever one will nod his head and make the least amount of trouble.”
“That will be Ogarkov.”
~
The Party Headquarters had been grafted onto the rear of the Spring Palace by a generation of minimalist architects who preferred to express themselves using the medium of bare concrete. The ugly fusion of the two buildings had been named by the residents of Moscow as 'Beauty and the Beast.' Any taxi driver in the city would reliably deliver a passenger to the door of one of the other when they were referred to in this manner.
The lobby was a vast transitory space, void of human life. Rows of glass chandeliers hung down from the beige expanse of an embossed, diamond pattern ceiling, like inverted, four-tier wedding cakes, investing the room with a hazy electric glow, lightly mottling the opaque surface of the smooth, pearlescent floor. An incongruous assortment of potted palms, varying in height, crowded the space in front of a line of floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows, showing cross-sections of the wintry landscape that lay beyond through narrow gaps between the dangling strip blinds.
On either side of a wide, loosely defined central aisle, two columns of brown sofas, with tightly scalloped backrests, were aligned, either back to back. or facing onto one of several functional wooden tables.
At the far end, accessible through multiple sets of paned doors, was a sprawling, wood panelled reception area. A very large piece of abstract wall art depicted the American flag captured in the moment of disintegration, the warped stripes twisting around one another like tangled ribbons, while the misshapen stars dripped down to form a molten puddle.
The wet soles of their shoes impressed an advancing column of footprint-shaped bruises into the ugly pattern of the thin brown carpet. A woman behind the reception desk, wearing a sleeveless brown cardigan, lifted her head, long enough to identify the three interlopers before returning to her work.
“We are just along here,” said Avilov.
The room that they entered was in stark contrast to the dour foyer of the building – brightly lit, with tastefully patterned, pale-yellow wallpaper filling the space between sets of engaged square columns. The polished herringbone wood floor was garnished here and there with rectangular rugs, where upholstered cherrywood chairs with scrolling legs and armrests, were gathered around matching tables. A pair of oil paintings, that Garin knew for a fact had been stolen from a gallery in France, while on loan from the US, hung on opposite walls, A small crowd was milling about in groups of threes and fours, eating and drinking food and wine that was being carried in by soldiers on round, silver platters. They seemed to mostly be ministers and deputy ministers, along with their aides, with a few military personnel mixed in.
Fynyov, an old nemesis from Garin's days in the police force, was seated with his back to him at a square coffee table, with a pair of middle-aged men who were dressed in naval uniforms. He reached towards a silver samovar in the centre of the table and turned one of the four small taps on the side, releasing a dribble of strong black tea into his cup.
A short-haired brunette woman, with pronounced pink eyelids and badly misshapen ears, recognised Trusov.
“I think the cold has followed you inside,” she said to him, before moving on.
“Who was that?” enquired Garin.
“That is Elina Zherdev,” replied Trusov. “She is Serov's secretary. A competent and efficient woman. After tonight, I am hoping that I will be able to convince her to be defect to the army and work for me.”
“There is Serov,” said Avilov, subtly nodding in the direction of a mop-headed, vaguely-Chinese looking man, wearing a black suit and tie, who was standing on his own in the middle of the room. When he saw Avilov, he smiled, revealing an upper row of tiny teeth that resembled a line of inadequate gemstones, crowding the length of a piece of badly-designed jewellery.
“Look at him,” said Avilov. “He is finished after tonight. He allowed Chendev to take the reins from him without a struggle. Even his secretary is avoiding standing next to him.”
“He has no influence over events?” said Trusov.
“Chendev is ignoring him completely. He has completely cut him out of the decision making process.”
Garin finished his appraisal of the people who were gathered in the room.
“Why this group?” he enquired.
“Some were already here and could not leave,” said Avilov. “Some are here for a purpose.”
“I might ask: Why is the Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communications here?” said Trusov.
“I am here because I was ordered to be here,” said Garin.
“It is telling who was ordered and who has not come,” said Avilov.
“I do not know that man,” said Garin.
He pointed from the waist towards a very tall, broad shouldered individual with a high forehead and neatly-combed hair, who was standing stiffly at the back of the room, where he towered over those around him. He was dressed in a shirt and tie. Underlying his obvious social awkwardness, Garin could detect, in his bearing and fixed expression, a poorly expressed air of superiority.
A man wearing a dishevelled army uniform, that was sagging under a chestful of carelessly-pinned medals, glanced over his shoulder.
“Ah, Trusov, you are here at last,” he said, turning around to face the General. “And you do not have a drink yet.”
“Everything in time,” said Trusov. “Your uniform appears to have grown tired of the army, Vadim.”
“I am on the way to being led out to pasture, I think,” said the man. “I will go gracefully before anyone can push me. I plan to retire to the coast where I will find a young woman who is willing to rub the circulation back into my feet.”
“This is Vadim Gribkov. He is Chief of Chemical Troops,” said Trusov. “We were soldiers together. This is Pavel Garin...”
“You are the former policeman – the hero of Hramevek Square,” said Gribkov, smiling. “You saved one of my nieces. She has since died from unrelated causes.”
He took hold of Garin's arm and steered him around so that they were facing away from the crowd.
“The man who you are referring to is Czeslaw Bobrik. He is Chief of Main Administration of the Asbestos Cement Industry. He is here tonight as a guest of Chendev.”
“What business does a builder have here?” said Garin.
“Maybe they are constructing a new hospital around our ailing Chairman,” mused Trusov, under his breath.
“I will tell you an open secret,” said Gribkov. “There is a dead man in Chendev's suite. A big man. Big beard. I think he is Eristov. The one who killed all those women. Before he died he screamed intermittently for hours. Everyone here in this room is pretending that they didn't hear it. I believe that Chendev arranged for him to be force-fed powdered cement.”
“When was this?” said Trusov, his brow furrowing.
“All yesterday. Again this morning, for a short while.”
“You saw the man? With your own eyes?”
“Chendev asked me to his suite to sign some papers. That is why I was here in the building when the state of emergency was called. Chendev was there with Bobrik. They were wearing overalls and respirators There was another man moving around in one of the bedrooms, but I could not see who it was.
“I first saw a pair of legs poking out from behind a settee. As I was making my mark, Brobrik raised the body up by the shoulders. It was then that I saw the face of the dead man. That expression! Even in death the terror had not left the eyes.”
“Chendev knows how to arrange things so that a man remembers his own death.,” said Trusov.
A soldier entered the room bearing a round silver tray of effervescent champagne flutes. As a small but eager crowd began to jostle around him, he deposited the platter, along with its remaining contents, on top of a cherrywood bureau and retreated to the wall. Serov extended one arm through a gap in the scrum. His fingers were within a few inches of claiming the stem of the final glass, when it was snatched away by Gribkov.
Bobrik was holding one of the champagne flutes a few inches from his face, carefully studying the contents, as if he was a scientists who was scrutinising a bubbling test tube. Garin, who had been quietly observing the man, watched as his eyes flicked mechanically in the direction of the dejected Serov who was lingering, unacknowledged, on the fringes of a conversation. The builder turned to face the wall for a few seconds. When he turned back around it was as though he had adjusted his expression in private, calibrating a quarter inch of a smile into the left corner of his mouth.
“Deputy Chairman,” he said. “You are without a drink. Please take mine.”
Serov regarded Bobrick with a combination of gratitude and puppy-dog incredulity; an expression that elicited a disdainful downward scowl from his secretary, who was watching from the other side of the room. She reached for a glass of red wine on the table next to her, stooping to meet it halfway. After she had taken a small sip the harmony was restored to her lips.
“Thank you, Cormrade,” said the Deputy Chairman, as he took the glass.
“And you, Comrade, please take mine,” said Gribkov to Bobrik. “We will not delay in setting past wrongs to right.”
Brobrik gave a cursory thanks as he took the glass. He sidled further along the wall, away from the main crowd. On top of the occasional table alongside him, there was a bronze statue of a downhill skier, perched in a semi-crouch on a slanted rock, his arms trailing straight out behind him, though the ski poles were missing. On the pretence of examining the piece, Bobrik discreetly poured his champagne into the soil of a neighbouring potted palm.
As Garin returned his attention to the group around him, Avilov handed his champagne flute to Gribkov.
“Take mine,” he said. “I should not drink anymore, I may be called upon to supervise a medical procedure later.”
“Let us all swap drinks with each other!” roared Gribkov, boisterously.
He gaze alighted on Garin.
“Except you,” he said. “You do not have a drink.”
“I will not be drinking,” said Garin. “A health problem.”
An expression of concern seeded itself in Gribkov's face.
“Unrelated to injuries that you sustained in the line of duty, I hope.”
He moved in closer, carefully scrutinising Garin's face.
“I can see where they repaired the injury. The reconstruction of the skull is evident around the cheeks and the sides of the jaw. It is like there is a robot underneath. I assume it is all artificial. You can speak normally. Does your jaw move as it should?”
“I can see where they repaired the injury. The reconstruction of the skull is evident around the cheeks and the sides of the jaw. It is like there is a robot underneath. I assume it is all artificial. You can speak normally. Does your jaw move as it should?”
Garin opened and closed his mouth, shifting his jaw from side to side as he did.
“Incredible,” said Gribkov.
“I will show you the photographs sometime, if you have the stomach for such a thing,” said Avilov.
“I have seen the things that war will do to a man,” replied Gribkov.
Avilov's right hand sculpted the air around the lower half of Garin's face.
“All of this part was gone. Mercifully the tongue was not harmed.”
“Tell me when you are finished with your lecture,” said Garin, clearly amused by the attention.
Zherdev, who had been inching past Avilov, turned around and scowled at him.
“If your hand lands on my arse again, Deputy Minister, I will break all of your fingers and feed you your wedding ring,” she said quietly.
“I was reaching for one of the small fruit pies,” said Avilov.
“A boy should ask permission before his fingers rove in the direction of hot pies,” said Trusov. When you were young, did you not have an old mother who slapped your hand when it reached for the baking tray?”
A telephone began ringing somewhere, though it could barely be heard above the overlapping conversations.
Serov plodded across the room to an antique candlestick telephone that stood in the centre of a marble-topped table with bowed legs. He picked the cone-shaped receiver out of its wire cradle and held it up to his ear.
Avilov shook his head in exasperated disbelief.
“He will not stop digging his own grave,” he said. “Look, there is no cable attached to the power. I swear the man was born a simpleton.”
Sherov replaced the receiver and sheepishly moved away from the table, leaving behind his half-drunk champagne flute.
Elsewhere, the laboured ringing suddenly stopped. In a small annex, where the platters of food and drink were made ready to be brought out, a young soldier replaced the receiver of a telephone. Moving as quickly as he was able, he began to make his way apologetically through the crowd.
Deputy Minster,” he said, hurriedly, when he was within a few feet of Avilov. “Your presence is required immediately by the Chairman of the Committee for State Security. He also requires the attendance of the Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communications. Sir, I do not know who that is.”
“This is our call, Pavel, “said Avilov. “Chendev will provide you with the full details of what will be required.” He had been gradually manoeuvred, by the circulating motion of the crowd, into the centre of the room, directly underneath the main ceiling light. The glistening sheen of sweat, covering his crumpled face, had given him the appearance of a waxwork dummy that is in the early stages of melting. His slumped shoulders, combined with the layers of his suit jacket, his waistcoat, and his shirt, had made his neck appear longer than it was, sculpting his upper body into the shape of a wine bottle.
Turning to the others, he said:
“Comrades, I will return to you in due course.”
“We will carry on as best we can in your absence,” said Trusov.
The pair followed the soldier out of the room, down the corridor and around a corner into an identical passageway. Partway along, another soldier stood guard outside a door. Their escort turned the handle and pushed it open. Stepping to one side, he allowed the two men to enter.
As the door was firmly closed behind them, Garin made a quick study of the room. It was a small reception area. A compact Edwardian desk, inlaid with green leather, had been pushed diagonally up against the opposite corner. It had most-likely been taken during a robbery carried out by one of the burglary teams who operated on foreign soil. According to the party line, the intention of these raids was to demoralise the ruling classes of enemies of the Soviet Union. In practice, any items of quality that were taken would find their way either into one of the Party HQs or, more often, into the home of a high-ranking official. A high-backed wooden chair had been pushed into the space underneath the desk. Alongside there was a similar chair. A decorated mirror, that looked like it might have belonged to a larger piece, had been mounted in its backrest.
Through a wide rectangular arch he could see a small meeting room. A narrow table, with four chairs on either side, occupied the centre of a carpet patterned with an orderly progression of mandalas that were woven in different tones of brown. Some brown armchairs with scalloped backrests, similar to the sofas in the lobby, were pushed up against the walls.
Chendev was waiting for them beyond another flat archway, in a wood-panelled annex at the back of the room. A set of four paisley armchairs, with rounded backrests and tasselled fringes skirting their short feet, had been arranged around a square table where there was a white coffee pot and two cups and saucers, both of which showed signs of recent recent use.
He was dressed like a man who is about to embark upon a fishing trip with professional colleagues. A tight-fitting, dark Breton cap hugged the close-cropped hair of his greying temples. Under his suit jacket he wore a thin grey sweater that showed an occasional band of white.
“I will come right to the point,” he said. “Chairman Sherstov has suffered kidney failure. He will require a transplant imminently. If he does not receive one, then he will die. We will have to deal with the ensuing power struggle, along with the usual interference in our political system from the Americans and their allies.”
“And Serov will move one step closer to being in charge,” murmured Avilov, under his breath.
“I have a list of eight names,” announced Chendev. He reached into his suit jacket removing a tipple-folded piece of paper. Garin noted the absence of a shoulder holster. The lack of a gun surprised him.
“All eight of the men on this list are donor matches,” said Chendev. “All are ministers, or deputy ministers. We want you to round up as many possible and return here before morning. You are authorised to use reasonable force, as you see fit.”
Garin opened the warm paper and studied the list, his lips half-mouthing the words as he read.
“I have met some of these men in passing,” he said. “As you say, they are all elites. You have given them amusing codenames – The Banqueteer, the Standardiser... I see my name is also here, at the bottom. I have not been given a codename.”
“You are also a donor match for the Chairman, but you only have only one kidney remaining. The operation will kill you,” said Chendev. “If you are unable to return with any of the others, you will give up your remaining kidney. You will be honoured posthumously for your sacrifice.”
Garin refolded the list and placed it in the deep side pocket of his trousers.
“Why not just ask them to come?” he enquired.
“We cannot predict the behaviour of men under such circumstances,” said Chendev. “Discretion is also a factor. None of the officials you have seen this evening will be allowed to leave the Palace or have any outside communication until after the operation is complete. We will keep them well-fed and watered in the meantime.”
“I have not seen the Minister of Health. He is with Sherstov?” said Garin.
“I regret the Minister of Health is unable to be here at short notice,” said Avilov. “He may have arrived here by the time you return tomorrow with the donor.”
“We insist that you travel with protection,” said Chendev. “I have made arrangements.”
“I have the two men who brought me here waiting outside,” replied Garin. “They will suffice... We must move cautiously and take care to not disturb the waters and frighten away the fish.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Chendev said: “Very well. If you trust your men.”
Turning to Avilov, he said: “You may return to your comrades. Rooms will be allotted to guests in due course. All telephones will be disconnected and there will be no outside communication, as discussed.”
“Incredible,” said Gribkov.
“I will show you the photographs sometime, if you have the stomach for such a thing,” said Avilov.
“I have seen the things that war will do to a man,” replied Gribkov.
Avilov's right hand sculpted the air around the lower half of Garin's face.
“All of this part was gone. Mercifully the tongue was not harmed.”
“Tell me when you are finished with your lecture,” said Garin, clearly amused by the attention.
Zherdev, who had been inching past Avilov, turned around and scowled at him.
“If your hand lands on my arse again, Deputy Minister, I will break all of your fingers and feed you your wedding ring,” she said quietly.
“I was reaching for one of the small fruit pies,” said Avilov.
“A boy should ask permission before his fingers rove in the direction of hot pies,” said Trusov. When you were young, did you not have an old mother who slapped your hand when it reached for the baking tray?”
A telephone began ringing somewhere, though it could barely be heard above the overlapping conversations.
Serov plodded across the room to an antique candlestick telephone that stood in the centre of a marble-topped table with bowed legs. He picked the cone-shaped receiver out of its wire cradle and held it up to his ear.
Avilov shook his head in exasperated disbelief.
“He will not stop digging his own grave,” he said. “Look, there is no cable attached to the power. I swear the man was born a simpleton.”
Sherov replaced the receiver and sheepishly moved away from the table, leaving behind his half-drunk champagne flute.
Elsewhere, the laboured ringing suddenly stopped. In a small annex, where the platters of food and drink were made ready to be brought out, a young soldier replaced the receiver of a telephone. Moving as quickly as he was able, he began to make his way apologetically through the crowd.
Deputy Minster,” he said, hurriedly, when he was within a few feet of Avilov. “Your presence is required immediately by the Chairman of the Committee for State Security. He also requires the attendance of the Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communications. Sir, I do not know who that is.”
“This is our call, Pavel, “said Avilov. “Chendev will provide you with the full details of what will be required.” He had been gradually manoeuvred, by the circulating motion of the crowd, into the centre of the room, directly underneath the main ceiling light. The glistening sheen of sweat, covering his crumpled face, had given him the appearance of a waxwork dummy that is in the early stages of melting. His slumped shoulders, combined with the layers of his suit jacket, his waistcoat, and his shirt, had made his neck appear longer than it was, sculpting his upper body into the shape of a wine bottle.
Turning to the others, he said:
“Comrades, I will return to you in due course.”
“We will carry on as best we can in your absence,” said Trusov.
~
As the door was firmly closed behind them, Garin made a quick study of the room. It was a small reception area. A compact Edwardian desk, inlaid with green leather, had been pushed diagonally up against the opposite corner. It had most-likely been taken during a robbery carried out by one of the burglary teams who operated on foreign soil. According to the party line, the intention of these raids was to demoralise the ruling classes of enemies of the Soviet Union. In practice, any items of quality that were taken would find their way either into one of the Party HQs or, more often, into the home of a high-ranking official. A high-backed wooden chair had been pushed into the space underneath the desk. Alongside there was a similar chair. A decorated mirror, that looked like it might have belonged to a larger piece, had been mounted in its backrest.
Through a wide rectangular arch he could see a small meeting room. A narrow table, with four chairs on either side, occupied the centre of a carpet patterned with an orderly progression of mandalas that were woven in different tones of brown. Some brown armchairs with scalloped backrests, similar to the sofas in the lobby, were pushed up against the walls.
Chendev was waiting for them beyond another flat archway, in a wood-panelled annex at the back of the room. A set of four paisley armchairs, with rounded backrests and tasselled fringes skirting their short feet, had been arranged around a square table where there was a white coffee pot and two cups and saucers, both of which showed signs of recent recent use.
He was dressed like a man who is about to embark upon a fishing trip with professional colleagues. A tight-fitting, dark Breton cap hugged the close-cropped hair of his greying temples. Under his suit jacket he wore a thin grey sweater that showed an occasional band of white.
“I will come right to the point,” he said. “Chairman Sherstov has suffered kidney failure. He will require a transplant imminently. If he does not receive one, then he will die. We will have to deal with the ensuing power struggle, along with the usual interference in our political system from the Americans and their allies.”
“And Serov will move one step closer to being in charge,” murmured Avilov, under his breath.
“I have a list of eight names,” announced Chendev. He reached into his suit jacket removing a tipple-folded piece of paper. Garin noted the absence of a shoulder holster. The lack of a gun surprised him.
“All eight of the men on this list are donor matches,” said Chendev. “All are ministers, or deputy ministers. We want you to round up as many possible and return here before morning. You are authorised to use reasonable force, as you see fit.”
Garin opened the warm paper and studied the list, his lips half-mouthing the words as he read.
“I have met some of these men in passing,” he said. “As you say, they are all elites. You have given them amusing codenames – The Banqueteer, the Standardiser... I see my name is also here, at the bottom. I have not been given a codename.”
“You are also a donor match for the Chairman, but you only have only one kidney remaining. The operation will kill you,” said Chendev. “If you are unable to return with any of the others, you will give up your remaining kidney. You will be honoured posthumously for your sacrifice.”
Garin refolded the list and placed it in the deep side pocket of his trousers.
“Why not just ask them to come?” he enquired.
“We cannot predict the behaviour of men under such circumstances,” said Chendev. “Discretion is also a factor. None of the officials you have seen this evening will be allowed to leave the Palace or have any outside communication until after the operation is complete. We will keep them well-fed and watered in the meantime.”
“I have not seen the Minister of Health. He is with Sherstov?” said Garin.
“I regret the Minister of Health is unable to be here at short notice,” said Avilov. “He may have arrived here by the time you return tomorrow with the donor.”
“We insist that you travel with protection,” said Chendev. “I have made arrangements.”
“I have the two men who brought me here waiting outside,” replied Garin. “They will suffice... We must move cautiously and take care to not disturb the waters and frighten away the fish.”
There was an uncomfortable pause, then Chendev said: “Very well. If you trust your men.”
Turning to Avilov, he said: “You may return to your comrades. Rooms will be allotted to guests in due course. All telephones will be disconnected and there will be no outside communication, as discussed.”
Refocusing his attention on Garin, he said:
“I will walk with you to the exit.”
At the door to the party room, the Deputy Health Minister paused.
“I wish you good luck in your hunt,” he said to Garin.
Chendev and Garin walked through the reception, past the painting of the melting American flag. The women who had been at the desk earlier was gone.
“There is one more name I would like to add to the list:” said Chendev. “Tamara Yubkin. She is Chief of the Main Administration of Pre-school Education. It is on an unrelated matter. You will find her at the Dovurizber orphanage.”
“I read that the orphanage was closed,” said Garin.
“It has been temporarily emptied while an assessment is made, prior to repair work being undertaken,” said Chendev. “As you are aware, we are currently facing a shortage of cement and other building materials. Comrade Yubkin continues to reside within the main building. She will have a small number of soldiers there with her. I would have thought no more than four.”
“He is sowing the seeds of something,” thought Garin.
As they were about to enter the lobby, he caught sight of Trusov and Zherdev conversing in a side corridor.
“It is not as high status,” said Trusov. “It would still be a good move for you.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Chendev and Garin as they passed, but said nothing.
“The firing squad outside. They are for me?” said Garin, as they approached the doors to the palace grounds.
“Sherstov remembers your work with the police,” said Chendev. “He is sentimental at times. 'Chendev, send Garin,' he tells me. 'Put my best fisherman out on the sea.'”
“You do not share his optimism.”
“I am party to knowledge that has been withheld from the Chairman,” said Chendev. “I am aware of your attempt to defect at the age of 21. I am also aware that the CIA laughed you out of the room. What use is a junior policeman? I have read their report on you. It was not flattering. The gist of it is they thought that you would be a liability. They were concerned that you would compromise their networks.”
“I was a young man then and confused as to my purpose,” said Garin. “My brains were addled by western literature and rock and roll. It is why I am good at my communications job now: Because I have seen what the other side has to offer. Not only have I seen it, I have seen through it. I speak now from a position of sincerity.”
“It is true you have straightened out your course,” said Chendev. “You have fully embraced your duties. Still, who knows what doubts linger in the heart and the mind. Bring me the men on the list. Bring me Yubkin. Afterwards we will see what we can do for you.”
Garin pulled on his gloves.
“I will not follow you any further,” remarked Chendev. “I am not dressed for it.”
He turned and walked back the way he had come.
Garin followed his frozen footsteps back along the winding path. The snow was falling again in tiny pinpricks. He paced across the courtyard in front of the waiting firing squad. A pair of stooped peasants were seeding the icy ground with winter peel. The seeds gave off a warmth that assisted in the melting of the snow. In the Spring they would blossom into white flowers. Many soldiers and police would sew a quantity of the seeds into the lining of their gloves, or would get their wives or girlfriends to do so on their behalf.
He passed through the second in a row of tunnel archways, that bored through the lower wall of the building, and into the palatial Yellow Courtyard. A police riot van was parked obliquely at the opposite end. A pair of soldiers were pitching snowballs into the vehicle's flank, eliciting a hollow drumming sound.
Garin followed a narrow salted pathway around the perimeter of the courtyard. Suddenly the smell of fresh piss assaulted his nostrils. Catching sight of a pair of splashes high on the wall, he stepped out onto the snow and walked around.
“It was Pestov who noticed him first.
“Here comes the boss now,” he said.
Orlov dropped his snowball as he turned. He banged his palms together, brushing the snow from his gloves.
“Tonight you have learned who can piss the highest,” said Garin.
“He claims my work as his own,” said Pestov. He pointed to Orlov.
“As you can see we have been busy requisitioning a police van,” said the guilty soldier.
“What have you done with the police who were using it?” asked Garin.
“He paid them off,” said Orlov, incredulously. “Unbelievable!”
“One of you drive,” said Garin. “The other one of you see whether you can get the heating to work.”
Pestov opened the door and slid along the front bench seat until he was behind the wheel. Orlov climbed in alongside. Garin followed, closing the door behind him.
“We have been given a task ,” he said. “I hope you are not tired. We will be at it all night.”
“I will walk with you to the exit.”
At the door to the party room, the Deputy Health Minister paused.
“I wish you good luck in your hunt,” he said to Garin.
Chendev and Garin walked through the reception, past the painting of the melting American flag. The women who had been at the desk earlier was gone.
“There is one more name I would like to add to the list:” said Chendev. “Tamara Yubkin. She is Chief of the Main Administration of Pre-school Education. It is on an unrelated matter. You will find her at the Dovurizber orphanage.”
“I read that the orphanage was closed,” said Garin.
“It has been temporarily emptied while an assessment is made, prior to repair work being undertaken,” said Chendev. “As you are aware, we are currently facing a shortage of cement and other building materials. Comrade Yubkin continues to reside within the main building. She will have a small number of soldiers there with her. I would have thought no more than four.”
“He is sowing the seeds of something,” thought Garin.
As they were about to enter the lobby, he caught sight of Trusov and Zherdev conversing in a side corridor.
“It is not as high status,” said Trusov. “It would still be a good move for you.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Chendev and Garin as they passed, but said nothing.
“The firing squad outside. They are for me?” said Garin, as they approached the doors to the palace grounds.
“Sherstov remembers your work with the police,” said Chendev. “He is sentimental at times. 'Chendev, send Garin,' he tells me. 'Put my best fisherman out on the sea.'”
“You do not share his optimism.”
“I am party to knowledge that has been withheld from the Chairman,” said Chendev. “I am aware of your attempt to defect at the age of 21. I am also aware that the CIA laughed you out of the room. What use is a junior policeman? I have read their report on you. It was not flattering. The gist of it is they thought that you would be a liability. They were concerned that you would compromise their networks.”
“I was a young man then and confused as to my purpose,” said Garin. “My brains were addled by western literature and rock and roll. It is why I am good at my communications job now: Because I have seen what the other side has to offer. Not only have I seen it, I have seen through it. I speak now from a position of sincerity.”
“It is true you have straightened out your course,” said Chendev. “You have fully embraced your duties. Still, who knows what doubts linger in the heart and the mind. Bring me the men on the list. Bring me Yubkin. Afterwards we will see what we can do for you.”
Garin pulled on his gloves.
“I will not follow you any further,” remarked Chendev. “I am not dressed for it.”
He turned and walked back the way he had come.
Garin followed his frozen footsteps back along the winding path. The snow was falling again in tiny pinpricks. He paced across the courtyard in front of the waiting firing squad. A pair of stooped peasants were seeding the icy ground with winter peel. The seeds gave off a warmth that assisted in the melting of the snow. In the Spring they would blossom into white flowers. Many soldiers and police would sew a quantity of the seeds into the lining of their gloves, or would get their wives or girlfriends to do so on their behalf.
He passed through the second in a row of tunnel archways, that bored through the lower wall of the building, and into the palatial Yellow Courtyard. A police riot van was parked obliquely at the opposite end. A pair of soldiers were pitching snowballs into the vehicle's flank, eliciting a hollow drumming sound.
Garin followed a narrow salted pathway around the perimeter of the courtyard. Suddenly the smell of fresh piss assaulted his nostrils. Catching sight of a pair of splashes high on the wall, he stepped out onto the snow and walked around.
“It was Pestov who noticed him first.
“Here comes the boss now,” he said.
Orlov dropped his snowball as he turned. He banged his palms together, brushing the snow from his gloves.
“Tonight you have learned who can piss the highest,” said Garin.
“He claims my work as his own,” said Pestov. He pointed to Orlov.
“As you can see we have been busy requisitioning a police van,” said the guilty soldier.
“What have you done with the police who were using it?” asked Garin.
“He paid them off,” said Orlov, incredulously. “Unbelievable!”
“One of you drive,” said Garin. “The other one of you see whether you can get the heating to work.”
Pestov opened the door and slid along the front bench seat until he was behind the wheel. Orlov climbed in alongside. Garin followed, closing the door behind him.
“We have been given a task ,” he said. “I hope you are not tired. We will be at it all night.”
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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