The Benefactor Index: Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
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.
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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
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Chapter Ten – If even just one is absent
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“It doesn't matter,” Volkov said. “I have a feeling that, after I leave here tonight, I will not be returning.”
Ibragimov was sitting on the edge of a desk, facing towards the others. He had looped a thin blue rubber-band several times around the upper joint of his index finger. As he spoke, he continually wrapped and then unwrapped the excess rubber around the adjacent digits.
“You cannot advance with confidence until you have a clear idea of what it is you are walking into,” he said. “I also have some questions that require answers.”
“You go first, then we will see,” said Garin. He had rested his gun on one sloping thigh, pointing it towards the old man.
“I left Russia over fifteen years ago,” said Ibragimov. “I had retired, or rather I had been retired, twice. I moved away from society, to a cabin in Hunyagarka. It is a remote, forested region; a land of wolves and tigers. I would go to an outpost for supplies, at first every month, then every six weeks, then every two months. One day when I went, a letter from an old friend was there waiting for me. In it, he informed me that I was to be arrested. I do not know why. Soon after, I relocated to Czechoslovakia. There I changed my identity. I had money and a few friends in the country. I became a poet. That much is true. They celebrate my work in the West.”
“In reality, you are Mstislav Yemelin, a former general,” confirmed Garin.
“A legend,” said Orlov.
“The truth is that I am both these men,” said Yemelin.
“You...” he said, addressing Orlov. “...I would advise not to attempt to follow in my footsteps. Legends mostly come to bad ends. My own life should be taken as a cautionary example: Do your job well, but do not overachieve.”
“Why did you come back?” said Volkov. “Why not remain incognito, write your poems, and lead what is left of your life in peace?”
“Out of love,” declared Yemelin. “A father's love is never extinguished, even after his sons have grown and become men.”
“You owe me and the others nothing,” said Volkov. “You made us what we are. Now we run our own destinies.”
“I set you on a path,” said Yemelin. “My motivations were neither pure, nor well thought-out. Now a reckoning is coming for you. I am likely the cause of it and I will face it with you.”
“When did you all first meet?” asked Garin.
“I was ousted from the army not long after the war ended,” said Yemelin. “Sherstov's predecessor, Usenko, feared that I was gathering support against him.”
“And were you?”
“Every man of influence manoeuvrers for position. But there was no coup in the works, if that is what you mean.
“I found work as a teacher at the Dovurizber State Orphanage. It was here that I encountered Tamara Yubkin. She was an educator like myself; a bright, passionate woman...”
Garin glanced in the direction of Orlov, who lowered his head.
“We had a relationship,” said Yemelin. “I felt reborn in the arms of my younger lover. I taught her things as well: How to step outside the world and view society with a critical eye. How to climb the ladder. I introduced her to people of influence.
“At the time, the boys in the orphanage were housed according to their blood group. Don't ask me why. The State looks for ways to suppress the identity of the individual. One way this is achieved is by making a person's identity secondary to that of a group.
“There were four boys – all rare B-negative, all resident in a dormitory at Dragoje Burtov House. Because they were a small group, they were bullied by the other children who were, of course, greater in number.
“I decided that I would mentor them. I would prepare them for positions of power. I would introduce them to all the influential people I knew. As they grew older I would pull the strings of men and women who owed my favours, or upon whom I had dirt. They would be my revenge against Usenko for curtailing my military career. They would become an embodiment of my thoughts and values. Any power they attained would be an extension of my own. In the end it was easy.
“What I was not prepared for was how soon the boundaries between teacher and pupil would come down. I shed my role as educator and became a father to these four boys. Tamara, who had been a carer for so many children, for the first time in her life, blossomed naturally into the role of mother. It was a joy to see.
“Those were good times for all of us. In a shadow of an institution that opposes the family, we were involved parents. Our boys were happy and were growing in confidence and capability. We homed-in on their individual talents and nurtured them. In time my enmity towards Usenko faded. My desire for revenge wilted away to nothing, and then...”
He slowly unwound the rubber band from his fingers and placed it flat on the table next to him.
“...I was aware that children were being taken to the Rotunda at night. For the purposes of entertainment. Parties were held there for ministers and other senior members of the State. You can imagine what happened to the children who were taken there.
“I learned... I learned that my boys had been taken there. I think perhaps when I made introductions to certain powerful individuals I put them on the radar. It will remain my deepest regret.”
“I remember none of it,” said Volkov.
Next to Garin, Katin shook his head.
“It is likely you were heavily sedated,” said Yemelin. “Whether you remember it or not is unimportant. It is enough that it was done to you. Usenko knew about the parties. He may even have attended. My fury with the man was rekindled. I resolved to carry out my original plan. I would manoeuvrer you all into positions of power. When the time came we would unite and bring down the man and his cronies from within. We would destroy them all.”
He picked the rubber band up from the desk and began to stretch it between his pinched thumbs and forefingers.
“Then Usenko died. My boys were discharged from the orphanage and into the adult world. They were all in an excellent position to do well. Around this time I was also discharged from Dovurizber. I broke things off with Tamara quite harshly, but it was for her own good, to protect her.”
“But you remained in touch,” said Garin.
Yemelin relaxed the rubber-band.
“Not really. I told the boys to use what I had taught them, and to take full advantage of any contacts or information I had shared. I told them to try to lead full and constructive lives. I told them not to socialise with each other, except within the boundaries of work.
“I instructed Tamara to establish a network, outside conventional modes of communication, that would allow them to reach out to one another in an emergency. She was still furious with me. I did not know whether she had followed my instructions until recently, when I contacted her.”
Again, Garin glanced at Orlov.
“Why come back?” he said. “The chapter was closed. It is tragic of course, but that is true of so much of life.”
Yemelin looped the rubber-band over his fingers and allowed it to wobble down over his wrist.
“After I left Russia, I harboured a nagging doubt that the chickens might return home to roost. I decided that I needed to maintain a point of contact within the Party. It could not be anyone obvious. It could certainly not be Tamara or any of the boys. I settled on Tihomir. I began crafting poems and developing a persona that I knew would appeal to him. As our relationship developed and I became more finely tuned to his tastes, I began to send him Western media. It was a seduction of a kind.”
“Gavrilo, I am very disappointed by this deception,” said Konev.
“You will be more than disappointed once you grasp what it means for you,” said Garin.
“A few months ago, I was made party to a disturbing rumour,” said Yemelin. “Sherstov had learned of a plot to overthrow Usenko. The conspirators had never been apprehended but they were thought to be senior party members. He was determined to tie off these loose ends, in case they were a threat to his leadership. The person who intimated this information to me was unaware of its significance. I contacted Tamara and instructed her to be ready. I told her not to alarm the boys. I would come and talk to each of them in person. She was overjoyed.”
“Yubkin is dead,” said Garin frankly. “We knew nothing about any of this. We were asked to pick her up. We were not told why. When she saw us, she took poison. She died staring at a photograph. I believe it was of you and the boys, at a nearby orchard.”
“I know the picture,” said Yemelin.
He removed the rubber band from his wrist and again placed it on the desk alongside him. Volkov had lowered his head. Katin was bent forward at the waist with his fists clenched upright in his lap.
“I assume she was not on the list as a kidney donor,” said Yemelin. “That would be medically unorthodox and arouse suspicions.”
“Chendev, the head of the Committee for State Security, asked me to bring her in as a personal favour,” said Garin. “He is running the show, since Sherstov is out of action. He did not provide any reason. He framed the request as an afterthought.”
“I see the chicken feathers on your coat and those of your men,” said Yemelin. “I have seen the dead birds hanging by their necks in the locker inside the van. I have seen the rings around their ankles. I fear for Feda.”
“He fought us,” said Garin “He is... he was obsessed with his health and did not wish to give up his kidney.”
“Feda,” said Katin heavily, under his breath.
“And now he has given up everything and the donor list was a ruse created so as not to scare away the targets,” said Yemelin.
“It was a blunt instrument,” said Garin.
“I do not understand why I am on the list,” said Konev. “I have very little to do with any of this.”
“The list is broader than four of us,” said Katin hoarsely.
“It is possible this was done so as not to cause alarm,” said Yemelin. “In your case, Tihimor, Sherstov may have somehow learned of our connection. Or it may just be a coincidence.”
“My god, you have killed me,” said Konev.
“The moment your name went down on the list your fate was decided,” said Yemelin.
“There is one more who is absent,” said Garin. “Based on Radmilo's prompting, I am going to hazard a guess that the missing man is Nazarov, the composer.”
“You would be correct to make that assumption,” said Yemelin. “It is important that we go and get him.”
“And then we run?” said Katin. “But to where? I will not defect and be a pawn for the Americans.”
The general shook his head.
“The escape routes will be sealed. We will not live to see ourselves across the border. The trap has been carefully set. People will be on the lookout for us specifically. If we run, we will not survive.”
“Then what is the alternative?” said Volkov.
“I knew Sherstov in my youth,” said Yemelin. “I have cards I can play with him. I believe, if I can talk to him, there will be a way out of this for all of us.”
Addressing Garin, he said: “You too will have to go back. Either you will bring us in as your prisoners, in the hope you will not share our fate, or we will return as co-negotiators. I would advise that you go with my plan. The fact you were chosen for this task in the first place would indicate that you are considered disposable, or that someone wants you out the way. Your bridge is burned. There is no happy homecoming for you or your men. No promotions or medals.”
“If I am in the same room with Sherstov, I will kill him,” said Katin.
Yemelin raised his hand.
“No, the only way out is to draw a line. It is what I should have done a long time ago.”
Turning to Garin he said: “I do not blame you. You are a weapon in the hand that reaches out from behind a desk, somewhere far away. I do not forgive you either. We have been bound together by the machinations of a calculating and ruthless man. Now there is no choice for us. If we ride to the left, we will lose our horses. If we ride to the right, we will lose our heads. If we do nothing, our past will catch hold of us by the heels. The only option is straight forward.”
Garin rose to his feet. The wooden legs of the neighbouring desks scraped on the concrete floor as the others around him did likewise.
“Okay, we go and get Nazarov first,” he said. “Afterwards we head back to the Palace and try to talk this out with Sherstov.”
As they were filing out, Orlov plucked the blue rubberband from the desk where Yemelin had been sitting. It was still warm. He put it in his pocket.
Downstairs, the pigeon was still flapping around in the rafters.
He formed his right hand into a gun and pointed towards it with the barrel of his index finger.
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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