The Benefactor Index: Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
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 Thirteen – What fell off the cart
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As the white fog dispersed, the snow had started to fall again. A pair of dark figures huddled under the crooked canopy of a black umbrella stumbled past, their faces aligned to each other as they clumsily kissed.
As Garin approached the frosted crenellations and gilded fairytale spires of the Spring Palace, the footprints became less dense. Now and again, he would catch sight of the tracks of a dog or a fox.
A ring of bootprints encircling the walls, marked the tracks of a patrol. At the West Gate, a pair of soldiers were paused on sentry duty. Neither man acknowledged him as he passed between them.
Inside the grounds of the Palace, there were no footprints. Garin paced through the dissipating fog accompanied only by the sound of his own breath. The snow along an avenue of broom trees had been cleared to the edges to form low, trench-like walls. The carapace of pitted white ice that remained clinging to the path had assumed the dimensions of the underlying surface. The tree trunks along the right-hand side cast an uneven ladder of the shadow across the trail.
He crossed an ornate bridge that had been built from red brick and carved stone. At the far end a cylindrical brick folly, with porthole windows was divided in two, each hemisphere. connecting to the end of a balustrade.
Through the vista, he could see, beyond the snow lined boughs of the winter trees, glimpses of gold and turquoise architecture.
He began to see footsteps again. Soon after, he joined the path he taken with Avilov and Trusov the night before.
The neck of the wine bottle that had been tossed into a drift by the Deputy Minister was still visible, protruding through the fresh snow like a headstone.
The courtyard where the firing squad had stood earlier was abandoned.
He was almost at the entrance to the Party HQ when he was approached by a quartet of soldiers.
“We are required to escort you, under the orders of General Trusov,” said one of the men.
“Then escort,” said Garin.
“We must relieve you of any weapons you have on your person,” said the soldier.
Garin handed over his pistol.
“That is all there is,” he said.
The soldiers led him around the ugly facade of the building to a side entrance.
They ushered him into a lobby, two men going on ahead, the remaining pair following behind. The ceiling lighting was recessed in a gridded framework. It reflected softly in the planking of the wooden floor. Long stretches of pale brown carpet, with a broad red band running along the centre, had been laid out in right-angled pathways.
Trusov was waiting for him next to a square pillar. Alongside him, a tall standard lamp stood sentry over a loose cluster of high-backed armchairs and occasional tables. It was obvious from his face that he been awake all night. His uniform had remained immaculate. He regarded Garin through the rimless panes of his large glasses.
“I cannot help but notice that you are covered in blood, feathers and bird shit,” he said. “You must excuse my frankness. I am unsure what the correct etiquette is in these situations.”
“The best thing is to remain quiet and not poke the bear,” advised Garin.
“Was he carrying anything?” said the General to his men.
The soldier showed him the gun. Trusov took it from him.
“I will hold onto this for the time being,” he said.
Cradling the weapon gently between both palms, he held it up, inspecting it.
“This may be the last time you see it,”
“It has done enough for one night,” said Garin
“I understand there has been some trouble,” said Trusov. “I do not know the details. I have been instructed to escort you to Chendev. He is waiting with the health chief. He seems to be quite upset with you.”
They passed one of the seating areas where thinly-padded chairs and sofas, designed to provide short-term comfort to arriving guests, had been arranged around a patterned rug. A brilliant, opaque glare flooded in through a pair of tall windows in the far wall.
“Who is more upset, Avilov or Chendev?” said Garin.
Trusov ignored him.
“A few hours ago, Chendev requested that I send a team of men to bring you in. Dead or alive, though I believe his preference leaned towards the latter. I delayed carrying out his instructions, citing operational issues. There are too many strange things going on here tonight to act without consideration. I take it you were briefed on the Chairman's illness,”
“I was the one tasked with rounding up the donors.”
“I thought so. You were an odd choice don't you think?”
“Chendev gave some good reasons at the time,” said Garin.
“Now you harbour some doubts?” said Trusov.
There were walking along a corridor on either side of the red band that ran along the centre of the brown carpet. A half-foot of the wooden floor showed up against the skirting boards and the doors on either side.
“You will scarcely believe what has happened in your absence:” said Trusov as they turned a corner.
“General Mstislav Yemelin has returned from the dead. You may not know him. He was a big name in military circles before he crossed Usenko. After that he was drummed out of the army. He worked as a teacher for a while. Nobody knew what happened to him. He turned up at the Palace maybe half an hour ago. With him were two of the men on the donor list.”
“What has been done with them?” asked Garin.
“They were taken away. I assume one of the two men will be prepared for surgery. You have returned empty handed, I see. May I ask what you have done with your men?”
“My men are both dead,” said Garin. “General, you must listen to me; The list is a fabrication. It is a ruse created by Sherstov to draw people, who he thought were conspiring against him, out onto open ground. The man is not sick. He is playing a game with real men as pieces.”
Trusov seemed unimpressed by the news.
“I was permitted to visit the Chairman's room an hour ago,” he said. “If his illness is a deception, then it is a very good one. I am told his condition has deteriorated since you were last here. I have my doubts that he will survive any operation. You will be able to see for yourself presently.”
“Then something else is going on. I don't know what...” said Garin.
His expression became thoughtful.
The General nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing.
The corridor they occupied was intermittently lined with spindly potted palms that had been starved of natural light. The red band in the centre of the carpet stretched towards a tall pair of seemingly opaque windows.
“... Chendev is making a play,” said Garin. “It is possible he has poisoned the Chairman.”
“I am not entirely at ease with this line of thought,” said Trusov.
“None of the names on the donor list are appropriate blood matches for Sherstov.” said Garin. “I have confirmed as much with Frolov, the Head Cardiologist. You can call him and confirm what I have said is true.”
“I would do so if most of telephones had not been shut off,” said Trusov.
“You were asked to send men after me,” said Garin. “Something made you delay carrying out the instruction. Other men came in their place, only not soldiers. They were contract killers - Street thugs. Chendev has to send people that could not be directly connected to him.”
“It is all far fetched,” said Trusov.
They were approaching the T-junction. The glare had faded from the tall windows. Beyond the glass Garin could see a cross-section of a snowy courtyard. Some soldiers were milling about next to an army truck.
“More far-fetched than a disgraced General, who everybody thought was dead, retuning here of all places, on this of all nights?” he said.
He kept his voice level, knowing that he would not be believed if any hint of desperation entered his tone.
“The list was always about Yemelin,” he continued. “Some of the men on it are connected to him. I have been with him most of the night. We have been trying to work out, between us, what is going on. We split into two groups before coming here. The men with him are Katin and Volkov. Volkov has broken his arm. Katin had cuts to his face and is missing his glasses.
Trusov halted at the junction.
“There is one thing,” he said. “Serov is unwell. Seriously, I think.”
“It is possible he has been poisoned by Bobrik,” said Garin. “Earlier I saw him fiddling with a glass that he then gave to Serov.”
Trusov removed Garin's pistol from his pocket and handed it to him.
“Where we are going you may need this,” he said. “It is this way.”
Garin placed the pistol in the pocket of his coat.
“Chendev keeps his gun up his sleeve,” said Trusov.
They climbed three flights of stairs. Midway down a long corridor a pair of soldiers were standing guard over a room. Both men saluted the General as he approached.
“He has already been robbed twice,” said Trusov, as one of the men stepped forward to search Garin. “First by the men on the front door and then by me.”
The soldier took a step back.
“You are both relieved of duty,” said Trusov. “Return to the guard post. Tell the other men not to come back here unless you are summoned.”
The two soldiers saluted, then made their way along the corridor. As soon as they were around the corner, Trusov placed his hand on the door handle.
“I hope you are correct about this,” he said.
“It doesn't matter either way,” answered Garin. “We are likely both dead men, whether we smile and play along, or burst in with our guns drawn.”
“This is not a time when taking the moral high ground can be played to our advantage,” said Trusov.
He unholsterered his pistol.
“Behind the door, there is a lounge area,” said Trusov. “To the right there is a bedroom and a bathroom.”
“Who is there?” asked Garin.
“The last time is was Chendev and Avilov. And Sherstov, of course.”
“He is in there?”
“This is where they have been keeping him.”
Cautiously Trusov lowered the door handle.
The room that lay beyond was expensively decorated with chintzy wallpaper and furnishings. A pair of mustard coloured drapes had been loosely tied back from the windows. Parts of a snowy building opposite were visible through the panes. In the centre of the ceiling, an electric chandelier was suspended from the green and white plasterwork.
“This is where the powerful come to die.” said Trusov under his breath, as the pair moved towards an open door on their right
The bedroom was more modestly decorated than the reception. Through the door-frame Garin could see an elderly man lying on his back in the middle of a double bed. A red blanket was pulled up to his neck. Avilov was bent over him, facing away from the door. On either side of the bed there were pieces of diagnostic medical equipment, unplugged and with their cables neatly coiled-up and hanging from built-in hooks.
“Still no change,” said Avilov quietly.
Chendev was standing next to a round occasional table. On top there was a rectangular platter containing an assortment of apples, oranges and pears. A sealed bottle of champagne was tilted toward the rim of a silver pail with a white napkin draped over the side.
He was staring coldly at the body of Sherstov. As Trusov entered, he raised head towards the door.
“Don't be a fool, Borut,” he said, coolly, eyeing the gun that the General was aiming from his waist. “You forget that I have two good men outside. You would have met them on your way in. There are another eighteen or so on this floor alone.”
“And you forget these men are under my command,” replied Trusov. “I have sent them away for the time being while we talk things out.”
“So he has turned you with some far fetched tale,” said Chendev, looking towards Garin.
“Pavel tells me that none of the men on the list you provided are a blood match for Sherstov.” said Trusov.
Avilov had moved away from the bed where the emaciated body of Sherstov lay dying. The Chairman's bald crown resembled a shard of worn brown eggshell. The trailing tufts of his long, grey eyebrows sprang in wiry disarray from the base of his forehead, like spent plumage.
“This was always about Yemelin,” said Garin. “This is about a man who was angry once and then got over his anger.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I have yet to interview the General,” said Chendev.
“Who was the architect? This man?”
Avilov flinched as Garin motion towards Sherstov with his gun.
“Originally, it was Sherstov,” said Chendev. “The conspiracy against his predecessor was discovered by chance a few months ago. The threat was credible. There were loose ends. Even though the plot had been directed towards Usenko, he felt that it was too great a risk to leave unaddressed. He was more scared of what a coup would do to his legacy, than he was for his life.
“We knew that those involved attended the orphanage at Dovurizber. Yemelin worked there and groomed his co-conspirators for power in secret. We could not find out their names. A great number of records had been lost or destroyed, I think intentionally. That was when Yubkin's involvement was first suspected. You have visited her, I hear.
“We knew one thing: They were all the same rare blood type. I was told personally, by a reliable source, that they were all senior party members. Thirteen men in total, narrowed down to those seven whose childhoods we could not establish. And you of course...
“...As for Yemelin, he was assumed to be dead until he crossed over the border a few days ago.”
Trusov glanced towards Sherstov.
“Matters appear to have developed since then,” he said. “There seems to be a lot of illness going around the building.”
“You built an extra step on top of Sherstov's plan,” said Garin. “If the man is known to be seriously is ill, then it will be no surprise when he dies. Key individuals are blackmailed or coerced into assisting.”
He looked at Avilov who was standing helpless next to the bed.
“Or they are led blindly,” said Trusov.
“In the confusion perhaps others will also die,” said Garin. “You are in the middle of it, but you do not involve yourself directly.”
“The cat shuts its eyes when stealing cream,” said Trusov. “I wondered why certain parties were excluded from the night's gathering. Why, in this state of National emergency, is it you, Avilov, and not Nozdrin who was placed in charge of overseeing the operation on the Chairman?”
“Sherstov was an old man clinging on to power,” said Chendev.
“You speak of the man in the past tense,” said Trusov. “And of yourself as a man with his feet already under the head of the table. Pavel believes you have also poisoned Serov.”
Chendev looked casually around the room.
“There are recordings that are made in this building that will construct the narrative,” he said. “The tapeline will set the truth for what happened here tonight. Yemelin came here seeking revenge.”
“He did not come here for revenge. He came seeking a parlay with Sherstov,” said Garin.
“Whatever his intention, he will play the role I assign to him,” said Chendev.
He began to raises his arm. As he did the muzzle of a pistol began to slide out from under the cuff of his suit jacket.
Garin fired his gun.
Chendev dropped to the ground. Behind him Avilov cowered with his hands in front of his face.
A shadow fell across the bathroom door. A moment later Bobrik stooped under the frame. It was like watching a giant climb through a small rectangular window. He regarded Trusov and Garin with a rictus expression of restrained cruelty that seemed like it might extend to the core of his soul.
Garin shot him through the heart, eliciting another frightened whimper from Avilov.
Bobrik paused to examine the blood that was spreading across his shirt.
“It did not hurt,” he said, matter of factly.
His expression had not changed. He raised his gigantic hands and continued his advance on Garin.
Trusov aimed his pistol and shot him through the centre of the forehead.
Bobrik toppled backwards, folding in half as he struck the wall, then sliding to the floor, leaving behind a red smear on the wallpaper.
“I have found Bobrik's off switch,” said the General.
Refocusing his attention on Avilov, he enquired:
“Can the Chairman be returned to health?”
“There is no antidote for him,” stammered the Deputy Minister. “He will be dead before midday.”
Trusov shot him through the head.
“He seemed like the kind of man who might beg for his life if I waited,” he rationalised.
He moved towards the body of Chendev, keeping his gun trained on the man's head, as though he expected him to get back up. Garin stepped over Bobrik's legs and checked the bathroom.
“So, since leaving the police, you have worked in communications and propaganda?” said Trusov.
“It is what I was offered after Hramevek Square,” said Garin, as he reappeared from behind the door frame.
“We are in a room with three dead men, and one who has been poisoned, and who will soon die,” said Trusov. “Two of the dead were senior figures within the Party. The other is the former head of the KGB. The poisoned man is, on paper, the most powerful individual currently living in the Soviet Union.
“From these components, we must create a believable narrative that does not only exonerate us, but actively elevates us as heroes. Anything less and we will not be believed.
“Within the next few minutes we can expect soldiers who have overheard the gunshots to arrive at the door.”
“The point you are making?” answered Garin,
Trusov knelt down in front of Avilov.
“My point is,” he said, as he closed the dead man's eyes. “I hope you are a good storyteller.”
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