Fiend
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1988-04-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: The slowly decaying corpse lay on the bed in the Kremlin. The icy silence of a news blackout lending a chilling unreality to an occasion of monumental significance. For the Russian leader is dead. A shape, blacker than the shadows; a thing that smelled of putrefacation and emanated a coldness beyond the iciness of the Siberian wastes. Lips screwed into a bestial snarl, eyes sunken and staring. Suddenly his powerful chest is heaving, drawing in breath and expelling it noisily, learning to breathe again. Learning to live again.
Publisher: Black Hill Books
Rights: (c) 1988-2012 Guy N Smith

Fiend - Epub Version 1.01

(c) Guy N Smith 1988 - 2012

Published by Black Hill Books, April 2012

ISBN : 978-1-907846-45-8

First Published by Sphere Books April 1988.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise distributed without the publisher's prior consent in any form whatsoever. Mechanisms are employed to make each Ebook unique and traceable back to the original purchaser.

For more information visit Guy's website at :-
www.guynsmith.com

Get a FREE short story Ebook by registering your Ebook using the link below.

EBook Registration

BOOK ONE - The Resurrection

CHAPTER ONE - The Death

Keschev was dead.

At least, Sergey Prokop thought that the Soviet leader had died. More than supposition, it was an awareness of people and situations, a knowledge of the way in which the minds of his fellow Nomenklatura members worked. It wasn’t what they told you, it was what they didn’t tell you that counted.

Andre Keschev had not been seen in public since the end of February. It was now March 28. An unexplained absence for three weeks and then it was announced that the Party Chairman was indisposed with a heavy cold. Everybody in Russia had heavy colds during the winter in spite of a liberal intake of raw garlic and vodka. A fortnight later Pravda announced that he was suffering from bronchitis. Bronchitis often leads to pneumonia but it is not always the case. Another long silence. You were supposed to believe that the patient was recovering; slow progress, but no news is good news.

Then an article extolling the brilliant career of Andre Keschev, how he had progressed rapidly from the lower ranks of the Politburo from First Secretariat of the Candidate Members to Chairman of Party Control Commission, a massive step for a one-time First Deputy Chairman of the KGB. Then to Party Secretariat, Politburo, within a year. Hovering on the brink of leadership, stepping swiftly into a dead man’s shoes. An internal wrangle, the details were conveniently skipped, but he had beaten Yuri Denanko to the top job much to the people’s disguised relief. Life under Denanko, another ex-KGB man, was better not contemplated; it would happen one day. And now it looked very much as though it had.

Prokop had sensed the uneasiness, the tension, within the Kremlin itself. But even his own job as Kremlin liaison officer to TASS was unrevealing. You learned to keep your hunches to yourself. Maybe even he would not have prior knowledge of the leader’s decease. Hours of solemn music before the official announcement would be the only confirmation of what he suspected. A game of waiting until the System was ready. It was nothing new.

Sergey Prokop was 38, tall and lean with dark hair that was beginning to thin. Taciturn, a man of few words because it was safer that way. A privileged position earned by an exemplary KGB career that had been short-circuited because his wife’s father knew Vasily Petrov, the Minister of Defence. That was the way the System worked. Now he had a relatively easy, if boring, routine desk job in the Kremlin because Ignat Grinbat wanted it that way for his son-in-law. Which entitled Prokop to membership of the unofficial Nomenklatura, the New Aristocrats, and that was worth an awful lot. In real terms.

Prokop experienced an acute sense of uneasiness as he left the Kremlin that afternoon, drove two blocks to Granovsky Street, and managed to find a parking place amidst the untidy line of cars. They were mostly black Volga sedans, some with chauffeurs sitting behind the wheels, others locked up, two wheels on the pavement. This was in open defiance of the strict parking restrictions but nobody would trouble them, not the Volgas anyway. Any lesser model would have attracted the attention of the patrolling law. Sergey climbed out, slammed the door, tried to adopt an arrogant attitude. I’m here because I’m one of them now; see, I have a Volga too. Some passers-by glanced deliberately in the opposite direction, quickened their pace. They knew, but they pretended they did not. Maybe later they would exchange whispered comments in their cramped apartments. ‘I saw Sergey Prokop visiting No. 2 today.’ Or perhaps they were not even interested; it was impossible to tell because Russian expressions gave nothing away.

He crossed the road, knocked on the door, read the plaque that stated ‘In this building on April 19, 1919, Vladimir Lenin spoke before the commanders of the Red Army headed for the front’. Another more recent sign designated this drab, insignificant building as ‘The Bureau of Passes’.

The door opened and a fleshy, pallid face regarded the visitor, suspicion at first in the small, deep, sunken eyes, then a nod. Enter, comrade, and be quick about it. Prokop used his pass but the other barely glanced at it. Soon it would not be needed, his face would be sufficient.

He walked through into the large hall that occupied most of the ground floor, staring in disbelief even though this was his third visit. It reminded him of London – no, don’t remind me of that! An indoor market hall, the stalls set up haphazardly, the vendors dressed in long, grey overalls. Loaded tables and shelves behind; food and drink in the first section, luxuries which the average Soviet citizen had only read about. Wines and spirits, imported goods that were being offered to the elite at cut-rate, duty-free prices. Fresh meat, smoked salmon, caviar. White or wholemeal bread instead of the stale black Russian variety. American cigarettes and Johnnie Walker Black Label whisky.

Sergey took a deep breath and had to steady himself; he was like a child viewing a pre-Christmas store for the first time. Other rooms led off from the main hall, but he had not the time to browse today. Clothing, perfumes, household goods; one of a chain of such stores that served the Communist nobility.

He made his purchases quickly, some beefsteak and wine, two loaves of bread, a pound of Brie cheese, 100 Camel cigarettes. Trying not to glance about him, a furtiveness brought on by a feeling of guilt. Like shoplifting; or a dirty bookshop where everybody played a little game of invisibility. No, it’s not me but please don’t look anyway. Sly glances, jerking your head away when you met with a corresponding furtive stare. We shouldn’t be here, we all know that; I didn’t see you if you didn’t see me. Which was stupid when one had earned the privilege to shop with the elite, one of the ways in which the System rewarded you.

There must have been 30 or 40 people in the store, a comforting thought. Safety in numbers, hiding in a forest of humans. He would become used to it; each time it would be that much easier.

He recognized Andreevich Gmyrya briefly, felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. It was an unnerving feeling shopping alongside the Second Party Secretariat. Humbling. He moved along to the next stall and purchased a bottle of Blue Nun. And a litre of vodka for Olga. His wife was drinking heavily these days; it could become a problem before long. The strict laws governing drinking which had been introduced by Gorbachev were still in force. No public drinking by Communist Party officials, labour inspectors doing the morning rounds of the town’s police station ‘drink tanks’. If you wanted to drink you drank at home. In secret. If you could afford it. Probably these stores were the only places where you could buy sugar liberally because the customers had no need to make their own moonshine vodka. One way or another everybody still drank. The purge had only driven it underground.

Background music made it all that much easier. If you wanted to talk your whispered conversation did not echo in this sparse hall. If you preferred to remain silent then you did not have to give a nervous cough every so often. Prokop found himself listening to the music, but did not recognize it. It wasn’t exactly solemn as he had half-expected, rather a tuneless unidentifiable tape that served its purpose. All the same, Keschev was dead, he was sure of that.

He stepped back out into the street and walked quickly towards his car, a brown paper parcel tucked under his arm. The darkening sky was leaden grey, fine snowflakes drifted in the slight wind. Winter was not over yet.

Prokop drove slowly across town to his apartment. Within the next few months he would doubtless be moving to better quarters, Ignat had already assured them of that, so Olga said. Keep your nose clean and don’t ask questions and a new lifestyle will be opened up to you. It is your reward.

Andre Keschev had lasted five years at the top. At 50 he had hoped to beat Brezhnev’s 18 years; he was in good health, so Aleksandr Zinderling, the top Kremlin surgeon, informed him. At six foot two and weighing 210 pounds, he had a muscular frame kept in good working order by frequent boar hunts at Zavidovo. Three bottles of vodka a week and 40 cigarettes a day seemed to have taken little toll on his health. It was rumoured that he had a score of different women at his disposal but when you were a ruler those rumours were only whispered. Physically strong but morally weak. Everybody knew that from Yuri Denanko down to the factory workers. Especially Denanko, for in effect he had ruled since Keschev had come to power. The power game suited the cabinet-sized Presidium of the Central Committee of the Communist Party very nicely; it was the ideal façade.

The world was a chessboard, Denanko had once told Vasily Petrov, and for the last few years the state of play was stalemate. Nobody was moving. Which was why they needed Keschev at the helm.

His affability was the Politburo’s trump card, the smile, the soft voice. Plausible yet genuine. Easily swayed; talk to him long enough and that shiny bald head began to nod. Truly, he should not have progressed beyond First Secretary, Moscow City Party but Denanko had ensured that he did. Indeed, the deputy leader had swayed the voting Keschev’s way. They had put Andre Keschev where they needed him most, the puppet whose strings were controlled by the leading Politburo members.

Furthermore it had worked. Even if the Western world was not fooled at least it had ended the cold war and there were no more threats of trade embargoes. Fighting was still going on in Afghanistan but it no longer made the headlines and brought protests. Indeed, there was even a hint that in time the Soviet forces might be withdrawn over the border. A spark of hope, a gesture, a boxer feinting, easing up because there were still three more rounds to go.

Last year the Red Square Parade had demonstrated a lack of armaments that did not go unnoticed by foreign observers. A few missiles had been ostensibly withdrawn and America had followed suit. The ‘Star Wars’ programme was at a standstill; Andre Keschev visited the White House, made an impression, and called in on London on the way home. The Russian Bear had smiled on the free countries, hidden its fangs. Now May 1 was approaching again and then, six weeks later, the world peace summit talks in Geneva. Keschev could pull that one off for them, lull everybody into a false sense of security. Then, Yuri Denanko smiled, the USSR would tighten the screw. The Middle East with its vast resources of oil was ready to be taken, the coup de grâce to be administered in Afghanistan.

But then came that fateful day in February when everything went wrong. Keschev had gone boar shooting in the pine forests of Zavidovo. It was not an organized hunt but a determined foray on the part of the leader, accompanied by his entourage of guards, beaters and game wardens. Andre had risen early, dressed accordingly in thick furs and heavy boots, donned his favourite cossack-style hat. Snow had fallen overnight to a depth of several inches and then frozen, giving way to a bright, crisp, frosty day, ideal conditions for the chase.

The hunters had taken two four-wheel-drive Lada Nivas, and Ivor, the chief huntsman, had planned two drives for the day, one before and one after lunch. Keschev was given the best stand on a wide ride where boar were frequently known to cross. He was flushed and trembling with anticipation when the beaters left him, seating himself on a tree stump, his gun across his knees, smiling. He was using his favourite weapon, the versatile Thieme & Schlegelmilch double-barrelled 16-gauge incorporating a 7.3 millimetre rifle barrel. The Soviet leader loaded the shotgun with one-ounce spherical ball loads, and relied upon the rifled barrel for longer range shots. The previous year he had accomplished a feat that would go down in the annals of Soviet sporting records: three boars flushed, a right and left with the 16 and the third one rolled over with a 7.3 millimetre slug. It was his proudest achievement, and he had constantly bored Denanko ever since with the re-telling. A brilliant marksman, Andre Keschev had to be seen to be believed in the field, his large build suddenly agile, his footwork swift, his eye keener than many 20 years his junior. Andre the hunter, the killer. And afterwards he left it all behind him in the forest.

That day he shot a single boar, killed it stone dead with a one-ounce ball of lead; the beaters found it afterwards in the brush. Just a single shot to shatter the stillness of a Russian winter’s morning.

Keschev was still sitting on the tree stump when the beaters emerged from the undergrowth, the genial giant with his gun across his knees, but there was something different about him. He did not leap up to greet them, shout for them to put the dogs onto the scent of his boar. Instead he just sat there, regarded them with a glassy stare, waited for them to approach him.

Cold fear clutched at their hearts when they saw his face. His mouth seemed to have slipped to one side, his thick lips quivered and spittled as he struggled to get incomprehensible words out. Babbling like a child, laughing throatily, allowing Ivor to take the gun away from him. A spent case was still in the right-hand barrel; it had not been reloaded.

Keschev was driven directly to the hospital at Kuntsevo. Aleksandr Zinderling was summoned directly from Moscow and pronounced without hesitation that the Soviet leader had suffered a severe stroke. His brain had been affected.

‘How long?’ Denanko’s flat features were screwed up with anxiety, almost panic.

‘He might last a week,’ Zinderling moved from the bed to the window, ‘on the other hand, he might have another stroke tonight or tomorrow and it will take him for sure. There is no way of knowing.’

‘He must not die,’ Yuri Denanko urged, pushing his face close to that of the surgeon. ‘Do you hear me, Aleksandr, he must recover and be well enough for public appearances until after June. After that it does not matter.’

‘I will do my best,’ Zinderling replied, knowing full well that his best would entail little more than routine hospital care. The workings of the human brain were complex; there would be no road back for Andre Keschev. It was just a matter of time.

A week went by and there was little change. In order to be seen to be doing his best Zinderling ordered that the leader be moved to the hospital at Fili near to Minsk. Stalin had used this hospital, there was none better.

A fortnight later Keschev slipped into a coma. Denanko came personally at Zinderling’s call. Keschev lay pallid and unmoving. He might already have been dead except for the slight clouding on the mirror held to his lips.

‘You must save him,’ Denanko hissed.

‘There is no hope,’ Zinderling replied, ‘he is sinking fast. There is nothing more that I or anyone else can do.’

The deputy leader closed his eyes momentarily, drew his hand across his forehead and then looked up at the surgeon.

‘We must move him. Back to his own quarters in Kutuzov Prospekt.’

‘He would not stand the journey. At the very most he has a few hours left.’

‘Move him! ‘

Aleksandr Zinderling nodded. He had been ordered and he dared not disobey. ‘I will summon an ambulance.’

‘No, not an ambulance. He must be conveyed by private car and the utmost secrecy must be observed. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’ Zinderling did not understand but that was of no consequence. The journey would kill Keschev but, there again, he would die anyway.

Andre Keschev died as the Volga carrying him was approaching the outskirts of Moscow. The centre carriageway was cleared for them by police and there was nobody in sight when they drew up outside No. 25, Kutuzov Prospekt, an old six-storey apartment adjacent to the one once occupied by Leonid Brezhnev. Two uniformed orderlies lifted out the slumped corpse, doing their utmost to give it the appearance of a sick man rather than a dead one. They laid him on a four-poster bed, switched off the heating and waited for the armed KGB guard to arrive before they left. In accordance with their training they pushed the events of that last ride of Andre Keschev out of their minds as they stepped outside into the snowstorm. The Soviet leader was ill upstairs in bed. He would remain there until he recovered. They had their orders.

Sergey Prokop’s prediction had come true. Andre Keschev, Soviet leader, was dead.

CHAPTER TWO - The Spy Who Came Home

Sergey Prokop hated the thought of returning home at the end of the day. If he could have found a legitimate excuse for working late at the Kremlin he would have done so but to have lingered in the office would have invited suspicion, maybe even a surreptitious investigation, and he could not chance that. Not after his swift return from London.

Just thinking about London gave him nightmares, had him waking in the dead of night in a cold sweat. His greatest fear, the fear of every double agent, was that he might talk in his sleep, his subconscious spew out his secret. He could not trust Olga, she would confide in her father, who would speak with Vasily Petrov. Who in turn would tell Boris Kovak, head of the KGB’s Eighth Directorate. Whatever the outcome, however much he pleaded the insane ramblings of a sleeping mind, they would take him out. The KGB never took chances. The Soviet System was one of fear, a nation afraid of itself.

It was in London that it had all gone wrong. Sergey had gone there as just another spy. Everybody was a spy; if you were found out they sent you home. But it was when you stepped back onto Soviet soil that your punishment began. It was the old story of the erring schoolboy who was caned, not for his wrongdoing but for getting found out. But in Sergey’s case the British Intelligence had set it all up for him.

Life had been fairly routine, mostly furtive meetings with contacts, passing on information of minor importance, nothing really big. Until the night he received a call from Sanderson, a Soviet agent who lived out of town. Sanderson was agitated, demanded that Sergey drove up and met him that night. Reluctantly Prokop had agreed, had driven his hired Mercedes up the M1 in a blinding rainstorm.

It was just 11.30 when he arrived at Sanderson’s house, pulled into the gravelled drive and switched the headlights off. The black and white timbered country mansion was in darkness. Deserted. Too late; whatever the other had to tell him it had been a wasted journey. All the same Sergey got out of the car, approached the front door, and found it wide open.

Minutes later he found Sanderson in the kitchen, his head partly blown off by a .45 bullet fired at point-blank range, the room resembling an abattoir, blood splattered up the walls, trickling down in scarlet rivulets and forming sticky pools on the quarry-tiled floor. Sergey Prokop left shortly afterwards, and hoped that that was the end of it.

It wasn’t. Two days later British Intelligence pulled him in and grilled him for hours on end. We know it was you, Prokop, so stop wasting everybody’s time. We’ve known that you were a spy ever since you first stepped off the plane at Heathrow. We know Sanderson was one of your contacts; you were in his house minutes before we arrived. You killed him. Try and get out of that one. You can’t, but tell you what, we’ll do a deal with you. You spy for us and we’ll forget the rest, how’s that?

At the time it had seemed the easiest solution. If they had kicked him out of Britain there and then Sergey could have stuck two fingers up at them and forgotten the whole business. But they didn’t. Instead Moscow recalled him in a hurry, gave him no reason, posted him to a clerical job in the Kremlin itself. Where we can keep an eye on you, Sergey. Even then it might have all died down except for the night when Ursula Ramanninov called him. Ursula was an opera singer at the Bolshoi Theatre, beautiful and well known throughout the Soviet Union, so what the hell was she doing setting up a date with a Kremlin clerk when she could have got herself screwed by half the Politburo if she had put her mind to it?

Sergey soon found out the answer to that one. As they lay between the rumpled sheets in her luxurious bedroom she kissed him and murmured ‘So you’re a British agent, too, Sergey?’

It was as though there was a ball of concrete buried in his stomach. His skin goose pimpled and he admitted that he was working for the British.

‘They tell me you shot Sanderson,’ she laughed huskily. ‘A good night’s work there, Sergey. He was a double, you know. But now that you and I are going to be working together we’d best get a few things sorted out …’

Prokop was caught up one way or the other. Make a wrong move and the British would get him. No cloak and dagger stuff, nothing like Sanderson. Just a message to the KGB. A trade-in for some other unfortunate British spy perhaps. Sergey knew these things were worked out at top level. OK, let so-and-so go, shove him on the next plane to London and help yourself to our man in Moscow. His name’s Sergey Prokop. It was nothing new.

London had turned the tables on his marriage to Olga all right. Suddenly she was one of them, the enemy. She’ll shop you if she so much as gets a sniff of what you’re up to. Sleeping in the same bed as her is a risk. And, anyway, she’s a big let-down after Ursula.

Christ, he hated going home to Olga. She had changed, too, since he had been away. It had always been on the cards that she would put on weight one day but Sergey had had an unpleasant shock on his return from London. Olga had gained at least a stone and a half during his absence; her thighs had thickened and her breasts hung heavy in her bra. A roll of fat encircled her waist and there was a fleshy jowl beneath her chin. Her expression was one of permanent discontent. What did they send you home so soon for, Sergey? You put a foot wrong somewhere and if it wasn’t for my father knowing Vasily Petrov you could find yourself on your way to Siberia. Besides, I was enjoying life without you.

It was drink, of course, that was responsible for her physical and mental change for the worse. He hadn’t realized just how bad the problem was until he had been home a week. Olga had given herself a short, square haircut as though in a deliberate attempt to destroy any sex-appeal that might remain. She had succeeded too. They had made love just once since his return and it had been pretty abysmal. I’m letting you have me, Sergey, because it’s your right; I’m fulfilling the duties of a wife, I don’t have to be enthusiastic about it. You carry on, do what you want.

She had been like a zombie partner, he had had difficulty in completing the act. He had not bothered since and she seemed to have forgotten that a sexual relationship had ever existed. God, it had not been like this once. Two people very much in love, eager for each other’s body. What the hell had gone wrong?

If only she had been having an illicit affair, it would have been better than this. He thought at first that perhaps she was, that his own body was repugnant to her through guilt, but he knew now that she certainly did not have a lover. Who would have wanted a woman like her? Drink was the problem now but had it been the cause?

He parked the car and walked round the block to their apartment. By Russian standards it was comfortable enough when compared with the cramped two-room quarters that most of the workers had to put up with. Plain emulsioned walls, two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen; a cooker and a washing machine. But Ignat had said that it wouldn’t be long before they moved into more luxurious accommodation. Fuck Ignat, they were supposed to be beholden to him for everything.

Olga was sitting on the sofa staring at the television when he walked in, a documentary of some kind. She turned in his direction, seemed to shake herself and wait for her glazed eyes to clear. There was an empty tumbler on the coffee table by her side.

‘Did you get my vodka?’ Her speech was slightly slurred; a stranger might not have noticed it but Sergey knew her too well. There had been a half-full bottle of vodka on the sideboard when he had left that morning. There was no sign of it now.

‘Yes,’ he sighed, ‘I got it. What’s for dinner?’

‘Stew. It’s waiting in the oven. Help yourself, I don’t want any.’ She rose to her feet, tottered slightly and regained her balance, made a direct line for the parcel on the table. He saw how her hands trembled as she tore the wrapping, pulled out the litre bottle of clear spirit.

There was a desperation about her as she tore the foil, unscrewed the top, slopped a liberal measure into the thick glass. She took a gulp, turned back to face him. ‘Keschev isn’t dead, you see. You’re crazy with your hunches. If my father knew he would be very angry with you.’

‘Damn your father!’

‘You pig, Sergey. Without him you would be nothing. A failed spy, maybe even sent to Siberia. At the very best a factory labourer.’

He tensed, clenched his fists, fought against an overwhelming desire to punch her sneering face. He waited a few seconds before he said, ‘You’re drinking hard, Olga. You’re an alcoholic.’

‘If I am then you made me that way, Sergey. You and your stupid ideas. Andre Keschev has bronchitis. It was on the radio some weeks ago. He’s getting better; they would have said if he wasn’t.’

‘You fool,’ he laughed harshly, ‘you know the System better than that. If a leader dies they say nothing for 48 hours and then give you a spell of mournful music before making the announcement.’

‘And there’s been no mournful music.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Keschev’s been ill for weeks. He has to be getting better.’

‘Does he?’

‘Of course. My father says so and he would know if it was any different. Petrov would have told him. Didn’t we know 12 hours before the official statement when both Andropov and Chernenko died?’

That, at least, was true. Ignat Grinbat had confided in Sergey and Olga that two leaders were dead before the news was made public. All the same, Prokop had a strange premonition about Keschev, one that sent icy tingles up his spine and into his scalp. The System for once was not running true to form. He sensed the atmosphere in the Kremlin itself, a kind of mounting tension as though everybody guessed yet nobody dared to say. And if Keschev was dead then it had happened longer than the customary 48 hours ago and still there was no news.

Sergey ate on his own at the table whilst Olga remained on the sofa drinking vodka and staring at the television. The programme changed to a documentary on the life of Stalin. Sergey groaned inwardly; they showed it at least three times a year, the standard propaganda film. His thoughts turned to Ursula. If only she could have been here with him instead of Olga. One day perhaps, but he didn’t know how or when. It was just fantasy, one that aroused him frequently. Maybe he should talk to her about Keschev. And other things.

Anton Yafremov was in his late fifties, a small, thin man with deformed shoulders that gave him the appearance of a hunchback. His attempts to grow a beard had failed miserably but he still persisted, a facial growth that resembled mange, patches of acne visible through the sparse growth. A hooked nose and decayed teeth together with an obvious disregard for personal hygiene had not endeared him to his colleagues in the Eighth Directorate of the KGB. Indeed he was something of an outcast in the headquarters in Dzerzhinsky Square.

Only a few years ago Yafremov had been hounded by the very department for which he now worked. His occult activities were deemed to be subversive and detrimental to the System in much the same way that churchgoers and various religious sects were frowned upon yet tolerated. The authorities were well aware that any attempt to stamp out any form of worship would merely drive it underground so better to allow it to continue and keep a shrewd eye on it.

Anton Yafremov had never openly violated the law. He had worked in a factory making aluminium buckets where the annual targets had always been met even if there was a gross surplus of buckets that nobody wanted. His overseers reported on his diligence but it was known that he met secretly with others for the purpose of worship; not the worship of God in His many forms but, it was whispered, the worship of Satan. In a Christian community such sacrilege and blasphemy would have aroused anger, but in an atheist country where the existence of a deity is denied so must the belief in an Antichrist be scorned. Yafremov had been interrogated on several occasions and released. Many wondered how he had escaped being sentenced to either a mental hospital or prison, perhaps been sent to a labour camp. But the truth was that such punishments were reserved for dissidents and those who openly rebelled against the System. Yafremov was a devout Communist, he extolled the virtues of Lenin and Stalin and had twice written articles for the Literaturnaya Gazeta. So he was permitted to indulge in his own beliefs. The KGB were watching him closely and if his followers became too many then they would be dealt with.

It was Yuri Andropov who had invited Yafremov to join the ranks of the KGB in an unusual capacity. During the last war Adolf Hitler had employed the use of occult forces in his Nazi regime. Not that the Soviet believed that such powers existed, or even if they did that they could have any influence upon the course of warfare. But it was good propaganda, for were not the countries of the Western world in dread of the dark forces? It was an added dimension. And there was another bonus; religion was scorned by the atheist regime and what better way to thrust a knife into the small nucleus of God-worshippers than to promote controlled Satanism? Of course, it was all rubbish but having an official occult department on Dzerzhinsky Square was a novelty that might work to the advantage of the System. Certainly it could do no harm.

Thus it was with a feeling of trepidation that Yafremov shuffled into Boris Kovak’s Eighth Directorate office that blustery October day. The humourless chief sat behind his desk regarding his scruffy visitor through rimless spectacles with eyes that blinked infrequently.

‘Your activities have been under our surveillance for some time now,’ Kovak’s voice was a soft whisper, a sinister snake-like sound. ‘Explain to me exactly what you do at these meetings, Comrade Yafremov.’

Anton explained in a faltering, trembling voice. It was not exactly devil worship although they did call upon certain left-hand powers to aid them. In their work, of course. For the benefit of the State. Had not the target at the bucket factory been reached easily on two successive years?

‘Have you ever contacted one of these strange powers?’ The Head of the Eighth Directorate’s expression was stoic. He gave nothing away; he had mastered the art of interrogation in his early years in the KGB and when that failed there was always the torture chamber. However, he regarded torture as a complement to the procedure rather than a means of extracting information.

‘I have … seen things,’ Yafremov admitted nervously.

‘What kinds of things?’

‘I have talked with the dead.’ The other was trembling visibly now. Surely this meeting would earn him a spell of incarceration.

Boris Kovak continued to stare unwaveringly at the hunched man sitting opposite him. ‘That is very good.’ He took his time lighting a cigarette, inhaled the smoke before he spoke again. ‘I have a job for you, Comrade Yafremov. Here in the Soviet countries we are blighted by these God-worshippers. They are a minority but they are a nuisance nevertheless. I want you to join this establishment and to work on proving conclusively that there is no such person as God. You can write papers on the subject for distribution, we can arrange interviews with TASS. And, of course, if you can prove conclusively to us that an alternative power exists …’

‘Yes, yes,’ Anton stammered, scarcely believing his good fortune. ‘I will do anything you ask, Comrade Kovak.’

Thus the Occult Division of the Eighth Directorate was born. A small, cramped, hardboard-walled office, a cubicle six foot by six on the third floor of the old building with lino on the floor, backing on to Kirov Ulica. In the tsarist days it had been the offices of the Russian Insurance Company but now the corridors were lined with pictures of former heads of the KGB – Dzerzhinsky, Menzhinsky, Serov and Andropov.

Yafremov had been handed a new lease of life and he set to work with a zest. He was given the customary green army uniform to wear and allowed to carry a 9 millimetre Marakov automatic pistol. Suddenly, in his own estimation, he had become a VIP. Some weeks later he was handed membership of the New Aristocrats and allowed to shop at No. 2 Granovsky Street.

Life was idyllic for Anton. He worked steadily, wrote a number of pamphlets, cribbed from Crowley extensively, and even contemplated a book. Ruthlessly he attempted to destroy the Christian beliefs, quoted from the Dead Sea Scrolls in an attempt to nullify Christ.

Nobody bothered him much. In fact, his presence within KGB headquarters was virtually ignored. Which suited him very well. Until that snowy Tuesday morning of April 3.

Anton had misgivings about Tuesdays; he predicted that when he died it would surely be on a Tuesday. His unlucky day.

The telephone on his desk rang and even as he picked it up his hand shook very slightly. Something about the ringing; demanding, purposeful. Threatening.

It was Boris Kovak, his voice even more terse than usual. More than a message, an order. A car would be arriving to pick Anton up in ten minutes. His presence was required at the Kremlin. The Soviet deputy leader, Yuri Denanko, wished to interview the occultist.

Yafremov swallowed, broke out into a cold sweat and as he went to replace the receiver he missed the cradle and dropped the handset on the desk. It buzzed like an angry insect until he fumbled it back into place.

A sudden fit of nausea came over him as he hastily began combing his straggling hair, straightened his tie and brushed flecks of dust from his uniform. And when he stood up his legs threatened to buckle under him and throw him to the ground.

He had no idea what Denanko wanted of him but the summons in itself was very bad news.

CHAPTER THREE - The Awakening

Anton Yafremov was kept waiting almost an hour before a uniformed secretary ushered him into Denanko’s private office. All part of the game, wear a man down, play on his nerves and half the battle is won. Not that the deputy leader needed to in Yafremov’s case but routine dies hard.

Yuri Denanko’s office was luxuriously furnished, a thick wall-to-wall fitted carpet, an Axminster. Oak furniture, the desk a genuine antique, wooden filing cabinets that matched the panelling perfectly. Surprisingly, the large ashtray was a cheap tin one bearing a brewery advertisement, glaringly out of place. And in the midst of it all sat the deputy leader himself, his heavy features froglike, eyes sunken but piercingly alert, thick lips, his joweled neck seeming as though it was being strangled by the scarlet tie. Watching and waiting; a podgy hand moved, gestured Yafremov to a chair.

‘We have a job for you,’ Denanko’s voice was deep, rumbling in that fleshy throat, lips parted to display an array of gold capped teeth. ‘A very important one, one in which failure must not be contemplated.’

Anton Yafremov swallowed. His mouth was dry and he dared not trust himself to speak. He nodded, wished that he had had the opportunity to go to the lavatory. It was too late now, though.

‘Andre Keschev is dead.’ Denanko spoke evenly, no trace of remorse in his tone, just his fingers drumming on the desk top. ‘He has been dead for some time now. We have been debating what to do. We need him, Comrade Yafremov, and that is why I have summoned you. His body lies in his apartment in Kutuzov Prospekt. Perfectly preserved. I hope it is not too late but we had to be sure before making a decision.’

‘If he is dead …’ Anton mumbled.

‘At the moment, yes. That is where you come in. You must bring him back to life, resurrect him from the dead!’

Yafremov clutched at the arm of the chair, the room seemed to spin. A wave of nausea, followed by terror that robbed him of his powers of speech momentarily. The dizziness passed, he found himself staring into those ruthless gimlet eyes again. ‘Comrade, what you ask is …’

‘A reasonable request. Or have you been fooling us all this time, a fraud who has found himself an easy job, cheated in order to obtain privileges denied to the ordinary citizen? Such deception would warrant a stern punishment, a long term of imprisonment, hard labour. Maybe even Siberia. A crime against the State.’

‘No, no, I assure you I am no fraud.’

‘Then you must prove yourself. Andre Keschev must live again. He must take the salute at the Red Square Parade in a month’s time. And attend the talks in Geneva in June. It is quite simple, we ask only that he be brought back to life. A month or two will suffice.’

‘It will not be easy.’ Yafremov fidgeted with his hands, glanced down at the carpet.

‘Your position in the Eighth Directorate is not gained by easy tasks. If Keschev lives again there is the chance of promotion, if not …’

‘I will do my best.’

‘I am sure you will.’ The first hint of a smile from Denanko. ‘Now that we have decided, there is no time to be lost. Tonight then. Where are your rites best conducted?’

‘The apartment will do.’ Anton was talking fast; it did not matter. Anywhere. They asked the impossible but he would try, he had no choice. Tomorrow he would probably be on his way to Siberia. ‘I shall have to do some preparation, of course.’

‘Of course. Go and do your work and be ready at your apartment at nine. A car will pick you up.’

Yafremov withdrew, his hunched figure shuffling back out to the waiting car. The Politburo had asked the ultimate of their occultist. It was not impossible; had not Crowley himself raised up something one night in Paris many years ago, an entity that had earned him several months in a lunatic asylum and struck his companion stone dead? Had not Christ raised the dead, according to the Bible? Others, too. But not Anton Yafremov. He would need a lot of help from those on the other side whom he frequently tried to contact.

He spent the rest of the day frantically researching his archives. There were a number of choices open to him. He contemplated voodoo; the bocors of Haiti were reputed to raise up the dead as zombies and put them to work on the plantations. No, it was too complex. Keschev had been dead a long time, his spirit might already have established itself on the other side and be reluctant to return. Oh, why had they left it so long?

And then he had a brainwave. Or rather, an idea that was more appealing than the rest. The Death and Resurrection of Kostrubonko. Russian funeral ceremonies are celebrated under the names, not of Death or of ‘Burying the Carnival’ but of mythical figures such as Kostroma, Kostrubonko, Yarilo, Lada and Kupalo. A kind of Eastertide resurrection but not of Christ; the bringing to life of spring. Maybe it would suffice with a few improvisations. Yafremov wondered what it was like in Siberia, if it was as bad as they said. He knew it was, he had been in the KGB long enough to know. Oh, hell, he was just prolonging the agony. No way was he going to bring the leader back to life and the Politburo would make sure their pet occultist wasn’t around to tell the story afterwards.

He left the building early, went home to make his preparations. They had pushed him into a comer but he was damned well going to make a fight of it. Because he wasn’t a fake; he had spoken with the dead so maybe there was a million to one chance that he could bring one back to life. When the price of failure was Siberia you had to believe in yourself.

The apartment in Kutuzov Prospekt smelled of death. Anton noticed it the moment they stepped through the door, that sharp, sickly odour that cloyed the nostrils and made you feel as though you wanted to vomit. Also it was very cold. A rime of frost glazed the window panes behind the curtains as though even the weather was an accessory to this obscene gathering. Yafremov shivered, was aware of something else too – an overpowering sense of evil! The icy atmosphere was like a living entity, one that you felt physically, invisible fingers stroking your skin, touching you. Warning you not to linger here.

The wall lights were turned low, just enough to keep the shadows at bay. He glanced nervously at his two companions; Ivan Alexey, KGB Chairman and a member of the Politburo, almost skeletal in the half-light, his rimless glasses giving the appearance of huge distended eyes that bored into you. The living epitome of cruelty, his reputation for the perverted torture of his victims when he was head of the First Directorate had made him a legend in his lifetime, and had taken him right to the top of the KGB. Even Boris Kovak seemed in awe of his superior tonight, hanging back in the doorway as though he would welcome any excuse to leave.

The two high-ranking KGB officials had imposed their presence on Yafremov, were determined to witness whatever unholy rites were to be enacted this night. Spectators, but they were here to judge. Cynical in their silence, human beasts of prey. You will fail, Anton Yafremov, we know that; this is Denanko’s desperate last throw and we shall gloat over its abysmal failure. But you will pay for your deception. Andropov is dead, he is not here to protect you. Get it over with so that we may return to the warmth of our luxury apartments and you may go the freezing hell of Siberia.

The bedroom door was thrown open. Anton started when he saw the corpse for the first time. Keschev was propped up in bed, a hairless ogre with open, staring eyes as though he saw his visitors even in death, the mouth still drooping from the ravages of the fatal stroke. Enter, fools, humble yourself in the presence of your country’s leader for truly I have not yet been deposed. Fool with me at your peril.

The odour of death was strong, a corpse with bad breath breathing icy fumes at them. Still dressed in gaudy pyjamas, the hairy torso just visible. Alexey and Kovak stepped back onto the landing, seemed to huddle together. He is all yours, Comrade Yafremov. We are only here to watch.

Fearfully, Anton Yafremov stepped forward. He could procrastinate no longer; the ceremony, win or lose, must begin. One last glance behind him at the others but the two KGB men had faded into the shadows. Far better that he had brought his own followers but it would not be fair to them. Come with me tonight, comrades, and your reward will be torture and death.

The lights dimmed still further; he tried to convince himself that his companions had turned them low. Colder, too. The atmosphere was right, it seeped into his bones and somewhere a tiny voice whispered, ‘Go on, Anton, you can do it. It is possible.’ And looking at Andre Keschev he knew that it was, and it was a frightening thought.

All alone with the dead. The other two had retreated, might even have left. Forget them. A proliferation of age-old Russian custom, a mixture of myth and magic, hoping that the dark ones would understand. Help me, Lord Satan. May the gods of the old religion become the devils of the new.

He found himself staring at Keschev, the dead man’s bald pate seeming to glint in the dim light, the sightless orbs to meet his. Who are you, comrade, and what right have you to interfere with me? I am dead, leave me be or else prepare for the consequences.

The light, the atmosphere, played tricks on you. It happened at many of the meetings. Sometimes you wondered if you were a fraud, a gullible one who was conning everybody including yourself. Yafremov was aware of his own terror, wished there was some way he could back down. Forgive me, General Secretary, it is all a mistake. Chicken out and you go to Siberia.

Kostrubonko, the deity of the spring. It was spring now; even if it was atmospherically still winter, the setting was right. The land was about to be resurrected. Anton found himself moving, circling the bed, his lips forming words that were barely whispers. Because he was suddenly more afraid than he had ever been in his life.

‘Dead, dead is our Kostrubonko.

Dead, dead is our dear one.’

The lights flickered, almost went out, came back again but they were much dimmer. Bitterly cold, Yafremov thought he could hear the wind howling outside in the street, a demon angered by this adulteration, this prostitution, of seasonal rites.

No, I dare not! Retract now and you go to Siberia!

Yafremov was crouching, a frightened animal at bay mouthing, miming, but the words came out, seemed to echo back at him off the walls.

‘Come to life, come to life our Kostrubonko.

Come to life, come to life, our dear one.’

The lights were just a faint glow now, the figure in the bed a shadowy silhouette; its features were invisible but you didn’t have to see to know. Those eyes, glaring in death, the lop-sided mouth twisted into a snarl of anger. What are you trying to do to me? Leave me alone!

Yafremov wondered where his superiors had gone. Were they still out there on the landing or had they left? Fled whilst they still had sanity and life. But he could not take his eyes off Keschev’s body to look for them.

The wind howled again, buffeted the window, hurled a flurry of snowflakes at the pane, pattering softly on the glass outside as though they were trying to get in to witness this bizarre scene. The KGB’s occultist cowered. What have I done? Far better to have suffered the torments of a Siberian labour camp or preferably to be dead. I risk not my life but my very soul. ‘There is no such entity as a soul’ (Communist indoctrination). There is, I know it. Too late now, though.

A sudden rustling. He told himself it was the storm outside, winter relinquishing its grip with a vengeance. It could have been the bedsheets. It was!

Something fell to the floor with a soft thud. Anton did not have to see it to recognize what it was. It was one of the pillows against which the corpse had been propped up. He mouthed a silent whine of fear. God protect me. He won’t; you have called upon Satan, it is too late now. The ritual, don’t forget the ritual!

‘Come to life, come to life our Keschev.

Come to life, come to life our dear one.’

Almost total darkness now. Anton Yafremov sensed movements in the room. Perhaps it was Alexey and Kovak come to see for themselves. No, whatever it was it was not mortal, a kind of materialization, a shape blacker than the shadows; a thing that smelled of putrefaction and emanated a coldness beyond the iciness of the Siberian wastes.

Anton cowered in a comer. His task was done; whatever this being was it was taking over. A kind of mist drifted over the death bed as though to hide what was happening from mortal eyes.

Then came noises which the occultist could not identify. He clapped his hands over his ears in an attempt to shut them out, but it was impossible. A laboured breathing as though phlegm-constricted lungs were trying to clear themselves, mucus bubbling in blocked nostrils. Vocal chords too weak to function, wheezing. Bedsprings creaking. A low groan.

Yafremov dropped to the floor, flung himself prostrate. Oh, mighty one, I have called you and you have come. I beg you to spare me!

How long he lay there he had no idea. His terror reached a peak, his brain tottered on the brink of that chasm of imbecility from which there is no return; nearly pitched into the eternal blackness but somehow drew back. Was pulled back. Lying there in the darkness, smelling the evil around him.

A face, an ethereal malevolence staring at him. Eyes that burned evilly, a cavernous mouth struggling to speak but no words came, only strings of spittle. Cursing him. Why have you done this to me, why could you not leave me dead, in peace?

Yafremov tried to apologize. It was not my fault. They made me, the System. Please …

The vision faded. Darkness again, an empty void in which nothing moved; even the wind outside seemed to have stopped and the snowflakes no longer tapped on the window pane. Timelessness, eternity confined to the luxury of a Politburo apartment.

Yafremov slipped into a kind of coma, into a semi-unconscious state in which he was aware of movements around him and yet was neither spectator nor participant; a living discarded object. Your job is done, Anton, on your own head be it. Evil has spawned evil, the Master has been summoned and has returned whence he came.

Gradually he became aware that it was no longer dark. The lights were full on, there were others in the room, standing with their backs to him, talking. He recognized Kovak’s throaty, nasal tones. ‘Comrade General Secretary, are you all right? You have been ill. Now you are well again.’

Kovak and Alexey were clustered around the large four-poster bed, shielding the occultist’s view of the one who lay upon it. Anton didn’t want to see; no, I must not look. All the same, some force commanded him to rise to his feet, to peer between the others. The sight brought a gasp of amazement and terror to his dry lips.

It wasn’t Andre Keschev sitting slumped up against one of the bedposts. It had to be, though. A hairless giant, the Slav features resembling some rubber gargoyle mask, lips screwed into a bestial snarl, the eyes sunken and staring. Seeing the gathering, eyeing them hatefully. He tried to speak, wheezed, coughed a blob of yellow phlegm up onto the sheets. His bald head was shiny with sweat as though he had undergone some hard physical exertion. A sour smell, no longer of death but of mingled body odours and stale breath. His powerful chest was heaving, drawing in breath and expelling it noisily, learning to breathe again. Learning to live again.

Yafremov’s brain sought a logical explanation. The leader had not been dead, merely in a coma and had miraculously revived. His brain had to be damaged. But the occultist knew that he lied to himself, that Keschev had been dead, certified so by the top Soviet doctors and now he had returned to the world of the living.

‘You will need to rest, Andre.’ There was a patronizing tone in Ivan Alexey’s voice. ‘You are well again but it will take time. I will call for Zinderling to visit you.’

An incoherent reply that might have been the babbling of a lunatic. A dangerous one. Yafremov sheltered behind Kovak but Keschev’s gaze sought him out, fixed on him. Eyes that seemed to glow like that apparition’s of a short time ago, an evil that burned into the older man. You shall pay for what you have done to me, Anton Yafremov!

‘Your work is done, Comrade Yafremov.’ Alexey turned to Anton with a half-smile suddenly cracking his normally expressionless features. ‘But now it is time for you to go. The chauffeur will return you to your apartment. We will call you again if we need you.’ Be gone, we have no further need of you. Your reward is that you still have your job. And your life. Just as Keschev has his until we no longer need him either.

Yafremov nodded. His mind was numbed, the Soviet leader was still staring fixedly at him. ‘Thank you. I will go.’

He stumbled down the stairs, had to hold on to the rail until he reached the hallway below. The urge to flee was overpowering, to rush out into the snowy Russian night and lose himself. To disappear. He still saw Andre Keschev’s malignant stare and knew that there was no place to hide. Russia, the world, would not be big enough to hide a fugitive who had interfered with things beyond the ken of humans.

Not even death would save him, for tonight he had called up things from beyond the grave and surely they would be waiting for him on the other side. The Master was not called lightly; he never returned empty-handed.

That night Anton Yafremov did not sleep. He huddled in his apartment, listened to a blizzard raging at the window as though the elements sought to take their revenge on him for that which he had done. He kept the light burning, cowered every time it flickered and threatened to go out. And in his nostrils that smell still lingered, the stench of uncleansed stables, the pungent odour of dung and evil. And rotting flesh.

The halls of the dead had been disturbed.

CHAPTER FOUR - Armaments Build-up

‘I told you you were mad,’ Olga Prokop laughed harshly and thrust a copy of Pravda in front of her husband’s face. ‘See for yourself, Sergey, Keschev lives! He has recovered from an acute attack of bronchitis and will be returning to official duties next week. He will take the salute at the Parade and will also represent our country at the summit talks in Geneva in June. Perhaps secretly you prayed for his death so that we might be under the tyrannical rule of Yuri Denanko!’

‘You are stupid, woman.’ Sergey knocked the paper away roughly and it fluttered to the floor.

‘You will be saying next that TASS has lied, that our leader is dead and that they have brought in an impostor.’ Olga had been drinking heavily, more than usual. With another shriek of laughter she fell back on to the sofa. ‘I don’t know why I married you, Sergey, really I don’t.’

‘Because your father pushed you into it,’ he retorted.

‘Once you had a brilliant career in front of you,’ she replied angrily. ‘Until you went to London. That was where it ended for you, Sergey, and now you are nothing but a pen-pusher at the Kremlin, TASS’s jack-in-office and even then you have to have me tell you of leading events.’

‘All right, Keschev is alive, I’ll grant you that,’ Prokop turned on her angrily. ‘Laugh all you want but why, I ask you, have they been silent for so long? Not a bulletin for weeks. At least with Andropov and Chernenko they said something.’

‘Your tongue will get you into trouble,’ she said, taking a swig of vodka. ‘My father would be very angry if he heard you talk like that. TASS does not tell lies, you should know that.’

He checked another angry retort. TASS was the centre of half-truths and untruths, the medium of the Politburo. Not that the public were as gullible as the System believed; Pravda had a print run of ten million copies a day; they were even displayed in the streets on notice boards for the masses to read whilst waiting for buses or queuing for the shops. The paper often featured scandal: fraud, embezzlement, official cover-ups. So long as the Party approved. It was the weapon of the Party: they told you what they wanted you to know. If they didn’t want the masses to know anything it simply did not appear in print. Keschev’s death had to come out sometime if he had died. Now it appeared he had made a full recovery and would be back in the Kremlin in a few days. Doubtless he would do so.

Tiny shivers ran up Sergey’s spine. A half-hunch but he could not explain it, more of a warning. Of what?

‘I have to go out tonight.’ He did not meet Olga’s gaze as he spoke. Out of the comer of his eye he saw her flicking the pages of a magazine. She didn’t care whether he went out or stayed at home these days. Before London there would have been an inquest. Life was certainly easier now. He did not even have to invent alibis. The Kremlin would have been a risky lie; Olga could always check him out through Petrov via her father. He went through into the bedroom to change and only then did he discover that he had an erection. Just a hint of meeting Ursula did that to him these days.

The weather had turned milder. The recent sprinkling of snow had gone and the streets were wet, the roads and pavements glinting in the street lighting. Tonight Ursula would be at home as on Thursdays rehearsals always took place in the afternoon. The new opera, Boris Godunov, was due to open next week. It would run right through until the end of summer, attracting a host of tourists who had come to Moscow for the Red Square Parade. The opera would move from the Bolshoi to the huge stage of the Kremlin Palace of Congresses with its 6,000 seating capacity.

Prokop took the tram, a three-kopek ride, alighted at Park Kultury and walked the rest of the way to Ursula’s apartment. It had begun to rain, fine drizzle, a hint that spring was here at last. He glanced furtively at passers-by, resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder. The extra-marital lover became a fugitive in Russia, trusted no one. Especially when he worked at the Kremlin and was also an enemy agent. Every move was fraught with danger.

Ursula Ramanninov’s apartment was on the ground floor. The tall block looked dingy from the outside, its stonework crusted with pigeon droppings; yet another façade that hid the affluence of the Nomenklatura. One did not have to hold an official position to qualify for membership. Writers, poets, actors, singers, breached the barrier that divided the New Aristocrats from the working classes. This was their reward, luxury behind closed doors.

Sergey rang four times: two long rings, a pause, followed by two short ones. He waited maybe 15 seconds before he heard the light tip-tapping of female feet, a tattoo that beat in time with his heart. A key was turned and the door opened into a yawning dark hallway, the only light a dim wall lamp on the stairs.

He saw Ursula in silhouette, the perfectly groomed long dark hair spraying out on her shoulders, the finely cut features, the figure that curved in the right places. He smelled the heady scent of musk combining with her peppermint-flavoured breath.

She closed the door quickly as he stepped on to the parquet floor of the hallway, her fingers finding his, squeezing them with an urgency that bordered on desperation. He sensed her tension, the tautness of her body as she came to him. A faint trembling as her lips brushed his own. Gone was the self-confidence, the composure, the façade she created for the benefit of audiences and KGB agents alike. Momentary fear and then she seemed to get herself under control.

‘Sergey,’ she breathed, ‘I’m glad you came. If you had not done then I should have had to get a message to you tomorrow and that is risky.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Now he was taut, too, holding on to her hand as though she might suddenly wrench herself away from him and disappear forever.

‘Have you seen Pravda?’

‘Olga thrust it under my nose when I got in tonight. You mean Keschev?’

‘Yes, he’s due back in the Kremlin on Monday. It is crazy, impossible.’ She led him through into the living room, an exquisitely furnished showpiece that had to remain hidden from the eyes of the masses. ‘They are pulling some trick, Sergey.’

‘Yes, but I can’t think of what. Zinderling is one of the finest doctor surgeons in the Soviet.’

‘But is it Keschev who will return to the leadership?’

‘Whatever do you mean?’

‘It could be an impostor. The Prisoner of Zenda in real life.’

‘They would not dare. The eyes of the world have been on Andre Keschev for too long. Even in foreign countries they know every wrinkle in his face, his mannerisms. They would be found out.’

‘Then they’re up to something.’ She poured a vodka, passed it to him, helped herself to a mineral water. ‘They have to pull something out of the hat, Sergey. Without Keschev they’re in trouble. They’re going to pull the wool over the eyes of the rest of the world with the May Day Parade and then lie their heads off in Geneva. With Andre Keschev it is possible, without him the whole ploy will disintegrate. Put Denanko in the hot seat and the West will immediately begin increasing its defences.’

‘I’ll keep my ear to the ground.’ He pursed his lips, ‘The moment I know anything I’ll be in touch.’

‘We shall have to be even more careful from now on.’ A worried frown creased her slender forehead. ‘As soon as the opera opens I shall be spending most of my time at the Kremlin. Handy, but dangerous. Maybe the only chance we shall get to see each other will be with you in the audience and me on stage. I’ve worked out a code, you can give it some thought.’ She fished a folded sheet of paper out of the cocktail cabinet. ‘A kind of semaphore on your part, the way you applaud. Me, the pitch of my voice and likewise the movements of my hands. Restricted but effective. Study it, destroy it, and let me know what you think.’

‘You’re a genius.’ He took it from her and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Olga’s drinking very heavily these days. There’s nothing left between us.’

‘They all say that,’ she laughed, stooping to kiss him.

‘It’s true. Ignat is the big stumbling block. He could make a lot of trouble for me through Vasily Petrov. Christ, how I hate the bastard!’

‘Forget him and your wife for a few hours.’ Her mood changed suddenly, she seemed to throw off the restricting mantle of tension and he felt her body relax against his own as she helped him to his feet. ‘Every hour together is precious, Sergey, but we must not forget that we have a job to do.’

The silk sheets were soft and warm, Ursula’s body smooth and sensuous against his own. They were both spent, joined in an embrace. Sergey tried to push the nagging memory of Olga back into the shadows of his mind; she had no place in this bed where love had dominated for the past two hours. Soon it would be time for him to go, to return to his marriage and sleep beside a woman who turned to face away from him yet still clung to him because it was her father’s wish. He tried to convince himself that Ursula was more than a mistress and a fellow agent, that one day they would be together because they loved each other and for no other reason. It wasn’t easy.

‘We have to warn London but we must know the truth about Keschev first,’ Ursula broke the long silence. ‘We must have proof. Denanko and Alexey rule, it has been like that ever since Keschev came to power. The puppet leader, the smiling face of the Bear hiding its treacherous fangs. And suddenly that smile will turn to a bite, no time even for a warning growl. Pakistan will be invaded and the rest of the world will make noises, protests, sanctions against Russia, but it will only be the workers who will suffer. If they starve it matters not to Denanko. By the way, I talked with Zuttenberg yesterday.’

‘That could be dangerous.’ Josef Zuttenberg and his family were well-known refuseniks in Moscow, Russian Jews who had been trying to leave the country for the last two years. Permission had been refused; they had been harassed in a number of ways.

‘Nevertheless, one has to take chances,’ she replied. ‘The Jews fear for their lives throughout Russia just as they did in Germany when Hitler came to power. It will be the same. Death, torture, concentration camps; a mass persecution. Rid the Soviet of Jews for Israel is a hostile country. It is coming, Sergey, the storm clouds are gathering. And the West will not retaliate because it fears the ultimate holocaust. They will talk about deterrents, weapons for weapons, but none will be used and the Bear knows it. We do not have much time.’

‘I will do what I can.’ He kissed her again and groped for his strewn clothes. ‘I won’t learn anything on this scale through my job as a press liaison officer but I might find out something through Ignat Grinbat. He dines with Petrov on occasions and when Ignat is plied with vodka he is apt to confide in his son-in-law.’

‘Which is why you must still continue to sleep in Olga’s bed, Sergey.’ He thought her eyes glistened in the dime light; at least he liked to think so. ‘Your marriage may yet be put to a useful purpose and perhaps one day …’

He kissed her one last time and stepped outside, heard the door close softly behind him. It was raining hard but he decided to walk home rather than take a tram. He needed the time to think, also it shortened the night hours which he would have to spend lying alongside Olga’s unloving body. It was a job that had to be done for the sake of the peoples of the world. A convincing argument which he had just about believed by the time he reached his own apartment. And there was only one reward he asked.

Andre Keschev’s chauffeur-driven Zie delivered him to the Kremlin on that spring Monday morning, drove in sedately through the main gate opposite St Basil’s Cathedral on Red Square, glided up to the steps of the Great Palace. Armed guards were positioned on all sides, a green-uniformed warrant officer eyeing his men. A sly, hesitant glance in the direction of the Soviet leader; tinted glass windows, just a shape that meant nothing, but the soldier felt ill at ease all the same. There was an atmosphere of tension, even in the way the soldiers stood, so rigid, so taut. You did not really believe that Andre Keschev would emerge from that limousine. Because you had conditioned yourself to believing that he was dead, that TASS would break the news; that there would be a State funeral, the appointment of Denanko as General Secretary a foregone conclusion. And now Keschev was back amongst the living and you were more afraid than you had been at the prospect of Yuri Denanko’s tyrannical rule.

Now you saw Keschev, a giant of a man, wearing a knee-length navy blue overcoat, a dark fur hat hiding his baldness. At this distance it was impossible to discern the features but you felt the eyes on you, a searching glance that penetrated, ran down the line of soldiers, inspected them. I have been away but now I have returned. Beware!

Mounting the wide steps up to the entrance of the Great Palace, once the residence of the tsars when they came from St Petersburg, its mighty yellow façade as impressive now as it was in those days. The place where Stalin celebrated victory in 1945, maintained with pride since by the Soviet government, accessible to tourists only by special permit. Today it was closed to everybody except the Supreme Soviet in order that one of their infrequent meetings could take place uninterrupted. Which was why Keschev had arrived here instead of going straight to his own office.

He seemed to be taking his time, a recuperating invalid still unsure of his physical capabilities, short steps, arms down by his side, a hint of a march that speeded up slightly once he was inside the building. Vast corridors, doors leading off into large halls: St Vladimir Hall, St Catherine Hall. He passed these, ignoring the soldiers on duty at each doorway, until before him the wide doors of St George Hall swung back at his approach. He hesitated momentarily as though overawed by the splendour within, the dazzling white walls bearing the names of the regiments and officers decorated with the St George Cross by the tsars of old. The long table, the faces turned towards him, features he knew and recognized – and hated, because he had been their puppet for too long.

A scraping back of chairs, the gathering was on its feet, muttering guttural welcoming noises. So false; he was only here because they needed him. His gaze flicked over them. Denanko and Ivan Alexey, Vasily Petrov, Rudolf Golitsyn, Andreevich Gmyrya. And others. Trying to take them all in. It had been a very long time.

‘Welcome, Comrade General Secretary.’ Denanko was smiling, a cracking of his dour features, gesturing the leader to the head of the table. A formality because I am the real leader and do not forget it.

Keschev stood there, let his eyes rove from one to the other. A nod, a faint movement from his thick lips. His hat was in his hands and a uniformed orderly had stepped forward to take his coat. The leader stood there waiting for the door to close behind the servant before he spoke. ‘I trust that all has gone well during my unfortunate absence.’

‘Superbly,’ Denanko leered. ‘The files are ready for you to read at your convenience … Comrade General Secretary.’ Resentment showing through the mask of outward subservience; there was a wide tract separating the status of leader and deputy. ‘The purpose of our meeting this morning is to run through the final details of the Red Square Parade.’ And don’t get making any objections to the plans we have drawn up.

Keschev took his seat, lowered his powerful frame into the mahogany chair. The others watched him, felt that same sense of uneasiness which the guards outside had experienced. You could not explain it, tried to tell yourself that it was illogical. But deep down inside every one of the 20 gathered in that hall there was a tiny ember of inexplicable fear that was beginning to glow.

Keschev placed a black cigarette between his lips, lit it. There was no outward sign remaining of the stroke which he had suffered, no muscular weakness or damage. If anything, the features seemed stronger and not just physically. A dominance in the harsh expression as the eyes dropped to the sheaf of papers before him, a confidence exuding in the twin streams of smoke that came from the dilated nostrils. The leader read for a minute or two, narrowed his eyes, furrowed his wide brow. Then he looked up.

‘Why have our troops been drawn back from the borders of Pakistan?’ A question that was in itself a reprimand. Addressed to Yuri Denanko.

‘A diplomatic move,’ the other replied. ‘A gesture of friendship and peace to the rest of the world. The forces can be returned to the border in a matter of days. When the time is right.’

‘A show of weakness,’ Keschev grunted. ‘They must be returned at once preparatory to an invasion.’

Denanko was visibly shaken. It was some seconds before he replied, ‘No, it was agreed that …’

‘I did not agree.’ Andre Keschev clenched a huge fist, the others saw the knuckles whiten. ‘You seem to have overlooked one point, comrades. I am your leader.’ He looked down, scribbled something on the side of the sheet. ‘The troops will be returned to the border, the advance beginning tomorrow. Comrade Alexey, you will see to that.’

‘Yes.’ The KGB Chairman’s features were deathly white. He looked to Denanko for an objection but there was none forthcoming. A deathly silence. The Council of Ministers was openly stunned by this rebellion from the top.

‘There are other matters here which we shall have to discuss in detail,’ said Andre Keschev folding up the papers, ‘but there is no time now as the purpose of this meeting is to discuss the Parade. Now, Comrade Alexey, perhaps you will kindly let me have the full list of infantry, weaponry and missiles.’

Alexey passed over a typewritten sheet and there was no mistaking the trembling of those long fingers. A pupil handing in slapdash homework, fearful of an instant reprimand. Averting his eyes. Waiting.

Keschev smoked hard as he read, his expression hardening still further. T-55S and T-62 battle tanks, T-10s. PT-76 amphibious tanks, ZIL-151 armoured trucks, BMP-76 combat vehicles, Soviet APCs, FROG-7 rocket launchers, ASU-57 assault guns, BM-24 launchers, SCUD-A surface-to-surface missiles in a JS-3 chassis. A rundown of the intercontinental missiles: SS-4S, SIIs, the SCROOGE with a longer range than the 2500 miles of the SCAPEGOAT, a Ganef, the first Soviet surface-to-air missile to be carried on a track self-propelled vehicle, SCUD-B, Lance, Minuteman 3, Bloodhound 2. And so on. Keschev looked up, his gaze swept the gathering and settled finally on Yuri Denanko.

‘An historical museum parade.’ His nasal tones were scathing. ‘And a very much reduced one. At a glance, infantry cut by ten per cent on last year, weaponry and missiles by 20 per cent. Why this show of weakness to the rest of the world, Comrade Denanko?’

‘For the same reason that our troops have been withdrawn from the Pakistan border.’ The deputy leader tried to sound angry but it did not come over that way. The listeners detected that spark of fear which burned in themselves. A faint tremble of the vocal chords, the eyes averted. ‘Because of the Geneva summit in June. We have to be seen to be …’

‘The Soviet does not weaken, does not pander to lesser nations.’ A thunderous rhetoric, Keschev’s eyes staring, bulging, lips bloodless and drawn back in an open snarl. ‘This will be a Parade which will be awesome, frightening. An open show of our superior strength.’ He turned to Ivan Alexey, saw the other start, half recoil. ‘Comrade Alexey, you have much to do when you leave this meeting. Not only have you to order our troops to return whence they withdrew but you have to organize the greatest ever show of weaponry, infantry and missiles in Red Square on May Day. See to it; let me have an amended inventory.’ He flung the sheet of paper back across the table. It fluttered, slid, missed the outstretched KGB Chairman’s hand and fell to the floor. Ignominiously Alexey groped and retrieved it. His features were a dark red, a combination of blood pressure and humiliation.

Keschev sat there looking at the others. Challenging, defying. The gauntlet was down but none picked it up. Not even Denanko. Another silence and then the leader rose to his feet. All eyes were focused on him and now that initial gnawing fear was manifesting itself within them. Their puppet had died and in its place was one who emulated the leadership of Stalin himself. Obey and serve under me. Disobey and … They preferred not to contemplate the alternative.

Andre Keschev strode back out of the St George Hall and now there was no slight hesitancy in his step. Those who followed him with amazed frightened eyes saw the sheer physical power, the strength of his resurrected body. And every one of them was aware of something else, a coldness that lingered in the hall, a smell of mustiness that cloyed in their nostrils, like the interior of a tomb that had been opened up after many years.

Slowly, each and every one of the Council of Ministers recognized the sheer evil that exuded from the man whom they had brought back from the dead.

CHAPTER FIVE - Refuseniks

‘I don’t believe it,’ Ivan Alexey said. ‘Yuri, I do not believe it!’

‘Neither do I.’ The deputy leader’s features were ashen. ‘But it is true. A meeting that usually is a formality, lasts a couple of hours, is executed in less than 20 minutes. No Committee decisions. The Chairman gives his orders; there is no scope for discussion.’

‘He’s mad.’ Alexey lowered his voice, glanced fearfully at the door as though he expected it to burst open and an enraged Keschev to enter. ‘The stroke, it has affected his brain. He is not fit to rule.’

‘He has changed,’ Denanko grimaced, ‘did you not notice? The face is the same yet the expression, the eyes, are different. The voice has changed. The personality, too. Gone is the “genial giant”. In its place is … a fiend!’

‘We cannot do as he says.’ Alexey waved his arms despairingly. ‘Deploy the armed forces back to the border, restore the Parade to full strength. The cold war of a decade ago will begin instantly. We cannot do it, Yuri!’

‘We have been ordered by the highest authority in the State,’ Denanko groaned. ‘Short of a revolution, a military coup …’

‘And why not?’

‘Don’t be a fool, Ivan. Russia would be thrown into civil war. Keschev has his followers, those who idolize him. We cannot afford a bloodbath. The man is doing what you and I would do, the mask has slipped.’

‘I refuse to carry out his orders,’ Alexey pouted his lips, became petulant.

‘He could have you incarcerated. Or worse, if you oppose him.’

‘What, then? Tell me what, Yuri.’

‘I’ll talk to him.’ Denanko licked his lips, a habit of his when faced with a task which he did not relish. ‘Andre has returned too soon. He should have recuperated for a month or two. We should have persuaded him to go to the dacha at Pitsunda. He would have been out of the way until it was all over. Except that we could not do without him. If we did not have Andre for the next two months then he might as well have stayed dead. As we thought at the time. Now it turns out that it might have been better that way with us doing our best to get through. It’s too late now unless we can do something drastic. Maybe if I put the position to him he’ll see reason. Hell, we shall be doing what he wants to do only we have to be more subtle about it.’

‘You’ll talk to him then?’

‘I shall have to. Just do nothing for the moment, Ivan. I’ll call him and request a private meeting. Wish me luck.’

Yuri Denanko was more than just perturbed. He would not have admitted it to anyone else but his stomach muscles had contracted into a tight ball. It was something he had not experienced since Gorbachev’s rule. He had been First Deputy Chairman of the Council of Ministers then. The big crackdown on drinking had been brought in, virtually prohibition. Yuri had been lucky that time on his visit to Ulyanovsk, he had managed to bribe a KGB official. Substantially. Otherwise he would surely have lost his position, everything. The narrowest of escapes. His guts had balled up then just as they were doing now.

Keschev kept him waiting; an appointment was agreed for 2.30. Two hours kicking his heels and biting his fingernails, recognizing the demoralizing move. His own game being played on himself. Six months ago he would just have walked into Andre’s office. In the light of this morning’s events that would be a very dangerous thing to do now.

Denanko sat at his desk with a copy of Pravda spread out in front of him. KESCHEV BACK AT THE KREMLIN. Bold headlines dominating half the front page. A photograph of the Soviet leader; an old one. Andre Keschev going boar hunting, a wave and a smile, captioned ‘The Gentle Hunter’. The big man was a hunter all right, but now he was far from gentle.

By contrast there was a photograph of Ursula Ramanninov. The opera was due to open at the Kremlin Palace of Congresses the following week. Most of the Politburo would be present for the premiere; the theatre would be full night after night.

The deputy’s thoughts returned to Keschev. It was a long time since he had experienced fear of another human being. So sudden, it knotted your guts and had you breaking out into a cold sweat. Leaders had been unpopular before but always the Committee had talked out any problems. Right back to Stalin’s day. It was like somebody had turned back the clock. And Yuri would never forget that feeling that had crept over him when Keschev wound up this morning’s meeting and stalked out. The atmosphere, the coldness, that sort of musty smell. It was all in the mind. If not, then it was his own body odours because he was scared. Shock tactics on Andre’s part for some damfool reason of his own. Plain bad temper maybe. He’d lain in his bed these last few days brooding; I’m the boss and I’ll damned well show ‘em on Monday. Still ill, of course. He had to be handled very gently.

It was 4.30 before Denanko was called into the leader’s office. A plush room, the old in stark contrast to the new, polished oak furniture adorned with gaudy plastic telephones and intercoms. And another of those ludicrous cheap tin brewery ashtrays.

Keschev was poring over that same file which he had been handed at the meeting earlier, his head smooth and shiny in the glare of a reading lamp. It was fully two minutes before he looked up. Yuri Denanko swallowed, felt that creeping chill again, the prickling of his skin. The Soviet leader’s eyes appeared to have some kind of film over them, like a cataract, a glaze that slowly rolled back, exposed sunken orbs that seemed to grow, to inflate. And only then did they see and understand, burn into you like lasers.

‘You wanted to see me, Yuri.’ A statement, not a question. Abrupt. What are you wasting my valuable time for? Everything that needed to be said was said this morning.

‘Yes,’ the deputy swallowed, found himself twisting his thick fingers together. ‘It’s about the … the Parade.’

‘Yes?’

‘You see, we had planned … before you were ill, perhaps you have forgotten …’

‘I have not!’ A stony stare, the face clouded with controlled anger. ‘I remember perfectly well what was suggested. But not agreed by myself! A half-hearted idea, a compromise to save face, in fact. We kid the rest of the world but tell ourselves it’s all a ruse. But in fact, it isn’t. We keep on telling ourselves that we shall take them by surprise but it will always be tomorrow. And when tomorrow comes it will be the day after. And so on. In the end we have backed down, a cowardly retreat under the guise of a tactical plan. The Committee have no backbone. Unless there is a marked show of courage in the near future some of them will be replaced, Comrade Denanko!’

The dropping of his first name was only too obvious, sending a tiny shiver up and down the deputy leader’s spine. He swallowed, continued to fidget with his hands. He found himself nodding in agreement and caught a faint whiff of that same musty odour which he had smelled in the St George Hall earlier. It was also very cold in this room.

‘Has Comrade Alexey ordered the return of the troops to the Pakistan border?’ A gruff direct question, the bull-like neck of the General Secretary thrust forward, those piercing eyes burning in Denanko’s, seeming to read his thoughts. I know the answer but I want to hear it from your own lips, Comrade.

‘Not yet. There has been no time. He …’

‘It must be done immediately. Today. If not then I shall order it directly myself, and Comrade Alexey,’ Keschev’s lips curled back in a bestial snarl, ‘will be punished for disobeying orders. A court martial over which I personally will preside!’

Denanko was aware that he was cringing, pressing himself back in the chair. ‘It will be done, Comrade General Secretary.’

‘Good,’ still smiling, ‘and the increased weaponry, militia and missiles in the Parade?’

‘It will be done at once.’ He hated himself for the way his entwined fingers trembled, the tremor in his deep voice, almost a whine. ‘I will speak with Alexey at once.’

‘There are other matters which must be brought to your attention.’ Keschev lit a strong-smelling cigarette, inhaled and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘During my absence there seems to have been a policy of laissez-faire , regrettably. As a result our balance of trade figures for March are abysmal. Our agricultural policy is in need of review, an immediate shake-up. Bad harvests are caused by bad husbandry. Farm machinery is obsolete and needs to be replaced,’ he consulted some figures on his desk, pouted his lips, ‘targets must be reached and penalties imposed if they are not. Comrade Denanko, when the Western world imposes grain embargoes against the Soviet we cannot afford to have poor harvests. New targets and severe punishments are the answer. The economy is being drained by leeches. Jews!’

Denanko’s head bobbed back and forth. ‘Quite so, Comrade General Secretary. Over a million Jews have applied to leave the USSR. Permission has been refused, hence the term “Refuseniks”. Would it not be better to grant them permission to leave the country, be rid of them? They would go and others who have not dared to request leave to go would follow. We should be rid of them virtually overnight.’

‘Let them go!’ Andre Keschev threw back his head and laughed, a chilling, rumbling sound devoid of mirth, a sound that embodied cruelty and terror. And death. Yuri Denanko smelled the other’s breath, a fetid stench that might have wafted up from an exhumed corpse. An odour of decay and evil. ‘Let them go, Comrade? Have you taken leave of your senses? Do you realize the implications? We would merely be releasing an army to fight against us. Secrets would go with them and be secrets no more, for amongst these leeches on our society are a wealth of Western spies. No, there is only one answer. The camps!’

Denanko experienced a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness. Over the last two or three years he had instigated the persecution of the Jewish population of Russia. Some were already in the prison camps, others had disappeared, even their closest relatives and friends had no idea of their whereabouts. But it had been done discreetly, nothing openly outrageous to cause worldwide protest.

‘Yes.’ It sounded trite but he could not think of anything else to say.

‘Along with all religious sects!’ Andre Keschev’s features were a mask of fanaticism, a seething cauldron of hatred and fury. ‘Too long have the rulers of Russia allowed worshippers to preach against the State. Previous rulers have shown an inexplicable weakness towards those who seek deviously to undermine the System. Christianity is the enemy of an atheist country, a plot to destroy Communism, and even rulers such as Brezhnev did not attempt to stamp it out. I have tolerated it for my early term of office whilst I assessed the position. Russia will rule the world within a decade, I promise you, but not until positive steps are taken to destroy the cancer in our midst. Comrade Denanko, in ten years you will see a new Soviet Union, and if you still wish to be part of my administration then I shall expect your full co-operation. Those who are not with me are against me and will be dealt with accordingly.’

The deputy leader was reeling, a frightened, punch-drunk boxer back on the ropes, praying for the sound of the bell. Trembling openly, rising to his feet and having to hold on to the chair for support. Aware of those searing eyes, the sheer force that emanated from the thickset, bald-headed fiend behind the desk. ‘I will convey your orders to my subordinates, Comrade General Secretary.’

‘Good.’ That awful smile came back. ‘And one other thing before you go, Comrade. I shall be moving from this office. It is not fitting for the ruler of a great country. As from tomorrow I shall be taking up residence in Lenin’s office!’

‘But … it is a tourist attraction, it …’

‘Tourists! Spies, you mean, Comrade. Before long no foreigners will be admitted on to Soviet shores. Order Comrade Kovak to cordon off the relevant sections of the Kremlin. At once. I have decided, too, that my apartment is too far from my work. I need to be on hand 24 hours a day. Consequently those apartments which once housed rulers will be made habitable again. Yourself, Alexey and others will reside within the Kremlin, the heart of this country, so that we may keep it beating. An apathy has crept in, the Nomenklatura are more concerned with a life of luxury than carrying out the work designated to them. That will be all.’

Yuri Denanko was sweating heavily as he stepped out into the corridor, averting his gaze from the guard. Battered, demoralized. A meeting that had been no contest. One had to experience the power of this man to realize its implications. A psychological power that came at you with the force of a tornado, battered your brain, robbed you of your willpower. A madman in the mould of Stalin had been unleashed on the Soviet Union, a devil incarnate who would rule with death and destruction. A demon which they had raised up from the fiery depths of hell itself.

‘He’s mad,’ Denanko said. ‘There’s no doubt about that. A maniac who will destroy Russia and us with it, Ivan.’

‘And the military will back him,’ Alexey groaned. ‘The soldiers idolize him. If there was a rising they would give their lives for him.’

‘We have only ourselves to blame.’ Denanko poured a shot of vodka into his tumbler. ‘I gave him the leadership when I could have taken it myself. Set him up. For us. He died, I had him resurrected. And now …’

‘It must be stopped before it is too late,’ Ivan Alexey breathed. ‘There will be a revolution. Worse!’

‘But how? Tell me how, Ivan.’

‘He could be …’ The KGB Chairman was fearful of putting his suggestion into words. He made a chopping motion with his hands.

The deputy leader closed his eyes. ‘No, it is too dangerous.’

‘There is no other alternative. You shoot a rabid dog because there is no other way.’

‘Perhaps.’ The other still had not grasped the awful realization. ‘Unless we could have him taken into … hospital. A relapse. Zinderling could arrange it. Keschev’s brain has been damaged by the long period of death. You know how accident victims who have been on a life-support machine are sometimes left brain-damaged even though their bodies recover. That is what has happened to Keschev, I am certain of it.’

‘Then have him taken in, Yuri.’

‘I will talk with Zinderling, but in the meantime you must recall the troops back to the border and also increase the build-up for the Parade.’

‘I dare not.’

‘You will forfeit your life if you disobey. Keschev will have you arrested before I have time to consult with Zinderling. The man has become a dictator overnight, Ivan. He is no longer our puppet, we have no control over him. Until he is safely locked away he has only to snap his fingers. We set him up as a hero, we cannot take that away in a day. Whatever we do will have to be carried out with the utmost discretion. Oh, if only we had left him dead.’

The KGB Chairman left the Kremlin and walked across Dzerzhinsky Square, paused almost reverently before the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky. Was it his imagination or did he read despair on that stone sculpture, a shadow darkening the features? An omen that knotted Alexey’s stomach and prickled his skin. The wind was blowing chill and beyond the huge building dark clouds were gathering. People stood about dejectedly in an atmosphere of hopelessness as though they guessed.

He hurried on. It was all in the mind, he told himself; the mind of a devil, resurrected by the dark powers, who was bent on mayhem, torture and death. The destruction of the Soviet Union, perhaps even the world. The ultimate holocaust.

But for the moment he had no option other than to obey the orders given by Andre Keschev.

CHAPTER SIX - ‘Do You Not Know that the Dead Can Walk Again?’

Aleksandr Zinderling was clearly unnerved as he sat in Denanko’s office. Three glasses of vodka and the surgeon was still trembling visibly.

‘Well?’ Yuri Denanko had restrained his impatience up to now, told himself that he really did not want to know the outcome of the other’s visit to the leader. Quite clearly the news was not good. But he had to hear it eventually.

‘I don’t believe what I saw with my own eyes and felt with my own hands.’ Zinderling looked again to the vodka bottle but the Soviet deputy leader had pulled it beyond his reach.

‘Just tell me,’ Yuri said expressionlessly.

‘I visited him this morning by appointment. He kept me waiting an hour and then virtually refused to undergo an examination. Eventually I managed to persuade him that it was just a routine check-up and he agreed to let me take his pulse and listen to his heartbeat. I don’t believe what I found out.’

Denanko fidgeted. The wall clock was ticking too loudly; maybe it was in need of servicing.

‘His flesh was ice cold,’ the surgeon spoke in a whisper, ‘like he had been exposed to freezing winter temperatures. I thought at first it was probably bad circulation so I checked his pulse.’ Zinderling broke off, stammered, his lips were forming the words but for some inexplicable reason he seemed unable to get them out, as though his vocal chords had ceased to function. ‘Yuri … Andre Keschev has … neither pulse nor heartbeat. It is as though he is a living corpse!’

There was a stunned silence. The clock continued to beat as though mocking the two men, a simulated heart beating. Listen to me, I’m all right even if Andre Keschev isn’t.

‘Impossible!’ Denanko said at last. ‘Absolutely impossible. You must have made a mistake, Aleksandr. You’re drunk.’

‘I am not drunk,’ Zinderling replied. ‘The first drink I’ve had for two days was when I came in here now and I needed that more than I’ve ever needed a drink in my life. I swear to you, Yuri, that Keschev is dead and yet appears to be living. There can be no other explanation. He became abusive, told me to get the hell out of his office. Just as I was going he called me back and said that he had a lot of work lined up for me. “Experimental work” he called it but he wouldn’t go into detail. What I’ve told you is the truth, I swear it.’

Yuri Denanko picked up his phone, dialled a number, clicked his tongue impatiently. Somebody answered at the other end.

‘Send Anton Yafremov across immediately,’ he snapped, and slammed the receiver down, turning back to Zinderling. ‘Well, Aleksandr, if what you say is true I think we’d better have a word with Yafremov. This has all got beyond us and it would seem that he is the only one who can throw any light on it.’

It was ten minutes before a dishevelled, and breathless Anton Yafremov arrived. Beads of sweat stood out on his craggy forehead and his tie had slipped. He had obviously walked fast or run across the square from KGB Headquarters. And there was no mistaking the fear in his eyes.

‘What is it?’ he wheezed.

‘It’s Keschev. ‘ Somehow the deputy leader kept his expression impassive. ‘Anton, we are in trouble. At first we thought that he had suffered brain damage as a result of his death but now it would appear that that is not so. Tell me, how can a man have neither pulse nor heartbeat and still live?’

Yafremov swayed on his feet, and might have fallen had he not clutched at the back of the nearest chair. Shakily, he lowered his frail body into it and buried his face in his hands, gasping for breath, and letting out constricted sobs as though the wall clock was a metronome and he was trying to keep in time with it.

‘Well?’ All Denanko’s fears and frustration were summed up in that one word.

‘There can be only one explanation.’ The occultist from the Eighth Directorate looked up and his eyes appeared to have receded into their sockets, frightened orbs attempting to shrink away, fearful of what they might see. ‘I did my best, there was no guarantee, Comrade Denanko. The ritual of Kostrubonko, it seemed the best at the time. It worked. It raised up the dead … but did it raise up Andre Keschev?’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘We only had his body, his soul was long gone elsewhere. Body and soul were separated. There are millions of souls waiting to return to earth. We called on one to occupy the corpse, to live again. But perhaps the soul of Keschev did not wish to return or was prevented from doing so. A soul returned but whose was it? Now it lives within a body, we have no control over it.’

There was a long silence as Denanko and Zinderling tried to grasp the other’s words. Slowly understanding dawned, an explanation that was too terrible to contemplate. It could not be so, it was nightmarish fantasy. But when everything else had been eliminated they were left with only Yafremov’s theory. And it was a decidedly unpleasant one.

‘So what do we do now?’ Yuri Denanko spoke aloud. ‘We have our General Secretary’s body walking about controlled by some unknown force which you summoned up, Anton. Maybe we should assassinate him.’

Yafremov laughed, a weird sound. ‘Comrade Denanko, it is impossible to kill somebody who is already dead!’

‘Can’t you … can’t you, get rid of whatever it is, send it back where it came from?’

‘Perhaps,’ Anton was shivering, shaking as though he had suddenly developed Parkinson’s disease. ‘If I knew how.’

‘Then find out.’

‘It is not easy. We could try exorcism but I have never attempted it. It is a talent, a gift, you either have it or you don’t. And we would need to render the victim defenceless throughout. From what you tell me it is a very strong and evil entity that lives within Keschev. If I fail … we all die, that I promise you.’

‘All right, you can go.’ Denanko dismissed the KGB man with a wave of his hand. ‘We’ll send for you if we need you, Yafremov. And in the meantime you had better start researching how to get rid of evil spirits.’

‘It’s too crazy to be true,’ Zinderling said after the occultist had gone. ‘I don’t believe that side of it. All I know is the evidence I have seen at first hand, that clinically Andre Keschev is dead. It might be some freak of the body. If I didn’t know about that devilish resurrection I would say it certainly was. I never believed in black magic before and I’m not sure I do now because I’m a surgeon, a realist. It’s just that I’ve come up against something outside my own knowledge.’

‘The only thing I know is that we have a problem.’ Denanko replied. ‘A very big one. And it doesn’t look like we are going to be able to do anything about it before the Parade.’

May 1.

It was very warm for the time of year and most of those gathered in Red Square to witness the annual Parade were dressed in summer clothing. Several thousand tourists mingled with the local population behind the chain-link barriers. A line of armed soldiers with stoic expressions faced the biggest gathering for years. It was also the biggest demonstration of military strength on record.

Sergey Prokop felt strangely undressed without his customary uniform as he mingled with the crowd by Nikolsky Tower. Olga had stayed at home, a foregone conclusion. He wondered where Ursula was; probably rehearsing, for the opera gave its first public performance tonight. Sergey would be there. Suddenly he had to convince everybody that he had become infatuated with the opera. Otherwise he might have difficulty justifying twice weekly visits.

There was unrest in the Kremlin; you didn’t just have to work there to notice it. Pravda’s headlines for the last three days had been devoted to the build-up of troops on the borders of Pakistan. The withdrawal had been reversed, now there was a real threat of an invasion. The West was making noises, empty threats. In the end it would all amount to embargoes and trade restrictions. The Kremlin had remained silent. The cold war had begun.

Sergey pushed his way through the crowd and found himself a position from where he would be able to see both the drive past and those taking the salute. In his pocket he had a pair of opera glasses; they would be sufficient for him to obtain a close-up view of Andre Keschev. In the crush in front of the State Universal Stores he was immediately opposite Lenin’s mausoleum, a hundred yards, no more, from where the guests from the Union Republics and other countries were assembled. From here Andre Keschev, along with other members of the Central Committee, would take the salute.

Prokop was nervous. Every hour had its uncertainties these days; suddenly he had a top mission, the West had to know what Keschev was up to. But there were a lot of pitfalls. He and Ursula might have been a million miles apart, her role as a star performer rendered her virtually inaccessible. Olga’s silence was disconcerting, too. Did she suspect that her husband had a mistress? If so, she and Ignat might seek to trap him. Their efforts to prove adultery might unearth much more. Always he was looking over his shoulder these days.

A rapturous roar from the crowd disturbed his reverie. A group of people were filing on to the mausoleum balcony. Sergey drew his glasses out of his pocket and focused them. Sombre figures dressed in dark double-breasted suits, matching homburg hats shading their faces from the bright sunlight. His lenses moved from left to right, his own identification parade; Andreevich Gmyrya, Vasily Petrov, Rudolf Golitsyn … Yuri Denanko, his features giving nothing away, and next to him, that distinguished fur hat hiding his baldness, stood Andre Keschev.

Even at this distance Sergey caught his breath, felt the impact of the man, malevolence and ruthlessness dominating the stolid countenance. Those eyes, they did not seem to blink, just stared so that you got the feeling they had searched for you and found you. I know you’re a spy, Sergey Prokop.

That face; Sergey found himself almost hypnotized by it, staring into the dilated eyes in a face-to-face confrontation. Which was silly because the Soviet leader could not possibly pick him out at this distance. All the same …

There was something unnatural about the features. One had to study them long enough to realize that. So pallid. All right, Keschev had been ill, but it was more than that. It was as though the flesh was bloodless, lifeless. Dead. The face of a corpse.

Sergey’s own skin was creeping, a revulsion like standing in a reptile house watching slimy, poisonous snakes. But they could not get at you because there was glass between you and them. Like the lenses of a pair of opera glasses.

The growl of approaching engines broke the trance, freed him from the uncanny spell which had been cast The revving of trucks and lorries in low gear, a vibration which spread across the concrete surface and had your feet quivering. A growing, approaching noise; the band which had been playing was lost in the harsh rumbling, the crowds were cheering. The May Day Parade had begun.

Sergey stood on tiptoe and gasped in amazement at his first glance – and his field of vision only took in part of the rolling display. Trucks, carriers, his military mind began to identify, to count them. Surely every type of weapon the Soviet had used since the last war was on show here today, regardless of whether it was obsolete or not. Sergey knew well enough that the Russians only discarded weapons when they were no longer serviceable. A show of strength, the might of a Super Power displayed in the Red Square sunshine, a warning to the rest of the world. And had not Soviet troops already returned to the Pakistan border? A threat enforced by that which the West would see here today. A provocation, and so needless. Prokop’s mouth was suddenly dry. This was Keschev’s work; if you had seen the evil in that face up on the balustrade you understood. And you became very frightened.

The forerunners of the cavalcade had reached the centre of the Square now. Andre Keschev was standing erect, taking the salute. A rigid giant, an ogre who controlled the fate of civilization, could destroy the entire world at a sudden whim. If you saw him at close quarters you realized. Sergey knew then that there was something wrong, that this was not the easy-going leader who had been absent from the public eye for so long. Not an impostor, no, it was Keschev all right. But different. Changed. Terrifying to behold. Oh, Christ, what had happened, what was going on?

A dozen FROG free-flight rockets were in the lead, with SCUDs, the missiles which had replaced them, close behind. Three modern SCALEBOARD medium-range ballistic missiles flanked the awesome show. SANDALs, SKEANs, SADDLERs, three dozen in four lines of nine. SCARPs, SCRAGs, SAVAGEs and a line of SCAMPs. The SCROOGE and the GANEF. Dozens more. Then came the conventional combat weapons, the tanks, SU-100 anti-tank guns, ZSU-57-2 SP anti-aircraft guns. At least 50 152-millimetre Howitzer M1955s followed by some 122s mounted on 360-degree traverse carriages.

Finally, the infantry. Officers, NCOs, privates and cadets. All uniforms on view, some having to swelter in full winter parade dress. A punishment, possibly, for some minor military misdemeanour. Women in grey and green bringing up the rear. And Andre Keschev still held that fixed salute, had not wavered. Not a trace of sweat showed on his face and that, to Sergey Prokop, was very strange in the case of a man who had not been out of his sick bed for more than a month.

Sergey began to push his way back through the crowds. With an effort he shrugged off the deepening depression that threatened to engulf him. He had a job to do; he did not owe it to British Intelligence but to Ursula and his fellow countrymen. Something strange and terrible, beyond mortal comprehension, had happened to Andre Keschev during those weeks whilst the Soviet leader had been missing from the public eye. One way or another he had to find out and warn the world. Before it was too late.

Every one of the 6,000 seats in the large hall of the Kremlin Palace of Congresses was filled. A capacity audience for the first night of Boris Godunov. Here the much larger setting offered more scope for the dancers and created more atmosphere than the smaller Bolshoi stage.

Imrie Nevski was the latest in a tradition of great basses to play Boris Godunov. Ursula Ramanninov was cast as Xenia, his daughter. The scenery had barely changed since the first showing of the opera, maintaining its tradition.

Sergey Prokop took his seat early, watching the theatre fill up. He let the relaxed atmosphere seep into him, and felt an easing of his earlier tension. Tonight he would enjoy himself, watching Ursula in her finest role. He wondered if Ignat was in the audience, and resisted the urge to turn his head and scan the seats behind him. Forget Ignat, and Keschev too. There would be time enough for them in the days and weeks that lay ahead.

The curtain rose for the Prologue, the setting the Monastery of Novodevichiy. He found himself searching for Ursula but it was too soon for Xenia to appear yet.

The eternal struggle for power. Cunning. The monk fooling the guards, jumping from the window to escape them. The Tsar’s apartment at the Kremlin; Sergey thought how it reminded him of Lenin’s office. Keschev had moved in there, was living in the building. Attention to detail on the stage where history was now repeating itself.

Xenia had him trembling with anticipation, he experienced an urge to rush to her. Ursula’s sorrow came over, it was more than just an act. Pleading; I have to see you, Sergey. His tension returned. Her outspread arms calling him, her vibrating soprano voice, and now Imrie Nevski was dominating the stage, cruelty reflected in his every action, turning to the audience, arms outspread, voice trembling with passion.

‘Does he now know that the Dead can walk again?’

The words hit Sergey Prokop with the force of a physical blow, seemed to throw him back in his seat. He saw the bearded face of the actor, those dark eyes sweeping the auditorium. Where are you, Sergey Prokop? Do you hear me? Do you not know that the Dead can walk again?

It was crazy, impossible. His tortured mind was playing tricks on him again. His gaze switched to Ursula Ramanninov. Her head seemed to nod. It’s true what he says Sergey, that is why I need to talk with you. Before it is too late.

Prokop could not concentrate. The rest of the opera slipped by, he lost the thread of the story, just saw figures moving, heard voices that meant nothing. Tsarevich Dmitry, son of Ivan the Terrible and heir to the throne of Russia, had been murdered by Boris Godunov. It was folklore. A cult had arisen around the young prince, followers who refused to believe him dead. Because the Dead could walk again.

The audience were filing out, muttered conversations like the buzz of insects in the foliage on a warm summer day. Tourists mingling with the Moscow elite, every one of them moved by this performance of the most famous opera in Russian history. Sergey walked with them, looking neither to the right nor the left. Behind him the curtain had fallen and soft music came from somewhere backstage. He heard Ursula’s voice reverberating inside his head, Nevski dominant, that face a mask of malevolence. Xenia’s pallid, tear-stained beauty, a dance in which she writhed, her torment more than just an act. We must warn them, Sergey, that the Dead can walk again.

CHAPTER SEVEN - Human Cargoes

Rabbi Avraam Raikin had anticipated the closure of the Moscow synagogue. Therefore it came as no surprise to him on the Wednesday morning, after the previous day’s radio bulletins concerning the only other three Soviet synagogues in Kiev, Odessa and Leningrad, to find his own place of worship boarded up and anti-Semitic slogans daubed on doors and walls. It was also conceivable that he would be arrested before the week was out.

Avraam was in his early fifties, a tall, stooping man who wore his robes openly and with pride. He owed it not only to God but to the three million Jews in Russia. A stand had to be made and he would set an example. He knew only too well that persecution was about to begin in earnest, just as it had in Stalin’s day. But they had to rely on faith because there was nothing else left now. Keschev, the new Kremlin Beast, was about to turn his venom on the Russian Jews.

He closed his eyes in despair, experienced sheer hopelessness for a few seconds, then reproached himself for his temporary lack of faith. It would not be easy but God would be with them all the way. A few months ago there had been real hope. Andre Keschev had hinted at a new tolerance; there was a possibility that other synagogues would be allowed to open. Even a yeshiva , for without the Jewish institutions of learning no new rabbis could be trained. Which meant that eventually the Jewish religion would wither. And with tallis forbidden to be printed the written word would die also in due course. A subtle but more gentle way of waging an anti-Semitic campaign. A bloodless war.

Until now. Suddenly the smiling face of Andre Keschev was no more. In its place was the bestial countenance that belonged to Stalin. Jews were disappearing, snatched from the streets or their homes, herded on to the cattle trucks by night and shipped out of Moscow to Pot’ma and on to Barashevo. A line of almost 40 labour camps hidden from the eyes of civilization, the death chambers and the cemeteries with their mass graves. Jews and urkas alike slaving side by side in sub-zero conditions, dying and being executed. Death was a happy release from the white hell where prisoners suffered frostbite, starvation and typhus epidemics due to lice infestations, ate dead rats and mice because their ration of 800 grams of stale black bread a day was not sufficient to keep them alive. Only the instinct to survive kept them going, their faith, the hope that one day they would be freed.

This was the truly dark secret which the Soviet attempted to hide from the rest of the world. But the Western countries knew about it all right. Had not Gorbachev himself told the British to mind their own business some years ago when asked about religious persecution on a visit there. The Bear’s shame; the new leader was going to look into the question of dissidents and Jews, he had said in his opening speech when he came to power. There had been hope. But now there was nothing but despair. A repeat of the Doctors’ Plot in 1953, just prior to Stalin’s death, when Stalin had claimed that the Jewish doctors were plotting against him and ordered a purge. So it was with Keschev. ‘Israel is a hostile country’, Moscow radio had relayed in a special recorded propaganda speech, ‘and the Jews are plotting to destroy our economy. They are the leeches on our society. Russia must be rid of them!’

An open threat. The masses were hostile towards Jews by tradition, dating back to Stalin’s anti-Semitic indoctrination. They had not forgotten. They would spit in your face on the street, stick out a foot to send you sprawling in the gutter. Now they were being encouraged, incited, to conduct a campaign of hate against every Jew in the USSR. With the exception, of course, of those within the Nomenklatura, the favoured few. Like Ursula Ramanninov and Imrie Nevski; the Bolshoi was immune from such harassment. Good luck to them, but it did not spare the rest.

Raikin wondered if Josef Zuttenberg had been arrested yet. If not then it would not be long. He admired Josef but the younger man was a fool, spumed guile, openly castigated the Politburo for their crimes against humanity. Perhaps he had gone into hiding? But Avraam knew that was not Josef’s way.

It would not stop at the Jews, of course, any fool could see that. Next it would be the Christians, all religious sects within the Soviet, for to believe in God was to be a dissident in any Communist regime.

The Rabbi wondered if Ursula had got word out of the country yet. For all the good it would do. Zuttenberg had spoken with her a few days ago and that was dangerous for them both. The free world would know anyway before long; it would gasp in horror, send a written protest to the Kremlin. And the Beast would laugh and order another batch of Jews to be exterminated. There was a rumour, and Avraam had no doubt that it was true, that only last week in the camp at Udarnyy the soldiers had ordered 500 Jews to lie on the ground and then run over them with their tanks. They had then forced another 1,000 to shovel up the bloody mulch and bury it in a ditch. A whim of the camp’s commander of which Andre Keschev would doubtless approve.

They no longer had their synagogues but worship would continue, Raikin vowed. Small meetings in private houses, in the woods, anywhere. Only total annihilation would prevent the devout Jews from holding their services. And the Rabbi’s own house was open to any who cared to call upon him, all those seeking assurance or condolence. In the name of God he would stand firm even if it meant the camps or execution.

Rabbi Avraam Raikin went through his small living room, sat down in the sagging armchair before the unlit fire and commenced to fill his blackened briar pipe with dry, brittle tobacco from his pouch. It crackled and showered sparks as he lit it and he blew a cloud of rank-smelling smoke across the room. All he could do now was wait.

It was late evening when he heard a step in the hallway and the door was kicked open by two Yevesekzia agents, the secret police of the KGB’s Fifth Chief Directorate employed to seek out dissidents. Particularly Jews; they had a special way with them. Highly trained in the art of kicking an ageing rabbi in the testicles and then rendering him unconscious with a swift chop to the back of the neck as he doubled up in agony. A matter of seconds, the ultimate in efficiency; carrying the limp form outside and slinging it into the back of an unmarked van. No trouble at all, they prided themselves in their efficiency.

Avraam regained consciousness sometime during the night. His first recollection was that he was on a slow-moving train, one that shuddered and creaked and kept stopping, jerking violently every time it started off again. He felt sick and dizzy, and it took him some time to remember what had happened to him. Funny, his black skull cap was still on his head; you would have thought it would have come off in the struggle.

He wished there had been a light in the truck. He appeared to be lying on some kind of shelf and it was a wonder that he had not rolled off whilst he was unconscious. The train, rolling on bends even at a slow speed, gave the impression of being top heavy. Sometime later the rabbi realized why he had not fallen off the shelf; somebody else lay on the edge, partly underneath him, conscious and clinging on. If whoever it was fell asleep they would probably both fall off. There were moans coming from out of the darkness and somebody was sobbing. The interior of the truck smelled strongly of urine and body odours.

After some considerable time Avraam decided that he should make himself known. It was his duty to help those who suffered.

‘I am Rabbi Raikin.’ He had to shout to make himself heard. ‘If I can be of help to anybody …’

‘Rabbi Raikin!’ A cry of disbelief from down below. ‘Oh God, they’ve got the Rabbi, too! What hope is there for any Jew left in Russia?’

‘Calm yourselves, my children,’ Raikin said. ‘There are many of us and we must stick together. There is strength in numbers and in God.’

‘They send them to the extermination chambers in numbers, don’t they?’ another voice called out. ‘And God doesn’t help them. This is what happens to you, your reward for being a devout Jew. You’re the lepers of the world and when you’ve got beyond a bad joke they send you to the camps. Bah, if I had my time again I’d never see the inside of a synagogue!’

‘That is blasphemy, my son. Do not blame God, it is all part of his Plan …’

‘No, it’s all part of Keschev’s Plan. He needs a scapegoat, to be seen to be doing something about the economy. Easy; kill off the Jews, the people will like that. It won’t make a scrap of difference to the economy but it will buy him time. Don’t talk to me about God, Rabbi. A pity that bugger Keschev didn’t die like we all hoped he would.’

‘Then we should have been under the rule of Denanko and Alexey. That would have been a tyranny equally as bad.’

‘I doubt it. Man, this Keschev’s crazy, a fiend as bad as Stalin. Still, we’ve had it now and there’s nothing us nor anybody else can do about it. By the way, don’t anybody think of breaking out of here and jumping for it. They’ve got upturned spikes along the trucks, jutting out. You’d just impale yourself. That is, don’t try if you’ve a mind to escape. If you want to kill yourself, carry on.’

Somebody laughed; it sounded forced. Raikin judged that the occupants of this overcrowded truck were all males. Doubtless the women would all be together in another.

‘Any idea where they’re taking us, Rabbi?’ the voice which asked the question sounded older, trembled with passion. Tell us the worst. Rabbi.

‘To the labour camps.’ The Death Camps.

‘We know that, but which one?’

‘That is anybody’s guess and doubtless we shall not know till we get there. Maybe to Lefortovo. Or Chelyabinsk. Or Novosibirsk, or Omsk, or Vorkuta. Perhaps Vikhorevka. I pray to God that it is not Vikhorevka, for the next step after that is Udarnyy, the end of the road. In summer you make bricks by hand for 16 hours a day, in winter you are left locked up in a tiny, freezing cell, overcrowded, underfed.

For a while everybody stopped talking. The train halted; they heard voices, shouted instructions, and were thrown about as the trucks were shunted back and forth. They were on another line now and Raikin guessed that they were at Saransk station. Which meant that they were going on what was known as the Death Railway; the railway that officially did not exist. It appeared on no Russian maps. From Saransk on to Kuybyshev, through Lesnoy, Selkos and Lepley. At the end of the line was Barashevo and that was where you lost your sense of humanity, were turned into an animal whose only instinct was to survive. Drugged, degraded, most died out there; the long line of cemeteries was a testament to that. A few came back many years hence. To die. Once you had been through ‘the process’ it mattered not where you died because they had deprived you of everything except your soul.

Raikin wondered about Keschev’s sudden turnabout, the hand of peace offered to the Jews and then the knife in the back. It did not make sense, the initial smile was pointless, they could have taken the Jews any time they wanted, they did not have to lull them into a false sense of security.

Sometime during the night the train came to another halt, lurched and woke the occupants. The Rabbi lay listening, heard women screaming and crying somewhere outside. Men were shouting, the trucks reverberated with the slamming of doors. They were herding women on to the train, too, an overcrowded consignment of human degradation. It made Avraam very angry; not just that Man was capable of doing this to his fellows but that he was allowed to get away with it. Letters of protest to the Kremlin were useless, a waste of everybody’s time. Like the minority peace groups in free countries who thought they could solve the world’s problems by disarming and offering the hand of friendship. Little did they understand, Avraam reflected grimly, that they were merely inviting the Russians to invade. There was only one thing the Bear understood and that was a bite to match his own. But in the meantime a lot of people would die.

The train started off again. There was a strong smell of excreta, probably somebody had been unable to find the small toilet hole in the floor. Avraam Raikin wished that he had his pipe with him. It was probably lying on the floor of his house where it had fallen when the Yevesekzia agents had hit him. He would never see it again.

And he wondered again about Josef Zuttenberg.

‘He is mad, completely mad.’ Denanko and Ivan Alexey had met in the latter’s apartment in the Kremlin. One plush residence had been swapped for another; they could not complain on that score. Yet suddenly the freedom they enjoyed, the privileges of leading members of the Politburo had been snatched away. Sure, they still shopped at No. 2 Granovsky Street but their power was gone. That which Gorbachev had begun as a crackdown to boost the failing Soviet economy, Keschev had taken to the extreme with sadistic glee. Drunks, whether they were Communist Party officials or workers, found themselves in jail. Moonshiners faced the death penalty; already several had been shot in Butyrka prison. Trainloads of Jews had been herded into trucks and shipped out on that death line going south-east. The synagogue in Moscow had been stripped of everything Semitic and turned into a store for surplus substandard goods. And now this latest purge, which would surely bring the wrath of the free countries down on the USSR.

‘It is madness.’ Yuri Denanko’s features were etched with lines that had not been visible a few weeks ago. ‘The Jews are fair game but Christians have to be dealt with more subtly. Close the odd church, forbid the printing or importing of Bibles. A gradual process of erosion. But to call for the eradication of all religion is likely to start a revolution. Or a war which we cannot afford yet.’

‘We have arms.’ Alexey’s reply was rhetoric, an indoctrination by the System.

‘Yes, but we are not ready. There will be no more grain exported to the Soviet. The harvest will be another disaster, it has to be until we have new agricultural machinery and a better fanning policy. The plan was to work on that first but Keschev has gone to the extreme. Russia will starve this coming winter. Does he care, Ivan? Is his motive self-destruction? Imagine the reception we shall get at Geneva in a fortnight’s time. We shall be castigated. One crumb of comfort is that he has held back on the invasion of Pakistan. Even he realizes the folly of that. We shall not get off so lightly as we did over Afghanistan. We have a dictator, another Stalin, but without the cunning of Joseph. The Politburo has been stripped of its power. There is only one answer and you know what that is!’

Alexey nodded his head. ‘But not here, not in Moscow, Yuri. In Geneva. Andre Keschev assassinated by foreign agents; let the West be the scapegoat.’

‘You are right, Ivan, but is it possible? You know what Yafremov said, that it is impossible to kill one who is already dead.’

‘At least we must try. If that does not work …’ He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. ‘Then we shall have to think of something else. First, though, I think it is time we had another word with Comrade Yafremov.’ He picked up the phone and dialled a single digit. The occultist would be making another dash across Dzerzhinsky Square.

Yafremov was with them inside a quarter of an hour, the man seeming to have aged a decade since their last meeting. His lungs wheezed as though with bronchitis when he spoke.

‘Comrade Denanko, I trust there is no problem.’ He attempted a smile that resulted only in a quivering of the lower lip.

‘No more than we have had for the past weeks,’ the deputy leader replied gruffly. ‘Well, have you learned yet how the matter can be resolved?’

Anton Yafremov fidgeted in his chair, looking down at the floor. ‘There is a way … I am not sure … it all depends on … well, what kind of entity we are up against.’

‘Stop talking in riddles.’ Denanko tapped on the desktop with a stubby forefinger. ‘Can he be assassinated or not?’

‘Possibly. If it is a straightforward case of an evil spirit possessing a corpse then I feel we must treat him as we would a vampire. A wooden stake driven through the heart …’

Alexey’s lips curled in a sneer. ‘Comrade Yafremov, let us dispense with Transylvanian legend. Andre Keschev is neither vampire nor werewolf, nor any other mythical supernatural creature.’

‘No, but the end result is little different.’ Yafremov spread his hands in despair. ‘The living dead, whichever way you look at it. The body functions but has neither heartbeat nor pulse, thus the spilling of blood is impossible. We are faced with a demon and thus the old methods, ridiculous as they may seem, are all that are left to us. I can think of nothing else. Comrade Alexey.’

The KGB Chairman looked at Denanko, eyes narrowed. ‘The decision is yours, Yuri. If it is to be a stake through the heart then so be it. There is no finer assassin than our own Georg Oborin.’

‘No, not Oborin,’ Denanko shook his head. ‘At least, not this time. I feel that the job must fall on the two Yevesekzia men, Zhukov and Ozeroff. A ruthless team who always work together. Two would be better than one in this case. Andre Keschev will have a two-man bodyguard in Geneva. It can be arranged for a switch to be made and these two to go in their place. They will not fail. Their work against the Jewish population recently had been outstanding. Who else could have kidnapped the Rabbi himself and had him on the way to Vorkuta without anybody realizing that he was missing? I do believe that they would be capable of going to Washington, abducting the President of the United States and bringing him back here.’ He laughed in an effort to boost his claim.

‘Perhaps, but can they kill Keschev?’ Alexey was not wholly convinced.

‘That we shall see.’ Yuri Denanko smiled. ‘Let us try them first. If that fails then we shall have to enlist the services of our faithful Georg.’

‘And if Georg fails?’

‘You are a pessimist, Ivan. As a last resort we shall assign the task to Comrade Yafremov. After all, he resurrected this fiend.’

Anton Yafremov paled visibly. For him there were more terrible things in life than death.

CHAPTER EIGHT - The Assassins

Zhukov and Ozeroff were the ultimate in opposites; a duo who were respected, feared, and hated by the people of Moscow. None knew their first names outside the Yevesekzia and the KGB Fifth Directorate. None asked, because it was incidental.

Zhukov was tall and deceptively bulky, an odd kind of pear shape, noticeable if one had the nerve to regard him for long enough. Whatever clothing he wore, even his best civilian suits which were purchased at the Granovsky Street store, hung awkwardly on him, bulged and flopped where the cloth should have fitted snugly. Likewise his official uniform, on those occasions when he was required to wear it, seemed creased and crumpled. But you noticed none of these things if you saw his features, for his face had the hypnotic effect that a hunting stoat has on a cornered rabbit.

The head was squat as if some infantile accident had squashed it down onto the immense shoulders, the dark hair receding and also balding at the crown. Eyes that were small and set too close together giving a cross-eyed effect, dark orbs that flickered, the reptilian likeness accentuated by the hooked nose and permanently pouting lips as though pursed in contemplation. Slow, lumbering movements that had deceived more than one opponent during his short boxing career, none more so than Delaney, the American, in the Moscow Olympics when Zhukov had gone on to win a Gold. Sheer speed and strength were there when called upon, unleashed at a second’s notice, a human battering ram impervious to pain and capable of withstanding punishment that would have seriously maimed or even killed a lesser man.

All this was driven by an engine of sheer ruthlessness, fuelled by a system that was totally emotionless. Terrible to behold because of the outward absence of fury, a beast that killed or tortured without feeling. Inhuman, almost devoid of mannerisms apart from an incessant chewing of gum.

Ozeroff was small and dapper, frail in appearance when viewed alongside his colleague. Suavely handsome, he was reputed to confine his womanizing to the prostitution areas of the city. A pencil moustache adorned his thin upper lip and he smiled frequently. But there was no warmth in the stretching of his lips, a mere facial movement, a human predator surveying his prey with relish whether it was to kill or to copulate. The peak of his uniform cap or sombre trilby was tilted forward as though to hide the expression in his eyes, the fire of sadism, for the suffering of others was his joy.

Just as Zhukov’s frame belied his speed so Ozeroff’s slender body masked his strength. What flesh there was had compacted into solid muscle but unarmed combat was held in reserve as a last resort. Possibly Ozeroff’s marksmanship was unequalled throughout the Soviet Union; it had never been put to the test apart from handgun contests during his militia days. An authorized hit man, he still used a Tokarev TT-33 pistol even though this weapon had been long superseded by the Stechkin and the Makarov. Hunting was both his profession and his hobby; he had shot boar at Zavidovo, and although he had not equalled Keschev’s recent record of a triple kill without removing the gun from his shoulder, that was probably because Ozeroff did not shoot with a Thieme & Schlegelmilch 16-double combined with a 7.3 millimetre rifle. But even had he had the opportunity to use this combined game and boar gun it would have been exceedingly unwise to challenge the record set by a dictator.

Two men comprising the most ruthless killing machine in the USSR flew out of Moscow that day flanking the giant who ruled the System which they served. Their task was to be at his side throughout the coming week, night and day, to sleep in an adjoining room, to taste his food and drink before he wined and dined in case of poisons. Human shields to take any bullets meant for his body. But secretly, ultimately, to murder him in his sleep and leave others to take the blame. That was their mission and they accepted it without question, had shown not the slightest trace of surprise when Ivan Alexey had briefed them, and promised them rapid promotion in the ranks of the KGB upon their successful return to the motherland. It was a job; they had to kill, and that in itself was sufficient reward. They would not fail, they gave the KGB Chairman their word on that.

The heat of Geneva was tempered by a cooling breeze blowing in off the azure waters of the lake. Lake Léman, as the people of Vaud called it, scintillated in the bright sunlight. The Cathedral of St Peter on the crest of the hill seemed to frown down on the large hotel and conference complex, its architecture bleak and forbidding, the old scowling down on the new. You have no place here, begone from this land of peace and tranquillity. Go back to your own lands, warmongers.

Armed escorts were constantly on the move to and from the airport as delegates from other European countries arrived. Fleets of motorcycle police at the front and rear of each cavalcade, stately cars with bulletproof glass and tinted windows so that all that the gathered tourists could see were silhouettes, shapes that had become familiar over the years. A bustle of authority, police everywhere, the conference centre heavily ringed with the best marksmen on the continent.

The building had been closed for a fortnight beforehand, the security measures had never been tighter. Sniffer dogs in every room, their masters with metal detectors dismantling fixed units just to make sure. In the end they were satisfied that there were no booby traps, no hidden explosive devices. Now all they had to do was to keep the terrorists at bay for three days. Nobody was allowed within a hundred yards of the centre without an official pass which itself was scrutinized and checked out. A luxurious prison for the dignitaries, the peace of the world depended upon their protection. The most important summit talks for over a decade; the ‘Star Wars’ programme had become a stalemate, there were hints that cruise missiles might be withdrawn from Britain; other concessions that had brought a speech of hope from the Pope and other religious leaders. A new era of peace and prosperity was imminent. Until the Soviet troops marched back to the Pakistan border.

Suddenly the old tension was back. Another ‘Cuba’ unless the threat could be nullified. Everything rested on these summit talks, the big chance to talk the Russians round, make them see sense. Offer the hand of friendship, do everything possible. The eyes of the world were on Geneva.

Andre Keschev’s limousine was escorted from the airport, and created the atmosphere of a funeral procession through the crowds. Police moved in to break up a minor demonstration, confiscated provocative banners, hustled the protestors away. Jeers and abuse; in all probability the Soviet leader would be blissfully unaware of them.

Hate was focused on that one car. The keenest observers discerned the bald-headed outline of the man who was suddenly an illogical threat to world peace. Those nearest recognized Yuri Denanko. Two others, personal bodyguards, no doubt. The Rolls accelerated, the chauffeur recognizing trouble, speeding up for his own safety as much as that of his passengers. The convoy of motorcycle police closed in, arrowed towards the entrance to the conference centre. Barriers were lifted, armed soldiers stood at the ready. They would not hesitate to shoot if they had to. Sometimes it was necessary to kill in the interests of peace.

The convoy disappeared from sight and the crowds dispersed. A rumpled, torn banner lay in the roadway, its tail broken. The freshening breeze billowed it, unfurled it so that the crude lettering unfolded like cinema credits. WHAT ABOUT THE JEWS?

A question that went unanswered.

The Soviet delegation had a first-floor suite, the most prestigious in the building; a sop to Cerberus, a gesture.

Keschev’s room overlooked the lake, the anteroom having been converted into another bedroom with single beds close to the door. Zhukov and Ozeroff would sleep in shifts, their vigilance would be constant. At the rear was Denanko’s quarters, adjoining that of lesser officials who would be arriving later. No luxury had been overlooked in an attempt to pacify the uncertain temperament of the Bear.

The Soviet leader remained in his room for the rest of the day. Ears were strained, the acute hearing of Zhukov and Ozeroff, Yevesekzia beasts of prey. Once they caught a rustle of paper and a scratching sound as though he wrote furiously. Steady laboured breathing, he might be sleeping. But none intruded, they did not dare. Meals were placed on trays outside the door but the food and wine were ignored. For all the listeners knew their leader might have suffered another stroke, been struck down, dead or rendered imbecilic. If that happened it would spare the world, none would mourn. But it would not happen because the dead cannot die.

The summer night was slow in coming; a gradual darkening of the saffron sky over the mountains, the waters of the lake turning a purple hue. Magnificent yet forbidding, wild splendour seeming to hover ominously as though it sensed Man’s mood of self-destruction. A gathering storm in a cloudless sky, invisible thunderheads rumbling silently. For tomorrow the destiny of civilization would be decided.

Ozeroff sensed Zhukov move, the trained instincts of a dozing killer instantly alert, the eyes mere slits but seeing the big man straighten up, move across to the suitcase in the comer, ease the spring flaps open so that they did not snap loudly. The lid was raised, a huge hand delving inside, lifting something out from amongst a pile of folded shirts and underwear. Only then did Ozeroff sit up, was surprised at the tingling sensation that scaled his spine. Because this mission was outside the norm, unreal like those Yevesekzia training exercises. You performed them because you had to but you did not really believe that one day you would slit a man’s throat or break his neck with a single blow. Now the time for games was over; he stared at the two-foot wooden stake in his companion’s hands and forced himself to believe. Keschev was alive, contrary to what the two bodyguards had been told; it couldn’t be otherwise, the dead did not walk. But very soon he would be dead.

Just a sharpened stake. You could smell the wood where Zhukov had been shaving it like a schoolboy idly carving a tree branch. Something to occupy your hands. The shaft was solid oak, he might just have been able to complete a circle of his thumb and forefinger around it. Made in the USSR, made to kill!

Ozeroff made a tapping gesture with his hand, miming the driving of a nail into timber. The other smiled, shook his head knowingly. No, my friend, I do not need a hammer. He held up a clenched fist, pumped it in the air. This is my hammer, Comrade Ozeroff. Ozeroff was unable to check a second shiver. Then they settled down to wait.

It was completely dark now. The small anteroom was illuminated only by a shaft of light that came under the outer door from the main landing beyond. Keschev’s room was in darkness too; the two men listened intently, at last heard that steady rhythmic breathing, a noise that bordered on a faint snore. The wheezing of diseased lungs. Ozeroff felt his own body relax, then tense again, a powerful spring being coiled in readiness. It was almost time. He looked to Zhukov but the big man’s face was in deep shadow. He made no move. When he did it would be positive. Come, Comrade, it is time to kill.

Killing was a way of life to them, a process of eliminating an enemy because they had been ordered to do so. Their job was neither to reason nor to question. Automatons of death, superbly efficient to the last detail. Zhukov was running his thick fingers up and down that wooden shaft, caressing it. It was a weapon that was fast becoming a part of him; it had to work in conjunction with his own body. And then he straightened up without so much as a creak of stiff muscles, a giant standing there whilst his powerful frame prepared itself for the task ahead, the engine of a limousine warming up so that it would run smoothly.

Ozeroff got to his feet, was aware how shallow his breathing had become, almost as though it might stop. But it wouldn’t, it was all part of his training. A silent wraith in the blackness of the night, a deadly snake primed to strike. A nod of his head; I am ready, Comrade.

Zhukov eased the intersecting door open, a gradual process with not so much as the creak of a hinge. Pressed against the jamb he peered into the room, waited whilst his eyesight became accustomed to the orange glow that came from outside, an artificial light that was in stark contrast to the magnificent surroundings. A luxurious wall-to-wall carpet, the floor-to-ceiling window with its thick shatterproof glass, fitted wardrobes and a curtained alcove for bath and shower. The bed itself the epitome of luxury, a mountain of mattress and quilts, the huge slumbering form in the middle seeming to sink down into a hollow.

Andre Keschev, the Kremlin Beast as the Western newspapers now dubbed him, lay uncovered. His only garment was a pair of silk pyjama bottoms that were too tight for his bulky frame. A hairy torso, a black growth of hair giving the appearance of a rough map shaded in on white paper and somehow the artist had managed to show the contours, mountains and valleys of solid muscle that undulated across the bizarre picture. The arms were spread wide, the chest rose and fell as the stentorian breaths wheezed in and out. The intruders saw the outline of the bald cranium against the pillow but the features were hidden in a patch of shadow. Only you knew them so well that in your mind you saw them, the thick lips dribbling strings of saliva and making a wet patch on the linen, the dilated nostrils sprouting tufts of hair. And you imagined the eyes closed because you feared to look into them.

Zhukov stepped forward silently on stockinged feet, the predator hunched forward into an ungainly stalking posture, wooden spear aloft. This is the end for you, Andre Keschev. Nothing personal, just orders. The command of Yuri Denanko who shall rule the Soviet Union from this night onward.

Zhukov halted a foot or so from the sleeping form. An abrupt stop, his weapon still upraised, a statue-like pose as if the sculptor had suddenly tired of his work and left. Ozeroff almost bumped into him and it was then that they both became aware of the sudden cold, the rapid drop in temperature in what, a few seconds previously, had been a stuffy hotel bedroom. Invisible icy fingers touched their skin, goose pimpled it. Momentarily rendered immobile, they stared at each other and in the half-light read the sheer terror in their colleague’s eyes. Lips moved but no words came. Asking questions to which there were no logical answers. It is like the interior of a tomb, Comrade.

Then came the smell, the increasing odour of decay, of death and decomposing corpses, a rancid, suffocating stench that had them holding their breath trying to shut it out. The stink of dungeons, of dark, damp places where flesh rotted on long-dead skeletons and rats scurried back and forth feeding. An overpowering fear that softened strong limbs and loosened bowels.

Ozeroff’s hand moved, sought the reassuring feel of the butt of his Tokarev in its shoulder holster, tried to convince himself that a pistol was the answer to any lurking foe. But the argument failed miserably. His eyes roved the room, checked every patch of shadow and were drawn back irresistibly to that sleeping form on the bed. Helpless power; if the stake did not kill then a bullet would. The flesh was so white. As white as … death!

He looked again at his companion. Zhukov had not moved, was still in that ridiculous posture as though at the last moment his courage had dried up. Kill him, Zhukov, or I will!

Zhukov moved, so slowly as if his limbs were tired, the wooden stake too heavy to lift any higher. Straining to hoist it up to the full extent of his right arm, fumbling with it and almost dropping it, the sharpened point now directed downwards; searching the hairy chest, determining where the heart lay. Everything in slow motion.

Kill him, Zhukov, or else let me shoot him!

Ozeroff felt himself willing the death blow, saw the stake begin its descent, the shaft now gripped with both hands. A grunt, an expellation of pent-up breath.

Keschev should have died that instant, Ozeroff’s brain could not believe what his eyes saw. The death thrust, the point only inches from that powerful chest, when suddenly it stopped as though some unseen obstacle had been thrust in its path. The watching gunman heard his companion’s cry and only then did he see the huge hand which had moved from a limp position, too fast for the eye to follow, gripping the descending weapon; halting it, holding it, pushing it back upwards.

A feat of unbelievable strength and speed. Zhukov stumbled, fell forward onto the bed and cried out again. A shriek of terror as the stake was wrestled from his double grip single-handed, the shaved end forced round, reversed. Another scream, one that was cut short as the sharp wood buried itself deep in his throat. Zhukov’s body went limp, hung there impaled, the thick neck twisted so that the head dangled at an unnatural angle.

In any other situation the smaller man would have drawn his pistol and fired, pumped the magazine with such speed that the shots would have resembled a machine gun, every slug on target. Trained in the art of handgun fighting, Ozeroff could pick his targets in a crowded room, shoot with unerring skill. But here, in the plush apartment of the Geneva conference hotel, his slender fingers did no more than rest on the butt, made no effort to slide the automatic free of its holster.

He stood there, watching his companion die. The point came clear of the throat with a loud sucking noise and released a jet of thick blood from the ragged wound that sprayed the wall decor on the other side of the bed. He heard it gushing, dark, treacly rivulets running down the wall; saw Zhukov tottering, still upright, arms by his side, the open mouth filling and overflowing with blood. A terror that transcended death, slowly sinking down, pulling the quilt to the floor with him, saturating it. Aware once again of the icy coldness, a sub-zero temperature that might have come all the way from the Arctic wastes, a taste of the prison camp at Vorkuta bringing with it the stench of death.

A laugh, a guttural animal-like sound, one that had him stumbling back. His eyes were playing tricks surely. Zhukov could not be dead, he was invincible, killed men with his bare hands, snapped their necks and threw them into a broken heap on the floor, crushed their bones with his boots. Now it was Zhukov lying on the floor, his throat torn open as though savaged by a Siberian wolf, the wound spouting blood high into the air. And that half-naked giant, the grotesque shape that had been sleeping peacefully on the bed moments ago, was coming awake, swinging his feet to the carpet. And most terrible of all was the expression of sheer savagery on those features, a gargoyle that had been given life by some dreadful unearthly power, a face that was neither human nor animal but had surely risen up out of the bowels of the Pit itself.

Ozeroff smelled its breath, a cold, foul, choking blast that had him retching, saw the distended nose cavities twitching like a wild beast that has finally scented its cowering prey; but the eyes … they were translucent, dying embers fanned by bellows and beginning to glow again. Living fire that saw and burned; he felt those orbs scorching his brain, robbing him of his reason, rendering him defenceless.

His fingers fell limply away from his gun and he just stood there. Those eyes appeared to be suffusing the pallid face, causing it to glow blood red. Thick lips moving, drawn back to expose the fang-like teeth, the gold fillings glinting, dazzling. A rush of words borne on the stinking breath, a roar of blasphemy and rage, a peal of insane laughter.

‘Fool!’ Andre Keschev thrust his snarling mouth to within inches of the other’s face. ‘Do you think I did not know what you planned? Did you think you could kill me? Me! Do you not know who I am?’

Ozeroff found himself shaking his head, mumbling a meaningless string of words. Apologizing. Pleading. Asking that his life might be spared because he was only obeying orders.

‘They cannot kill me!’ Keschev roared, mucus bubbling in those wide nostrils, beginning to string out, hanging, swinging. ‘They shall all die in due course. But you first, Traitor Ozeroff!’

Again everything was in slow-motion for Ozeroff. He saw the wooden stake going back and up, Keschev’s biceps rippling, flexing, bulging. The sharp point was dark red, dripping, spotting the lime green carpet. Trained on the assassin, a deliberate aim. Head back, Traitor Ozeroff, prepare to be executed!

Ozeroff found himself obeying, a firing squad stance, hands fidgeting behind his back until they found each other in a cold, clammy clasp. Eyes bulging, vocal chords straining in yet another futile plea. His eyes, crossing painfully as they focused on the incoming spear, seemed to click together and stick. But still they saw, with distorted vision, the bloody point coming closer. And closer.

Ozeroff felt it ripping into his exposed throat, a shooting, suffocating pain that brought instant blindness. He slumped forward but was still held upright; a sensation of weightlessness as if he was airborne, his feet kicking frantically like those of a hanged man. He felt the warmth of his own blood, its sharp iron taste as it began to drown him, heard it spouting, gushing, a distant tap left running and overflowing the bath.

Then he saw again through a red mist. A face; it was Andre Keschev’s and yet it wasn’t. The smooth skin had grown hair, a mangy dark growth that sprouted coarsely. The eyes blood-red rubies that burned him with the heat of a blacksmith’s furnace. The mouth twisted amidst the shaggy beard, snarling with bestial rage. And even as the Yevesekzia assassin died he experienced more than just the pain and his life’s blood jetting from his gashed throat. It was as though his soul, that mythical entity which the Communist belief rejected, was being forcibly wrenched from him. And he knew also, in some inexplicable way, that his murderer, the Soviet leader, was not human.

Slowly Andre Keschev lowered the inert form that still gushed arterial blood to the floor. This time he left the stake embedded in the throat. He would not be needing it again.

He laughed softly, resisted the urge to go to the wash basin and cleanse his blood-splattered body. A man who has just survived an assassination attempt does not generally clean himself up before he calls for help. He stood there in the orange-tinted gloom looking down on the bloody corpses; it was not their fault, they had obeyed orders like ruthless and patriotic servants of a great nation. But they had paid the price all the same. A troubled thought creased his blood-stained brow. Had they guessed or was it merely an attempt to remove one who had become a dictator overnight? He would know soon enough, and in any case there were others who would have to be exterminated. In due course. There was no immediate hurry.

He crossed to the bedside table, lifted the receiver of the white Trimphone and dialled a number. Those lips smiled again, this time with a trace of cynical mirth, as he affected the tones of one who has miraculously just escaped with his life.

CHAPTER NINE - Geneva

Yuri Denanko’s complexion was ashen. As he sat in the small office attached to the Soviet suite in the conference hotel only his iron self-control kept his expression stoic. The man before him, this bald Colossus, had not only survived the attempt on his life but somehow, single-handed, he had killed both Zhukov and Ozeroff. Used the intended assassination weapon, too, the Gothic wooden stake. It was Yafremov’s crazy idea that was to blame. They should have used a knife, or even a silenced automatic pistol, and pumped the huge frame full of lead. Sheer madness from the beginning. If a crude wooden stake could kill then so could conventional weapons.

‘All part of a plot by the religious sects.’ Keschev’s tone was deep, smooth and confident, rumbled deep in his massive chest. ‘The Jews, of course. As I said long ago, Comrade Denanko, their extermination is a priority. Not only them but the other religions who are working together in an undercover movement to overthrow the Communist regime. Surely you understand that by now.’

‘Yes,’ Yuri Denanko answered him. He did not, but right now he needed a scapegoat. He dropped his gaze. The leader’s piercing dark eyes gave you the impression that he was able to read your thoughts. And there was no mistaking the coldness that exuded from the other’s body when you were close to him. The deputy leader had been aware of it during the flight from Moscow. If Keschev was not dead then some strange and terrible physical phenomenon had befallen him.

‘We must rid Russia of all Jews upon our return.’ Keschev’s hands appeared to tremble as though with some unholy excitement. ‘I tell you, Yuri, the camps will be full before long. The prisoners will work the clock round digging mass graves to accommodate their fellow plotters. Now,’ he broke off, glancing at his wristwatch, ‘we have but half an hour before the conference begins. I must go and make my final preparations.’

Denanko’s stomach balled and he knew that he had to use the lavatory. He might be sick also. This madman, this hellish fiend, was about to put the seal of self-destruction on the motherland. They had tried to stop him and failed. Now it was too late.

There was no mistaking the air of hostility towards the Russian delegation as Keschev and Denanko took their seats at the oval-shaped polished table that occupied the centre of the massive hall. An atmosphere as cold as Keschev’s body, you sensed it, cringed from it. The stares, not just from the leaders of other nations but from the gallery above; press reporters from around the globe who had already commenced writing their notes. The Bear was the overriding threat to world peace. There were forthright questions to be asked by the well-meaning NATO, the Americans might become openly aggressive, and rightly so with a Russian invasion of Pakistan imminent. All eyes were on the hairless monster who had shed blood with his own hands and now smiled before them, one who was already ordering the mass slaughter of the unfortunate Semitic race within his own country. Truly the Kremlin Beast was aptly named. And now the monster of death was on public view.

The opening speeches followed the usual pattern, a summary of world events. Afghanistan topped the bill; a rumble of dissent ran through the gathering, all eyes turned towards the Russian leader. Pakistan, the threat. The possibility of US intervention, the consequences. You sensed the tension escalating within the room.

Each nation present had its chance to air its views. Always the blame fell on the Russians. The message was only too clear, withdraw your troops from the border, reduce your armaments build-up. And we’ll do the same. A firm promise. And stop this senseless purge on the Jews in the name of humanity.

The USSR microphone crackled as it was switched on, Andre Keschev rose to his feet, his size and strength symbolic of that of his country, his expression reflecting the sheer sadistic cruelty of the Bear towards the Semitic race. A leer, lips drawn back to expose sharp and dangerous teeth, gold-capped for effect. Then the smile faded, the features clouded like an impending thunderstorm. And he began to speak, his voice rolling, electrifying, frightening if you looked too hard at the man because this time you knew that his words were no empty Soviet threat.

‘The Soviet bloc countries have long been the scapegoat for the threat to world peace,’ his eyes flicked down the table from one leader to another, ‘the villains in the eyes of the West. Malicious propaganda. Yet it is the West that is forcing us to the brink. We went to the aid of the Afghanistan government at their request and we are accused of invasion. Poland, likewise, asked for our help and it brought world outrage. Now we are being asked to reduce our armaments build-up. Why? So that we shall be vulnerable, defenceless against those who wish to invade us!’

Someone muttered ‘Lies’ to a chorus of ‘Hear, hear’. The presiding official rapped on the table top, meekly, unconvincingly. Alone, individually, you had not the courage to challenge this man who defied the leaders of a score or more of nations. Collectively it would have resulted in chaos, reduced these summit talks to a farce, a worldwide joke. The Communist leader was entitled to be heard.

‘It is you, all of you, who threaten world peace imminently. The United States are openly supporting Israel who have declared themselves to be the enemies of the USSR. A warmongering coalition, and our country is infested with Semitic spies and underground movements who threaten to overthrow our System. What do you, any of you here today, do when you discover a foreign spy in your midst? You expel him.’

‘You refuse to let them go.’ The West German Chancellor was on his feet, his face flushed angrily. ‘We do not throw them into concentration camps, torture them, commit mass murders. The Jews in your country want to go. Let them leave in peace, Comrade Keschev!’

‘Order, please.’ The table was rapped again, and somewhat reluctantly the German resumed his seat. He was sweating profusely, he looked tired and haggard. It had taken a great deal of courage to face this terrible man who reminded him of the Führer who had brought destruction on his own country.

‘We gave them the chance to leave.’ A smile that might have been benign on any other face; on Andre Keschev’s it was the hungry expression of a hunting mountain lion, one of the most cunning of wild beasts. ‘They claim we will not let them go because they wish to remain to complete the erosion which they have already begun. We have no concentration camps, the like of which you accuse us of, only humane prisons for criminals.’

‘And dissidents. What about Vorkuta?’

‘Vorkuta exists no more. It is all lies, malicious propaganda. I tell you this, reduce your missiles, withdraw the American cruise missiles from British soil, as your pacifists are constantly urging you to do, and then we will follow suit. Our troops are ready to go into Pakistan because the government of that country requests our help. Perhaps they deny this to the West, that is not our business. We shall offer them aid just as the Americans are aiding Israel, our enemies. Take your lead from the Chinese, our own neighbours. They have reduced their armies to boost their economy. Once our enemies, they do not fear us now. We have not harmed them now that their armaments are slight just as we would not attack the West. But the West is not trusting. If there is to be a world war it is the West who will start it. Leave us alone and there will be peace. Interfere … and take the consequences!’

A deathly hush fell across the room. Some still stared in horror at this man who had delivered an ultimatum, seemed shocked, hypnotized by his very presence here. Others muttered amongst themselves. The gauntlet was down; it was a brave country who would dare to pick it up.

Yuri Denanko’s face was deathly white. He averted his gaze from the forest of eyes that blazed fear and anger at the Russians. Keschev had lied. And told the truth as well. Vorkuta was a seething mass of Jews, a thousand executions a week, hundreds dying from exposure and torture. True, the Soviets had not invaded China. Because the West had to be defeated first. Make a friend of the man behind you whilst you deal with the one in front else you get a knife in the back. An unarmed Western world, a fantasy, but if that happened the Politburo decision to invade would not be delayed. But you don’t antagonize an enemy before you declare war, you use stealth and cunning. Keschev had declared the Russian policy in a mixture of blunt truths and lies that were not meant to deceive. In all but an open declaration he had declared war.

And now Keschev was leaving. He had said what he had come here to say, he was not prepared to stay and listen to the other side. Scraping his chair back, he picked up a sheaf of papers entitled ‘A Guideline to World Peace’ and tore them through, scattering the pieces so that they floated to the floor like dying autumn leaves. One final glance at the assembly, a dark scowl, and then he was heading for the entrance, the deputy leader shambling in his wake. Within a space of ten minutes the Russians had destroyed the entire purpose of this much-publicized summit conference. They had also shattered the hopes of the nations of the world.

Throughout the return flight to Moscow Keschev slept soundly. Denanko glanced at the leader from time to time; it was as though Keschev had slipped back into that death sleep from which they had awakened him, a super strong human being who had spent himself physically and mentally. Which he surely had; single-handed he had killed those who sought to assassinate him and within hours he had psychologically destroyed every country outside the USSR. And that was when you found yourself believing that he was not human.

Zinderling’s words came back to Denanko, had him licking his dry lips. ‘He has to be dead, Yuri. No man can live without pulse or heartbeat.’

Except the living dead.

CHAPTER TEN - ‘Deny Thy God!’

‘We could be at war before the end of the summer.’ Sergey Prokop said gloomily.

He glanced sideways at Ursula, saw her in profile in the half-light of the crowded Metropole Cinema; Thursday evenings there was no opera performance so the tourists filled the cinema. It was part of Western education to view a Soviet propaganda film. Six months ago it would have brought sniggers of laughter from the audience; suddenly the Russian portrayal of the System, their military strength, was frightening. The main feature was a re-showing of Ivan the Terrible with Nikolai Cherkasov in the title role. A flickering, black and white 1944 production. Sergey wondered why they had dug it out, maybe they thought it was a good idea to run it side by side with the Boris Godunov opera. Treachery and violence, another version of the murder of Tsarevich Dmitry. At the moment Moscow seemed obsessed with the killing of the prince 500 years ago. Sergey wasn’t interested, reality was his concern, not legend and fiction. There was death all around, another trainload of Jews had been transported out of Moscow last night. A woman had attempted to escape, had jumped from a truck, impaled herself on one of the spikes. The train had not stopped, had carried on, mutilating her in stages throughout the journey. By the time they reached Barashevo there had been nothing left except a bloody mulch that was barely recognizable as human remains. The soldiers there had laughed, scraped it up with a shovel and fed it to the guard dogs. The story had been told amidst peals of mirth in the press liaison office at the Kremlin that morning. A slightly different version was reported in Pravda. A moral. Get rid of the Jews!

Ursula Ramanninov was decidedly uneasy. Sergey was aware how rigidly she sat in her seat, how clammy was the hand he squeezed. This was the safest place to meet, hundreds went to the cinema nightly; it was a lottery who occupied the seats next to you. Unless it was pre-arranged, of course.

‘I have heard that Rabbi Raikin is at Vorkuta,’ she whispered, turning her head slightly in Prokop’s direction.

‘And Josef?’

‘Josef Zuttenberg is at my place.’ There was a tremor of fear in her whisper. ‘A terrible risk but otherwise he would have gone to his death. They have arrested his family, we are awaiting news of them. If Josef is discovered in my apartment …’

‘You were foolish but I understand why you did it.’ He felt a sudden pang of jealousy. Another man in Ursula’s apartment hurt him deeply, however logical the reason. He had no right to think like that but it was only natural. And tonight he did not have an erection. Fear and anxiety were uppermost in his mind.

‘Keschev has been raised from the dead.’ Her lips were pressed against his ear. ‘I know it. They got Yafremov to resurrect him. It sounds crazy but it is the only explanation. And they have raised up a demonic spirit who will destroy not only Russia but the whole world. Sergey, we must find a way in which this evil being can be destroyed.’

‘It is whispered in the Kremlin too,’ he replied. ‘Pakistan will be invaded next week. There will be threats from the West, trade sanctions. A month or two of cold war and then …’

‘The only Jews left in Moscow besides myself and other … privileged people, are in hiding,’ she went on. ‘The KGB are raiding houses indiscriminately. People are being framed, accused of having Semitic blood in their veins. I heard that two young men were taken in, interrogated at Butyrka. In an attempt to prove that they were not Jews they showed that they were uncircumcised. So the soldiers circumcised them and threw them bleeding into the cattle trucks.’

‘A curfew is being brought in in all major Soviet cities next week.’ He had only heard it whispered that afternoon but whispers in the Kremlin were usually fact. ‘A ban on all tourism. That’ll mean an end to the opera.’

‘No,’ she shook her head. ‘Boris Godunov will continue. It is a tradition. Even if we perform solely for the members of the Politburo. Oh God, Sergey, every time Keschev comes to a performance I can feel his eyes on me. It is as though he can read my innermost thoughts and that is what worries me. I have managed to get word out to British Intelligence about what I suspect but it sounds crazy. Like I’ve gone mad, like telling them Dracula has risen again.’

‘He is a dictator now, just as Stalin was. If only we could find a way to destroy him. But,’ he grimaced, ‘that is what Zhukov and Ozeroff tried to do. And failed. Which is inconceivable. Perhaps the Politburo will try again. They want him dead as much as everybody else does. But we must be careful or else we shall both find ourselves on our way to Vorkuta.’

The performance came to a close and the lights came on. The audience began filing out and Prokop and Ursula filtered into the aisle, went their separate ways. Out into the street where Death was now a commonplace passer-by.

‘You are a fool, Comrade Yafremov.’ Ivan Alexey stared angrily from behind his rimless glasses at the man who shuffled uncomfortably in the chair opposite. ‘Thanks to you we have lost two of our best agents and the dead still walk. Sheer tomfoolery, an assassination attempt more in keeping with the Dark Ages than the present. If it had been left to Zhukov and Ozeroff they would have used guns or knives, succeeded. As it was, the attempt was clumsy and they paid with their lives, a great loss to our organization. Their blood is on your hands. I have considered a fitting punishment but exactly what I have not decided.’

Anton Yafremov’s features took on a greyish complexion. His stomach knotted and he thought he might throw up all over the KGB Chairman’s new carpet. He heaved inwardly, somehow got his nausea under control. ‘It was the only way, Comrade Chairman.’

‘The only way!’ Alexey laughed, a chilling sound. ‘The degree of punishment meted out to you depends upon you finding another way. And if,’ the thin lips stretched slightly in what was supposed to be a smile, ‘you succeed in ridding us of this devil that you have called up, then your punishment might be suspended. Indefinitely. It is up to you.’

Denanko sat on a chair in the comer of the large office. So far he had not spoken. At least it was safer to plot here in KGB Headquarters than in the new offices in the Kremlin. However, nobody was safe, not even a deputy leader, under a dictator. Keschev must guess that the attempt had come from within his own party; he might have extracted some information from the two agents before he killed them. There was no way of knowing. Every member of the Politburo was walking a tightrope. And Denanko would not forget last night in a hurry. The dark pouches beneath his heavy-lidded eyes were evidence that he had not slept; he would not dare to sleep tonight either. Or any other night. Until he fell into an exhausted slumber, one from which he might not wake.

The new apartments were luxurious. Andre Keschev had spared no expense where his Committee were concerned. Rooms which had once housed the tsars and their servants, apartments occupied by visiting nobility from all over the world. It was like stepping back in time, hundreds of years. The old atmosphere still lingered, old Russia had not been destroyed with the Revolution.

Denanko had worked late, retiring to his rooms sometime after midnight. Reams of official documentation had kept him at his desk most of the day; in Andropov’s time, and Chernenko’s too, such papers requiring top-level approval had been dealt with by the Chairman of Party Control Commission. Now Keschev ruled that they had to be vetted by the deputy leader, every minute detail scrutinized, and then passed on to the leader himself for signature. Denanko had toiled under all the extra work; he had, in effect, been relegated to the role of a senior clerk. Long sessions in Keschev’s office attempting to satisfy the dictator. Every small matter the deputy’s responsibility.

Tomorrow would be the same. And the day after. Yuri Denanko’s head ached, he might even develop one of his infrequent migraines and Keschev would regard that as a weakness; a means of grinding him down. He was drinking heavily.

Yuri had returned to his quarters and sought solace in a bottle of vodka. Another forbidden pleasure but he could not do without it. Eventually he had undressed, lain on the bed and hoped to lose his pounding headache in the darkness. He could not sleep, it would be hours before he even began to doze. His mind flicked from one thing to another; a list of suspected spies within the higher ranks of the organization. Keschev himself had drawn it up, ordered each individual to be investigated. Names and more names, some quite preposterous but they had to be checked out all the same. Sergey Prokop for one. Now that was ridiculous, Ignat Grinbat’s son-in-law, a Soviet spy who had been withdrawn from London because the British had framed him. A good record, just unfortunate circumstances. Denanko had put the file in his pending basket. He would speak to Alexey about it tomorrow. And …

There was somebody at the door. Denanko stiffened in the darkness, listened. Movements you sensed rather than heard, perhaps a shuffling of stockinged feet but he could not be sure.

He tried to reassure himself. It could not be anybody because there was an armed guard 24 hours a day in the residential wing of the palace. Which was why he never troubled to lock his door. But guards did not patrol in unshod feet. There definitely was somebody out there.

Yuri could hear somebody breathing, deep breaths that were being expelled quietly. Stealthily, as though whoever it was feared discovery. The deputy leader was sweating and the perspiration was chilling on his body. Because the room had suddenly gone very cold.

He opened his mouth to call out, changed his mind and closed it again. A child cowering in the fearsome darkness of a bedroom, eyes straining in the blackness, hoping not to see the bogeyman. Shutting them tight, pulling the sheets up over his head. Trembling. Don’t look, don’t listen, and perhaps whatever it is it will go away. It did. Or rather some time later Yuri Denanko could not hear it any longer, perhaps because he was doing his utmost not to listen.

A long time afterwards he had fallen into an uneasy sleep, plagued by illogical, frightening dreams that evaporated with the early morning sunlight that played gently on his features and awoke him. But he still remembered those noises and the cold of the room, and was already fearful of the next nightfall. Which was another very good reason for talking to Anton Yafremov.

‘Exorcism might work,’ the occultist did not sound confident, ‘but we should have to render him defenceless throughout. Again, I am not sure whether I could perform the rites. It is a gift, exorcists are few and far between, usually devout churchmen. It is rumoured that Bishop Kenyez has carried out exorcism.’

Alexey glanced at Denanko. ‘Yuri, we currently have orders to begin a purge on Christians. Keschev has ordered that it begins next week. By then there should be very few Jews left in Russia. The Christians are next.’

‘Then we must get to the Bishop before the KGB. Have him arrested, brought here. There is no time to waste. We have to play all our trump cards, chance everything.’

‘It can be done,’ the KGB Chairman nodded.

‘Good. Tonight then, after dark. Assign Oborin to the task. We dare not trust another.’

‘I will instruct Comrade Kovak to have the mission carried out with the utmost secrecy. And if this fails, then perhaps with Andre Keschev a prisoner whom we dare not release, Kovak can complete the job in his own inimitable style.’ Alexey did his best to smile; it might have been an optical illusion but his lower lip appeared to tremble.

*

Christian worship had been reduced to a handful of churches throughout the Soviet Union. The stately cathedrals were now museums bringing in valuable tourist revenue, the magnificent edifices of St Michael of the Archangel and the Cathedral of the Annunciation had been preserved in their original state within the walls of the Kremlin itself.

The worship of God in an atheist country was frowned upon but not banned, discouraged and watched over carefully. It was forbidden to print or import Bibles, prayer books and hymnals, and it was hoped by the Communist rulers that eventually, without the written word, religion would die a natural death. But now Keschev planned to deliver the death blow, to kill worship and its worshippers overnight. The Russian Orthodox Church must be eradicated forever.

Bishop Kenyez had been a constant thorn in the side of the Communist authorities. First in Poland during the troubles, then moving to Moscow to replace Bishop Torsky who had died. Kenyez had opposed the restrictions that the System thrust upon the Church; he had once succeeded in gaining a hearing with Chernenko who had appeared to listen with some sympathy and for a time the worshippers were filled with hope. Gorbachev had dashed that only a year later and now everything had gone from bad to worse. The Jews had been driven out (Pravda was reporting daily that they had been expelled to Israel, that only those who refused to leave had been arrested, interred, and in due course would be deported) and now other religious sects were under threat. The final purge was imminent; Kenyez had announced to his regular congregation that the usual Mass was unwise, the authorities might choose to raid the church and perhaps were already planning mass arrests. ‘Worship in your homes, I will be in constant touch. Do not fear, God will protect us.’

Kenyez was a tall, stooping man, his hair snowy white, and his strong features were synonymous with those of the saints which adorned the mural behind the altar. More than just a kindly man, a holy man. Some said that one day he, too, would be made a saint. At 65 he had no thoughts for his own personal safety. For years he had rested secure in the knowledge that his arrest was not in the interests of the Russian regime; it would have made a martyr of him, and would not have stopped the worship of God, merely driven it underground, fired the determination of the scattered churchgoers throughout the Soviet. But Keschev was not one to consider such consequences. He ruled by fear; torture and death were his weapons of war against religion. The Antichrist baying for the blood of his enemies.

The soldiers had already begun the desecration of the synagogues. Altars and many fittings appertaining to worship had been ripped out, smashed up. Only the buildings themselves were left and in due course they would become meeting places for the Young Communist Movement. Godless youth clubs, unhallowed halls where the word of atheism would be preached.

Which was why Bishop Kenyez was determined to pay one last visit to his church. He had thought about it during the day and had come to a firm decision. One final service, a blessing that even the disciples of evil would not be able to eradicate whatever they did to it Their preachings would be false and empty, the Word of God would prevail in that place even if they razed it to the ground.

Kenyez had remained in his house throughout the day, listening and tensing at every footfall in the street outside but the door did not burst open, no KGB officers rushed in to arrest him. If not today, then tonight or tomorrow; it could not be long in coming. He watched the shadows elongating on the whitewashed walls of his study and became impatient. Would they really allow him one more night?

It was dark when he donned his cloak and slipped out into the street, an air of furtiveness about his movements as he made his way along the deserted pavements. The rumours of a curfew had already kept people at home, barely a handful of cinemagoers thronging the foyer of the Metropole as he hurried past. Neither citizens nor soldiers walked the banks of the Moskva. Moscow had become a city of the dead.

He did not switch on the lights in the church. He did not need to, he knew every pew, every chair, the places where the warped floor dipped and hollowed. It was more tranquil in the darkness of a sultry summer night; it gave him a sense of peace, even hope, just being alone in here with God. His robes swished as he walked, the wooden altar steps creaked beneath his weight. A bow, a prayer, standing humbly before the draped structure which was God’s table, the silver crucifix seeming to glow with an ethereal light. He prayed, tried not to hurry, found himself listening for approaching footsteps but there were none, just total silence. Peace. Bishop Kenyez closed his eyes, absorbed the atmosphere. The Word of God would live on, whatever.

He prayed that the Church would flourish, go from strength to strength, emerge from this temporary castigation. He prayed also for the Soviet people and for their cruel dictator that he, too, might hear the Word of God and repent, that the sinner might realize the error of his ways, cast out Satan and …

The Bishop shuddered, was aware that it had suddenly gone very cold as though the doors were open and the chill breeze from outside blew in. But it was not the freshness of a Moscow night blowing with it the sweet fragrance of foliage in full bloom but the stench of rotting vegetation, sharp and unpleasant in the nostrils, wafting decay and … evil! He opened his eyes, looked up. The crucifix seemed to have dulled, faded back into the shadows. Wilted. He stared, had difficulty in co-ordinating his mind. His muttered praying became an incoherent babble, the thoughts of his brain having difficulty in transmitting themselves into words. A determined effort that failed, left his mouth dry, his mind a void. Shaking with cold and terror of the unknown, an overriding thought that God was no longer here with him. But he sensed also that he was not alone.

Bishop Kenyez was aware of a presence within the church, something that lurked in the darkness and watched him, burned him with a freezing malevolence that was akin to Siberian frostbite. He should have switched on the lights, it was too late now. Disjointed thoughts plagued him; he recalled his first exorcism, a Bavarian who was reputed by the villagers to suffer from lycanthropy. The attempt to drive the evil from the unfortunate’s trussed body. The battle, the ravings, the bestial features slobbering and screaming. The force, when it was finally driven from the peasant, came at himself in a whirlwind of fury and vengeance. The coldness, the smell of overpowering evil, the battle which he had almost lost and which had left him weak but victorious. Screaming at it as its strength began to wilt.

He cowered, was aware of a force that came at him now, struggled to remember the words. ‘Beat down Satan, and cause this evil force to depart … and never more hold tyranny … and give place to Christ.’

A momentary relaxation of the evil as though he had thrust it away from him, a fighter freeing himself from a clinch, awaiting the next assault by his opponent. A cry of anguish, it might have been in the Bishop’s own mind, a roar of savage rage. And then it came back at him. He lost his balance, fell awkwardly, sprawled with his back to the altar. Turn your back on God, holy man, for he cannot help you now!

The darkness appeared to lighten, gave way to a greyness like a winter fog, swirling tentacles of mist that reached out for him, stroked his skin with icy, invisible fingers. A constriction in his throat, choking back the words, destroying his only weapon. Seeing and trying to scream at the unholy form which was partly enshrouded in the gloom.

A head and shoulders towering above him, human in shape but the resemblance ended there. A face, the thick flesh putrefying, peeling off in maggot-ridden strips, eyes burning out of deep black cavities; nostrils that bubbled mucus. A mouth that glinted with gold-capped teeth and snarled its hatred, the breath cold and foul-smelling, vaporizing and mingling with the fog. Overall hairless, a naked form that pulsed and heaved like a mutated frog.

Kenyez offered up one last disjointed prayer to his Maker, a plea that he might be saved from this terrible evil, asking for strength with which to combat the spirit. A force that was robbing him of his strength, destroying his brain. Get thee, hence, Satan!

Laughter that mocked him, vibrated him, had him covering his ears in an attempt to shut out the awful sound. He heard it echoing, gathering force, coming back at him, a physical power that hit him. Deny thy God, churchman!

‘No! I will not.’ He thought he screamed but the shriek might have been in his agonized brain. A doomed man clutching at a frail piece of flotsam, knowing that it could not save him. Kill me, but I will not deny my God.

‘Deny your God, he cannot save you. The dark forces rule supreme.’

The Bishop’s lips were moving. He tried to check them but he had no control over them, twisting, forming words. Miming a mute denial, the veins in his neck protruding until surely they must burst under the strain. I am lying, my lips are betraying me. He heard his own voice, barely recognizable, a croaking, trembling whisper, his head nodding in time with the words.

‘I … deny … my God … Jesus Christ … the Holy Ghost …’

The laughter was deafening, that vile head thrown back, a cacophony of sheer evil that thickened the cold, swirling mist. A sudden marsh fog rising to trap the unwary, obliterating the surroundings. You are lost, frail one. Your God has deserted you and left you to wander in purgatory forever.

Something behind Bishop Kenyez fell, clattered on to the floor. Even in his state of terror-stricken madness he knew that it was the silver cross that had stood on the altar, that God had truly deserted this place which had once been His house. Crying in abject despair, his body writhing on the floorboards, tearing at his garments, shredding the cloth. Disrobing himself, somehow his limbs found the strength, casting away his robes.

Now it was his own insane laughter that came back at him off the walls, his cracked voice shouting words that were meaningless to him, a child repeating eavesdropped dialogue.

‘My God, I deny thee. Get thee hence from this place and do not return. Praise be to Lucifer, son of the morning. For he will ascend into heaven and exalt his throne above the stars of God. You will exalt your throne above the stars of God. You will ascend above the height of the clouds. And be Master over heaven and earth.’

Exhausted, wheezing for breath, laughing still. Calling out for his visitor. ‘Where are you, my friend? Come back and let us deny God together.’

Listening. He must have gone and that was a pity because Bishop Kenyez had not realized until now what a nice chap he was. So jolly, laughing all the time. And he’d been right about what he said. About God. There wasn’t a God, it was all a kind of indoctrination by an organization that called itself the Church. Tell the people a fairy story and they’ll be good. Which was silly when you could have told them about the real power, the hairless man with the burning red eyes.

Bishop Kenyez was still sitting there in the darkness in front of the altar when he heard the door open again and footsteps coming down the aisle towards him. It was too dark to see. He tried to call out but only succeeded in making more laughing noises. He hoped that it was his visitor returning, come back for him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Eighth Directorate

Georg Oborin was attached to the Eighth Directorate of the KGB. Assigned to special missions, he seldom wore uniform and received his orders direct from the Chairman, a privilege which annoyed Boris Kovak intensely but one that he was powerless to do anything about.

Oborin was virtually a law unto himself, one who disappeared for weeks at a time and when he was seen again nobody knew where he had been or what he had done. He frequently travelled abroad and one of the rumours attached to this living legend was that he had instigated the assassination of President Kennedy in 1963. He was, rightly or wrongly, credited with other prominent killings over the past quarter of a century; not, it is stressed, with attempted assassinations because Georg Oborin had a reputation for never having failed to carry out his orders.

Oborin was of indeterminable age but probably in his mid-fifties. Short and squat of stature, he walked with jerky movements which were deceptive. When called upon he could precipitate himself into smooth, co-ordinated action, an exceptional marksman from every imaginable position, and he could throw a knife with the same speed and accuracy with which he fired his Makarov 9mm automatic pistol. His favourite weapon, however, was the garrotte; a two-foot length of supple steel wire that killed swiftly and silently. Or slowly, in some instances, depending upon the victim and the circumstances.

That afternoon he had reported to Alexey’s office, showing neither nervousness nor subservience when he had been ushered into the Chairman’s room. A relaxed, emotionless robot that could kill upon demand, he lowered himself into the chair, lit a cigarette and flicked the spent match into the ashtray.

Ivan Alexey talked softly for half an hour without a stop, smiled with a self-assurance that he had not experienced for some weeks at the end of it. ‘So you see, Georg, it all rests on you and I know you will not fail. Bring the Bishop to Comrade Denanko’s apartment in the Kremlin tonight after dark. Both myself and Yafremov will be there. Your next step is to overpower Keschev. We shall then see whether this exorcism really works. If it does, all well and good. If it doesn’t …’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to let me kill Keschev?’ There was a trace of cynicism in the other’s voice.

‘Perhaps,’ Alexey muttered, ‘but the end result will be the same. If we succeed in driving out this spirit then Keschev will die, revert to the corpse he was before all this nonsense began. If not …’

Oborin smiled blandly; he would use the noose. It would be a pleasure. ‘Leave it to me, I’ll bring the Bishop along. You want me to fix him, too?’

‘Afterwards. We cannot risk him talking. But first get him safely and alive to Denanko’s apartment.’

Oborin left Dzerzhinsky Square and spent the remainder of the afternoon on the Maurice Thorez Embankment watching the Moskva flow by. Secretly, perhaps subconsciously, he had an obsession with the river. It was timeless, always on the move, always going somewhere. Like himself. And it, too, had claimed its share of victims over the years.

It was fully dark when he arrived at the Bishop’s house. A wraith that blended into the shadows, he tried the door. It was unlocked so he went inside, closing it behind him. It took him approximately two minutes to establish that the house was empty. A moment of frustration whilst he chewed his lower lip and debated upon his next move. Churchmen were predictable, particularly bishops. If they were not at home then they would be in their churches.

He walked swiftly now because already he was behind schedule. If everything went according to plan then he would be half an hour late arriving at the Kremlin and Georg Oborin had another obsession – punctuality.

The church was in darkness, which was only to be expected. As with the house, the door was unlocked and he entered, fingers resting on the butt of his pistol. Instantly he knew that the Bishop was here, he could hear movements up by the altar. Some kind of crazy religious ritual maybe. Oborin walked forward a few paces, then flicked his torch on. And stared in amazement at the scene which confronted him.

Possibly this was one of the handful of occasions in his life when he had been truly astounded, when he was rendered speechless, had no idea what his next move was. For a second or two his fingers tightened around the serrated grip of the automatic, then relaxed. This was one time when neither gun nor garrotte was needed.

Bishop Kenyez was naked apart from a pair of long pants which he had messed. A white, thin body, every bone seeming to be trying to force its way out of the flesh casing. Sitting there, a torn altar cloth dragged down behind his back, wielding a bent and dented crucifix in an inverted position, an imbecilic grin on his face.

‘Deny thy God!’ A shrill shriek followed by a high-pitched laugh. ‘Come on, deny thy God!’ Kenyez squinted in the dazzling torch beam.

‘You’re crazy!’ Oborin felt his spine tingling, glanced about him, swung the beam and brought it back to centre on the Bishop. Apprehension because something had gone very wrong, something that would have an adverse effect on this night’s plans.

‘And ye shall he free from slavery;

And as a sign that ye be truly free.

Ye shall be naked in your rites’

Kenyez chanted in a cracked sing-song voice that echoed eerily in the empty church. Saliva ran down his chin and dripped on to his bony chest. Laughing again.

‘Shut up!’ Georg Oborin fought to check his rising anger. There was a foul stench in here, probably from the old man shitting himself. ‘You can get dressed, you’re coming with me and we’ve no time to waste.’

‘Deny thy God for there is a greater power that has been shown to me.’

Oborin stepped forward and with one hand pulled the Bishop to his feet, groped for the torn and scattered clothing with the other. Kenyez struggled feebly but he was like a rag doll in the KGB man’s grasp. Somehow Oborin dressed him, dragged the garments over unwilling, stinking limbs, held him upright or else he would have fallen. ‘Now, you’re coming with me and you can just shut up. Get it?’

A hand tightened around the scrawny neck and only then did Bishop Kenyez’s wild incantations cease. He gurgled, retched, and allowed himself to be led back outside.

‘Are you mad?’ Alexey’s normally sallow features suffused with blood, left twin white spots on the hollowed cheeks. His eyes widened, blazed, fixed on the ragbag of a bishop, the highest official in the Russian Orthodox Church, who sprawled on the leather Chesterfield sofa, broke wind and messed his clothing yet again.

‘No, but I guess he is.’ Oborin was unmoved. They had asked for the Bishop to brought here alive and that task had been accomplished. The churchman’s sanity was not Georg’s responsibility.

‘We can’t use him!’ The KGB Chairman turned to Denanko. ‘He’s mad, had a stroke. Now what are we going to do?’

Yuri Denanko closed his eyes briefly, opened them again and looked at Oborin. ‘First, you get rid of him. Then you kill Keschev. In that order. Get it?’

Georg Oborin nodded his head slowly. ‘Okay.’ They might as well have assigned him some everyday menial task for all the emotion he showed. He stepped forward, dragged the Bishop upright once again, fondled the vein-corded neck by way of a reminder that the other was to remain silent.

‘Look, we have to stop panicking,’ the deputy leader said gruffly. ‘Things have gone wrong but it isn’t the end of the world. Oborin is going to get rid of Kenyez. All of us must return to our respective apartments as normal. Then Georg will return here on his own and kill Andre Keschev by whichever means he chooses. Then, in the morning, Georg will report to Comrade Alexey that the mission has been successful. I don’t want to know until it’s been done. I don’t want any part of it. And as for you, Yafremov, you’d better go home and forget what you’ve seen. Maybe we’ll send for you again and maybe we won’t.’

‘He’s …’ Yafremov’s finger shook uncontrollably as he pointed it at the Bishop, ‘he’s … possessed !’

‘Look,’ Alexey was seething with fury, his fist clenched as though he might strike the occultist, ‘we’ve had enough of you and your hocus-pocus, Yafremov. You got us into this and now you are unable to get us out of it. In the end we have had to get Georg to do your work. You are a bungling, over-imaginative fool. Tomorrow you will not report to Headquarters, you will remain in your apartment and wait until I send for you. I shall give some thought to what your punishment will be. Now, get out!’

Anton Yafremov slunk out through the door, followed seconds later by Georg Oborin supporting the feebly tottering Bishop. The armed guard in the lower entrance hall would show no surprise at these late night comings and goings; the Bishop had been brought in for interrogation, a commonplace event in Moscow during these turbulent religious upheavals. It was none of the soldier’s business; he was an atheist and that was a non-belief that was safe.

The Moskva again, a gigantic, oily snake in the early hours of the morning, heaving and slithering its way out of the city. Georg Oborin relaxed his hold on his prisoner and Kenyez slumped, would have fallen to the ground if he had not caught him. The old man appeared to be semi-conscious, moaning softly to himself, exhausted by the exertions of his demoniac possession.

With his free hand the KGB assassin delved into the pocket of his raincoat, withdrew that length of wire. The steel felt vibrant between his slender fingers as though it had a life of its own, a predatory creature that was about to be fed. Pulsing and eager.

‘A collar for you, Bishop,’ Georg laughed softly as he slipped the noose over his prisoner’s head, let it settle around the neck. Pulled it tight but not taut. Kenyez heaved, stiffened.

Oborin’s eyes gleamed, he felt his pulses racing with excitement. It would have been only too easy to push the other down the steep bank into the river, let the deep, swirling current do his work for him. The end result would have been the same. Except that it deprived him of the greatest pleasure in life. Death. A kind of ritual killing, an execution legalized by the State.

One swift tug, the wire tightening, cutting deep into tired and wrinkled flesh. A snared rabbit, a hanged man; there was no difference. The feet kicked, the body jerked and twisted, eyes bulging, a trickle of blood from the nostrils. Those were the few seconds Georg Oborin enjoyed most. ‘The in-between’ as he called it, when his victim was neither dead nor alive but suspended midway between this life and the empty void that existed hereafter.

Bishop Kenyez died on his feet, was not even allowed to slump lifeless to the ground. The killer swept him up as a parent might carry a weary infant up to bed, retrieved his garrotte and walked effortlessly to the river’s edge. A pause, savouring the dying seconds of this killing, a kind of subconscious funeral rites. May the waters take this corpse, carry it away to where the fishes feed on human flesh. So be it.

A splash. The body went under, did not surface. Georg Oborin stood there watching but there was nothing more to see, not so much as a disturbance of the strong current. He turned away, still fingering the wire noose in his pocket, caressing it lovingly. It had served him well yet again tonight but its work was not yet done.

Only now did his mind change gear, clicked up another notch, moved on to the next job. One that speeded up his heartbeat for a second or two. There were killings and killings. The everyday one was but a brief pleasure, soon forgotten. The class ones were few and far between. Left memories that were in a way erotic, reminders that lingered and brought pleasure for years to come.

And the assassination of Andre Keschev, the Kremlin Beast, was to be one of those.

CHAPTER TWELVE - Crucifixion!

It was 1.35 a.m. when Georg Oborin re-entered the Kremlin, nodded to the guard outside the Great Palace. A younger man, the shift had changed, but there was not so much as a flicker of surprise on the other’s face. You were conditioned not to question the movements in this place. Only an outsider would be challenged.

Oborin used a side entrance and a back staircase habitually. An inner furtiveness, even though none dared to stop and question him, because he was primed to kill. Nostrils flared, hands deep in his pockets; the fingers of one hand rested on his automatic, the other played with the garrotte. He had already made up his mind to use the latter, was savouring the prospect of that bullish neck being throttled, the flesh folding and purpling, the huge mouth agape, straining for air. The eyes glazing, protruding like bubbles on the verge of bursting. Perhaps they would burst, something which he had never experienced.

A small landing, on up another short flight of stairs. A wide, carpeted corridor with oak-panelled doors leading off on both sides. Lenin’s suite; now Keschev’s. The Lair of the Beast.

He was counting the doors on his left, had memorized the plan which Alexey had shown him. Fifth on the left; sleeping quarters incorporating a bathroom. He passed the fourth door, slowed his pace, now testing every board beneath the red carpeting before putting his weight on it.

A highly polished double-panelled door, a brass knob. A cursory glance up and down the corridor. There was nobody in sight. He stretched out a hand, grasped the knob lightly. It refused to turn.

Georg Oborin smiled to himself. If it had been unlocked he would have been suspicious. He slipped the garrotte from his pocket; it had more than one use, he reflected grimly as he inserted an end into the keyhole. An expertise which he had developed over the years, the knack of looping the wire around the key on the other side, pulling it taut and jerking downwards; taking the strain, being patient even when it did not turn the first time. It clicked softly the second.

He waited, listened. Silence. Ten seconds later he turned the knob, let the door swing inwards on its own finely balanced hinges. A gap of two feet, the extent of the wire, Oborin squeezed inside, deftly retrieved his noose, put the key back in the lock and closed the door.

Total darkness, not even a penetrating shaft of light from under a door or through a chink in a curtain. He moved warily, arms outstretched in front of him in slow, sweeping movements. He found himself in a wide lounge that smelled faintly of furniture polish. And something else. At first he could not identify the sharp, pungent odour which permeated the other. When he did an expression of puzzlement creased his forehead. This place stank like that church. Maybe Andre Keschev had messed his pants too. Georg permitted himself a smile.

Then that extraordinary extra sense with which only criminals and special agents are gifted made its presence felt. A feeling as though somebody had dropped an ice cube down his back and it had lodged at the top of his trousers. A warning, one that had him taking his pistol out of his pocket, holding it loosely in his right hand. It was damnably cold in here, too.

The bedroom door. He stopped, listening again. Not so much as the sound of rhythmic breathing or even a snore. Perhaps Keschev was a silent sleeper. Slept like the dead …

Oborin dropped onto his hands and knees, made a routine check for intruder alarms. Alexey had assured him that there were none but in this game you always looked for yourself otherwise you were likely to end up dead one day. There was nothing obvious, anyway.

The bedroom door was not locked and he pushed it open, went in with it. Christ, it was like a refrigeration room in here and that stench was stronger, a combination of mustiness and putrefaction. Oborin felt his way along the wall until he came to the light switch.

Now he was poised like a statue, one hand resting on the switch, the other at full stretch holding the pistol. Waiting. Still listening. His ears told him all he wanted to know, an anticlimax that had him letting out his breath even before he flooded the room with light.

Luxurious decor, the carved ceiling sloping to meet the sculptured wall corners. An oil painting of Lenin above the fireplace, kindling and coal stacked but not lit. A cream carpet. A four-poster bed, the curtains drawn on all but the side nearest to him so that he was afforded a view of the interior.

The bed was empty. Clean white sheets folded down over the pink coverlet, the creases smoothed out.

Andre Keschev was not at home tonight. Even though the door had been locked from the inside …

Yuri Denanko had eventually forced himself to put out the light. Everybody and everything had to function normally tonight; you went to bed and slept and in the morning there would be a phone call. Alexey feigning shock and surprise. ‘Keschev is dead, killed in his apartment.’ A CIA job, a top agent infiltrating the Kremlin stronghold. Check out that list of suspects, begin interrogating people. Pin it on one of them if you can do it convincingly.

TASS could hold fire for 24 hours. Preparation time. The leader was dead, several people were assisting with enquiries. A State funeral of course, the most splendid ever. It could be used to repair the damage done at Geneva and in the meantime the troops could be recalled from the Pakistan border. An easing of world tension, the Bear smiling again.

Keschev would be properly dead this time. Well, he had been once before (so Zinderling said) only this time he would be left that way. Maybe they could drive a stake through his heart just to be sure. I’m getting like Yafremov now!

Everything could be back to normal within a week. Denanko could play it cool for a while, all was not lost. All we need now is for Oborin to chop the Beast. He will, he’s the best there is. Zhukov and Ozeroff were not far behind him and there were two of them! Denanko began to feel uneasy again, resisted the temptation to switch on the light. I’ll sit up in bed, stay awake all night just to be on the safe side. That’s stupid, you should have asked Aleksandr for a sleeping draught. You’ll need some kind of sedative after all this, your nerves are shot to hell. Just sit this night out and everything will be fine.

Suddenly he got the smell. It seemed to come at him from the foot of the bed, a rancid odour that grew stronger by the second. It reminded him of how that bishop smelled. Shit and something else. What else? It didn’t matter, it was Kenyez’s stink lingering, odours often did. In the morning he would ring down for an air-freshener, open all the windows. In the morning. But what about now?

There was definitely somebody outside the door again. He could hear them, movements that were heavy and far from stealthy. Denanko sat up in alarm, heard the door handle being tried. It was locked, whoever it was could not get in. There was a phone too, right by the bed. He could ring for the guard. Except that it would be unwise to call the KGB in when their number one assassin was in the building doing his best to assassinate the party leader. Keep quiet and maybe whoever it is will go away like he did last night.

It was a nightmare, he did his utmost to convince himself. Fatigue, worry, drinking too much. Perhaps he was drunk. Shivering. He was running a temperature; soon he would be sweating, tossing feverishly in the bed and imagining all sorts of things. He closed his eyes tightly. He could still hear whoever it was breathing heavily, scratching at the door. It’s locked so I’m safe. Was it locked? He could not really remember. He thought it was but even if it wasn’t there was a patrolling guard.

A loud click that jerked his eyes back open. Oh, merciful heavens, the door was opening, slowly swinging back! Don’t look. I can’t help it, I have to. Staring with wide, frightened eyes as the gap widened and something came out of the deep shadows. A form that gradually took on human shape as it moved towards the bed, a lumbering thing that reached out with its long arms and breathed fetid grave fumes, eyes that burned with hatred and sheer evil out of that hairless skull.

In those few seconds before its icy fingers closed over his throat Yuri Denanko’s mind snapped. An inbuilt human safety valve that spared him the final terror as he was dragged from the bed, babbling insanely.

The Cathedral of St Michael the Archangel with its five domed spires stood within the walls of the Kremlin, sandwiched between the cathedrals of the Annunciation and the Assumption, with the massive bell tower of Ivan the Great towering above it, usurping some of its splendour. Its whiteness dazzled like some desert outpost, its grandeur overawed the tourist who saw it for the first time.

Once a place of worship it was now just an impressive museum housing the tombs of Russian rulers up to the seventeenth century, the hallowed hall of the ancient dead which still retained its fine architecture and atmosphere, sacrosanct even in an atheist land.

And amongst the tombs was that of Tsarevich Dmitry, last son of Ivan the Terrible, reputedly slain by that boyar, Boris Godunov. With him had died the dynasty that had ruled Russia for seven centuries, the pitiable fate of one child still remembered by those who believed that the spirit of the young prince lived on, a secret cult that still existed and hoped that the cruel regimes, which had been a result of the Revolution of 80 years ago, would be overthrown. A handful of these spasmodically visited their shrine of worship, mingling with the tourists, allowing the atmosphere of days long gone to soak into them.

The cathedral was opened to the public at 10 a.m. The duty was assigned to an armed guard who, having unlocked the entrance doors, assumed the role of curator, ensuring that none trespassed beyond the barriers of chain-link and keeping a wary eye out for cameras. A boring routine for one who had no interest in Russian history prior to 1917.

This morning was the start of just another day. A kind of ritual, the steady walk up the steps, the turning of the key, going inside. Gloom after the bright sunshine outside, a musty staleness that he noticed immediately; another cloying smell that caught the back of his throat.

For no logical reason he was uneasy, glancing about him, wishing that a band of tourists had followed him in so that he would not be alone. For this place of the dead reeked of death, and there was a penetrating coldness.

His hand dropped to his holstered pistol, he walked down the long aisle with echoing footsteps. He should have left the entrance doors wide, allowed the sunlight to shaft in. But first you had to check, prepare for an influx of sightseers. Perhaps today would be busy, a throng of people constantly talking in low voices, giving the cathedral a feeling of life rather than of death.

A line of tombs. He shivered, tried not to think of the mouldering skeletons that lay beneath them, hideous, grinning, fleshless faces. The aroma of death was strong today. It was all in the mind, he told himself. The way you felt engendered your own atmosphere. Check the desk quickly and then open up to the public. At midday he would be relieved by the next guard and …

That was when he almost screamed and ran. Only his strict military training stopped him from headlong flight. Staring in disbelief at what he saw yet knowing it was true enough, that indeed it was death that he had smelled.

Across the tomb of Tsarevich Dmitry lay a mangled, unrecognizable corpse. There was no doubt that the man was dead because of the wounds and the blood which had flowed across the tomb itself, found its way down to the marble floor in a dozen different rivulets and congealed into a sticky dark pool. That in itself was bad enough but as the guard’s eyes travelled back up to the body he found himself backing away. The bloody hands and feet were nailed securely to a rough crucifix, nails driven deep into wrists and ankles. A heavy wooden cross that would surely have taken two men to carry, it was tilted in an obscenely inverted position, a deliberate gesture of blasphemy.

The features beneath the dried blood were obliterated as if they had been pummelled flat by a heavy hammer. And then you noticed the throat, or rather the open gash where the throat should have been. A ragged hole, ribbons of flesh hanging from it, the jugular vein severed, the head twisted sideways on a broken neck as though even in death it has turned away in horror.

Mangled and crucified, slain in a place that had once been holy, staining the whiteness of a prince’s tomb with its blood, the victim was naked except for shredded night attire which adhered to the wounds. Repulsive, terrifyingly unrecognizable, still screaming mutely with its open mouth for the soldier to help.

Minutes later, ashen-faced and trembling, barely able to shout coherently, the guard stumbled back out into the sunshine and summoned the soldier who stood before the Cathedral of the Annunciation.

Shortly before the discovery of the mutilated crucified body in the Cathedral of the Archangel, another corpse had been found, this time within the Kremlin Palace itself.

The morning guard had come on duty at 7 a.m. He had looked for the man whom he was about to relieve but there was no sign of the other. Strange, but there could be a logical reason. Now that the leading Committee members were residing within the palace the night-duty man could have been sent on an errand. Rules were made to be observed by the soldiers but to be broken at a mere whim by the rulers.

The guard checked the corridors twice and then settled himself at his desk in the lower hallway. This was one of the duties where you dared not risk a smoke. The hours were fraught with tension, there was always the possibility of an unexpected summons, a call outside the normal routine. The Politburo’s whipping boy, their slave. Every time the phone rang you jumped and tensed. Eight hours of nervous stress, your mouth dry and if you hadn’t had the habit of fidgeting before you learned it now.

He sat staring at the empty hallway and in due course his eyes focused on the door of the small cupboard opposite him. A movement attracted his attention, more the contrasting crimson on white than the sluggish ooze of the thick liquid itself from beneath the door. A trickle that followed the slight fall of the floor, finding the crack between intersecting marble tiles, creeping still further.

The soldier stared, refused at first to acknowledge that it was blood. No, that cupboard was just a storage space, cleaning utensils, a few odds and ends. Maybe a can of paint had been knocked over by the cleaning staff …

In the end he knew, knew also that he had to investigate. Perhaps he could leave it for the next shift; no, by then that advancing rivulet would have traversed the breadth of the floor and somebody was bound to see it. He’d be reprimanded for lack of vigilance, punished. So he rose to his feet, walked hesitantly, reluctantly, towards the cupboard. It couldn’t be blood, not in here. Sure, it looked like it but it wasn’t.

It was. Even as he turned the knob of the cupboard the door was pushed open by the weight that rested against it on the inside. A limp body, the green uniform saturated with blood, fell forward, hit the marble tiles with a loud smack and rolled over.

The guard leaped back in terror, stared in horror at the corpse, almost vomited. For it was headless, just a ragged, bloody stump where the neck had been, twisted as though the head had been forcibly wrenched off.

And there was the head, upright in the comer of the open cubicle, squatting in a pool of its own blood like some giant carnivorous spider that had gorged itself, staring out. There was no mistaking the expression of sheer terror on those dead features, the eyes wide and staring, the mouth open as though locked in one last scream. Tongue protruding, dripping blood; everywhere awash with blood.

The soldier staggered back to his desk, picked up the phone. Dialled a double number. And when somebody answered the other end all he could manage was an unintelligible babble.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Destroy Him!

Ivan Alexey was notified of Yuri Denanko’s grisly crucifixion by Andreevich Gmyrya shortly after ten o’clock. There was a note of fear in the Second Party Secretariat’s voice and something else too which did not go unnoticed. Yuri’s dead and I’m deputy now.

And you might be dead before very long, the KGB Chairman thought as he replaced the receiver with a hand that shook. God Almighty, Yuri crucified in the Cathedral of the Archangel! This was the work of a fiend, no human being was physically capable of such a crime, not single-handed anyway. Outside he heard the wail of police sirens. And then the phone rang again and he was informed of the murder within the Kremlin Palace itself. Which was when he rang Anton Yafremov.

The meeting took place in Alexey’s own office in KGB Headquarters that afternoon. A small gathering of white-faced, very frightened, men, all members of the Politburo with the exception of Yafremov and Boris Kovak, Head of the Eighth Directorate. Men who knew. And feared.

Ivan Alexey glanced from one to the other. Vasily Petrov, Minister of Defence, insignificant looking, might have been mistaken for a factory manager. No personality, just a thin, pinched face and eyes that averted their gaze when you looked at him. Rudolf Golitsyn, President of the Supreme Soviet, overweight and coarse-featured, ill-tempered and argumentative. But he wasn’t arguing today. Andreevich Gymrya, tall with thinning hair, the new deputy once it was made official; if Keschev needed a deputy!

All gathered here because two men had died and one who should be dead was still alive. Now it was a conspiracy because their own lives depended upon it, not to mention the fate of their country.

‘Keschev was not in his apartment when Oborin checked it last night,’ Alexey said, ‘so obviously the Beast was out hunting. But how did he know?’

‘Walls have ears in Russia,’ Petrov replied and lowered his voice. ‘Nevertheless, it is up to Georg Oborin to finish the job.’ Pass the buck. Quick, ‘Because until he does none of us are safe!’

All eyes were on Anton Yafremov. Accusing. You raised him up, Comrade Yafremov. Or whatever this creature is. Now we cannot get rid of him and he has begun killing us.

‘Keschev summoned me this morning.’ The KGB Chairman broke out into a cold sweat just recalling that meeting. ‘He said, “It is up to you to find the murderer, Comrade Alexey, get your best KGB men working on it and report back to me.” Just like that. He even suggested Georg Oborin by name. As though he knew. There is no time to be lost. Comrade Yafremov, you are only here because of extenuating circumstances, otherwise you would still be suspended. Bishop Kenyez failed, now it is up to you. If Oborin fails, you must try an exorcism yourself. Do you understand?’

Yafremov blanched. He nodded only because he had to but cold sweat glinted on his ashen features. Perhaps the labour camps were preferable to the wrath of the Beast. Kenyez had gone raving mad, Denanko had been the victim of a Satanic crucifixion by one who was surely the Antichrist. Invincible, omnipotent. What chance did a mere dabbler in the occult stand? Pray God, if there was a God, that Georg Oborin rid them of this fiend.

The gathering broke up, left Ivan Alexey sitting at his desk. The KGB was the most powerful, the most ruthless organization in the world. Keschev had officially ordered him to track down Denanko’s murderer. He had to be seen to be doing something. A sham; a fall guy, a red-herring was needed. The Chairman’s expression became thoughtful, his fingers closed over the telephone on his desk. A decoy was required and he had already decided upon his man.

Sergey Prokop’s stomach had contracted, felt as though it had compressed into something the size of a cricket ball. He felt physically sick and had panicked inwardly when he received the message. When the Chairman of the KGB summoned you personally it could only be bad news. Unethical, perhaps, it should have gone through the channels of the Kremlin for Sergey was no longer attached to the special police. An ex-KGB man, an ex-spy, an ex-everything. A failure assigned to a desk job where they could keep an eye on him.

Equally, they could have arrested him without all this rigmarole. Alexey would not be interested in a spy, not at this stage anyway. Kovak was the top man but even then the interrogation would be delegated to the Second Chief Directorate in charge of internal security. Which was equally mystifying.

Just a telephone message out of the blue. ‘The Chairman requests your presence immediately.’ No time even to check with Ignat but probably he would not know either. There was only one way Sergey was going to find out. He folded up the papers on his desk and slipped them into a drawer. The report on Yuri Denanko’s murder had gone to Golitsyn for clearance before being passed on to TASS. A CIA assassination trying to pass the blame onto some obscure black magic cult. The killing of the guard was not mentioned. Guards were dispensable, it was of no interest to the public.

A kaleidoscope of thoughts jumbled Sergey’s brain as he crossed Dzerzhinsky Square, felt the stone eyes of Feliks Dzerzhinsky mocking him. There is no hiding place for traitors, Sergey Prokop. Lubyanka prison flanked the KGB Headquarters and it gave Prokop another sinking feeling. Maybe they needed a scapegoat, were going to pin Denanko’s killing on himself. Guessing was a waste of time, there was no logic to Soviet reasoning. But all the same you found yourself wondering, it was only natural.

He wondered about Ursula. If they were on to him then surely they had her too. And Josef Zuttenberg. Well, all would be revealed very shortly. He had had a good run, he couldn’t complain on that score. At least he had the distinction of being summoned to account for himself at the highest level.

Alexey was tense, as tense as himself, Sergey noted with no small amount of relief as the door closed behind him and long, white fingers waved him to a chair. The Chief was worried and that was good.

‘You have a good record in Foreign Operations,’ said Alexey, consulting a file on his desk. ‘It was unfortunate that the British framed you but what else could they do when they suspected but could not prove anything?’

Prokop’s contracted stomach muscles relaxed a little but it still could be a game of cat and mouse. Put the suspect at his ease and loosen his tongue.

‘I’m having you transferred back to the KGB.’ Alexey gave one of his rare smiles. ‘You will be attached to Special Investigations but with a specific role and answerable only to Boris Kovak. And myself, of course.’

A deliberate pause; allow time for the news to sink in, look for a reaction.

‘I see.’ Sergey was confused but managed an answering smile. ‘Forgive me if I ask what the special assignment is, sir.’

‘Of course. You doubtless know that the First Party Secretariat has been murdered. There is a confidential file on the details which you will be permitted to study. I could bias you if I suggested a CIA plot so I leave you to make up your own mind. Keschev himself has demanded a top-level investigation. I had to find the right man, you see, and with your exemplary record I decided that you were that man.’

Another pause. Sergey Prokop’s brain was in a whirl. Promotion; about six steps up the ladder but it didn’t make sense. Why him? Relief was the overriding sensation. You’re not going to be clapped into Lubyanka or sent to the camps, you’ve been given a top assignment. Take it a step at a time.

‘Thank you, sir. I’ll study the files and decide how I’m going to approach the investigation.’ As good a way as any of making a start. Then tread the minefield warily.

Euphoria as he stepped back outside. See Feliks, they didn’t get me after all. No, but they will. And the way the sunlight slanted on to those sculptured features and changed the expression yet again brought with it a sense of unease for Sergey. Somewhere it didn’t add up and his stomach threatened to ball again.

Olga was sitting watching the television as he knew she would be when he entered the apartment. She had not even bothered to hide the empty vodka bottle. She was wearing a long, dark evening dress which was an indication that they might be going out somewhere tonight. Or else they had visitors. Grinbat for a guess. Sergey groaned inwardly.

‘You’ve been promoted.’ She looked up and her lips stretched into an expression which she fondly believed was a smile. ‘Back to the KGB. Welcome back, Sergey Prokop, all is forgiven.’ She laughed.

‘How the hell did you know that?’

‘My father rang to tell me. He’s coming round tonight and we’re having a celebration dinner. So don’t get going out.’

A moment of anger. Vasily Petrov had not wasted any time spreading the news. Loose talk was dangerous; unless of course it was intended. Let the world know that Sergey Prokop is assigned the task of tracking down Yuri Denanko’s killers. But for Christ’s sake, why?

‘My father is proud of you, Sergey. Of all the men they could have chosen they picked you.’ Her mood softened, she rose to her feet, came towards him. ‘Perhaps now things can be as they once were between us, Sergey.’

‘Because I’m back in favour with the State?’ He resisted the urge to slap her. Christ, she was despicable.

‘No. Because perhaps you will pay more attention to me now. You go out in the evenings and for all I know you frequent the whore houses.’

He said, ‘You’re stupid. I have a job to do. My new one will mean that I shall have to spend even more time away from home.’

‘Oh,’ she hiccupped. ‘But in the end it will be worthwhile. Sergey, darling …’ he was too late to dodge her drunken embrace, took the weight of her sagging body as she slumped against him. He was aware of her bulbous breasts squashed against his chest, her bulky thighs gyrating suggestively on his own, and he smelled the drink on her breath as her lips went in search of his. ‘Sergey, it is so long since we last made love. Make love to me now. Before my father arrives. It will be … all part of this night’s celebrations.’

His first reaction was revulsion, a sense of guilt because of Ursula. An adulterous act with one’s own spouse. Then came physical revolt, his body wanting to shy away from hers, to push her from him, to wipe the slate clean and write ‘finis’ at the bottom. But he took her protruding tongue in his mouth and remembered the dual role he was forced to play. For Ursula; for his fellow countrymen. And for himself.

‘You have a meal to prepare,’ he muttered. ‘Afterwards perhaps. Later tonight when your father has gone. In bed.’

‘We shall be too tired,’ she gave a shrill laugh, ‘and maybe too drunk. Now, Sergey. Please.’

‘All right.’ Olga was already fumbling with her clothes, snagging the zip, laughing. He took off his jacket, began unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn’t going to be easy but he had to force himself somehow.

Olga was naked. In any other situation Sergey would have laughed openly. God, he hadn’t realized just how much weight she had put on. Her breasts hung low, wobbled like semi-inflated balloons, her navel was buried in a fatty crinkle where her pot belly started. A pear-shaped body, her thighs bulging with surplus flesh, lewdly apart as though to tempt him, to arouse him. She flung herself back on the settee and it creaked alarmingly, sagged.

He went to her, suddenly felt self-conscious, inhibited by his limpness, found her groping fingers offensive. She squeezed and rubbed; it was painful. Pulling him down on to her, her open mouth exuding spirit-laden fumes again. ‘Come on, Sergey, I’m desperate. I haven’t had another man, you know. I swear it.’

God, if only she had then perhaps he would have found it erotic. Her fingers pulled at him, tried to stuff his softness into her. He closed his eyes, knew there was only one way and it wasn’t going to be easy …

Ursula lay on the bed, demure and tempting, a naked nymph which might slip away at any second. A joke they had shared right from the very first time. ‘Couple with me, Sergey, I can’t whisk away from you then.’ That first time; he would never forget it, so unreal at the time like an erotic dream where you never actually mated and almost always woke up to find yourself lying in a warm, damp patch on the bedsheets. Only it had really happened. Ursula had toyed with him, the foreplay had been a lengthy tease which had twice brought him close to the point of orgasm. He felt himself beginning to harden, Ursula’s slender fingers rubbing him slowly, biting his neck all the while. He felt the hardness of her nipples scraping his chest, the warmth of her open thighs making ready for him. And he knew he could make it. Oh God, it was Ursula. Because he couldn’t make it with anybody else.

Thrusting fast in case reality sabotaged his fantasy. Hearing her escalating groans of pleasure, smelling musk and sweat the way it always was with Ursula.

Exploding. Writhing and convulsing together, holding on to each other. Kissing. And finally dropping back down to stark reality and hating himself for what he had done.

‘Oh, Sergey, it was wonderful.’ Olga lay there as he eased himself up off her, groped around for his scattered clothing. ‘I love you, Sergey. I’ve never stopped loving you. Tell me you love me, too, Sergey. Let me hear you say it.’

‘I love you.’ I’m a bloody liar but I’m a good one. I’m also a good actor. ‘Your father will be here soon.’

With an effort she sat up and he saw how her fat bulged, a series of layers from her pelvis up to her navel. ‘I suppose so. I wish he wasn’t then we could spend the whole evening making love together.’

‘But he’s coming and that’s that.’ For once thank God for Ignat Grinbat else I should have to spend the whole evening fucking his daughter. ‘What are we eating?’

‘Caviare, salad. Cold chicken.’

None of which needed cooking, just serving up. The way it had always been with Olga. As they dressed he was aware of her eyes feasting on his body, mentally savouring every last patch of naked flesh until it was covered. Because he was back in the KGB again. Where everybody wanted him to be.

Ignat Grinbat was late. The bell did not ring until almost a quarter to nine.

‘Congratulations, my son.’ Ignat kissed Sergey on both cheeks, smiled broadly. At least the congratulations were genuine, Sergey thought, or else he’s a bloody better actor than I’ll ever be.

Grinbat was short and stocky with grey hair that waved naturally. A handsome man in his younger days, his features had coarsened with age. You found him likeable, whoever you were, because he seemed genuinely to agree with whatever you said, plus he was a good listener. Sympathetic, the kind of man a Defence Minister could confide in, discuss his troubled secrets with. You trusted him; his only weakness was his beloved daughter and her shortcomings had to be made good by a worthy son-in-law. Sergey had to get to the top and carry Olga on his back because there was no other way she would get there. Her looks had deserted her, alcohol had drowned her personality. So Sergey had a role to fulfil on Ignat’s behalf.

‘A terrible business.’ Ignat went over to the cocktail cabinet, poured himself some vodka. ‘Of course, the news hasn’t been made official yet, we don’t know in what form it will be presented. An assassination, certainly. A CIA job.’

‘Really?’

‘You … don’t think so, Sergey?’

‘Do you, Ignat?’

Duelling with each other, trading question for question, looking for a breaking of confidences.

‘No, I don’t,’ Ignat lowered his voice, glanced round to make sure that his daughter had gone through to the kitchen. ‘You know what they are saying amongst themselves, the Politburo I mean. They say that Keschev was raised from the dead and has become a fiend incarnate.’

‘Do they now?’

‘It’s true, part of it, anyway. Vasily is scared out of his mind,’ Grinbat’s features creased into a worried frown. ‘Sergey, you must be careful. They are playing a game that has got out of control. They are trying desperately to get rid of Andre Keschev and it has backfired on them. Zhukov and Ozeroff murdered in Geneva, the night guard at the Kremlin palace. And now Denanko. Who next, my boy?’

‘You mean Keschev is killing them one by one?’

‘I never said that,’ a hoarse, frightened whisper, looking again towards the kitchen. ‘It is not safe even to think it but I have to warn you, my son. Why you? What is Yafremov doing if he is so clever with his magic? And Georg Oborin, the most ruthless killer in the whole of the USSR? Why then do they need you?’

‘I’ll be on my guard,’ Sergey promised and suddenly his appetite was gone again.

‘And my ears will be to the ground, too,’ Ignat Grinbat replied solemnly. ‘For you, Sergey. Call me at any time if you need me.’

Sergey remembered Ursula and that feeling of guilt came back. The Politburo were using him and he was using Ignat. It was all part of a deadly game. And as Olga came back into the room carrying a tray of salads he could not suppress a feeling of pity for her. She was the unwitting pawn in the game.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN -The Germ Factory

The phone in the KGB Chairman’s office rang; shrill and demanding. Ominously. Ivan Alexey’s hand stretched out, felt the harsh vibrations before he lifted it. Immediately he recognized the Defence Minister’s staccato tones, crackling in the earpiece.

‘Ivan, an order from the Chairman himself. He wants to visit the biological research centre today, requests a personal KGB bodyguard.’

‘Oborin,’ Alexey replied unhesitatingly, felt his pulses start to race. Perhaps the opportunity which they sought had been thrust upon them sooner than they anticipated. Only Georg Oborin would know that.

‘That is what I expected you to say.’ Petrov’s reply was guarded, meaningful. ‘I leave the arrangements to you, Comrade.’

‘And I shall pass them on to Georg,’ the KGB Chairman laughed softly, replaced the receiver, picked it up again and dialled Bodyguards Division. The order had to go through the proper channels. Just in case.

The Moscow scientific research laboratory for biological warfare would not have attracted a second glance from a passing tourist. It was not intended to. An eight-foot high plain concrete wall encompassed an area of approximately two acres. A storage depot perhaps, at its most sinister an armoury for conventional weapons of war. Only by climbing up onto the ramparts of the wall itself was it possible to view the interior, and the armed GRU guard patrolling the outside perimeter would ensure that that did not happen. The outer double steel doors, peep-proofed and painted an uninspiring grey, were only opened on production of a pass bearing the stamp of the Defence Ministry and the signature of Denanko or that of another high-ranking official. Even then there were delays, checks and double-checks. For this place had no right to exist, and was its identity to become known outside the USSR a worldwide outcry would have ensued that would doubtless have resulted in strict trade sanctions from the 112 nations which had ratified the Biological Weapons Convention of 1972 between the USSR and the USA.

Its presence was suspected, however, by the CIA. But suspicion is not proof and so far the slumbering Bear had not been poked. The Americans had their dark secrets too; like plans to fit the F-111 fighter with germ warheads. They also had the shame of Vietnam on their conscience, when thousands had perished from biological aerial attacks.

Within these fortifications lay the squat buildings of the experimental laboratories, concrete, windowless structures. Another wall, a six-foot one which housed the underground production unit where deadly bacteria were manufactured and stored, the results of the work carried out by the scientists in the outer labs: germs such as anthrax, tularaemia, bubonic plague, Weil’s disease, ricin and thallium. Canisters of bacillus that, if released into the atmosphere to float on the prevailing winds, were capable of destroying entire populations. Incorporated into warheads they would result in long distance destruction on an unprecedented scale.

The Moscow plant was just one of many throughout the Soviet Union but it happened to be the most convenient for Keschev to inspect. Kirov was too far; all in good time.

Georg Oborin received his instructions in his usual inimitable, stoic style. Not so much as the flicker of an eyelid or the tightening of those cruel lips. Merely a nod to show that he understood and then he returned to his apartment to don his best Cagney-style suit and wide-brimmed homburg hat. The conventional bodyguard, his automatic pistol in a shoulder holster, his garrotte out of sight in a deep breast pocket, his mission to protect the Chairman of the Communist Party. And to assassinate him if the opportunity arose. For Georg this was an unplanned assignment, one he would play by ear.

There was no delay at the gates, no pass produced. Just saluting GRU guards and a deputation of scientists, featureless, white-coated figures lined up in front of the main laboratory. Names were given but forgotten; this was a place of anonymity. Where death was manufactured there were no individuals, merely an indoctrinated brain within a body whose only purpose was to function on behalf of the System.

Throughout the short journey from the Kremlin Georg Oborin had shared the rear seat of the limousine with Andre Keschev. Neither had spoken beyond the initial perfunctory acknowledgement of each other’s presence. The KGB man was respectful but not outwardly overawed, discreetly chewed a sliver of gum to moisten his mouth. Alert and watchful, staring out through the bulletproof tinted windows and stealing an occasional glance at his companion. Motorcycle police rode in front of and behind the car; the roads were cleared of other traffic.

Keschev was dressed in an ill-fitting grey suit. His huge frame gave the impression of trying to burst out of the Savile Row cloth, the waistcoat straining and threatening to pop its buttons. His bald head was hidden beneath a trilby-style hat which seemed to have difficulty perching upon it. Sitting stiffly, looking straight ahead of him, his eyes were glazed as though his thoughts were elsewhere and this visit to a centre of diabolical death was nothing more than a routine to be carried out with a lack of enthusiasm. A duty expected of him.

The procession filed into the laboratory buildings; two scientists in the lead, Oborin at Keschev’s heels, the white-coated entourage following. Rows of closed glass cubicles inside which the human occupants were insignificant, poring over their microscopes and receptacles. Epidemiologists, microbiologists, some of them defectors from the West, intent upon their work on communicable diseases. A couple of prisoner microbiologists were known to be here but it was impossible to pick them out behind their protective clothing.

Scientific labelling that mean nothing to Oborin. He wondered idly if it registered with the leader. Propaganda notices, brief explanations from the guide which were meaningless to laymen.

Lunch was taken in a section of the canteen which had been specially partitioned off for this occasion, a table laden with smoked salmon, caviar and a selection of imported wines. The new prohibition laws did not apply here.

‘Of course, there is little to see in the production unit.’ Georg Oborin detected a note of apprehension in the chief scientist’s tone, that deprecating wave of a hand. ‘A factory and store just like any other.’

‘I will see it.’ Andre Keschev grunted an order through a mouthful of food, sprayed crumbs across the table, took a swig of red wine.

‘If you wish, naturally.’

‘I do.’

‘It will be necessary to wear protective clothing and breathing apparatus.’

Andre Keschev lapsed into silence, munched noisily. The Bear was obviously a ravenous beast today.

The procession embarked upon the second phase of its tour, the first stop an anteroom where rows of rubber suits and gasmask-like appliances hung from hooks on the wall. Somehow Oborin was ahead of Keschev now, hand outstretched to receive the grotesque-looking headgear which a nervous attendant was passing across the small counter. Garments resembling wetsuits that fitted over your existing clothing. Sinister apparel, the difference between living and dying.

It would have taken a trained observer to spot the tiny fragment of razor blade secreted between Georg Oborin’s third and fourth fingers of his right hand as he handled the headpieces, passed one to Keschev. A movement that was barely perceptible, if at all, the slight nicking of the material of the mask which he handed to the General Secretary, an incision of perhaps half a millimetre. Then it was done and Andre Keschev and his personal bodyguard became indistinguishable behind their anteater-like headpieces.

On down a flight of steps, through dimly-lit, insulated concrete corridors. Oborin was surprised to find that he could breathe virtually normally inside his mask; his vision was channelled by the visor and only now did he permit himself a faint smile of satisfaction. But even that was tempered. It was too early yet to congratulate himself; congratulations were reserved for certified corpses only.

The factory. Yet more steps and wider corridors going down into the bowels of this grim, underground structure. Somewhere machinery hummed, vibrated. Through the small, square inspection windows in the doors one saw figures moving about, working machinery, stacking metal canisters. Bug-eyed monsters in human form trundling laden lorries to and fro, loading and unloading; a never-ending task with death as the end product.

The head scientist said something that Oborin failed to catch; Keschev signalled in the affirmative and seconds later a massive steel door slid silently open. Beyond it was an underground hangar with a convex roof in which a dozen or more workers were off-loading cylindrical containers from a slow-moving conveyor belt, packing them into steel crates and sealing them with some form of plastic tape. Stockpiling the means to the hideous destruction of civilization, an invisible death that floated with the wind, struck silently without warning. The unwitting victims neither saw, heard nor smelled it. Lethal. A deliberate Bhopal.

Georg Oborin remembered the explosion at Sverdlovsk, an accidental release into the atmosphere of anthrax bacillus. A thousand dead; the agonizing vaccinations came too late. Some whispered that it was a deliberate devilish experiment. Whatever the cause, there had been no enquiry, only a brief statement in Pravda. It could happen again, here in Moscow. Anywhere. By accident or design.

Oborin scrutinized his charge furtively. Keschev was examining the machinery, the products. Gesticulating, for once obviously well pleased, smiling down on death. Yet the scientists seemed on edge, possibly because of their visitor. Or perhaps they only entered these death-stores infrequently, left the general administration and overseeing to foremen; replaceable personnel. You detected their fear even behind their face masks.

Keschev prolonged the underground visit for more than an hour, examined and re-examined every detail, spoke little; a monster gloating in silence. At four o’clock they ascended those grim flights of steps, traversed the stark corridors again and went through the decontamination chamber, leaving their rubber suits there. Then back into the limousine and out through the heavily guarded gates where the police motorcycle escort had waited patiently throughout.

‘Ingenious, Oborin.’ There was a faint touch of elation, childish excitement in the leader’s voice, an expression of gloating in his eyes. ‘Enough germs in one of those sections alone to wipe out Europe and America. Perhaps Pakistan as well.’

‘Yes,’ Georg replied, and it was one of the few times in his life when an icy shiver of fear crept up his spine.

‘Think of it,’ those eyes had filmed again, seemed translucent like a giant cat’s in the gloom of the car’s interior, ‘we have walked amongst death today. Only our protective clothing has kept a variety of plagues at bay. The bacteria was all around us, tapping at our armour, trying to get in. One chink, one flaw in our suits would have meant an inevitable and agonizing death. A few hours, that would be all we could hope for. Even the vaccinations are not guaranteed life-savers, to some of those germs in there there is no antidote. Comrade, today we have truly walked hand-in-hand with death.’

Georg Oborin succeeded in checking a wry smile. He wondered how many hours it would take, what bacillus would be the killer, whether that tiny cut in the head mask had been enough. The waiting would be the worst part. He would know by tomorrow morning whether he had succeeded or failed.

A long, slow evening followed for Georg Oborin. At nine o’clock he ate a meal of his favourite pasta and drank a mug of strong tea. Alcohol did not suit him, that one glass at lunchtime had noticeably speeded up his heartbeat, a fast trip hammer clicking away inside his chest. He felt heady, thought that possibly he had a slight temperature. Tiredness and tension, something which he reserved for the privacy of his own rooms. The KGB machine was winding down; in the seclusion of his apartment he permitted himself those few human weaknesses which he would have concealed elsewhere. His body cried out for sleep, ached in every limb like an adolescent fever, a virus picked up in a crowded Metro car. At ten o’clock he undressed except for shirt and pants and flung himself onto his bed. Sleep came almost immediately.

It was sometime during the night hours that Georg Oborin awoke from that deathlike sleep. Not a normal awakening but a slow surfacing that suspended him in a state of semi-consciousness. He had an uncomfortable awareness that something was wrong but his bemused brain was unable to diagnose exactly what. Neither was he certain whether he was awake or still sleeping. And dreaming fever-ridden, nightmarish dreams.

A strange terrifying experience, trying to will himself out of that claustrophobic slumber but failing, a drowning man desperately trying to claw his way to the surface of a waterway that was deeper and darker than the Moskva in the depths of winter. But always the surface eluded him, was within an arm’s stroke which he never made.

He was sweating heavily, the bedsheets were damp and clinging to his body, his night attire seemed to be tightening, crushing him, squeezing the breath from his body in the manner of those chemically-saturated shirts into which prisoners in the camps were put, that tightened and constricted.

He could not work out where he was. This place was not familiar, not like his own bedroom, more like some dark, cold cavern where the walls ran with condensation; so cold and airless too, his sweat was beginning to freeze on his flesh. Struggling to breathe, feeling the painful heaving of his chest because his lungs could not take in enough oxygen. And an awful cloying stench that brought on a paroxysm of coughing. He tried to call out, thought he heard a croak but he did not recognize it as his own voice. A brief flash of lucidity and with it a small voice somewhere inside him said ‘You’re ill, Georg, very ill.’

Things were moving about in the darkness of the room, shapes that were blacker than the shadows, gremlins who wore grotesque rubber masks with breathing apparatus attached. See, Georg, we can breathe in these. The air is filled with disease. That’s why you’re ill.

I’m not ill. You are! He had to be, his headache was blinding him, his temples pulsing, his mouth drying up so that his tongue was swelling. It would choke him soon. I have to get help.

You’ll die in your bed, they’ll find you in the morning. No, I’ll phone for help, I’ll ring Aleksandr Zinderling direct. He’ll come. I’ll fetch him … in a minute. Wait just a minute until your strength returns. Rest a while longer, you’ll feel better then.

That awful smell had him retching and brought with it shooting pains in his mouth and throat. It felt like his lungs were on fire, burning up. And there was somebody in the room, he sensed them moving about, coming close to the bed and looking down on him. So cold, he was shaking violently in every limb. Is that you, Aleksandr, come to cure me? See, I didn’t even have to call you, you knew I was ill. Give me water first, though.

It wasn’t Zinderling. Oborin’s hopes crashed; the figure was too big and bulky, an outline of a bald head. Just like Andre Keschev’s. But the Soviet leader would not bother to visit the sickbed of a KGB underling. So it couldn’t be him. Who are you? Are you a doctor? If you are, give me something.

The silhouette had faded back into the shadows, just a pair of eyes visible, orbs that glowed like a cat’s in the dark, burned right into you. Georg Oborin’s fear was fast turning to stark terror. Cringing in his bed, wanting to pull up the sheets and hide beneath them only he had not the strength.

You’re going to die, Georg Oborin!

No, I’m not. I’m going to phone Zinderling. Everything will be all right then. Just a fever, maybe pneumonia, but he’ll send me to hospital and I’ll be all right then.

Those eyes were not there any longer and that was when Georg’s strength returned. Suddenly, briefly, his body heated, returned to a near-normal temperature and his headache receded. He was weak, but he knew that if he didn’t make the effort now he never would. He exerted every ounce of physical and mental strength, coiled it like a spring and unleashed it. A roll that took him off the bed onto the floor, a groping hand that caught the headboard of the bed and with a heave that started his temples pounding crazily again he was on his feet. Standing there in the darkness, swaying, not knowing in which direction to go. He swiped with a hand, caught the light pull and flooded the room with blinding light. See, there’s nobody there after all. Go back to bed, Georg. No, I have to phone Zinderling.

The phone was there on the opposite side of the bed, a squat, one-eyed monster watching him, mocking him. Come and get me, Georg. If you can!

Sure I can. But first I have to have a piss. His bladder suddenly felt as though it might burst at any second, stretched skin that was full of scalding fluid. The toilet … his brain went hazy again and the darkness came back like a mist tinged with scarlet. I can’t remember where the toilet is. Well, piss on the floor then. I have to, I can’t wait another second.

Dizziness, nausea, fumbling in the folds of his sweat-streaked underpants, desperate in case he fainted before he urinated. Having to hold onto the side of the bed with one hand. Oh Christ, what a relief. That was better!

Something made him look down and he gave a strangled cry of shock and terror. A crimson stream, curving downwards and scintillating in the light, splashing bizarre patterns on the cream carpet and being absorbed into the pile. A crazy scarlet fountain, beginning to slow; a trickle, dribbling. Watching in horror and disbelief. Oh God, he had to get help fast!

The telephone was leering at him; come on, here I am, come and get me. Georg had to hold on to the bed or else he would have fallen. Easing his way round. The room was going cold again, darkening too. I’m going to faint in a moment. You have to hold on until you’ve spoken to Zinderling. Or else you’re dead.

Somehow he made it to the phone. Just an inanimate object, a chunk of plastic. He lifted the receiver; it was like a piece of slippery ice in his hand and he almost dropped it. Got to dial Zinderling’s number. He could not remember it, even if he had ever known it. A stab of fear and panic; the telephone directory was in the other room. No chance, he’d never make it, his life was slipping away. The headache was back again and he couldn’t see properly. Perhaps there was a power problem, reduced for some reason, and it wasn’t himself at all. But there was no getting away from the fact that he had pissed a pint of blood on the floor. Ring emergency.

Doktor … skoraya pomoschch! … bol’nitsa. Rehearsing the words in his own mind. Call a doctor or an ambulance, I have to go to hospital. I am dying.

He swayed, propped himself against the bedside table with his thighs, leaning his full weight upon it. Dialling, two digits, he hoped they were the right ones because he could not see properly and the dial spring was almost too strong for his forefinger. He made it, pressed the earpiece to his ear. Hurry up, this is an emergency. I am a KGB officer.

It was maybe ten seconds before he realized that something was wrong. The phone at the other end was not ringing out, neither were the wires humming. Nothing at all. The telephone was a dead thing. As dead as he would be very shortly.

Utter despair; the phone slipped from his fingers, swung to and fro on its flex, banged on the table. He found himself watching it, the drowning man’s fragment of flotsam sinking with him. So dark and so cold.

His legs would not bear his weight any longer. He felt them buckle, clutched at the air as he over-balanced, fell backwards. A soft landing, like a trampoline that threatened to throw him back up into the air. Bouncing, coming to rest. Back on the bed again. Back to square one.

He lay there breathing loudly and with difficulty. The room was dark again and he sensed that he was not alone, some of the shadows were darker than the rest, appeared to move, coming to the foot of the bed. Watching him. His brain was flipping from one thought to another; just as he had almost grasped the situation it was wrested from him. You’re ill, Georg. No, I’m not, I’ve never been ill in my life.

The pistol and the garrotte were in the pocket of his jacket hanging on the wardrobe door handle. He wondered if he could get them. What for? That one puzzled him: he had never come up against a situation before which his weapons could not solve. If only he had them, things would be different then. But he was too weak.

That guy was back again, the one with the gasmask and the eyes that glowed behind the visor. What the fuck was he doing in here? If I had my gun I’d …

The other was taking off that headpiece, struggling to drag it over his head, got it free at last. Georg could see him in silhouette, a big fellow with a bald head, mopping his brow as though he had been sweating inside that thing. Smiling. You couldn’t see his features but you knew the thick lips were stretched, leering.

Look, comrade, I’m ill, I need to see a doctor. Call one for me. I’ll pay you. Oborin could not get the words out, made a kind of gurgling sound in his burning throat. Maybe the other would understand. Hell, it was obvious enough.

The intruder was holding up the mask, wanting Georg to look at it. He strained his eyes, could just make it out. One of those protective masks like they used at the biological research centre. A flood of memories came back, his brain awash with them like a movie that jumped from one scene to another. The big man, the bald head. Those eyes … familiar. Recognition hovered, was snatched away from him. Just a big man who smiled cruelly and wanted him to look at the headgear. OK, I’m looking.

Oborin could make out the object more clearly now, saw it pulled and stretched, noticed the cut in the material. Almost invisible until you looked hard. Faulty, dangerous. It should be scrapped before somebody got poisoned or infected with some deadly disease.

The other’s eyes glowed redly now, seemed to burn with a deep hatred, the leer turning to a snarl. And then fading, blending back into the darkness until he wasn’t there anymore.

Georg Oborin was sweating and he felt the perspiration chilling on his body, bringing back the shivering. His throat was swelling up, hurting every time he swallowed. Head thumping like an approaching military band. And he knew that he had to urinate again.

A token effort to get out of bed but now all movement was denied him. Flaccid trembling limbs, the last of his waning strength drained from his body. He was dimly aware that he was incontinent, felt the scalding liquid on his thighs, the sheet beneath him becoming soaked. More of his life’s blood draining away. The irony of it, a strangled laugh bursting from his puffed lips. You came into this world pissing yourself and you went out pissing yourself.

He made a determined effort to try and picture his recent visitor again. Familiar, but it was like a jack-o’-lantern wisping away from him so that he never got a really good look at it. A bald head, eyes that burned into you, smiled and scowled. No, he couldn’t place the guy.

His body was itching now but he had not the strength to scratch. Driving him mad. Urinating again. He could hear it soaking through the bedclothes beneath him and dripping onto the floor. The sound of the liquid reminded him of his thirst; he swallowed some saliva and the pain was like boiling water being poured down his throat.

Sometime around dawn Georg Oborin died.

BOOK TWO - The Insurrection

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - The Survivor

Aleksandr Zinderling arrived at Andreevich Gmyrya’s office later the following afternoon. The surgeon looked tired, his features lined, his hair ruffled as though he had not had time to comb it. Harassed, dishevelled; more than just worried. Frightened.

‘Georg Oborin died of leptospirosis,’ he said weakly.

‘What’s that?’ The new deputy leader did not really want to know the details but he had to. Because he had to report to Keschev, check with the biological research centre, for there was no doubt in his mind that that was where the KGB man had picked up the virus. Some terrible mistake, one that must not be allowed to happen again. And, above all, they had lost the one man who might have been able to solve their problems.

‘It is also known as Weil’s disease.’ Zinderling was tight-lipped. ‘You catch it from animals, rats mostly. Begins with a fever, thumping headache, a rash, and then affects the kidneys so you urinate blood. Caught from a rat in the normal way it would be curable with antibiotics but Georg has had an unbelievably massive dose. It took him in a few hours. I doubt whether anything could have been done anyway. Obviously he picked it up at the research centre.’

‘How? Security is tight.’

‘Not tight enough, it would seem. You must warn them, Andreevich, there is a leakage somewhere. I am wondering about …’

‘Keschev?’

‘Yes. Oborin was his bodyguard. Why Georg and not our tyrannical leader? I will tell you why, my friend, because Andre Keschev is dead already. That is why he did not die along with Oborin. But we still have a problem.’

‘I think we had better suggest to Keschev that he undergo a check. Just as a precaution,’ Gmyrya smiled weakly. ‘You had better see for yourself, Aleksandr.’

Zinderling pursed his lips. Only too well he remembered the last time he had examined the Soviet leader. No pulse, no heartbeat, a temperature which was that of a corpse. ‘I don’t really think it will be necessary.’

‘I insist, Aleksandr.’ Gmyrya picked up the phone, asked for a call to be put through. Did Keschev and Oborin wear proper protective clothing for their inspection of the biological research centre and if so then check that equipment out. And after that the Soviet’s top physician would like to check out Andre Keschev.

Andre Keschev talked as he wrote, conversed in deep, nasal tones whilst his pencil scribbled on a pad in front of him. Zinderling watched the other carefully. So pallid, no trace of a flush in the cheeks, the lips colourless too. The bald head was dulled, did not shine like so many hairless craniums did. As though the flesh was merely preserved, did not actually live. Like an unembalmed mummy. The surgeon shuddered; after a lifetime of medical research he would have said it was impossible but here was the proof before his very eyes. The last thing he wanted was to feel that pulse, touch the cold flesh again. There was no point; nothing would have changed.

‘Oborin?’ Andre Keschev crossed something out on his jotter, rewrote it. Half-listening because it wasn’t important to him. Or else he was acting, hiding behind a façade of Politburo business.

‘Your guard yesterday. At the biological research centre.’

‘Oh, yes. I remember. Dead, you say?’

‘Of a highly dangerous and concentrated bacillus. He could only have got it from there. We are concerned for your safety, Comrade General Secretary. I would like to examine you, briefly and without inconveniencing you, just to be sure. I’m sure you understand.’

The pencil stopped writing, the face was uplifted. A second or two whilst that film cleared from the eyes, the lips moving a little before any sound came, like dubbing on an amateur film. ‘That will not be necessary, I am in perfect health. However, the safety equipment at the research centre must be checked. I will ask Comrade Gmyrya to order it.’

‘He has done so already.’ Zinderling wondered if he had been presumptuous in volunteering information. Deputy leaders did not generally discuss such matters with their surgeons.

‘Good.’ Keschev’s eyes were brighter now, unblinking, staring fixedly at the man who sat nervously opposite him in this huge office of accumulated grandeur that only a short time ago had been a tourist attraction. Lenin’s sanctum; the seat of a great leader. ‘I don’t think there is anything else for us to discuss, Comrade Zinderling. I thank you for your concern for my health.’ Those eyes were mocking now. Look at me, you have examined me once. Surely you know. ‘Now, I am extremely busy.’

Aleksandr Zinderling departed with as much speed as dignity would allow, grateful to be back outside where the sun shone warmly. Once that room had been Lenin’s office; now, in a way, it was part of the great man’s mausoleum. A tomb where the dead walked and talked.

A short time later Zinderling returned to the deputy’s office. There was no mistaking the anxiety of Gmyrya’s features; he had aged considerably in the last couple of hours.

‘The headgear, Aleksandr,’ he blurted out the moment the door was closed. ‘The centre have checked and found two faulty ones. One was worn badly in one place as though the material had perished or rubbed against something abrasive. They are investigating it. There was a cut on the other, like a deliberate slit made by a knife.’

‘Georg … he attempted to …’

‘And failed. Only, presumably accidentally, he had a faulty mask himself. These germs you mentioned, they infiltrated both pieces of equipment. One man died because he was human, the other lived because …’

‘What are we going to do now?’

‘That will be up to Alexey. I think, personally, that the next victim to go to the sacrificial altar should be Comrade Yafremov. He resurrected this fiend. Let him destroy it or join it in purgatory!’

Olga was not turned towards the opposite wall of the bedroom tonight. Instead she lay facing Sergey, her arm moving round to embrace him in slow stages. He tried not to stiffen, fought off his reluctance; attempted to feign sleep. But it didn’t work.

She pulled her nightdress up and he felt the spongy warmth of her naked body against him, suggestive wriggles that were designed to wake him if he really was asleep. He sighed, gave up.

‘Sergey?’

‘What?’

‘It is wonderful that we have got back together so well, isn’t it? I told my father and he is delighted.’

Damn Olga and her father. He said ‘Good,’ because he could not think of anything else to say. His life was fast becoming more complicated by the day. A natural break-up was on the cards and now he was back in the role of the guilt-ridden husband with a secret mistress. His problems were adding up.

‘Sergey.’ A pause as though she had something to say but did not quite know how to put it into words. ‘You know … God has brought us together.’

‘What!’ It was all he could do to refrain from sitting bolt upright. The room seemed to spin in the darkness and he thought that perhaps he had not heard right. Olga was drunk, of course.

‘Sergey, there is something … I have to tell you. I have been … unfaithful.’

Christ, she was bloody drunk! The very idea of Olga giving herself to another man was preposterous. So funny that you wanted to burst out laughing. Like an erotic comedy, a slapstick movie that was so ridiculous that it had you rolling about in your seat with laughter. He did not reply because there were no words which were adequate. Go on, tell me more and let me get to sleep.

‘I don’t mean that I’ve had another man, nothing like that,’ her words came in a rush as though to reassure him, ‘I mean that, well … I’ve betrayed not just you but my father. The State. It has been a terrible trial for me, that is why I’ve been drinking so much. You see, I’ve found God!’

‘Have you?’ He felt her fingers tensing, pinching his flesh. ‘Whyever do you say that, Olga? There is no God. Except in the minds of a few who seek comfort from a tyrannical System. A means of solace. They know it is fantasy but they have nothing else to turn to. A vain hope, something to keep them sane. I can understand them, I sympathize with them. But ultimately it is an empty belief that many of them will take to their grave.’

‘That is where you are wrong. Whilst you were away in London I began attending the church. Secretly, of course. I wondered if it might help. After a time it did and I began to realize. I prayed to God and he answered my prayers.’

His brain had difficulty in coping. Olga, the daughter of Ignat Grinbat, personal friend of Vasily Petrov the Defence Minister, turning to religion! It was akin to Andre Keschev abolishing Communism and setting up a capitalist State. But Sergey believed her, knew that it wasn’t just the vodka talking. Possibly it had loosened her tongue but these weren’t the wild ramblings of an alcoholic. She had quite clearly contracted a pernicious dose of religious mania. And that, in these troubled times, was a fatal disease.

‘You’ve … you’ve actually … attended church?’

‘Several times. I nearly went crazy when they sent you to England. I even contemplated taking my own life. My life had become empty, nothing left to live for. So I prayed, asked God to sent you back to me. And He did. He sent a changed Sergey home, one who was aloof and distant, shunned me. So I talked with God again and He told me that it was my fault, that I had to work to get you back, show affection. I was afraid, Sergey, that … that there was somebody else in your life. There … there isn’t, is there?’

‘No.’ The lie came automatically and he hated himself for it. ‘Of course there isn’t.’

‘I knew there wasn’t really. But I’m worried, Sergey. Nobody has seen Bishop Kenyez for almost a week. What has happened to him?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said, which was loosely the truth. He knew that the Bishop had been brought in for interrogation but as far as Prokop knew he had been released. ‘A lot of people disappear these days without trace.’

‘I want you to find out where he is, Sergey.’

‘I’ll keep my ears open but in all probability he has been transported to the labour camps.’

He felt her body stiffen, her fingernails gouging into his flesh. ‘It’s terrible. Inhuman. Evil. The Jews, they’re either all in hiding or else prisoners. Or dead. Oh, Sergey, you mustn’t get involved in any persecution.’

‘I’m not. My job is to find Denanko’s killer.’

‘He would be as bad if he was leader. The Church is our only hope.’

‘It’s dangerous,’ he said. ‘You must not be an active participant. Pray at home if you must.’

‘I must visit the church one last time. Before they desecrate it.’

‘No!’

She did not reply. Damn it, this could complicate everything. The last thing he wanted was Olga becoming a known dissident. She was trembling, clutching at him. He wished things were as they had been for the past few months; it made his double role so much easier. Ursula seemed to be slipping further and further away from him. His role as a British spy might just be forgotten; Sergey Prokop, KGB agent on special duties, nothing else.

It was just before seven when the bedside phone buzzed, stirred him out of a deep, dreamless sleep, an arm groping for the receiver, more to quieten it than anything else. A drowsy ‘Prokop’.

It was Ivan Alexey, his tone curt and matter-of-fact as though he himself did not need sleep and nobody else should. ‘Yafremov needs a dog,’ he said.

‘A what?’

‘A dog. Don’t ask me why but it is to do with the task to which he has been assigned. Get one and bring it to Headquarters. Its role is that of a guard dog, you understand?’

‘I understand,’ Sergey answered. ‘I’ll pick one up, leave it to me.’

‘Who was that?’ Olga was awake, watching him intently.

‘Headquarters. They need a guard dog. I must go and get one.’

‘But why you? That is a menial task, a job for a soldier or a chauffeur. ‘ There was an expression of disdain on her features.

‘My duties are more than just sitting at a desk all day. And another thing, Olga,’ he was pulling his shirt over his head so that she could not see his expression, ‘you have waited a long time to get us back together. Or rather your God has. Both of you biding your time until I got promotion. Or is that just a coincidence?’

She turned over, buried her face in the pillow. Her back was towards him like it had been up until last night. Perhaps that was how one prayed, he smiled cynically. In her own way she was being unfaithful to him again. You would be better off with your God than with me, Olga. Go to him and let me get about my business.

He did not bother with breakfast, went straight outside. He knew where there was a dog, one that would fit the bill, an animal that was destined to be put down before long because of its ferociousness. All the same, he could not help wondering what damfool trick Yafremov was up to now.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Night of the Dog

The dog was a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a big strong brute with a red, wheaten coat, standing two and a half feet high and weighing 80 pounds. Sheer muscle, you sensed its strength, its ferociousness, a creature that had once been bred to hunt and had not forgotten its predatory heritage. Along its back that strange ridge of hair, scar-like in appearance, from which its name was derived. The legend was that this breed, with the mystery of unknown Africa in its eyes, was once clawed by a lion and the scar was destined to remain forever. Originating from a Hottentot hunting dog and crossed with a Cuban bloodhound, the species had played a number of roles throughout history; sporting dog amongst the hunters of the Transvaal, tracker dog and guard dog. Now a different task was required of this handsome animal that had found its way into the USSR.

Anton Yafremov had kept it shut up in the kitchen all day. It seemed docile enough but secretly he was afraid of it. It had mauled an intruder at the house of a friend of Prokop’s; the victim, it had transpired, was a KGB agent carrying out an investigation. A complaint was currently with Boris Kovak but no decision had been reached yet. The odds were on the Ridgeback being destroyed; now it had a stay of execution, a suspension rather than a reprieve. Yafremov doubted whether it would survive this coming night. Win or lose, the creature’s fate was sealed. But better to go down fighting. He tried to laugh at his own joke.

He could not, dare not, attempt anything before sunset. So the animal must remain in the kitchen. Towards mid-afternoon he put a bowl of fatty meat inside the door. The dog was lying over by the sink watching him, ears half-cocked in puzzlement. It had lifted its leg against the fridge and a pool of yellow urine had spread across the floor.

It whined softly but made no attempt to get up. It seemed almost to understand, but that was impossible. Even Yafremov himself did not fully understand, only that this coming night he had to play all his aces. If Keschev still lived in the morning then Yafremov would surely be transported to the camps. Alexey had warned him; they would not tolerate this bungling tomfoolery any longer.

Anton closed the door and went back into the living room. It was necessary for him to fast today but that was easy because the last thing he wanted was food. His stomach felt as though it had shrunk, did not exist any longer. His hands shook as if with the ague and when he glanced in the mirror he read the sheer hopelessness in his own eyes. The chance was a million to one, but he had to try. His life and his soul were at risk; once he had been a religious man, worshipped regularly, but his direction had veered from the conventional route. Certainly not Satanic worship, as his critics had accused him of on more than one occasion, but rather a study of natural forces. For what was magic but the science of nature, the discovery of hitherto untapped powers? His reputation had far outstripped the powers that he was credited with and by devious paths had brought him to this. He had bluffed and won, achieved the ultimate, the resurrection of the dead. Now he must bluff again, play his last card and hope. Play it by the book, the written word of long-dead magicians and sorcerers, and pray that theirs, too, had not been just a bluff.

Neither food nor drink must pass his lips. He must rest, conserve his energy, for tonight he would need every last reserve, both physical and mental. He lay on the sofa, attempted meditation; the art of letting the mind relax and wander wherever it chose. He could not get Keschev out of his thoughts, struggled to dispel the mental image of that fiendish face on the wintry night when life had seeped back into it. A Frankenstein’s monster for real.

Eventually he discarded all attempts at meditating. He lay on the floor, went through a few yoga positions. His body should have relaxed; it didn’t, it tensed and stiffened.

He craved a cigarette but fought off the urge. Neither food nor drink. Nor tobacco. The condemned man was not to be permitted a final smoke.

Think positively. Another rule; dispel all negative thoughts for you must be the Master. He tried it. Keschev was going to die, even the dead must die when the soul is destroyed. The enemy is a spirit which must be banished. A confrontation, a kind of Armageddon, Good versus Evil. For if this dark power were to survive then the world would perish. Pravda had hinted at a pact between the USSR and Libya, a supply of nuclear missiles for the purpose of destroying Israel, the hated enemy. But that would be only the beginning.

Yafremov tried to visualize Keschev dead. Really dead; an empty mutilated human form, savaged beyond recognition. A State funeral but the coffin would be covered because the corpse would be too horrific to put on view. A fantasy, he had difficulty in envisaging it.

His train of thought led to a series of detours. Who was this creature? Stalin perhaps; it was not beyond the bounds of possibility except that Stalin would not be hell-bent on the destruction of the State he had created. It did not figure. One day he would study the archives of the central library in an attempt to find a clue. One day … there might not be another day.

The Ridgeback in the kitchen whined, interrupting his thoughts. The shadows on the walls had elongated, it was nearly time. Another hour at the most.

Dusk. Yafremov did not switch on the lights as he made his way softly towards the kitchen, listened at the door. No sound came from within. Perhaps the dog was bored and slept. Nervously he turned the knob, opened the door an inch or two.

The animal was sitting in the middle of the floor, looking at him as though it had expected him to come. Just watching him with eyes that glowed green in the half light. The room stank of urine; it probably wanted to go out.

‘Good boy.’ He entered, stood with his back to the door. ‘We’re going out. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Walkies.’

Its ears went up and its tail thumped the floor softly. Anton let out a sigh of relief. At least it was friendly and that made his task an awful lot easier.

‘In a minute then.’ He advanced a step, dropped on to his knees, the canine features only a couple of feet away from him now. ‘What marvellous eyes you’ve got, boy.’ Damn it, he should have asked Prokop the dog’s name but he supposed it didn’t really matter. ‘Let me look at your eyes and you look at mine, eh? That’s the boy. Soft, gentle eyes but you know how to be fierce when you need to. That man you attacked, he was a burglar. You were only defending your master’s house. And now I’m your master which is why we’ve got to get to know each other. Good boy, look at me now.’ Talking to put the animal at its ease. ‘Now, how would you like to be a human, eh? Just as much as I’d like to be a dog. A kind of mixture of both.’

Anton felt the dog’s eyes like some powerful green light coming at him, meeting his own gaze and holding it. Concentrating. Yes, I’d like to be a dog, be able to walk on four legs and wag my tail. But I’d like to be able to think, to reason too. Know what I’m doing and why. Thinking of himself in canine form, shrugging off the incarceration of the human body. Exerting every vestige of willpower.

The Ridgeback’s eyes seemed to grow larger, gave him the impression of a pulling force. Don’t resist it, go with it. Like being drawn out of himself, a sensation akin to his one experiment with his astral body. A kind of dream, only you knew it was real, seeming to soar, looking down on your own sleeping form and knowing that you had finally managed to segregate body and soul. Afraid that you might not be able to return; it was fear that had broken the spell that time, catapulted him back into his body. This time there must be no such fear.

I’m free and I’m going to be a dog. For a few moments he appeared to be drifting aimlessly in a dark void, floating. Coming to rest. And staring down at the slumped, sleeping body of Anton Yafremov!

He rested a moment, knowing that he had done it, aware that his new body trembled with excitement. Strange sensations, getting the feel of four feet that moved at his command, a tail that wagged instinctively. Wanting to urinate and knowing that he must do it outside, ashamed of that puddle on the floor.

Walking, trotting. So much easier, you felt perfectly balanced, following the rear staircase downwards until you emerged on the ground floor. An alleyway and beyond it the street. And on the other side of that the Moskva, the Kremlin’s moat.

In no way was his power of reasoning impaired. That had been his one fear, but it had proved to be unfounded. Wary, skulking in the shadows and looking out on a deserted street. The curfew was in his favour; Keschev had signed his own death warrant when he ordered it.

Yafremov moved out, crossed over the street, running until he reached the other side. Stray dogs were shot on sight by police and army, he could take no chances. But he had every confidence that he could dodge the Kremlin guards.

With St Basil’s Cathedral on his right, he turned left, slunk into the Kremlin. The soldier on duty at the gate was smoking, relaxed. No trouble was anticipated, even the streets were empty. Three more hours of boredom and then the guard would be changed.

The Kremlin Palace, stark and forbidding in the wan starlight. Some windows in the residential wing were still lit up. He must wait, it was early yet.

He made his way cautiously towards the Tsar Cannon, lay full length alongside the huge mound of cannonballs. Ideal camouflage, nobody would bother him here. Behind him was the Cathedral of the Twelve Apostles, ahead of him … somebody was walking this way.

Yafremov experienced a strange prickling sensation on his back and neck; his hackles had risen and he had to check the warning growl in his throat. Now that was strange, his new body had not reacted this way when he had crept past the sentries. It was like a kind of inbuilt alarm system that he had not yet mastered, but, recognizing the warning, he pressed himself flat on the ground.

The oncoming man was tall and well-built, walked with long jerky strides. Stopped, looked behind him, came on again. And now he was in silhouette against the white walls of the cathedral and it was then that Anton Yafremov felt his first pang of real fear. Sensing a foe before he recognized him; scenting the sharp unnatural odour, the sour breath, the earthy, grave-like, body smell. Then seeing the bald head and the piercing eyes that shone in the darkness. Knowing that he had already found the one he sought!

He almost turned and ran, bolted for the exit with his tail curled under him. Fled like a terrified street cur in search of a hole to hide in.

But the Rhodesian Ridgeback does not flee in the face of an enemy, whatever the odds. Courage had been bred into it in the days of its ancestor, the Phu Quoc, before it had been mated with the Cuban bloodhound. A beast that would fight to the death and was already baring its fangs and tensing every muscle in its powerful frame for the attack. Now it permitted itself that low growl and Anton Yafremov knew that the dreaded encounter was at hand.

The oncoming man halted, head thrust forward, peering into the shadows. Those shining orbs flickered like fanned embers and seemed to narrow. As he made out the dog crouching by the cannon-balls his lips widened into a smile. Andre Keschev saw. And knew.

‘So now they send a cur!’ he laughed harshly and braced himself, leaned forward and waited.

Just a fleeting moment of terror and then Yafremov pushed it from him. He was a dog and he would fight like a dog; like a Ridgeback. His rear legs braced, took the strain, tensed every muscle in his body. Then he was airborne, a seething, snarling, canine missile of vicious carnage.

A feeling of weightlessness, he felt the rushing of the night air, then he seemed to slow, a plane whose engines have suddenly cut out. A trajectory that had come to a halt in mid-air. Yafremov hit some invisible barrier, was thrown back, somersaulting, snarling and yelping; falling.

It seemed to take an eternity before he hit the ground. He curled his body, braced himself for the crashing impact but there was none. A landing so soft and gentle, rolling over, dazed. A few seconds when his mind was completely blank; then everything began to filter back, memories of a previous day returning after awakening from a deep sleep. Snatches, collating, escalating into sheer terror. He cringed, whined; looked up.

A force tore at his mind, buffeted it like a cyclone, a tearing, icy gale that whipped through him, hurled him back. Darkness all around except for those glowing, red orbs that seemed to dilate, expand into discs of burning evil. He felt their heat, felt their cold. He tried to murmur something but all he managed was a whimpering, a futile, canine pleading.

He heard a voice, thick and nasal, but the words were meaningless; all he knew was that they were threatening, a hiss of malevolence. His tail would have curled beneath him except that he had no control over it, a hairy rudder that twitched and quivered. Ears flat along the head, legs moving feebly in the manner of a dog when it is dreaming of giving chase to a rabbit. Battered, beaten, asking for death to release him from this agony.

Those eyes were shrinking, receding back into the cold darkness; fading like stars with the coming of dawn. Watching them, aware of a sucking sensation as though something was being wrenched from his body. A moment of sheer agony in which he kicked and convulsed. Then everything went black.

Anton Yafremov experienced a feeling of distant awareness, an exhausted man trying to haul himself out of a deep sleep; half-waking, slipping back again. His body ached, the surface on which he lay was hard and cold. He tried to remember but his mind was a blank, a void that was incapable of reasoning.

Sunlight streamed in through the window above the sink, shafted on to him, golden warmth that was determined to arouse him. He stirred again, managed to force his eyes open. Seeing but not understanding, his surroundings meaningless, unrecognizable.

Somehow he managed to sit up. Dizziness almost threw him back down to the floor but he fought it off. Who was he? What was he? What and where was this place?

Then he saw the dog. Such a handsome creature, lying stretched out on the linoleum. It seemed to be asleep but that didn’t look right; so stiff, two legs rigidly stuck up in the air, the others crunched up beneath it. At first he thought it did not have a tail until he glimpsed it pressed flat beneath its body. Only when he looked at the head did he realize that the dog was dead. Eyes wide and staring, terror frozen in those dulled orbs; mouth agape, bloody tongue hanging out limply, part of it missing where the teeth had clamped down on it, severed it. The muzzle was coated with congealed blood, frothy spittle still hanging down. A blue-bottle emerged from the open mouth, buzzed noisily, regarded the man with suspicion for a second or two and then went back inside, to resume its interrupted feed.

Anton showed neither remorse nor surprise; just sat there on the floor watching the dead dog. In the end he gave up trying to figure it out, the effort of reasoning was beyond him.

He managed to get to his feet, using the table to pull himself up. Conscious of only one thing, a burning thirst. He had to drink. He staggered across to the sink. There was some dirty grey water in a blue plastic washing-up bowl. That would do; he grabbed the bowl, lifted it up, drank noisily. He did not notice the taste of detergent, the minute food particles, just gulped noisily, spilling some of it down himself. That was better.

He stood there staring out of the window, saw people and traffic in the street below but they did not register with him. He was in a world he did not understand, did not wish to; he was neither afraid nor curious, merely a spectator in an alien land that went about its business and was no concern of his.

So funny. He did not know why it was funny, it just was. People, a dead dog. He began to laugh, softly at first then threw back his head and roared his mirth aloud. Salty tears ran down his face, he was bent double over the sink, spewing back the filthy washing-up water which he had drunk a few seconds before. So bloody funny.

Suddenly his laughter ceased and he was tense, listening. Footsteps coming up the back stairs, slow, deliberate ones that echoed outside in the unfurnished hallway. A pause and then a heavy knocking on the door.

Anton Yafremov turned away from the sink. A moment of fleeting fear, he didn’t know why, and then he was laughing again. Come on in, whoever you are. Don’t mind me or the dog, he won’t hurt you ‘cause he’s dead. And it’s all so damned funny.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - The God Factor

Olga Prokop had managed to get through the morning with just one drink. She had thought about smashing the remaining bottle of vodka in the waste bin but could not bring herself to do it. Alcoholism had to be defeated in stages, like smoking. In a way she wished that the prohibition of drink had been absolute. It would still be on sale at the store in Granovsky Street, though; always would be. The elite would continue to drink.

She had to have just one drink, to bolster her courage for what she had in mind. It was imperative that she visited the church, spoke to God in His house one more time before it was desecrated. He had helped her but she still had need of Him. He had brought Sergey back to her but things were still not right between herself and her husband. Sure, Sergey was back in the KGB, had promotion too, but he was still rejecting her. And it could only be for one reason; because he had another woman. The thought made her angry, hurt her deeply. She would pray to God that some mishap befell this mystery woman, that she was conveniently removed from the scene, and if that did not happen then she would speak with her father about it. Ignat would sort it out, the woman would disappear along with the Jews. And the Christians. Olga trembled at the thought. Even she, the daughter of Ignat Grinbat, was not immune from the witchfinding purge ordered by Keschev. But she had to go to the church. Oh, if only Bishop Kenyez were here he would know what to do.

The drink helped, got her up off the sofa, mobilized her sombre thoughts. She must do something positive and visiting the empty church was a start. She dressed in a light grey suit, clipped on her silver crucifix, let it dangle out of sight down in her cleavage, and went out into the street.

It was hot and she smelled the lush fragrance of summer, the masses of pollen in the Alexander Garden. In the background she made out the domes of the Cathedral of the Archangel and shivered in spite of the heat. When Yuri Denanko could be whisked out of the palace and crucified during the night hours what hope was there for the rest of Russia?

She felt strangely weak. Possibly that was due to the fact that she had not been outside the apartment for a long time. Her legs ached at the sudden exercise and a short uphill walk had her pausing to get her breath. Perhaps she should have taken either a tram or the Metro. No, it was safer this way, there would be no fellow passengers to remember her face.

It took her half an hour to reach the church. Once a passing police car had slowed and she had flinched, almost fled blindly. Then it had picked up speed and continued on its way. You’re a dissident, an enemy of the State. No, I’m not, I only want to speak to God, I don’t want to interfere with my country’s way of life.

Even as she approached the church she sensed its emptiness, the desolation. God doesn’t live here anymore, you’re wasting your time. Go away.

No, I have to speak with Him. He’ll hear me because He’s everywhere. Bishop Kenyez said so; I must have faith.

She was surprised to find the door unlocked. As it swung inwards she hesitated, fearful of a trap. The creaking of rusted hinges, a restricted view of the interior. Just as it always was; the aisle dividing bench seats and chairs, the altar still draped, a pair of gold candlesticks and the cross proudly erect yet dulled. Its shine was gone, it had the bearing of a talisman without a cause, a symbol that was no more than a decoration. Empty; really empty.

Nervously Olga stepped inside. That feeling of awe which she had become accustomed to was no more. The holiness was gone. God doesn’t live here any longer, you’re wasting your time.

She tried to shake off the feeling. She still had her faith, it was all that was left to her. So cool in here after the heat outside but there was something missing. Only when she reached the altar steps did she realize what it was; the peace, the tranquillity was gone. It was still and quiet, but she sensed a kind of mounting tension. Pray if you want to but it won’t do you any good. Hurry, every second you linger here you are in danger.

She wished she had a drink. No, that would not help; she had hidden too long behind the effects of vodka. You’re edgy. Relax and pray. She lowered herself to her knees, bowed her head. Instinctively she glanced behind her, remembered that she had not closed the door. It didn’t matter, she wasn’t going to be more than a minute or two.

Thank you, Lord, for returning my husband to me. But did you really want him the way he is? I’m trying to reconcile us, I’m doing my best. Last night we made love. But it was only a physical act on his part. I want him the way he used to be before they sent him away. They did something to him, I know they did. They turned him against me. I love him. You’re lying, Olga. You love his rank, his KGB prospects, the prospects of power and a privileged life. Oh God, you went through the agony of truth when you came to church, searched your soul. Would you love him if he was just another clerk in the System?

She trembled. I’d try. Please, God, let us be as we used to be. I think he’s got another woman and I want you to …

That was sinful. You’ve come here to ask for revenge. There was a dryness in her throat, her eyes were smarting but the tears did not come, just burned dryly. Trembling. And God wasn’t here, or if He was He didn’t want to know. They had destroyed Him just like they had killed Bishop Kenyez. Begone and leave us Godless.

A movement had her stiffening, every muscle in her body rigid. There was somebody in the church; they had crept up and were standing right behind her. I daren’t look. Perhaps it’s Bishop Kenyez. Or God! She began to shake violently.

‘On your feet, woman!’

The words cut into her, numbed her. Harsh, authoritative tones, a command that brooked no refusal. Stumbling, an ungainly rise, using the altar rail to lever her weight into a standing position. Only then did she turn her head.

She recognized them as police even though they wore civilian clothes, dark suits, and trilby hats jammed firmly on their heads. Nondescript features, the kind you saw and forgot immediately, remembering only the expressions of cruelty and gloating. Faces that were the hallmark of a secret police organization.

‘You will accompany us to the police station.’ One of them jangled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.

‘No!’ A plea rather than a refusal.

Her wrists were grabbed, cold metal pinched her skin, had her crying out. She would faint in a minute. ‘Stop, you don’t know who I am.’

‘We shall soon find out.’

‘Wait!’ They pulled her forward, she would have fallen if they had not caught her, dragged her roughly. ‘I am Olga Prokop,’ shouting hysterically; she would scream soon. ‘My husband is Sergey Prokop of the KGB. My father is Ignat Grinbat, a friend of Vasily Petrov, the Defence Minister. Let me go!’

For a second she thought that they were going to release her. Their grip slackened, they glanced at each other in momentary amazement, smiled. Leering grins, the expressions of fishermen who have cast for trout and hooked a salmon.

‘I warn you, let me go or when my husband hears of this …’

She never saw the blow coming, barely felt it except for a split second when her brain seemed to explode and then everywhere blacked out into a void where there was neither pain nor fear.

Sergey Prokop knew that something had gone wrong, that Yafremov had failed to destroy the evil that lived within Andre Keschev’s body, because the leader was seen in the Kremlin going to his office shortly after 8 p.m. A feeling of despair swept over Prokop, the knowledge that the onus would now fall securely on himself to rid them of the Beast. Thus Alexey’s phone call was not unexpected. ‘Go and see what has happened to that fool Yafremov and report back immediately.’

Just after nine Sergey parked in front of the apartment block where the occultist resided. He took his time mounting the dingy rear staircase, psychologically procrastinating; you didn’t know what you might find and you put it off for as long as possible, hoping that something might crop up in the meantime but you didn’t know what.

He heard the laughter when he reached the third-floor landing and his blood ran cold. Maniacal peals of near-hysterical mirth, like somebody practising the scales with their vocal chords, deep rumblings escalating to high-pitched shrieks, coming back down and starting all over again. He eased his pistol in his shoulder holster and barged the door open, then stood dumbfounded at the scene which greeted him.

The Ridgeback was lying stiff and dead on the floor, twisted into a grotesque pose, head bent round, mouth open. Yafremov knelt by it trying to spoon fly-blown meat into its rigid jaws. Bluebottles buzzed noisily, swooped on the chunks of food which rolled out on to the floor. And all the while Yafremov was laughing, giggling, talking incoherently. He dropped the spoon, grabbed it up, tried to lick it clean.

‘Anton!’ Sergey yelled. ‘Anton, what the hell …’

The occultist turned his head, and showed not the slightest sign of surprise at seeing the intruder, no recognition in his inane grin; still licking the spoon, smacking his lips noisily. He seemed to have forgotten the dog.

‘Anton, what …’ Prokop’s words died away, speech was useless. Those vacant eyes, the expression told their own story only too plainly. He thought, Christ, he’s blown his lid, gone as crazy as a wild bear. Sergey stepped back a pace, there was something very terrible about the other, more than just a case of madness. Total craziness as though he had been … cursed!

Slowly his fingers released their grip on the pistol; it wouldn’t be needed. He said, ‘I think you’d better come with me, Anton. Let’s go for a ride in a car, eh!’

Another grin. Yafremov plainly did not understand even if he heard. Biting on the spoon now, grinding his teeth on the metal, sucking noisily. Sergey’s skin prickled. This was Keschev’s work, the work of the Beast. Just like Denanko’s crucifixion, the macabre goring to death of Zhukov and Ozeroff. Oborin. Who next? And now they want me to kill the bastard for them!

He took Yafremov’s arm gently but firmly, began to steer him towards the door. There was no protest, just an incomprehensible babbling. Down the stairs, out to the car. And by the time they arrived back at KGB Headquarters Anton was snoring peacefully in the passenger seat.

Ivan Alexey stared tight-lipped down on to Dzerzhinsky Square, watching the ambulance pulling away. Behind him was Sergey Prokop. Both of them knew, as did the rest of the Politburo, half of the KGB’s Eighth Directorate, maybe even half of Russia too. But you kept your thoughts, your suspicions, to yourself. Another attempt had been made to remove this fiendish dictator from their midst. It had failed. Miserably.

‘I fear that is the last we shall see or hear of Comrade Yafremov.’ Alexey turned back to Prokop. ‘Very few admitted to the Kashchenko Psychiatric Hospital ever see the outside world again. But it doesn’t solve our problem.’ His hooded eyes stared balefully out from his rimless spectacles. Over to you, Sergey. Your turn next.

‘I don’t know what Anton tried to do,’ Prokop said, lighting a cigarette. ‘Whatever it was, the dog ended up dead and he’s a raving lunatic. Where do we go from here?’

‘That will be up to you.’ Suddenly the KGB Chairman was aloof, commanding again. The brief interlude when they had almost been colleagues was over. ‘Your job is to get rid of Keschev. We put Yafremov in the front line and it failed. Now it’s up to you. You’re a free agent, act how you see fit. Only get results.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Prokop moved towards the door. The meeting was over, go out and do your stuff. ‘I’ll try to work something out.’

The mission seemed simple enough in itself. Kill Keschev, any way you can. He could work a ruse, get close to the leader, pump him full of bullets and the Politburo would back him up. Only you couldn’t kill somebody if they were already dead. It had been tried and now surely the Kremlin Beast was on his guard. Forget the hocus-pocus, no more wooden stakes or canine familiars. Think of something original. He contemplated talking to Grinbat about it but what was the point when he could have gone straight to Vasily Petrov?

As he used his key to enter the apartment he got a strange feeling that it would be empty. No reason, nothing logical, just a premonition that Olga would not be there. She wasn’t. He checked all the rooms, noted the vodka bottle on the table still half-full and that was the most worrying thing of all.

At half-past nine he phoned Grinbat.

‘She’s not here.’ There was alarm in Ignat’s voice. ‘Where the hell has she gone, Sergey?’

‘I don’t know.’ Unless she went out to church, and there was no point in telling his father-in-law that yet. ‘Maybe she’s visiting friends.’

‘She doesn’t have any.’

Which was the root cause of the problem. When an alcoholic agoraphobic develops religious mania there’s no way of knowing what will happen. He said, ‘I’ll give you a ring the moment she turns up.’

‘If she’s not in by eleven I’ll ring the police. Damn it all, Sergey, there’s a curfew in force, she can’t go wandering the streets.’

Sergey replaced the receiver and thought about phoning Alexey but he dismissed the idea immediately. Your job is to kill Keschev, Prokop, not to get worrying about where your wife is.

Sergey’s mouth was dry, his guts felt as though they had got all tangled up. Last night he had wanted to be rid of Olga, tonight he was nearly frantic. Not because of her; even now he had to admit that any feelings he had once had for her did not exist any longer. It was just the way she had gone, walked right out and left her vodka behind. That happened to a lot of people in Russia. Nobody ever saw them again. Listed as missing. Even Sergey never got access to the missing persons file. Yafremov would go missing too. And so would he if he didn’t fulfil his latest assignment. Then the phone rang and made him jump. It was Ursula Ramanninov.

‘Hi, Sergey.’ When it was ‘Hi’ he listened hard, knew it was urgent. ‘Just in between acts. I’ve booked you a seat for Thursday night’s performance. I have to talk to you Thursday.’

‘I was thinking of booking one myself,’ he replied. I have to talk to you, too, Ursula.

‘You’ll enjoy it,’ her voice was husky, low. ‘Pay particular attention to Ivan. A great performance, even you can learn from that, Sergey.’

He tensed. ‘OK. Shall I see you after?’

‘Hopefully. The usual.’ My rooms. ‘I might still have a visitor.’ Josef Zuttenberg was still hiding out there, they hadn’t found him yet.

‘Olga’s disappeared,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t in when I got home tonight.’

‘Your problem, Sergey.’ Everything’s my problem. He could not blame her for being offhand. ‘See you Thursday, hopefully.’

He replaced the receiver and poured himself a glass of Olga’s vodka. He got a feeling that it might be a kind of legacy; I’m not coming home, Sergey, so you can have my vodka. I’ve been unfaithful to you again and gone to church. The bloody fool!

He sat down and waited for Ignat to phone.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Torture

Olga Prokop had no idea where she was except that she was in a six-foot by four-foot prison cell. Bare brick walls with only a small grille at the very top, maybe eight feet up. The sky was turning saffron so it had to be evening.

The bed was a damp mattress rolled up and tied with string in a corner. An aluminium latrine bucket that had not been emptied since the last occupant had been … a disturbing thought. A solid wooden door, scratched and gouged on the inside. She didn’t know whether she wanted anybody to come or not. Oh, if only Sergey was here. Or better still, her father; he would call Vasily Petrov and somebody would be court-martialled for this. Because my friend’s daughter believes in God. She groaned her despair aloud. Truly her God had deserted her. It was all a trick, a con; preying on hopeless people. She hoped that Bishop Kenyez rotted in the hell he warned his followers about.

Then she heard somebody coming. The guard was little more than a youth, his face a mass of acne. Even in her distressed state Olga noticed that there was something odd about his uniform. Not the usual everyday green of the KGB militia but brown with green private’s shoulder stripes. A green band on his peaked cap. Odd, and very disturbing.

He did not speak, just a nod of his head and a wave of his pistol. This way, they want to talk to you.

Down one corridor, turning right into another. Musty, stale air; Olga knew that it was all underground. She wondered where they were going, tried to raise her hopes by telling herself that they were going to set her free, send her home. Sorry, it was all a mistake; we didn’t know your husband was Sergey Prokop. Somehow it didn’t ring true; the uniform for a start: it wasn’t KGB.

Her neck ached; it was so stiff that she could barely turn her head. And she was fast getting out of breath again, her legs quivering and threatening to let her down. The guard gave her a push and she almost fell, let out a strangled sob. This was what God did to you.

She found herself in a small office that was only a marginal improvement on the cell. A single light bulb was suspended from the ceiling and two uniformed men were seated at a small table. Their uniforms were different, too, brown but with red stripes. Officers, she supposed. The guard went out, closing the door behind him.

Olga found herself looking for a seat. There was none. Standing in front of the table, feeling the two men’s eyes boring into her. So impassionate, so cruel. Tell them you’re Ignat Grinbat’s daughter. I daren’t. They must know. Oh, please God, why have you deserted me?

‘Olga Prokop.’ The one who seemed to be in charge was looking at some papers on his desk, making a pencil note. ‘Wife of Sergey Prokop, Special Duties, KGB. Daughter of Ignat Grinbat.’ Deliberately taking his time. Sweat, you bitch, this is all part of your interrogation.

Olga’s brain reeled. They knew. And it didn’t make a scrap of damned difference to them!

‘Dissident!’ The word was spat out venomously. ‘You were found praying in the church. The recent laws have forbidden all religious participation. Do you deny the charge?’ The officer regarded her fixedly.

Olga’s mouth opened; she tried to speak but the words would not come. I’m going to faint any second. Swaying, the windowless room was spinning crazily as the red mist came at her, darkened. Nothing; she did not even feel the impact as she hit the stone floor.

A few seconds of bliss whilst her mind was blank and then she was precipitated into a new nightmare. She was drowning; the icy waters of the Moskva were closing over her. She spat out water, tried to scream ‘I can’t swim, save me!’ Then the darkness receded, rough hands were grasping her, pulling her. Oh, thank God, someone has saved me!

She was back in that dreadful room, the soldier who held her shaking her roughly, her clothing saturated and clinging to her trembling body.

‘Each time you faint you will be revived, don’t worry,’ the man behind the desk smiled sardonically, ‘but as your clothes are soaking I think it would be best if you removed them.’

‘I … I …’ She recoiled. ‘No, please!’

‘Get your clothes off!’

Her hands were incapable of undoing buttons or pulling zips, useless fingers that trembled and over which she had no control. Fumbling, ripping off a button, hastening to do what she did not want to do because she was afraid.

The subordinate gave a curse beneath his breath, grabbed for her. Pulling, tearing, ripping and shredding her crumpled suit, exposing bare flesh and knocking aside her feeble attempts to obstruct him. Olga’s bra strap snapped, fell to the ground. She shrieked, tried to protect her lower regions but his fingers hooked into her grey briefs, tore them from her. She was screaming, crossed hands pressed to her pubis and that was when he hit her, a hard slap which jerked her head back, threw her to the ground.

‘On your feet!’

Somehow she clambered into an upright position, sobbing, her rolls of surplus fat trembling with the rest of her body. A pathetic, overweight woman, cringing and cowering.

‘I trust you will not give us any further trouble.’ The man at the table smiled humourlessly, reminding her of a bird of prey eyeing its victim and taking its time.

‘Please,’ she cried, ‘my husband is Sergey Prokop, an officer of your KGB.’

‘The KGB!’ The other laughed, a kind of high-pitched squeak. ‘You are not insinuating that this is the KGB are you, wretched girl?’

She looked at him in blank amazement, had difficulty in comprehending. ‘I … this is the KGB, isn’t it?’ Another laugh, this time the thin lips curling into a sneer. ‘We are not the KGB. This is the GRU and you are at their headquarters in the People’s Militia Street.’

Again she had difficulty in understanding. Words that took time to take on a meaning in her frightened and confused brain. Not the KGB … the GRU … G … R … U. Vaguely she recalled having heard Sergey refer to it, some kind of lesser organization. Or maybe even another branch of the KGB. The Bear in another coat. No difference really. Except that Sergey held no sway with them. The reverse, if anything. She could tell by the way the officer smiled contemptuously. Your husband can’t save you from us, woman.

‘I demand to … to see Vasily Petrov.’ It sounded weak. In all probability the Defence Minister had never heard of her. He would not be interested in the lower workings of the GRU.

‘You demand?’

She dropped her gaze, saw how that roll of fat below her navel wobbled. She found herself apologizing mutely. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. The process of breaking down a victim was well under way.

‘Vasily Petrov is a friend of my father’s.’ Her tone was more conciliatory. ‘If he knew …’

‘If he knew.’ Those lips were stretched again, the head bent forward. ‘But he doesn’t. And he isn’t likely to.’

It was as though they had driven a knife into her capacious stomach, twisted it. Her vision swam, that grotesque smile came at her, obscene lips seeking a kiss of death.

‘There is some information we require from you.’ The voice was expressionless, emotionless. ‘We wish to know the names of the other worshippers who use your church.’

She swallowed; her mind went blank, clicked back into action again. ‘I … don’t know any of them.’

‘They all say that to begin with.’ Her interrogator spoke softly and from the pocket of his tunic he withdrew an object, placed it in full view on the table. Just take a look at that. All three pairs of eyes were focused on it. Olga tried to work out what it was. It reminded her of a pipe-reamer, like her father used to remove the stubborn layers of carbon out of the bowl of his large, curved briar. Only bigger, much bigger. Maybe seven inches in length with a diameter of three or four. A number of small spikes protruded from it, no more than a quarter of an inch long. It was pitted with rust; at least she thought it was rust, forced herself to believe that it was. But it was the overall shape that had her deathly white with terror, the unmistakable form of a crude phallus. And that was when she fainted for the second time.

The Moskva was icy cold, robbed her of her breath. She lay there, wanted to drown, but those rescuing hands grabbed her again, dragged her to her feet, held her so that she did not collapse.

‘I see I do not have to explain further.’ The officer was tight-lipped; the time for smiling was over. ‘It has been used many times, I can assure you. Now, the names!’

‘I do not know.’ Her voice seemed to be coming from afar like a hi-fi turned low in an adjoining room. ‘I went alone. Furtively. I spoke to nobody. I only stayed to pray and then went straight home. I swear it. The only person I ever conversed with was Bishop Kenyez.’

‘We know all about the Bishop.’ His eyes flicked to the soldier meaningfully, then back to Olga. ‘He, too, has disappeared. Perhaps you know of his whereabouts, too, eh?’

‘No. I wish I did.’

‘I think you will tell us before very long,’ a nod to the other and Olga felt her right arm being twisted behind her; up and sideways, taking the strain. She screamed just before it cracked.

This time she did not faint. A wave of dizziness swept over her, cleared. The agony was nothing when compared with the threat of … that! Her left arm was seized, she made no attempt to resist, it was futile anyway. A pause, the bone was strained within a fraction of breaking.

‘Well, have you changed your mind?’

‘I tell you I do not know.’ She braced herself, felt the limb snap, the pain convulsing her. Vomiting, but her captors did not seem to notice. She was being held by her hair now, her arms hanging uselessly by her side, incapable of even being lifted.

‘We do not appear to be making much progress.’ The one behind the table stood up. He was not as tall as Olga had at first thought. Stocky, powerful. ‘On the table with her then.’

She was dragged, half-lifted, felt a tuft of hair torn from her head. Weeping, pleading incoherently because her lips were quivering too much to get the words out. The younger man held her, pressed down on her throat. The other came round in front of her, forcibly prised her thighs apart. He held something up and the electric light shone on the dull, stained, spiky steel tube.

‘Now to business.’ The officer was holding the instrument by a handle on the thick end which she had not noticed previously. ‘First, we wish to know about the Bishop. Then about your husband, Sergey Prokop.’ He glanced at an open notepad that lay on the edge of the table. ‘Then all will be well. No more pain; two arms broken needlessly. They would still be intact if you had not been so stupid in the first place.’ A loud sigh. ‘But that is how it is with most of the prisoners. They think they can stand the pain. But they can’t, I assure you.’

The steel phallus was lowered out of her range of vision. Everybody was waiting. For her. Then a prick, a sharp pain on the inside of her thighs, one that brought a shriek to her lips. She writhed but there was nowhere to go, tried to close her legs but the hand in between them was too strong.

‘Bishop Kenyez. And then your husband. So simple, you can be back in your cell inside ten minutes. Now.’ His voice lisped; she had not noticed it before. ‘You have five seconds. One …’

My God, you have led me into a trap and I hate you. Prove yourself. Save me.

‘Two.’

Bishop Kenyez, they don’t know where you are. You ran out on us, left us to our fate. May you rot in your own hell!

‘Three.’

Sergey, where are you? You haven’t got another woman, have you?

‘Four.’

She thought about a lie. Any other time or place she might have invented one, gained a little time. Right now she was unable to offer up even the most basic untruth. He’s fled to … where?

‘Five!’

She braced herself for the inevitable. Another sharp jab from one of those needle-like spikes. A reminder.

‘Well? Your time is up. Tell us now!’

She tried to say something, she did not know what, only that her lips moved in a feeble effort at self-preservation. Tell them anything. Her vocal chords appeared to have seized up, she couldn’t have told them even if she had known.

And then the scream, the full force of her lungs spent in one final cry as her back arched and her thick legs kicked wildly into the air. Oblivion came fast and she was sinking deep down into the waters of the Moskva again; dark, deep and cooling. And this time there were no hands to drag her back up.

Anton Yafremov had been in Kashchenko Psychiatric Hospital for just ten hours. It might have been ten minutes or ten years for all he knew. He had only a vague awareness of his surroundings, of people, other inmates who spoke to him and then gave up, shrugging their shoulders. One in every 150 patients admitted was mentally ill. This latest was one of those.

Yafremov was incapable of speech. At first he muttered incessantly, laughed a lot, insane cackles that had the other patients in Ward 5 shying away from him. He appeared to be incapable of using one of the latrine holes in the floor and messed himself several times. Nobody came to clean him up.

The inmates of Ward 5 were fed at 9 a.m. and 7 p.m. Breakfast consisted of partly-cooked fish, most of which had already started to go bad due to its not having been stored in a refrigerator. The weather was warmer than average for the time of year and the fish smelled, attracting bluebottles that hastened its putrefaction. A cup of cocoa, sometimes with milk, washed it down.

The evening meal was generally thick soup with chunks of stringy meat in it, and black bread. Then a cup of thick tea before bedtime; bedtime was often earlier than the stipulated 9 p.m. if there were no senior medical staff still on duty. For the convenience of the orderlies.

Yafremov seemed to be having difficulty in holding his mug of soup. His fingers smoothed up and down the aluminium sides; he did not appear to understand what the handle was for. He slurped noisily, attracted the attention of the others. A gulp, he chewed and swallowed some fatty meat, belched loudly. And dropped the mug.

It bounced, rolled, spilled its contents in a congealed steaming trail. Somebody cheered, clapped. ‘You’ll go hungry tonight, madman.’ Yafremov regarded his spilled food in a puzzled fashion, then dropped on to all fours. Head down, he began to lick up the mess, oblivious of dirt, grunting as he ate.

The audience bunched, laughed. Jeered. He was immune to their jibes, this four-legged human animal feasting ravenously, going back on his trail and ensuring that not so much as a smear of gravy remained on the stone floor. Only then did he look up and those nearest to him shrank back in alarm. No longer was he the harmless babbler with the inane smile, instead those features were twisted into a snarl, teeth bared. Arms and legs poised as though to spring at the throat of a youth who had been making canine noises. Anton growled, slobbered; his mouth began to foam as if he had drunk detergent and was spewing it back.

‘‘Ware rabies,’ somebody shouted but nobody laughed this time.

A yelp of anger, the scrawny body tensed and ready to leap. And at that moment the two orderlies about to finish their afternoon shift walked in.

‘What is going on?’ The taller of the two addressed everybody but nobody in particular. His eyes fastened on the crouched man and blazed with fury. This crazy one was playing up, was going to cause them trouble; he might delay an early finish to their day. ‘On your feet, bastard!’

Yafremov growled deep in his throat. He did not rise, neither did he back off. The man glanced at his companion, a slight, red-haired younger man who wore a grubby white coat on which were some smears of blood. Sometimes patients had to be taught a sharp lesson and this was one of those occasions.

‘Put him in solitary for the night.’ And beat hell out of him when we get there so that he’ll remember. ‘Let’s get him.’

Anton Yafremov timed his leap to when they were within a couple of yards of him, deceptive speed for one of advancing years, a frail body that belied a newly-found strength. His legs springboarded him into the air, a jump that carried him onto the taller man, crashed through the upraised arms and sunk his teeth into the fleshy shoulder; bit deep and drew blood.

The orderly screamed, fell backwards with his attacker on top of him. Anton bit again and then the second man struck him a downwards, chopping blow to the back of the neck. The occultist’s body jerked once, lay still.

‘He should be destroyed like a mad dog.’ The wounded attendant heaved the inert body off him and examined his shoulder. The teeth had gone through the flimsy coat and the shirt beneath, had broken the skin so that a trickle of blood was visible. ‘Let’s get him to solitary before he comes round.’

‘Perhaps we should call a doctor.’

‘Perhaps.’ The other’s rage was mounting and his shoulder smarted. ‘Solitary first.’

‘Solitary’ was a brick cell with a bunk that stretched from wall to wall. Unless the occupant was shorter than four feet nine it was impossible for him to stretch out on the bed. There was no other furniture, just a latrine bucket. There was no table – you ate off the floor if you wanted one. They slung Yafremov’s unconscious body onto the bed, began to strap it down, belting the crunched up legs together, securing the arms in the manner of a straitjacket. Standing back when the task was done, they watched for signs of a return to consciousness. There was no movement other than the slight rise and fall of the chest.

The large orderly produced a short rubber cosh from the pocket of his coat. These ‘weapons’ were issued by the authorities for the ‘protection of staff going about their business’ and it was stated that ‘no more force than is necessary is to be used’. The degree of necessary force was left to the discretion of the individual. Rarely was it queried; psychiatric patients were known to be violent and to possess unbelievable strength at times.

‘We don’t need to …’ the younger man began but was silenced by his companion’s uplifted hand.

‘Don’t we? And what happens when this crazy one is untied, eh? He attacks again. Next time it might be your throat!’

A brutal downward blow; Yafremov’s nose crunched, released twin flows of bright scarlet blood. Another; teeth splintered. Now the body, ribs cracking like dry kindling wood, expelling breath from the open bloody mouth in sharp bursts that blew blood bubbles.

‘That’ll do, you’ll kill him!’ The red-haired youth caught the other’s cudgel arm, managed to pull him back. ‘That’s far enough.’

‘I guess so.’ Reluctantly, he dropped the cosh back into his pocket. ‘The patients will back us up, anyway. They saw what he did. This guy won’t be going anywhere for a while. Help me undress him.’

They loosened the straps, began to peel off the stinking clothing. Spreading bruises, wicked weals disfigured the ageing flesh. The breathing was a laboured wheeze now and they remembered those broken ribs.

‘Maybe we should get a doctor now.’ The smaller of the two was unable to conceal his anxiety. ‘If a lung’s punctured he might … drown in his own blood.’

‘Tomorrow will be soon enough,’ the other grunted, ‘and if he dies in the meantime, so what? Here, help me turn him over, he’ll be safer on his front.’

Between them they lifted and heaved, overturned Anton Yafremov’s unconscious form, propped his feet up against the wall at the foot of the bunk. ‘There, he’ll be okay and not to worry if he isn’t. Fill a report sheet in, how he attacked us again in the cell.’

‘Sure ... hey, look at that, for Christ’s sake!’

They both looked, stared at Anton Yafremov’s naked back. Ageing flesh, unwashed, spasmodic growths of blackheads. And in the midst of it all a kind of ridged channel that followed the curvature of the spine. A ravine of flesh, maybe an inch wide, banked up on either side and going right down to within an inch of the bony buttocks. Unmarked skin, smooth and soft as though it had only recently grown.

‘What the hell is it?’

‘Must be a growth of some kind. A deformity. Search me, I’m not a bloody doctor, am I? Whatever it is, it ain’t going to do him any harm. Or any good, for that matter.’

And as they locked the cell door after them the younger orderly was aware of a slight odour in his nostrils. One that he recognized instantly and yet was unfamiliar within the walls of this hospital. A puzzled expression crossed his features but he refrained from commenting.

It was the kind of smell his pet mongrel made when it had been shut up in the apartment all day.

CHAPTER NINETEEN - Wild Boar in the Forest

Andreevich Gmyrya had not eaten breakfast. He had been sick twice and had diarrhoea. He was weak and shaking but not ill. Only once before had he suffered like this and that was in Gorbachev’s time when the leader had defied convention and appointed a separate Party Secretary. Gmyrya had hoped for that post but it was not to be; a bitter disappointment. Then Keschev reversed the decision, bludgeoned it through the Council of Ministers and took the appointment back. The dictator was fast becoming absolute.

But that was a mere blow to Gmyrya’s pride; this latest was a threat to his life. He had been invited to spend the coming weekend with Andre Keschev at his dacha just outside Moscow. A personal invitation, one that exuded a pseudo warmth over the phone, a relaxing of formalities.

‘You need a break, Andreevich.’ It was the first time that the leader had addressed the new deputy by his first name. ‘It will do you good. Me, too. Things have not gone well, but I have a feeling that our fortunes will change from here on. Just you and I. If we had wives then the break would be even more welcome. But as we don’t then we can relax together. Leave our worries behind us, enjoy the swimming and the fishing, perhaps a gentle game of tennis.’

‘But Comrade General Secretary …’ Gmyrya desperately sought an excuse. Pressure of work, the talks with the Libyan leader in less than a week. But there was nothing that would legitimately intrude upon the weekend.

‘Stop being so formal.’ A throaty chuckle. ‘From Thursday night it will be Andreevich and Andre and don’t you forget it. I am delighted that you can make it. If you wish to bring one of your own servants then feel free but there will be plenty to wait upon us.’

Gmyrya’s first inclination upon replacing the receiver was to panic. Here in the Kremlin Palace he slept behind a locked door, dozed fitfully, awoke frequently and found himself listening. The patrolling guard’s footsteps in the corridor outside became the stealthy footfalls of the prowling Beast. Once the doorknob had been turned; he told himself it was only the security-conscious soldier looking after his safety. But at the dacha there would be no armed guard to watch over him whilst he slept. Only Keschev’s servants.

He thought about feigning illness. After his initial bout of diarrhoea it would not have been difficult to put on an act. The sickness too, throwing up throat-scorching bile because his stomach was empty. Because of Andre Keschev. But ultimately he knew he would have to go. The invitation was an order. But he had to talk it over with Alexey.

Ivan Alexey listened with concern, a pursing of his lips, knitted brows. Concern not fear; but then it wasn’t he who had been asked to spend a weekend in the Moscow countryside with this creature they had resurrected from the dead.

‘You’ll have to go, Andreevich,’ the KGB Chairman said at length. ‘In fact, you’re probably safer there than in the Kremlin. Look at it logically, he could kill you any time he wanted.’

‘He’s picking us off one by one.’ The deputy’s hands were spread wide in despair. ‘We are his stumbling block to absolute power. Yet even he has to show cunning. Blame it on the CIA, don’t arouse the suspicions of the people. Imagine a revolution, this government overthrown. Even he could not withstand that. Do it by stealth, eliminate the top brass and the way is clear for him. He can plot openly with Israel, Libya, any country he chooses then. They will talk with a dictator; at present they are hesitant because they think of him still as only the figurehead. I tell you I shall be murdered in my bed at his dacha!’

‘I’ll send a bodyguard with you. You are entitled to your own man.’

‘Ha, and a lot of good that will do. The best man in the Soviet, Georg Oborin, didn’t last long, did he?’

‘I’ll assign Prokop to look after you.’

‘Prokop! He’s not an assassin nor a bodyguard. He’s a third-rate spy who got himself duped by British Intelligence and had to be given a desk job. What good is he, Ivan?’

‘He’s the best there is, take it from me.’ Alexey moved to the window and gazed down into the Square. ‘Underrated, almost a nonentity. It suits the organization that way. You take it from me, if I were in your place with an invitation to spend a weekend with … him,’ and I pray that I never get the chance, ‘I’d take Prokop with me. And we might just kill two birds with one stone.’

‘One will do.’ Gmyrya smiled weakly at his own joke. ‘I am relying on you, Ivan. I’ll have to take your word for Prokop.’ And if you’re wrong then you know damned well there’ll be no comeback.

‘An opportunity given to you on a plate, Sergey.’ Ivan Alexey tried to sound confident. ‘The victim has virtually invited the assassin into his home. Stick with Andreevich Gmyrya and await your chance. And don’t mess it up.’

Sergey Prokop took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. ‘I guess you’re right. By the way, Olga’s missing. She went out yesterday and never came back. I have reported it to Boris Kovak.’ For all the good that will do.

‘Dear me.’ Alexey looked mildly surprised. ‘Women are so fickle, Sergey. We have the highest divorce rate ever in the USSR. I am sorry to hear of your problems.’ So very boring.

‘Olga wasn’t like that.’

Alexey laughed softly. ‘Every husband thinks that, Sergey, until he discovers otherwise.’

‘Not Olga.’ Because nobody would want to screw her, let alone be married to her. ‘Ignat is going crazy. I think maybe we ought to check; there have been a lot of arrests these last few days. Maybe she got caught up in something.’ Like a batch of Christians being railed out to Barashevo and beyond.

‘I’ll put an enquiry through.’ The other scribbled something on his jotter but Sergey could not see what it was. ‘It’ll take time, though.’

‘I’d like you to check the GRU,’ Prokop said. ‘They are pulling in a lot of dissidents too.’

‘Difficult.’ Alexey stroked his chin. ‘Their rivalry is such a nuisance and there’s nothing the KGB can do about it. Like us, they are answerable only to the Supreme Soviet.’

‘You could phone General Ivanovich.’

Alexey pursed his lips again. Damn this fellow, there were plenty of women available if he wanted one that badly. Contact with the GRU was always strained. Keep your nose out of our business and we’ll keep ours out of yours. In theory. In practice it was cut-throat competition, one-upmanship. But he needed Prokop’s full cooperation. His loyalty. Probably the most important assassination in history had to be accomplished. ‘All right. I’ll phone Ivanovich.’ He picked up the phone, gave a curt order to the switchboard and held on.

‘Hallo, Petr, and how goes it with you?’ False pleasantries; it was the only way to approach a sensitive situation. ‘Just an enquiry which you might be good enough to look into for me. One of our men, Sergey Prokop, has lost his wife. Yes, that’s right, she went missing yesterday. Ignat Grinbat’s daughter. Can you file a search on her for me?’

Sergey could hear words at the other end but it was impossible to discern them. Meaningless chatter that went on for maybe a minute.

‘Yes, I know it’s difficult at this present time,’ Alexey smiled into the mouthpiece, ‘but I would regard it as a personal favour if you would check for me. Thank you, Comrade, I shall look forward to hearing from you.’

‘They’ll check.’ He turned back to Prokop and hoped that that would be the end of the matter. Short of obtaining a warrant from Keschev himself to search the GRU headquarters and prison cells in the People’s Militia Street there was nothing else he could do. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the situation, chase him up if he hasn’t called back in a few days. Okay, that’s settled, you’re going with Andreevich Gmyrya to Keschev’s dacha. Enjoy your weekend, Comrade.’

The phone was ringing as Prokop stepped into his apartment. He checked an impulse to answer it. It would be Ignat with yet another long list of possible places where Olga might have gone. Sergey knew damned well she had been picked up, she had bloody well asked for it. If you were stupid enough to go and say prayers in a church then you couldn’t complain if they hauled you in. It could be either KGB or GRU. There would be nothing they’d like better than to get their hands on Ignat Grinbat’s daughter. Alexey might even know about it. You had to work in the organization to realize what a sham it was, that its battlements were self-built façades.

The phone stopped ringing. Sergey went through into the living room and poured himself a stiff vodka. Olga’s vodka. Here’s to you, darling. I don’t love you but I didn’t want this to happen to you either. There were easier ways to dissolve a marriage.

He had to talk to Ursula. No way was he going to be able to attend the opera on Thursday night. Damn it, why the hell didn’t a Politburo weekend begin on Friday like everybody else’s? But he would have to leave it till late, she was unlikely to be back in her apartment before midnight. In the meantime he was going through to the bedroom to lie down just in case Ignat came round. He had enough problems for the present.

It was after midnight when he phoned Ursula. The phone rang out for a long time; maybe she wasn’t back yet and Josef Zuttenberg certainly wouldn’t answer. Then he heard the receiver being picked up at the other end and a husky, whispered voice said ‘Hallo’.

‘I’m afraid I can’t make it Thursday night,’ he said. ‘Something urgent has cropped up.’

‘Oh!’ Tiredness and disappointment. ‘That is very unfortunate. I did so want you to see the performance.’

‘I’m sorry too.’ He toyed nervously with the flex. ‘I have an assignment which I cannot break. At the highest level.’

She was silent for a moment or two; he knew that the implication was not lost on her. ‘It is a pity then that you did not see the performance first. It would have been very helpful to you. You must be very careful, Sergey, you have absolutely no idea what is happening! The opera, you have to see it. I want you to pay particular attention to Ivan the Terrible. Watch him!’

‘Can you get me a ticket for Monday night?’

‘Yes. But I hope it will not be too late!’

Tiny cold fingers began to stroke his spine. It was too dangerous to talk over the phone. A warning, one he did not understand and when he did it might be too late.

‘I’ll be there Monday night,’ he promised and hung up. Monday night was an eternity away when one was faced with spending four nights in Andre Keschev’s dacha.

Andre Keschev’s dacha was an oasis of luxury amidst the Moscow countryside. The Jauza, a tributary of the Moskva, flowed northwards past the Sokolniki Sports Palace before it left the sprawling suburbs behind, its waters clean and inviting once clear of the city. Bordered by pinewoods and lush meadowland, one could linger and listen to the swishing current against a background of pollen-hunting insects.

Tall pines screened the mansion from both road and river. A trespasser would have been confronted by a discreetly camouflaged but impenetrable security fence long before he was in sight of the house. He might perhaps glimpse the rolling lawns and brightly coloured flower borders through the trees, but by that time he would surely have set off one of the alarms and brought armed guards on the run. Certainly he would not have seen the two swimming pools, one open-air, the other indoor and thermostatically heated. Nor the tennis courts nor the limousines parked in front of the house.

At the beginning of the century this dacha had been owned by a wealthy Caucasian merchant. Since then it had had various owners, principally Leonid Brezhnev, who had kept it until his death. After that it had been used infrequently by members of the Politburo, the leaders generally preferring the luxurious villa close to Gagra on the Black Sea with its marble-lined swimming pools, one for seawater the other for fresh. But Keschev had claimed this estate outside Moscow with its servants and moat. He seemed reluctant to move far from the capital.

Sergey Prokop had travelled down with Andreevich Gmyrya but on crossing the drawbridge their ways parted. Sergey was assigned to a room in the servants’ quarters whilst his companion was taken to a luxurious suite on the floor above Keschev’s. Gmyrya’s complexion paled at the news, his face ashen grey, his lips quivering as he whispered to his bodyguard, ‘See, he is parting us. Come to me tonight, Sergey. Sleep in my bed and I will sleep on the floor. But do not fail me. He means to murder me whilst I sleep!’

Prokop nodded, watched as the deputy leader was escorted away by servants. It wasn’t going to be easy. And he found himself wondering how Ivan the Terrible figured in all of this. If he could survive until Monday night he would find out.

He was left much to his own devices. The food was sumptuous and plentiful, servants and security guards eating in a room adjoining the banqueting hall. They had the use of the tennis courts and swimming pools when the elite were not using them, and there was a television and video room. After he had eaten Sergey strolled in the grounds, not an aimless ramble, as he hoped he gave the impression to any observers, but a kind of reconnaissance. His trained mind mapped out buildings and grounds, Gmyrya’s quarters in relation to his own and how they could be reached unseen. A maze of landings and corridors behind walls that should have smiled out on to the surrounding countryside. Instead they frowned, the windows eyes that hid dark secrets and focused on himself. Remain here at your peril, Sergey Prokop. He told himself it was all in his mind.

Andreevich Gmyrya and Andre Keschev dined alone at the central table in the massive banqueting hall, with its pine-panelled walls and an ornately carved ceiling, the feasting place of the tsars in years gone by. Now it was the lair of the Kremlin Beast himself.

Keschev seemed strangely jovial throughout the meal, almost putting Gmyrya at his ease. There was a choice of wines and a menu that would have rivalled those of the best hotels in the world. Servants came and went between courses, keeping their distance the rest of the time.

‘Russia is a timebomb.’ Keschev drank noisily, and refilled his glass with Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin. ‘A few realize it but we are on the brink of another revolution. Khrushchev was the last of the great rulers, Brezhnev to a lesser extent. Gorbachev started the rot; his worst move was to strip Gromyko of his powers. Andrei Gromyko was an iron man, was renowned for his “ niet” .The world feared and respected him, so in order to soften the Russian image they brought in the smiling Shevardnadze. It was the equivalent of withdrawing half of our missiles. The viper without venom. The people began to envy the citizens of other countries, there was a relaxing of discipline. The cancer began to spread; under the guise of religion an inner enemy plotted the overthrow of the Kremlin. I think that I acted in time. Thousands of dissidents have gone to the camps, thousands more will follow them. But there is still unrest. We may have to fight a civil war before we can conquer the world.’ Those eyes shone in the evening sunlight which filtered in through the bow windows, then the film rolled back over them.

Gmyrya ate sparingly, sensed the fanaticism of the other, feared for his own safety. ‘I am with you all the way, Andre.’ He tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘You can count on me.’

‘Good. I knew that I could. By the way, have you ever shot boar here?’ The change of topic took the deputy by surprise.

‘Why, no. I had no idea that there were boar so close to Moscow.’

‘Another tribute to Khrushchev. He was a fine sportsman and a brilliant shot. The forests, the habitat here, are suitable for boar. It was the tsars who hunted greedily, exterminated them in these parts. Nikita was a conservationist as well as a hunter, and he had not always the time to travel to Zavidovo for his sport. So he imported a few here and allowed them to breed until a fine herd was established. On late summer evenings they are to be seen within half a mile of here.’ Keschev glanced out of the window; the sun was still visible above the wooded hills in the west. ‘I must show them to you, Gmyrya. There will be time before dark, but let us finish eating first.’

Gmyrya’s stomach rolled. His companion was suggesting a walk in the forest, the shadows would soon be lengthening; nightfall was less than two hours away.

‘I … I am rather tired, Andre. I have had a headache all day.’

‘And what better way to clear your head and refresh yourself than a walk in the forest.’ Keschev smiled, a parting of the lips, gold-capped teeth glinting in the evening sunlight. ‘The trouble with you, Andreevich, is that you spend too much time sitting at a desk.’

Gmyrya swallowed, thought for an awful moment that he was going to vomit. Nausea, a feeling of faintness. It was a trap and there was no way out; he was at Keschev’s mercy here. Come for a walk in the forest, Andreevich. Or stay in your room. I’ll kill you just the same.

‘I’ve no doubt Prokop would enjoy a stroll with us.’ He had to go, there was no alternative.

‘Prokop!’ Keschev smiled. ‘If you wish, Andreevich. It is all the same to me. Bring your bodyguard with you if it makes you feel safer but I assure you there is no safer place in Russia than here.’

Dusk was falling when they reached the edge of the pine forest, one of those hazy summer evenings that held a promise of fine weather on the morrow. There was no wind, the sky was a blaze of gold and red, the trees a mass of shadows that were dark and forbidding. A fairy-story woodland, the haunt of sprites and goblins; or werewolves and vampires. Gmyrya’s mouth was dry, his legs felt unsteady. He felt an urge to go to the toilet and then run for his life. Flee anywhere, just get away from here. You’re being stupid, he won’t hurt you. What about Denanko then?

Prokop walked at a discreet distance behind Gmyrya and Keschev, a shadow amongst shadows, a silhouette that would keep them in sight the whole time.

‘The boar are usually seen on the rides in late evening,’ Keschev whispered, ‘but they are wary and have a keen scent. We must tread softly and talk only in whispers if we are to catch a glimpse of one.’

Their footsteps were muffled by the soft, springy grass, a wide, twisting path that led on into the forest. Lush undergrowth lined the path, a mass of rhododendrons in full bloom, their scent sweet and sickly. Gmyrya held back, wanted his companion to go on in front. I want you where I can see you, Andre.

‘Go on.’ Keschev seemed to read the other’s thoughts.

‘I have seen the boar before many times. I want you to see them, Andreevich.’

The deputy glanced back. Keschev’s face was hidden in the shadow yet he detected, sensed, the smile. Prokop was some ten yards behind them. Keep your hand on your pistol, Sergey. Behind him the beast they had raised from the grave, in front wild boars lurking in the bushes. Fierce creatures, they had been known to attack and gore a man to death for no reason. I don’t want to see them, leave them in peace. But he walked on ahead all the same because he had no choice. It was as if a powerful physical force emanated from Andre Keschev, a strong, invisible hand that was pushing him on. Go see the boars, Andreevich.

They came to a bend and he approached it cautiously, neck craned to try and see round the wall of foliage. It was much darker now. Something moved, bounded for cover. A rabbit probably or it could even have been a fox. A rustling of leaves and then it was gone; a sentry perhaps, a guardian of the woods gone on ahead to warn the inhabitants of this dark and sinister woodland world that Man was abroad. Beware, death is in the air.

So cold now, the biting chill of evening in a place where the sun rarely penetrated in daytime. The stench of pine needles and rotting vegetation assailed Gmyrya’s nostrils, the smell of death in its various forms.

He turned, made out Keschev standing silently only a yard behind him. ‘I think the boars are not about tonight, Andre.’ A whispered plea; let us go back before it is too late.

‘There are always boar here.’ An edge to the leader’s tone now, a command. ‘Keep going, don’t stop. We shall see one very soon.’ Confident, as though the movements of the wild pigs were controlled by himself. I am dictator of Russia, everything obeys me.

And then they saw it, a massive boar standing in the middle of the track ahead of them no more than 15 yards away. A giant brute, facing them as though it had sensed their approach and did not deign to flee for cover. A yard high, powerful shoulders hunched, tusks uplifted in a gesture of defiance. Small eyes buried in the coarse, matted hair but you saw them flicker. Curiosity turning to anger. What are you doing in my domain? I am the ruler of these forests and I rule by fear and death like you, Andre Keschev. Go back, run whilst you still have your lives.

Gmyrya felt himself begin to tremble, every nerve in his body quivering, his legs weakening. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry and a lump stuck in his throat. He felt himself forced to meet those tiny eyes, flinching before them. I didn’t want to come here, I was made to. We’re leaving, going home right now. But that force from behind was still holding him, an invisible strength refusing to yield to defeat. There’s your boar, Andreevich, what did I tell you? Now look at him, feel his power. The power of a ruler.

Sergey Prokop tautened, felt himself starting to sweat. A sour smell that could have been his own body odours, the aroma of fear. Watching, afraid to move. Perhaps the creature would turn and crash away into the rhododendrons at any second. Inquisitive but afraid to face humans in the open, except during the breeding season when its sow had a litter of sucklings. He thought he heard a rustling and a crackling of dry twigs somewhere in the undergrowth. He could have been mistaken.

His fingers eased slowly inside his jacket and rested on the butt of his automatic. A 9mm Makarov was no match for a wild boar unless you scored a direct hit in a vital part and the failing daylight was too uncertain to be sure of that. He moved slightly to his left, edging an Inch or two at a time. Keschev was in the line of fire. A thought crossed his mind; a wild shot in the excitement of the fray, Keschev going down with a bullet in his brain. Sergey licked his lips, started to draw his pistol.

The boar backed off a pace, snorted, pawed the ground. Turned, glanced sideways as though contemplating retreat. Then it stopped and those pinpoint eyes came back to focus on Andreevich Gmyrya for a second; a baleful glare and then they switched to Keschev. A long stare, the orbs flickering, glowing. Watching. A kind of mute conversation between man and animal. The eyes moved yet again, returned to Gmyrya and the watchers felt the fury, the smouldering hatred, the bestial rage being stoked up. Another snort, the earth was scraped again. And then the boar charged.

A mountain of grunting, seething, evil fury launched itself forward, so fast that it was impossible to follow its movements in the half-light. The body seemed to ball, head going down, thrusting upwards. A scream of terror came from Andreevich Gmyrya as he was impaled on those long tusks, thrown up and back across the creature’s saddle, a bizarre straddling of his mount, legs trailing, arms beating the air. A cloud of dust hid the horror momentarily from Keschev and Prokop; just a cacophony of human and bestial cries, the drumming of frenzied feet, a speared rag doll being thrown crazily from one side to the other. Cavorting, slowing, the dust cleared and the watchers were afforded a glimpse of the still-living carnage. The victim was impaled through his chest, blood was pouring out, staining the boar’s fur crimson. A rodeo rider who had lost his nerve, hung on grimly, fought feebly to stay on his bucking charge.

The wild pig came to a standstill, hesitated, then rolled. Another scream, bones cracked and then Andreevich was thrown clear, a pathetic crushed and bloody figure, limbs still moving feebly. Unrecognizable as the deputy leader of the Soviet Union, clothing ripped and shredded, a bundle of twitching, blood-soaked rags. His attacker rounded on him, stood watching him, gloating, playing with him. Get up and run so I can gore you again. A beast of the chase turning the tables; this time Man had become the hunted species.

Andre Keschev had not moved throughout, had stood there apparently dumbfounded, frozen into immobility. At least, that was the impression Sergey had from the leader’s rear. Prokop had his pistol out, the snub barrel was trained on the other’s back; a slight trigger pressure. And then the wild boar attacked again.

The preservation of human life was instinctive in such a situation. Sergey had only held his fire so far because he could not shoot at the rampaging animal without risking hitting Gmyrya. Now, for a split second an opportunity was offered to him. He knew he should have fired the moment the creature had succeeded in throwing its victim clear but his attention had switched to the possibility of an assassination. It might already be too late to save Andreevich Gmyrya.

Prokop swung the pistol a foot or so to the left, fired immediately, the hunter snap shooting in thick cover. Two reports, vivid stabs of flame in the gathering darkness. A squeal of pain and rage and he knew his marksmanship had been true. But not true enough. The boar went down on its side, kicked straight back up, wheeled crazily. Body shots, not enough to stop it in its tracks.

It was almost impossible to pick a mark in the melee; the killer was weaving, twisting, coming back in to gore the wounded man again, a sweeping movement with those vicious tusks that slit open Gmyrya’s exposed belly, a huge wound that poured blood and spilled out coils of entrails. The boar stood over its victim, berserk now, it would rip and trample, pound the dying man into the ground.

Prokop was firing fast, emptying his pistol at the monstrous wild pig, hearing the bullets cutting into its body. It toppled, got up again, its hairy face turned towards Prokop, a mask of malevolence and ferociousness; but you haven’t finished me yet. It tensed, prepared to launch itself into yet another wild onrush and that was when Sergey heard his pistol clicking uselessly. Something inside him screamed at him to flee, to find a low branch and haul himself to safety. But his limbs would not move, his entire body was rigid with terror. He heard it snort, the body moving forward. Then saw it crumpling to the ground, rolling over, legs kicking furiously in the air. Slowing; feeble convulsions. Lying still. The beast of the forests was dead but Andre Keschev still lived.

‘Good shooting.’ Keschev spoke softly, standing there looking down on the lacerated, strewn human remains that a few minutes earlier had been the deputy leader of the USSR. ‘You did all that could have been expected of you, Prokop. Nature is very cruel.’

No remorse; not even visibly shaken. A man unmoved by sudden and violent death. Sergey found himself staring at the useless automatic pistol in his hand. His spare clips were back in the house; his chance had come and gone.

‘Well, we have seen our wild boar,’ Keschev laughed softly. ‘Poor Andreevich. Fate had decreed that he must die. Another time that brute would probably have turned and run. Instead it became enraged and charged. Well, there is nothing more we can do here. We had better go back to the house. The male servants can come out and clear up the mess in the morning.’

Prokop followed on the heels of his companion, a giant of a man, striding purposefully on ahead as though well satisfied with the outcome of a mission. Sergey’s scalp prickled; the boar could have taken Keschev, too. It had looked and suddenly shied off. As though it guessed; you cannot kill those who are already dead.

‘I hope this unfortunate incident will not spoil the remainder of your stay,’ Andre Keschev said as they came into sight of the dacha.

‘I …’ Sergey stopped in surprise; he was still holding the empty pistol, and, flinching inwardly as the other’s eyes rested on it, smiled. ‘I had better return to Moscow in the morning. My presence here was to ensure the safety of Comrade Gmyrya and now …’

‘Nonsense.’ Keschev was totally unmoved. ‘You did your best, you could not have done more in the circumstances. Life has to go on, you know. Be my guest, enjoy the swimming and the tennis, the pursuits of a young man. And,’ an eye closed for a second, opened again, ‘the servants are at your disposal. The maids are hand-picked!’ A guttural laugh and then Keschev was gone into the spacious hallway, mounting the wide marble staircase.

Only then did Sergey’s fear begin to manifest itself. The house, the seclusion, a mutilated man and a devilish wild beast lying out there in the dark forest. Another killing, so subtle that nobody could prove it was other than an accident; even the CIA could not be blamed for this one. And now he was alone with the fiend he had been assigned to destroy. And just as the wild boar had done, Sergey had an uneasy feeling that the hunter was fast becoming the hunted.

CHAPTER TWENTY - The Whore at the Dacha

For the first time in his life Sergey Prokop knew how a murderer in the condemned cell felt on the night before his execution. In a way the murderer was more fortunate; he knew that death was a certainty within a few hours. Sergey did not know for sure. It was a kind of intensified Chinese torture. He found himself listening to stealthy footfalls in the corridor outside. There were many, servants creeping back to their rooms after an illicit drinking session. Whispers and muffled drunken laughter. Female giggling stifled abruptly as a hand was clasped over a mouth. The secret nightlife of the dacha was coming to a close.

It was only about an hour before daylight that the building went quiet, a deathly hush as the nocturnal revellers fell into a drunken sleep or else fornicated silently in their rooms. A brief lull before the cycle continued.

Sergey lay on his bed still dressed in shirt and trousers; pyjamas or nakedness gave him a feeling of vulnerability. His pistol was on the table beside him, a new clip in the magazine. If anybody attempted to force door or window he would shoot unhesitatingly; it was the only defence he had. A chance had been passed up in the forest, next time it would not be so easy. The choice was a simple one: kill or be killed.

Sheer exhaustion had his eyelids drooping, once they almost closed and the inbuilt survival instincts within his make-up jerked him back to full waking. He lit a cigarette; it tasted sour but it would help to keep him awake. Sleep and you die. Monday seemed light years away.

He heard the birds beginning to twitter in the trees and bushes outside. The dawn chorus was supposed to be romantic, instead it sounded harsh, abrasive to his frayed nerves. Somewhere in the distance corvine birds were calling noisily; they had probably found Gmyrya’s corpse and were inviting their friends to come and breakfast with them. Sergey had read somewhere that they always pecked the eyes out first. He shuddered.

It seemed that everybody at the dacha slept late, probably a long-established routine that went back to the days of the tsars; eat, drink and sleep late. He decided to risk going to sleep.

It was 7.15 a.m. when he awoke. He lay listening but it seemed that nobody was stirring yet. His eyes ached, that dull throb that would become steadily worse as the day wore on. Sheer exhaustion, and the only cure was sleep. He dozed again.

It was nine o’clock before the sound of voices penetrated his slumber. He stirred. The sun was streaming in through the partly-drawn curtains. He squinted, blinked, searched for his headache but it was gone. The night hours had evaporated, he was afforded a brief respite. But they would return.

Different sounds outside now; he lay listening to them, picked out the heavy revs of a four-wheel drive Lada moving away from the dacha, the drone of its engine receding like a lazy bumble bee. Twenty minutes later he heard it returning, doors slamming and the engine idling. Then it drove off once more, this time down the track which led to the road. It was probably a makeshift hearse; the servants had been out to the woods, scraped up what was left of Andreevich Gmyrya and shovelled him into a plastic sack. The mangled corpse was on its way back to Moscow. Another one down, how many more to go? He did not try to work that one out.

The heat was overpowering. Having breakfasted in the servants’ quarters, Sergey set out on another seemingly aimless stroll around the grounds. The perimeter fence was eight feet high, topped with unsightly coiled barbed wire, beyond it the moat, a deep foul-smelling ditch. If there were armed guards on duty then there was no sign of them; further investigation revealed an electric alarm system. Probably they had a 24-hour rota of sentries. Funny, there did not seem to be anybody about, not even domestic servants. An atmosphere of desolation as if the household had risen for breakfast and gone back to bed. You’re on your own, Sergey. It was an unnerving, eerie feeling.

The open-air swimming pool beckoned him with its sparkling artificial blue, its promise of coolness, a seclusion that was not just isolation. A different world, a chance to relax and refresh himself. He glanced about him; not a soul in sight, the house was hidden behind a fringe of pines planted half a century ago for that very purpose. He began to undress, folded his clothes neatly and laid them out close to the edge. If anybody came he would surely catch sight of them in time to cover the essential parts of his nakedness. Then he slid into the water, swam half a length and floated on his back.

He dived, found the underwater world a welcome relief from the one above. It seemed to divorce itself from the tension of the dacha as though down there one was able to escape, leave behind the death and stark terror. Sergey wished he could remain down there forever but in the end his lungs forced him to the surface. Which was when he saw the girl standing on the side.

His first reaction was one of acute embarrassment, reaching out for the handrail, pulling himself close into the side, attempting to hide his nakedness. Which was silly because she was naked too.

At a rough guess he put her age at about 25. Tall and slim with long, dark hair. Small, firm breasts, thighs slightly apart as though she was deliberately inviting him to look between them, offering him an unrestricted view of her fluffy pubis. Yet it was her eyes that commanded his attention, dark pools that reflected an inner misery and fear. Pleading.

She said, ‘Hallo, I’m Pasha.’

‘Sergey,’ he smiled up at her. ‘I didn’t bring any bathing trunks with me and the water tempted me. I see it’s permissible to bathe naked here.’ He laughed, did his best to put them both at ease.

‘Most of us do when there’s nobody special around.’ The faint smile which briefly touched her soft lips disappeared. ‘You’re a … bodyguard? KGB?’

He nodded. ‘I came here to protect the deputy leader. I didn’t make a very good job of it. I was all for heading back to Moscow today but the General Secretary insisted I stay the rest of the weekend.’

She was pale. Her body trembled; it could not be the cold in this heat. ‘I wish I could go back to Moscow.’ she said.

‘You don’t like it here?’

‘It is dangerous to express an opinion.’

‘You can tell me, I don’t care for it here much either. Certainly not after what happened last night.’

‘I heard the others talking about it.’ She lowered her body, sat on the edge of the pool and dangled her legs in the water. ‘They say that … no, I must not repeat it.’

‘That Keschev killed Gmyrya?’

‘Yes.’ Pasha glanced about her nervously but there was nobody in sight. ‘They say, too, that he is some kind of living corpse, which is nonsense. Unless you have shared his bed!’

‘Which you obviously have?’

‘I have no choice. What would you do, live in near poverty and queue for bread daily or enjoy special privileges? I could put up with whoring most of the time, but, Sergey, I would rather die than spend another night with him!’

‘Whilst there’s life there’s hope.’ He hauled himself up beside her. ‘You either screw or they send you to the camps. Tell me about it.’

She pondered a minute as though she was debating whether or not to trust him but when she spoke her words came out in a rush. ‘He is no normal man, Sergey. He is a beast but no ordinary beast. His body, so strong and as cold as ice. Last night I suffered hours of torture. He is a sadist, perverted. But I cannot, I dare not, go into details. I just wish that I could shut it out from my memory forever. But it will haunt me until my dying day. I hate myself for what I had to do. I tell you, I would rather take my own life than suffer that again, and he has commanded me to return to his quarters again tonight! But I do not have the courage to kill myself.’

‘You are too young to die,’ Prokop’s hand found hers and squeezed her fingers reassuringly, ‘and too beautiful.’

‘It was more than just physical.’ She was close to tears. ‘I am a Politburo whore and when my body is in demand I can usually shut my mind off, lie there and let them have their way. But not with him. Those vile kisses, the foul odours that exude from his mouth and his icy, obscene touches. But all that is nothing when you look into his eyes. They burn with the fires of hell, search out your mind. You cannot lie to him, or if you do you know he reads the truth in your brain. I am a fool,’ she added, ‘talking like this to a KGB officer. Doubtless you will report me, but maybe better that than to go with that monster again.’

‘I won’t report you, I promise,’ he replied. ‘In fact, I would like to help you.’

‘The only way you can help me is to get me away from this place.’

‘I can’t do that, I am virtually a prisoner here myself. But there are other ways.’

‘Such as?’

‘You hate him enough to kill him. But have you the courage to kill him?’

‘That is sheer madness!’ Pasha shrank back.

‘Perhaps it is all that is left to both of us. I could give you a knife.’

She was silent. He felt the tautening of her body, the struggle that was going on inside her. Maybe she suspected a trap, a frame-up.

‘Keschev killed Gmyrya,’ he whispered. ‘I know, I was there. He took him out to the forest to murder him. Normally the boar would not have attacked, it would have fled. But somehow the man took control of it, turned it into a raging beast.’

‘Then he will see through our plot.’ She wrung her hands together in frustration.

‘Not necessarily. Sometimes a beautiful woman blinds a man to all else. I’m afraid you will have to go through it all again, just one last time, excite and arouse him, fire him with lust. And then …’

‘And what happens to me afterwards?’

‘You will be well rewarded, that I promise you.’

‘So there is a plot.’

‘Thousands of Jews and Christians might support that notion, not to mention millions of Soviet citizens. Our country is being brought to the brink of a war we cannot hope to win by this madman. What is your life or mine against millions?’

‘I will try.’ She stared down at the water. ‘If I cannot find the courage to kill myself then perhaps I can find it to kill Andre Keschev.’

‘I will find you a knife,’ he said, ‘and may the gods be with you.’

Sergey lay on his bed, his pistol within easy reach. The door was locked and as an added precaution he had jammed a chair beneath the knob. The curtains were closed over a closed window which gave the room a stifling, claustrophobic atmosphere. A prison cell, the condemned cell. Only this time the unfortunate occupant was mentally willing the coming of dawn.

A half-darkness, it never seemed to get completely dark at this time of the year and for that he was grateful. He would force himself to stay awake until daylight; another night gone and two more to go. He smoked until his mouth tasted sour and the thought of another cigarette made him want to throw up. He thought about Olga and wondered which camp she was in; there had not been much between them these last few months but it would take some time to get used to being without her. The System had made it easy for him; he winced just thinking about it.

He knew he was kidding himself about Ursula, thinking what he wanted to think. Just because a woman lets you screw her doesn’t mean that she wants to spend the rest of her life with you. Fantasy. Josef wasn’t sleeping in the back room, Sergey smiled wryly, even if he spent the daylight hours there. Maybe Ursula was clinging on to her new lover and when she tired of him she would try and smuggle him out of the Soviet. He may or may not make it. Sergey hoped that he did; he didn’t bear Zuttenberg any grudge; in the Jew’s place he would have done exactly the same. When you didn’t know whether or not you would see the next day you grasped greedily at everything that life had to offer. And Prokop was in much the same position himself.

He found himself holding his breath to listen. The servants came to bed in their usual inebriated fashion. Nobody bothered them; you have your own quarters, stay in them and do not trouble us.

He was a coward. He had enlisted somebody else to carry out the task assigned to himself. Because an opportunity had arisen, for no other reason. Except that you’re scared to hell, Sergey Prokop. What is a whore’s life against the fate of Russia, the entire world? Or your life? He wasn’t scared of dying. If not, then why had he barricaded himself in his room like this, a pistol by his side and afraid to go to sleep? He was scared and he was a coward. Self-admission made him feel easier. If he could have got out of the country and flown to Europe he would have asked for political asylum. Maybe British Intelligence would have pulled him in but that was nothing compared with what he had to face here.

Flitting fears that stabbed and vanished back into the shadows, his breathing so shallow that he was afraid that if he dropped off to sleep it would stop and he would die. Clinging to life for life’s sake.

And then somebody was trying the door! A gentle pressure on the knob at first, turning it, then a creaking of the woodwork. Furtive, a stealthy force. Prokop sat up, stared into the gloom. Heavy breathing came from outside, the doorknob clicking back and forth now; anger, frustration, an intruder denied entry and becoming desperate.

The door shuddered. A heavy shoulder against it, maybe a foot as a lever. Brute force.

‘Keep out, go away!’ Sergey rolled off the bed, felt the cold sweat, the tightening of his stomach, the rising panic within him that had his hands trembling as he grasped the heavy oak chest of drawers. He pushed, heard its feet gouging the polished oak floorboards, screeching its protest at being moved. The door shook, a panel cracked. Only just in time; Sergey slumped over the chest, clung to it. Oh God, another minute or two and the defences would have been breached. The chair was taking the strain but it could not hold out much longer.

He staggered back to the bed. Anywhere to get as far away as possible from the door. He pressed himself back against the headboard, grabbed up his pistol, shouted something incoherent. A flurry of blows on the woodwork, the whole room vibrating. More splintering; that cracked panel above the chest would give in a second or two. A determined assault from outside, a frenzied attack upon the door. I’m coming in to get you, Sergey Prokop!

Shards of wood fell into the bedroom, a hole was appearing in the heavy wood, a crack that was widening, huge fingers tearing at it. Splitting; a face, a bestial countenance that was visible through the gap, features twisted with malignant fury, a mouth that breathed obscenities, fangs that gnashed and dribbled saliva. The Beast was coming for the kill.

That was when Prokop began shooting, the pistol bucking and jerking in his grip, the bullets smashing into that door and beyond. The attacker screamed, more in anger than pain, but did not falter; tore blindly at the shattered panel. And then the pistol was clicking uselessly.

Sergey felt the weapon slip from his fingers, slide on the coverlet and fall to the floor. His senses swam. This was it, the end he had feared for so long. Please let it be quick. That hole in the door was widening, the face bloated and swelling; starting to gyrate, hissing and snarling. And then the door yielded, crashed back into the room, scattering chair and chest out of its path. Revealing the black, unfathomable void beyond that was the entrance to the Pit and from it the Beast was emerging, an apparition that blasted the human brain because no such creature could possibly exist; the mind could not cope so it switched off.

Sergey experienced a sensation of falling, plunging headlong, bracing himself for an impact which never came. A rushing of icy air, a roaring in his ears. And somewhere behind him the monster out of the darkness was snarling its frustration and, even further away, he thought he could hear a woman screaming. Then everything closed in on him and he was drifting in a never-ending abyss that went on and on.

Waking was a slow process for Sergey Prokop, consciousness returning in stages. He established that he was lying on the floor of his room and his body was stiff and chilled but, as far as he could ascertain, uninjured. A glance towards the door showed him that it was still intact, the chair was jammed securely under the knob and the chest of drawers was back in its original position alongside the wall. He raised his head, checked that his pistol was on the bedside table. He examined it. It was fully loaded and had not been fired. But, God Almighty, it had been a bad experience!

It was full daylight outside and the first rays of the rising sun were just beginning to filter into the room through the ill-fitting curtains. Birds were twittering somewhere but he could not hear any crows. The household itself was silent, nobody moved.

Stiffly he got back up on to the bed, searched for his clothes. He was cold, shivering, he had no idea how long he had lain on the floor. But he was still alive, he had survived another night in this hellish place.

He checked his watch. It had stopped at 3.22 a.m. He shook it, saw the second hand begin to move. His head ached, thumped with a painful consistency and there was a foul taste on his palate. Shakily he moved across to the wash basin and drank a tumbler of cold water.

More than just a nightmare, something he could not explain. Only that it had been too damned close. OK, it was all in the mind but that was when it got dangerous. His head cleared a little and the events of the past day flooded back. Pasha; what had happened? He would find out soon enough. Probably she had chickened out and the situation was stalemate again. She had screwed with Keschev, let him have his perverted fun, and now she would probably take her own life. Which put the onus back on himself. Next time it would be more than just a bad dream from which he awoke on the floor all in one piece.

An overwhelming desire to get out of this room, go into the grounds, breathe in fresh air, get himself back under control. He removed the chair, unlocked the door and peered out into the corridor. There was nobody about; he had not expected there to be. He went down the stairs and let himself out on to the patio.

The sun was just up, its golden light flooding the rolling lawns, giving them a parched look as if there had been a long drought. Just a hint of dew beneath his feet, the rhododendrons a wall of pink and blue that scented the air. Wood pigeons cooed peacefully in the tall pines beyond. Too peaceful, a kind of portending doom.

A couple of rackets lay on the tennis court as though whoever had been playing had reluctantly abandoned their game when the light failed and would be back to continue shortly. But there was no sign of the players yet. He walked on towards the open-air swimming pool.

Even before he reached it he sensed that something was wrong, his pace slowing; he almost turned away. Treading cautiously, afraid to look over the side but knowing that he had to, bracing himself for whatever he might see.

The water was no longer a Caribbean blue, instead it was a pinkish colour, like watered-down claret, the kind they served up at communion services in the churches. Another warning. And then he saw.

The female body floated in the water, grinned up at him with a bloody half-moon smile from its gashed throat, a huge cavity that still oozed blood, diluting and staining the water. Legs splayed provocatively even in death, an arm outstretched and moving faintly with the swell as though beckoning him. Come and make love to me, Sergey. Then he saw the knife, his knife, buried up to the hilt in her lower abdomen. He retched and almost vomited.

He knew without any doubt that it was Pasha. A wave of remorse and guilt. I killed her, sent her to her death. Oh, how stupid can you get, Sergey Prokop, to believe that a whore could solve your problems for you? She would have taken her own life anyway. She might still have, but it was doubtful.

He backed away, found himself looking back in the direction of the house. Those evil eyes slept, lids closed. Do not disturb us, the night is over and now we must sleep and recharge ourselves.

Sergey began to walk back. Already he was anticipating the coming night.

*

‘It has been an unfortunate weekend.’ Andre Keschev was dressed in a red and green striped dressing gown that fell almost to his slippered feet, and was smoking a rank-smelling cigar. Unmoved, smiling faintly as he watched the servants transporting the corpse wrapped in bloodstained sheets across the lawns. ‘One can never tell how things will turn out. Life is full of uncertainties, Prokop. Death is the only certainty in life.’

Prokop shivered in the warm sunlight. It was almost midday; usually Keschev was not seen until mid-afternoon at the earliest. But today he had appeared on the lower balcony overlooking the grounds, a bloated vulture come to gloat.

‘She was crazy,’ the Soviet leader continued, ‘should have been admitted to a hospital a long time ago. Wild fantasies and a permanent desire to take her own life.’ He looked at Prokop long and hard; you have to believe me because I am the most powerful man in Russia. ‘Sometimes at night she would wander the corridors soliciting, offering herself to the male staff. In kindness to her they did not lodge an official complaint. She had this fantasy about being a whore. All in the mind, of course. If a man had approached her she would have fled screaming, yelled rape. Likewise those who talk of suicide rarely commit it; Pasha was an exception to the rule. We can only pity her.’ A condescending smile; if she told you anything different, Prokop, then she was lying. Unfortunately I have to cut my weekend short and return to Moscow.’

Sergey started, hoped that the relief he felt did not show. ‘Oh, that is a pity. Comrade General Secretary. I hope there is no trouble.’

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ Keschev’s expression hardened, ‘there is disquiet in the city, throughout the USSR in fact. Protest marches that are spreading like a typhoid outbreak. The masses are gathering as the forerunner to another revolution. There have been several skirmishes, a number shot by troops. The rebellion has to be put down quickly before it gains momentum. I saw it coming months ago; the worker has come to expect too much, he has forgotten his place in the System. The unrest must be quelled, quickly and harshly. The streets of Moscow and other cities must run red with blood before we can become a great nation again. The rot has been allowed to set in by a series of weak rulers.’

Sergey felt sickened. The Beast had to be put down. Each passing hour brought fresh terror and destruction. Twice he had failed and murder had been passed off as the rampaging of a wild boar and a suicide. Yet he himself had escaped unscathed. Keschev could have killed him any time he wished and yet the leader had allowed him to live. And that in itself was puzzling. A cat toying with a wounded mouse, torturing it until the merciful coup de grâce.

Prokop had to return to Moscow and speak with Ursula. Perhaps she had the answer, the key to this terrible business. If not, then there was no solution.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - The Killing of Josef Zuttenberg

There was little about Josef Zuttenberg to suggest that he was Jewish. His complexion was pallid rather than dark, his features insignificant, typically eastern European if you did not study them too closely. Slight of build, shoulders stooping as though he spent his life hunched over factory machinery in an airless atmosphere. He had become accustomed to smiling rarely and his habitual expression had aged him a few years beyond his early forties. This past week he had allowed a growth of hair on his face to go unshaved, not yet identifiable as a prospective beard, more an unkemptness, the hallmark of the hopeless in this new Russia.

He had been in the back room of Ursula Ramanninov’s apartment for almost a week now; the surroundings were indelibly imprinted on his mind. Sometimes he dosed his eyes to try and shut them out, a brief respite from boredom, but even then he saw the cracks in the unpapered wall of the storeroom, like a mirrored view of the criss-crossing veins behind his eyes. Dull grey, everything was dull grey. Even the faded green curtains which were kept permanently closed became grey after a while. A chair, a table, a sagging couch to sleep on. Food was plentiful; Ursula gave him the freedom of the stocked larder. He ate to relieve the monotony; his appetite had long since disappeared, and the days seemed unending.

He was losing track of time, vegetating, sitting out a futile existence. Eventually he would go mad and then perhaps he would be spared the torture of an agonized mind.

In the beginning he had tried to pass the hours by reading. He had read Solzhenitsyn: Gulag Archipelago, First Circle and Cancer Ward. Then his concentration had lapsed, become like a moth flitting round a lighted lamp. Bobbing, weaving, darting, going away and coming back again. After a while he abandoned books and turned to browsing through Pravda and Trudd but they accelerated his growing daily depression so in the end he relinquished reading altogether and just sat staring at the walls. Katrina and the children were dead, he tried not to hope. At first he had wept for them but now his tears had dried up, burned like an arid desert where it would never rain again. All that was left in life was waiting for Ursula to come home.

Two nights ago he had made an uncharacteristic move towards her, despised himself bitterly for it, and tried to console his conscience by telling himself that any man in his position would have done the same. He had heard the gentle creaking of her bedsprings as she had retired for the night and on impulse had crept through to her room, pushed the door open and stepped into her bedroom.

‘Josef?’

‘I have to talk to you.’ He seated himself on the edge of the bed and in the dim nocturnal glow he could just make out her slim shape in the middle of the coverlet. She was lying uncovered because of the stifling heat, and instinctively tried to stretch her flimsy negligee down as far as it would go.

‘I’m tired, Josef. There have been two performances today.’ She sounded tense, wary; perhaps she guessed his intention. She was shrewd enough.

‘What is Prokop to you?’ Any other time he would have used a more subtle approach but today he had been brooding over Sergey Prokop. And Ursula. Jealousy and sexual arousal were not a good combination for tact.

‘He’s a friend.’

‘Or a fellow agent. And a lover!’

‘I said, a friend. Now please, Josef, let me go to sleep. I am exhausted.’

‘Do you realize what you do to me?’ A whisper, a hiss that embodied frustration. ‘Do you realize?’

‘No, I don’t.’ She sounded different, the sharpness of her tone was hurtful. ‘Josef, I have offered you shelter. I have fed you, all at great risk to myself and the organization for which I work. I cannot do more. This is no way for a man whose family is missing to act.’

‘Missing! Dead, you mean. There is nothing left for me, Ursula. Except you.’

She did not reply; he heard her breathing quicken.

‘I cannot live without you, Ursula. But I need to know, is Sergey Prokop your lover?’ His hand seemed to move of its own accord, stretched out, touched a bare shoulder. He felt her flinch, move away and then his wrist was grabbed in a grip that belied the strength of a star of the stage. Fingernails that dug deep, twisted, threw his arm back.

‘How dare you, Josef! Do you think I am a whore who shares her bed with any I give shelter to?’

He recoiled, was grateful for the darkness otherwise she might have seen the protrusion of his erection inside his thin shorts. A rebuff that stung like a physical slap, a rejection that brought instant shame. ‘I’m sorry, Ursula. It was just that …’

‘Go back to your room, Josef, and let’s try and forget what has happened tonight.’ She turned over, lay facing the wall, her body so still that she might already have been asleep. Get out, Josef, there’s nothing doing.

He slunk back to the storeroom, flung himself onto the sofa and lay there unsleeping for the remainder of the night hours.

After that, things had not been the same between them. Even the relationship of landlady and tenant was marred. You can stay here as long as you want, Josef; I’ll feed you and give you shelter but please remain in the back room out of my way. I don’t want to see you except when it is really necessary. All of which was instrumental in bringing about Josef Zuttenberg’s decision to leave.

There had been no performance of Boris Godunov on the Sunday, nothing whatsoever to do with the Sabbath but simply that with all tourism having ceased and the opera merely for the pleasure of the seemingly innumerable Nomenklatura it was deemed that six days a week were ample. Ursula had slept late and it was after noon when Josef heard her moving about, smelled a cooking odour. It was with some surprise that he heard a slight tap on his door and saw it edge open a few inches. Through the gap he caught a glimpse of Ursula clad in a pair of light blue washed jeans and a red and white checked blouse. She smiled but it lacked warmth, merely a facial movement, forced politeness which she might have offered to any caller.

‘I’m cooking today,’ – which was unusual in itself – ‘perhaps you would care to join me for a light lunch.’

‘Thank you.’ His surprise and embarrassment were evident; he stroked his growth of beard stubble as though apologizing for it. He moved clumsily, followed her awkwardly through into the adjoining room and felt insecure amidst its tasteful decor.

‘Gmyrya is dead,’ she said as she served up a bowl of canned asparagus soup. ‘I heard it on the radio. He was staying at Keschev’s dacha. A wild boar savaged him. So they say.’

‘Oh!’ Josef glanced at her, noted how pale and tired she looked. ‘This time the scapegoat is a wild beast. A let-off for the CIA.’

After that they ate in silence and the next time Josef spoke it was through a mouthful of blue stilton. ‘I have decided to leave,’ he said. ‘It is for the best. I cannot inflict my presence on you any longer. There is no point.’

‘Where will you go?’ Mild surprise; it might have been a veil for relief.

‘I shall try and get to Poland. I have friends there.’

‘Will they still be there? This purge by Andre Keschev is far-reaching. No religious sect is safe in any Soviet bloc country.’

‘I shall find out.’

‘You will never get there. Getting out of Moscow alone will tax every grain of your ingenuity. It is foolish even to contemplate it, Josef. When you walk out of here you walk to your death. Even I could not engineer safe travel for you. Russia is a bloodbath. Did you not hear the shooting in the streets yesterday?’

A few days ago the two of them would have held a council-of-war over it; this was the first time that it had been mentioned.

‘I heard a burst of firing.’

‘Twenty citizens died. The wounded were left bleeding to death in the gutters. It is forbidden under the new laws for more than six people to congregate together on the streets. They were queuing for bread, the soldiers told them to move on. There is a limit to what even the Russian citizen will put up with when his stomach is empty. The queue stood its ground and the soldiers opened fire. No warning shots; a massacre. I guarantee that you will not get further than Leninskij Prospekt, Josef. But the decision is yours, I will not try to stop you.’

‘I shall go.’ He smiled wanly through his stubble growth. ‘And if I die, so what? There is nothing else left. Better to die now than to linger on.’

She began to clear the dishes. In a way it was she who had precipitated his decision, her rejection of his advances had been the final straw. But there could be no turning back. The news of Gmyrya’s death was shattering. Sergey was out there at the dacha. If anything had happened to him she was unlikely to hear. She had managed to buy a ticket for tomorrow night’s performance. It remained to be seen whether or not he occupied that seat. The wait was going to be agonizing; she had little time to devote to thinking about Josef Zuttenberg’s fate.

Surprisingly the streets were not deserted. It might have been just another Sunday until you glanced at the faces of passers-by; eyes that met your own momentarily and furtively were jerked away, a glance behind and to the side. Trusting nobody, suspicion and fear. The slaughter in Gorky Street was still in everybody’s mind. Many remained indoors, but inside or out there was no guarantee of safety. Military vehicles were constantly on the move, slowing ominously, picking up speed again. We are watching you. Beware!

Josef Zuttenberg had lied to Ursula about friends in Poland. He had none there, at least not anymore, and, furthermore, he had no intention of going to that country. He had no plans, only to leave Ursula’s apartment and not just because she had rejected him. It was not fair to her to remain there, every minute he was under her roof put her in danger. It was pointless, too, this clinging to life for the sake of life itself. Suicide was not out of the question, only against the laws of his God. Would that he had not fled at the outset, but gone to the camps or the death chambers with Katrina and the children. The Resistance movement was no more than a token gesture which was gone now. He wanted no part of it. The days of Stalin had returned and there was no escape.

No plans, no hope, living for the hour; sometime later that afternoon he realized that he had wandered into Gorky Park. Thin crowds, there were no tourists to swell them. The usual atmosphere was gone, the big wheel still and deserted, abandoned like the open-air theatre. Restaurants were closed. Just a place to go to pass the time; one day more, one day less. Except for the chess players at the long outdoor tables. They had their own world, even Keschev could not intrude upon that. Long lines of players seated opposite each other, a variety of caps and trilby hats protected their heads from the hot sun. Pensive, bowed, a movement of the figures now and then. Here there would be winners and losers, but overall Russia had no winners.

Josef paused on the banks of the big lake. Ducks swam contentedly, a ‘v’ of them coming towards him, quacking noisily in the hope that a crust of bread might be thrown. Veering off in disappointment. People mooching up and down like himself. Go to the Park, enjoy yourself, for tomorrow you die; a mighty stage scattered with disconsolate actors. The Russian façade.

He found himself back in Red Square. He could not remember the walk here but he must have made it otherwise he would not be here. The GUM store; it was closed obviously. The people’s equivalent of No. 2 Granovsky Street; the dumping ground for goods surplus to requirements at Government House, so it was said. The Communist ideal, the masses are thrown the scraps whilst the rest live in luxury. Graded shops, the pecking order. And just to try and convince the worker that he was getting the best value for money there was a portrait of Lenin on the façade of the GUM. A seal of approval.

Zuttenberg stood looking at it and his thoughts returned to Ursula Ramanninov. With her it would all have been so different; he could have put up with the new regime. So cosy, tucked away in that luxurious apartment for the rest of his life. Eat, drink and screw Ursula; just thinking about it was erotic, and then Sergey came and spoiled it all for him.

Damn Sergey Prokop! Sergey had worked all this out for his own ends, pulled a lot of strings. Because he was a spy. And that was the one way he could be got at. Josef’s pulses raced. An idea, oh God, he didn’t mind dying after all. They could do what they wanted to do to him but just give me another few minutes.

There was a news-stall still open at the rear of the mausoleum. Mostly Pravda and Trudd, a few magazines and one or two items of stationery. Some dog-eared notepads, envelopes and pencils. Josef purchased a pad, a packet of envelopes and a ballpoint that had lost its top. A thrill coursed through him, he knew now how an assassin or a terrorist setting out to plant a bomb felt. Power, the means to kill and maim. Long-distance death.

He found a bench outside GUM, sat down, and began to write a letter; it did not matter whether he put his name to it or not. Short and to the point. He licked the flap, stuck it down, addressed it to Boris Kovak, KGB Headquarters, and went to look for somewhere to post it. It would have been quicker to walk across to Dzerzhinsky Square itself but something dissuaded him. Perhaps it was Dzerzhinsky’s statue scowling down on him. We know who you are, Josef Zuttenberg, your time is almost up.

He walked on clutching the letter in his hand. Fuck you, Sergey Prokop, you’ll pay for what you’ve done to me. Alongside the Moskva; that was when he was first aware of the two soldiers following behind him. A glance back, 25 yards no more, and they were hastening their step. We want you, Josef Zuttenberg. He broke into a run, which was silly because they would catch him anyway. All the same he fled.

A shouted command, he ignored it. His lungs hurt; it was a long time since he had taken any exercise; the backs of his legs were starting to pain him like he had got a sudden thrombosis.

The blinding pain first, he heard the sound of the shot afterwards. A force that spun him, doubled him up so that his fingers opened and the letter fell from his grasp. A breeze had sprung up, whipped it, lifted it, a gigantic, dirty butterfly flapping in ungainly flight. Dipping, weaving, almost catching on a branch and then being buffetted by a gust of summer wind. Skimming down towards the river; landing delicately, being taken by the swift current. A diminishing speck floating downstream.

Josef writhed on the hard concrete, felt the fast pumping of his heart, saw the thick scarlet trickle of blood creeping out from under him. Numbed, the sudden pain had vanished. Hands gripped him, pulled him over on to his back. He stared up, saw deep blue sky with fluffy white clouds scudding across it; a patch of unattainable freedom. Then faces looking down at him, hawk-like human predators. He smelled a waft of cordite and then it was gone.

‘Call the truck,’ one of the soldiers rasped to the other. ‘This one’s a goner!’

Josef heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie, a meaningless staccato conversation. I’m dying, thank God. I’ll see them all then, Katrina and the children. Maybe Rabbi Raikin as well. But one thing first, I have to tell them. The letter, where’s it gone? His fingers flexed, groped, but he was too weak to move. It’s all in the letter, about Sergey Prokop. He’s a British spy, he fouled it all up for me. His lips moved; with the letter gone he had to tell them before it was too late. Fuck Prokop, I’ll fix him!

He could not force the words out. They formed on his lips but could not get any further. Whispers that the breeze took, hurtled them on downriver after the letter. Blood bubbles that formed and burst. Listen to me, Sergey Prokop is a spy. One of your own men.

A final determined effort. He felt the words starting to come, a wheeze that took on meaning. ‘listen … something to … tell you … Ser …’

A rifle butt crashed down, the heel smashing into the open, bleeding mouth, shattering teeth. Destroying the spoken word as surely as the swirling river had taken the written one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Tears at the Tomb

Ivan Alexey had been notified of Gmyrya’s death early on Friday morning. His reaction had been one of sheer terror, rather than shock, for deep down he had expected it. It had been too much to hope that Prokop would exterminate this monster who was picking them all off. A desperate try, that was what it amounted to; the general of an army facing defeat has to keep on putting men in the firing line. Anybody, so long as it isn’t yourself. And that prospect was getting nearer with each passing day.

Vasily Petrov was waiting in the foyer of the KGB Chairman’s office when a visibly shaken Alexey arrived at 8.30 a.m. Alexey glared at him. ‘You are an early riser, Vasily,’ he said.

Petrov replied, ‘I have not slept, Ivan. Do any of us sleep these nights? I can see that you have …’

‘I’ve heard.’ The Chairman opened the door, leaving the other to follow him. ‘A boar this time. The man, if he is a man, is incalculable. I am waiting to hear from Prokop. That is, if he still lives.’

‘I cannot imagine why you sent Sergey Prokop,’ Petrov said, seating himself. ‘Surely you have better trained assassins, Ivan?’

‘They are becoming fewer.’ Alexey tossed his hat with practised skill on to a peg in the comer. ‘Prokop is still one of the best. I am still hopeful, Vasily. Prokop and Keschev are still out at the dacha. There is always tonight. And tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrows are getting less. What is your next plan, Ivan, or have you, too, run out of ideas?’

‘I shall play it steadily,’ Ivan Alexey retorted.

‘We shall have a revolution on our hands soon.’ Petrov’s features were deathly white and his hand shook as he lit a cigarette. ‘We are fighting on too many fronts at once and the real battle has not started yet. Our troops are set to invade Pakistan this coming week, others are now marching on the Chinese border. We are faced with massed crowds on the streets, hungry and desperate. Virtually every Western country has severed diplomatic relations with the USSR; their ambassadors have all been withdrawn. We are bent on self-destruction, we cannot cope. This man is mad!’

‘We shall exterminate him,’ Alexey tried to sound confident, ‘even if I have to do it myself.’ He turned away so that his companion could not see his expression. Suddenly a burst of firing came from outside, a volley of rifle and machine-gun fire. People were screaming. He moved to the window, sensed Petrov joining him, trying to see out. But there was nothing to see except an empty square and Feliks Dzerzhinsky’s statue.

‘It seemed to come from the People’s Militia Street.’ There was a note of relief in the KGB Chairman’s voice. ‘Probably the GRU. I have no jurisdiction over them.’

‘Ignat Grinbat is making a nuisance of himself,’ Petrov said, changing the subject. ‘The man has always been a pest. His daughter, Prokop’s wife, is missing.’

‘I know. Prokop told me about it. It is impossible to keep track of all the arrests, she could have been caught up with a bunch sent out to the camps. Or arrested by the GRU and they certainly won’t tell us. We have more important matters to attend to than searching for missing women. Now, Vasily, I have work to do …’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Petrov moved towards the door. ‘But if Andre Keschev returns to Moscow I am relying on you, my friend.’

Alexey stood staring at the door long after it had closed. He had made a boast on the spur of the moment but it might become reality. When one’s underlings failed then the onus fell back on yourself. The situation now was clear; it was kill or be killed!

Sergey Prokop arrived back in Moscow late on Sunday afternoon. The streets were deserted except for a constant flow of military vehicles and his journey was unhindered. He parked outside his apartment and approached it cautiously. A feeling, nothing logical, just the knowledge that his apartment was not empty. He turned the key with one hand, kept the other on the pistol in his pocket. It might be Olga returned; perhaps she had been held for interrogation and then released. No, they would not let her go if they had caught her at the church.

He opened the door quickly, stepped inside. And saw Ignat Grinbat sitting in the chair.

Grinbat looked up and there was no mistaking the sheer hopelessness in the other’s expression. Pouched, black-ringed eyes, lines and wrinkles etched deeply, long fingers entwining, twisting, permanently on the move. Not so much as a flicker of hope in those pale blue eyes. A man who had given up and just wanted to be left to die in peace.

‘She has not been found, Sergey,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘She is dead.’

‘There’s a saying that no news is good news.’ It sounded trite but he could not think of anything else to say. ‘That is what the British say and they never give up hope.’ He saw that the vodka bottle was empty and there was a tumbler at his father-in-law’s elbow.

‘There comes a time when even hope does not exist. Sergey, they are shooting people out on the streets. It is 1917 all over again. There is nothing left for any of us now.’

Prokop wanted to say ‘Why the hell don’t you go home, Ignat’ but even his heartlessness had its limits. ‘I have to go out again shortly. I have an assignment.’

If the other heard he gave no sign. Just stared straight ahead of him. ‘One man is responsible for all this. Just as Stalin was.’

‘I know. Now, Ignat, I have work to do. Stay here if you want but I must leave you to your own devices. There is food in the larder if you want it but I’m afraid all the vodka is gone.’

‘She was a good girl.’ Grinbat was having difficulty in speaking, a mounting inner rage through which he had to fight to form his words. ‘He killed her. He must die. I do not care for myself.’

Sergey stopped on his way through to the bedroom and half-turned. ‘Whatever are you talking about, Ignat?’

‘I am … going to kill him!’

‘You’re crazy. You wouldn’t stand a chance.’

‘If I die, I die.’ A flush was seeping into the older man’s white cheeks. ‘If I fail then they will execute me and there will be nothing lost.’

A flicker of hope flared in Sergey, but died immediately. No, it was crazy. An old man was no match for this fiend, any more than a high-class whore had been. He went on through into the bedroom and began to change.

*

Grinbat was still sitting in the chair when Sergey went out. The other’s head had slumped forward on to his chest; he might have been asleep. He did not look up, for which Sergey was thankful.

Prokop stepped out into the darkness, closing the door softly behind him. Tonight he wore his uniform; it was easier for travel on the streets once the curfew was in force. There were too many trigger-happy soldiers about for his liking.

He did not need to go to the office. He could have phoned Kovak or Alexey from home and made his full report in the morning, but he could not face the thought of spending the rest of the evening in Ignat’s company. He had no particular plans, perhaps he would return. Perhaps not.

It was already dark when the sentry on the Square waved him through. A balmy summer’s night, the kind he had once enjoyed, strolling through Gorky Park or idling on the banks of the Moskva. Now it was all hostile to him, a land of chill terror and escalating evil.

He parked but did not get out of the car immediately, one to whom the office has become abhorrent, prolonging the decision to return to work. Sitting there, staring at the darkness; thinking of Ursula. He could have gone to her apartment but each visit was risky. It would have to wait until tomorrow night. After he had seen Ivan the Terrible. He was still trying to put a meaning to her words but in the end he gave up and eased the car door open. And that was when he saw the figure walking across Dzerzhinsky Square, level with the statue.

It was the walk rather than the silhouette which brought instant recognition, an audible gasp of amazement from Sergey’s lips. A stiff-legged stride, almost military, the huge, powerful body stiff and straight; bare-headed, bald-headed. Andre Keschev!

Sergey felt his spine tingling, his body tensing. He felt a momentary urge to drive away and forget what he had seen, but it passed. Keschev had obviously just come from KGB Headquarters; there was nothing odd in that. A leader checking up on his minions, or perhaps a conference with Alexey. Striding purposefully, hurrying.

Prokop slid out of the car, leaving the door open so that it did not click. He knew what he was going to do, was doing it even before he had thought about it logically. Slipping into the shadows, merging with them. Following.

He told himself he was stupid, there was no reason to trail the other. Keschev was merely returning from KGB Headquarters to his Kremlin apartment. A futile exercise. But he spurned reason, succumbing to that hunch which had served him so well in the past. There was nothing to be lost. See the Soviet leader safely back to his quarters, an unofficial unseen escort, and then go back to the office.

Keschev was a hundred yards ahead of him. Sergey hung back, letting the other enter the Kremlin before he followed. The guard glanced disinterestedly at the KGB man’s pass. So far, so good.

Sergey peered ahead, picked out Keschev. That was strange, the other was veering to the right instead of the left, heading away from the Kremlin Palace. Again Prokop’s flesh goose pimpled; that hunch was urging him to follow.

Wraith-like, the Cathedral of the Archangel loomed out of the darkness, ghostly white, towering above the cathedrals of the Annunciation and the Assumption, dwarfed only by the bell tower of Ivan the Great. And there was no doubt that Keschev was taking a direct line for the cathedral steps.

Again Prokop waited, bided his time. The shadows were too dense to make out whether or not the man he followed had gone inside. There was no sign of an armed guard; perhaps in view of the unrest in the city, and the stretching of manpower, it had been decided that only the Kremlin perimeter would be manned. He decided to take a chance, stole forward. Christ, his heart was beating like a tom-tom and instinctively he rested a hand on the butt of his pistol.

The main entrance to the cathedral was unlocked, the doors ajar. He took a deep breath and stepped into the halls of the dead Russian rulers. Stopped. Listened.

So cold, it was like stepping into a refrigerated room. The musty, stale smell came at him like some invisible guardian of the portals, a stinking ogre trying to repel him. Begone, this is no place for the living!

He waited whilst his eyesight adjusted to the deep gloom. Slowly his surroundings materialized. Andre Keschev was somewhere in here and that was a disquieting thought. He tried to listen above his heartbeat which was going faster and louder. And then he heard something. Sobs, as if someone wept their grief in this place that had once been holy.

Only then did he make out Andre Keschev in the darkness some 10 or 15 yards from where he crouched. It had to be the Soviet leader, it could not be anybody else. At first Prokop thought that the other had shrunk until he realized that Keschev knelt. The huge figure was down on his knees, head bowed, his powerful body shaking as he wept!

A posture of piousness, humility. Kneeling before the white marble tomb where the body of the Tsarevich Dmitri was buried, the very place where Yuri Denanko had been blasphemously crucified. An altar of violent death with a sixteenth-century icon of the murdered prince gazing pathetically with pleading eyes. Searching out Sergey Prokop, mutely begging him to leave. Go now, before it is too late.

Sergey shrank back into the shadows, eased his pistol out of its holster. The broad back of Keschev was an inviting target, even easier than it had been in the pine forests at the dacha. It was another chance, but he knew that he was going to spurn it again. Elsewhere it would have been different. Not that he was a religious man; he denied the presence of a deity. Respect perhaps, not for Keschev but for the murdered prince. Or even Yuri Denanko. Assassination was a way of life, part of the System. But not here; here it was the lowest form of murder, like blasting a sitting rabbit in a pen. Sergey did not really understand why he holstered his gun, why he began to creep away. Only that he did and that he could not shake off that feeling of guilt.

It was a relief to be back outside, to breathe in air that was fragrant and fresh, to look up into the night sky and see the twinkling stars that were distant planets of freedom. Walking away, hurrying until he was clear of the Kremlin and back in Dzerzhinsky Square. A nod of respect to Feliks because he, too, would have understood. There were times and places to kill, and the Cathedral of St Michael the Archangel was not one of those places. Keschev’s grief puzzled him too. And it was also very frightening.

Sergey walked in through the entrance of KGB Headquarters, nodded to the guard. He had to see Alexey at once; if the Chairman was not in his office then he would phone him at his apartment. I have to talk to you, Ivan. If I don’t talk to somebody I’ll go crazy. Maybe I already am. Almost running the last ten yards of the wide corridor. Through the anteroom, forcing himself to slow, to get himself under control. Then tapping softly on the heavy oak-panelled door that led into the Chairman’s office.

No answer. Alexey was not here after all. Sergey resisted the urge to beat frantically on the woodwork with his fists, to yell ‘I have to see you, Chairman Alexey’. Instead he turned the knob, eased the door open an inch or two.

And that was almost Sergey Prokop’s breaking point, the moment when he nearly screamed hysterically and staggered back into the corridor yelling for the guard. His brain hovered on the narrow brink that separates sanity from insanity; tottered. And came back. A trained soldier and spy facing the ultimate in terror and somehow coping with it, a situation in which death was only the beginning.

And there was no doubt in Sergey Prokop’s screaming mind that Ivan Alexey was very dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Killer Rat

Ivan Alexey had stayed late in his office. He did not want to go to bed, to put out the light. He would not sleep if he did. At least the office had a semblance of normality, the files and the paperwork, a reminder of days that had once been humdrum and routine. When he gave orders and they were carried out; assassinations that were no problem, were executed efficiently. A place of safety, a fortress. He would remain here.

And where the hell had Prokop got to? Dead probably. Ivan sunk his head into his hands. We have a fiend in our midst, killing us one by one. Indestructible, cunning. But surely, somehow, there had to be a way.

He forced himself to look at some paperwork. Reports mostly. Internments, list after list of names. Suspects. Troop movements and weapon deployments. Warheads being dispatched to the Chinese border, biological ones. He scribbled a signature here and there, tossed sheets of paper into a red wire basket. Death sentences all of them in various ways. The ultimate seal of approval was his. Almost; Keschev was running the KGB now, Alexey was just a figurehead. But for how long?

A scratching sound. For a moment or two he thought it was his pen, ignored it. He paused; the noise did not stop. He listened, a puzzled expression on his thin features, one that turned to consternation. It sounded like ... rats. He licked his lips. He had an abhorrence of rats, shunned those infrequent visits to the biological research centre. A kind of phobia, a fear that stuck with you from childhood.

Still listening. It was a rat all right. He tried to determine exactly where. Probably behind the panels. No, it was too loud, closer than that. Under the desk! Instinctively he lifted his feet clear of the floor, drew himself up onto the chair. It was still gnawing, a determined assault on something as though it were ravenous.

His mouth was dry. There had always been rats in the building, concerted efforts with traps and bait had only served to keep them in check, they had never been eradicated. There was definitely one in his office right now.

He twisted himself round, made sure that his limbs were clear of the floor and attempted to peer into the knee-hole of the ornate desk. It was dark in there, difficult to see. Something moved. A shapeless heaving, two pinpoint red eyes turned in his direction, glaring at him. Oh God, it was a rat!

Utter revulsion, his stomach heaving up, sharp bile in his throat. The filthy, revolting little bastard! Alexey sucked in his breath. How dare it infiltrate the KGB Chairman’s office! Forcibly, he reminded himself of his rank and status. Which was one reason why he could not scream. The story would be told and retold right through the organization, titters and whispers because the man who controlled the Soviet army and secret police was shit-scared of a rodent. Damn it, he’d kill it!

He looked round for a weapon, took good care to keep his legs well out of the creature’s reach. Not that it was likely to attack him, rats were arrant cowards. In a minute it would probably scurry back whence it had come but that did not alter the fact that it had to be exterminated. Because it might return and he would never have a minute’s peace of mind whilst it was still at large.

His gaze alighted on an ornamental paperknife, one with a jewelled handle that was reputed to have belonged to Stalin. A trinket that adorned the desk, one that was never used for its intended purpose. Sacrilege, but it was sharp enough to kill. Alexey’s fingers were stretching out for it when a sudden thought stopped him. To knife a rat you had to get close to it. No, that would not do. He shuddered.

Alongside the paperknife lay a heavy wooden cylindrical ruler, the old-fashioned sort that were once in everyday use in the KGB. A foot long, solid enough to crush a rat’s skull, pulp it to a sodden mulch. He grabbed it up.

The rodent was still busy gnawing, something softer now, he could hear it being munched. Twisting himself round he had another peep under the desk. Damn it, there was no way he was going to be able to deal it a death blow from here. He pondered, knew he had to flush it out. Groping on the top again; this time an ashtray, one of those cheap British brewery ones that had somehow found their way into the KGB and Kremlin offices. He picked it up, looked underneath again. The rodent had stopped gnawing, was gazing at him, and there was no mistaking the mocking in those tiny orbs. Go on then, throw it. I’m waiting.

Ivan Alexey threw the object, a cumbersome, underarm movement in the restricted space. His aim was true, the ashtray landed full on the rat, bounced off, rolled and clinked its way out of the opposite end of the knee-hole. The rat did not move, just sat there looking at him. Is that the best you can do? It turned away and resumed its interrupted feast.

Alexey straightened up, the sweat was running freely down his face, his shirt felt damp and clinging. This was no good, like a child’s game of hunt the rat. It might stop there all night, God forbid!

Another tactic, he smiled grimly. Pick up the phone, call the duty sentry. There’s a rat in my office, come and remove it. Kill it. Not because I’m scared of rats but because I’m the Chairman of the KGB and it isn’t my place to keep the vermin down. And detail somebody to lay traps and poison throughout the whole building just in case there’s any more of them.

Even as he lifted the phone off its cradle he sensed something odd about it. He didn’t stop to consider what it was, but dialled a single digit feverishly. Only then did he realize that the instrument was dead, a useless piece of plastic that could not so much as manage a dialling tone. Furthermore he knew why, and the thought struck a chill into his heart; the rat had eaten through the cable! As though the bugger knew; you’re my prisoner now, Ivan Alexey. You can’t call for help and I’m between you and the door. Get off your chair and I’ll attack you!

He tried to think. There had to be some way of attracting attention. Throw the ruler through the window, send a shower of broken glass down into Dzerzhinsky Square. That would bring somebody on the run. Did you hear that the Chairman had a rat in his office, panicked and smashed a window to get help?

I’ll fucking kill you! Go on, then.

Suddenly the rat moved, slunk out from under the desk and headed towards the door. Relief that bordered on euphoria. It’s got fed up, it’s leaving. There has to be a hole somewhere where it can get out. Then it stopped, turned, squatted and lifted its head, regarded Him slowly. It was gloating. Ha, you thought it was all over, didn’t you, Chairman? Well, it’s only just beginning. I’m in no hurry.

‘Get … out!’ Alexey spat the words, a command that was tinged with fear and loathing. He did not expect the creature to go. It didn’t.

The rat was a big one, maybe half as big again as the average. A hideous fat brute that was obviously suffering with mange. Huge patches of pink skin were showing where the fur had come off and its head was virtually bald. Alexey almost vomited just looking at it. Ugh! Just like the ones they kept in the cages at the germ warfare laboratories to experiment on, to breed disease. Weil’s disease. A terrible thought, it might have come from there, an infected specimen that had somehow escaped. No, that was impossible. Improbable, but not impossible. It had not fled like rats usually do at the approach of a human. In fact, it didn’t give a shit. And as if to enforce that opinion the rat eased itself up on its haunches and began doing a pile of black, shiny turds. Alexey’s lips tightened. All this was so deliberate, as though the creature’s brain was human and it could think and reason.

There was a pungent, foul smell in the room that caught the back of his throat. More than just rat excrement, like rotting flesh. That animal was diseased, putrefying whilst it still lived! It sat there looking at him, reminded him of something. Or somebody. He couldn’t think who; it didn’t matter. He gripped the ruler. Well, it would soon be properly dead! But that meant getting down off the chair …

He wondered if he could hurl the ruler, throw it with every ounce of strength he could muster; whether his aim would be true. He pursed his lips. One throw, he would not get a second chance. It was too risky, he might miss and then he would be defenceless. Which had him wondering if the rat was capable of getting up on the desk. Surely it was, they entered houses by climbing up drainpipes, were even reputed to be able to scale sheer walls.

Was it his imagination or had the light dimmed? It certainly did not seem as bright as it had been a few seconds ago. He listened, tried to will the steady footfalls of a patrolling guard. There was nothing, just the ticking of the clock in the other room. Not even vehicles rolling by outside in the Square. It was as though Moscow, the whole of Russia, slept the deep sleep of death.

Christ, he had to do something soon. His legs were aching in this cramped position so he crawled up on to the desk, sent a sheaf of papers floating down on to the floor like a snowstorm of gargantuan flakes that settled gently. The rat’s eyes never wavered. I’m watching you, Ivan Alexey. Waiting. I have all the time in the world, which is more than you do.

That clock was still ticking. Alexey stole a glance at it; a white blur, two black pointers but they would not keep still and it was impossible to tell the time. It seemed an eternity since all this had begun. He would have to end it soon.

His arm went back, the ruler at full stretch; poised. Then the rat sprang, seemed to take off from a slothful sitting position, unleashed that mangy, furry mass of malevolence into the air. Alexey saw it coming, saw the open mouth, the slobbering fangs, an oncoming missile. Whether or not he managed to scream he never knew, only that he struck blindly with his weapon, heard it hit the edge of the desk, bounce off. Vibrations that numbed his arm right up to the elbow, opened up his fingers. That cylindrical baton slipped from his grasp, rolled across the desktop and bounced on the floor; rolled again until it hit the far wall. But he did not notice at the time for his attention was focused on the airborne rat, cowering from it, flinging up his other arm to protect his face.

The rat hit the side of the desk, dropped down with a dull thud, scuttled back to its former position. Sat there, looked at him again. The whiskery mouth parted, an unmistakable rodent leer. That fooled you, didn’t it? I could’ve jumped onto the desk if I’d wanted but I didn’t. I just made you drop your weapon. Now I can take you at my leisure.

‘Keep away!’ Alexey’s voice was a hoarse whisper, an empty threat. He searched for another weapon but there was none, just strewn papers and a pen. Nothing else.

Oh Christ, it was coming for him again. Almost lazily the rat got up and stretched itself. A clump of rough fur came loose from its neck, fell to the floor. Slowly, deliberately, it excreted again. The stench, thick with disease, wafted up to the crouching man, had him coughing and clutching at his throat. It was one of those rats from the laboratories, he was certain of it. I’m going to die!

And then the light went out.

Alexey screamed, almost fell. If the fiend had eaten through the electric cable then it should have electrocuted itself. But it hadn’t died, he could still make out twin red pinpoints over by the door. He could hear it breathing, a kind of wheezing snuffle, a nocturnal beast hunting its food.

Gradually the room lightened as the glow from the street lamps in the Square made its entrance through the window pane. A sinister, dull orange, bathing the room in a hellish, fiery glow. Shapes and silhouettes, the rat an awful, luminous thing whose sides expanded and contracted like bellows. The face was more prominent, more … human. Hairless, bloated. Oh Christ, it did remind him of somebody, a rodent image of Andre Keschev!

You plotted to assassinate me, Comrade Alexey. Futile, childish attempts by bunglers. Fool, do you think I did not know? And one by one you will all die. Now it is your turn!

‘No, please, it’s all a mistake. I had no control over the others. I swear to you, I …’

Liar!

Suddenly the rat was up on the desk, a leap from a sitting position, an agility too quick for the eye to follow. Perched amongst the papers, excreting its contempt for its victim. A snarl and then it struck, the fangs sinking deep into Alexey’s left hand, going right down to the bone, grinding it. He shrieked, tried to snatch his arm away but his attacker came with it. He struck at it with his other hand, felt solid flesh beneath the diseased hair.

The rat loosed its hold, sprang again. This time at his neck, tearing at the soft flesh, opening up a wound that deluged blood. And that was when the rodent went crazy.

Ivan Alexey panicked, tried to tear it from him, but it slipped through his grasp; bit again. And again. His lip torn and shredded, a ribboned cheek, an ear gone in an unbelievable frenzy of bloodlust. Fingers trying to stem the flow of blood. Writhing, kicking, falling. He hit the floor, rolled over, tried to crush it but somehow the rat came up on top. Loose flesh was pulled, torn, blood-soaked clothing ripped away to expose more flesh. Blood flowed from a score of deep wounds. Now the devil was on his face, urinating its scorn for him.

Then, as suddenly as the attack had begun, it stopped. He felt the rat leave him, and turning his head he watched its departure with his remaining eye as it loped unhurriedly towards the door. The shadows seemed to swallow it up, just a bloody scaly tail vanishing like a venomous snake, returning to its lair.

Alexey lay there too weak to move, without even the strength to call for help. Dying, soaking in his own blood. And then the door opened.

Somebody had come, was standing there framed in the doorway, a powerful body outlined against the soft lighting from the anteroom. A tall man, dressed in a suit that hung baggily on his powerful frame, features hidden in the shadows, but Alexey did not need to see them to recognize them. That bald head, eyes that burned red like the rat’s had done; the same gloating stance. Watching him and waiting. Andre Keschev!

A silence as the two regarded each other; the rodent had left but the situation was unchanged. The KGB Chairman was going to die.

‘So, Comrade Alexey,’ Keschev’s tone was silky, a kind of satisfied purr. ‘I see that my young friend has carried out his orders. Excellent. Your plot fails day by day, the conspirators are becoming thin on the ground, indeed. Just a few left. By the way, have you seen Prokop? No, I can see that you have not. He has still to report to you but I fear that by the time he gets here it will be too late. The rat was diseased, by the way. But it makes no difference because you will be dead before the virus has time to enter your bloodstream. Weil’s disease, I believe. I have already met it. I have an immunity to it.’ A deep-throated laugh. ‘You have paid for your treachery. An execution, the fate of all traitors. Farewell, Comrade.’

Keschev was not there anymore. Alexey could not be sure whether the door was closed but there was no light coming from the adjacent room so it had to be. Darkness and then light. Funny, the light was back on again, searing his remaining eyeball, like looking up into the direct rays of the sun. He did not understand it, only that his number was up and the Beast had taken a terrible vengeance.

Sergey Prokop stared aghast at the mutilated body of Ivan Alexey. Skeletal in parts, scarlet streamers of flesh peeling from the body, a gaudy carnival effigy cast aside when the festivities were over. The face was barely recognizable but even the mutilations had not been able to erase that look of sheer terror, the torn mouth still open as though the KGB Chairman had died in the midst of his final scream.

Rat droppings, there was no mistaking them to the practised eye of one who has viewed violent death on more than one occasion; you learned to look for detail, ignored the gore. Possibly starving rats had come to scavenge the corpse.

Sergey backed out of the office, used the phone in the anteroom to call Kovak. As he waited he noticed that same odour that had been in the cathedral, the stench of rancid flesh that certainly did not come from Alexey’s recently-dead body. He glanced nervously about him, waited impatiently as the phone rang out at the other end.

A few more days and the Politburo would cease to exist. The Beast would not rest until his dictatorship was absolute. And Sergey prayed that Ursula knew the answer because the fate of civilization depended upon it. And time was fast running out.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Shotblast

Ignat Grinbat left the apartment about an hour after Sergey, and walked slowly, without stealth, along the streets. There was no sign of patrolling soldiers nor the odd citizen braving the curfew. A city of the dead, the occasional scavenging mongrel dog slinking away at his approach.

Olga was dead; he had resigned himself to that fact, had long given up hope of her still being alive. He hoped that the end had been quick, a bullet. Not the camps, a fate worse than death. He could not understand it, a good girl who conformed to the System, obeyed the laws. Whatever had happened had been an accident. Perhaps she had been shopping, been mown down by indiscriminate machine-gun fire. The rule of tyranny. Grind the people down, kill a few and the rest will be no trouble. But she had no reason to join food queues, she was well provided for. Sergey had a card to shop at Granovsky Street, and even if he had not been then Ignat would have provided for his daughter. Olga had been brutally murdered and, directly or indirectly, it had been ordered by the monster who now ruled Russia with terror. Keschev must die!

Logically it was an impossible thought but when one had nothing else left to live for it became a real possibility. All the same, it needed planning, a last desperate coup that for him would be a means of suicide. A kamikaze coup de grâce.

Grinbat’s apartment was small but luxuriously furnished. He had been on the point of moving to larger quarters before the sudden death of his wife and after that there had been no point. Olga was all he had left; he used to see her whenever he wanted, but now that pleasure, too, had been snatched from him. A man without hope, a desire for vengeance burning him up.

Perhaps Sergey had not been the right man for her. At the time Sergey’s prospects had been good, a career that would take him to the very top. The London assignment had been a vital stepping stone and that was where it had all gone wrong. A frame-up, it happened all the time, first-class men getting caught up in the indiscriminate net of intrigue and counter-intrigue. A lottery; if you were unlucky you became a scapegoat. Without Petrov’s influence it might have been the end; there were no prizes for failures, not even consolation ones.

But Sergey didn’t seem to care. God, these last few days he should have been twisted up with worry and grief, instead he continued with some assignment or other. There was a limit to devotion to the State; fanaticism bred the likes of Andre Keschev. Beasts were made as well as bred.

The shotgun had lain in the bottom of the wardrobe for the past five years, had not been taken out of its canvas slipcase since that last duck hunting expedition with Sergey, the time they had shot five wigeon and should have had a dozen. A casual pursuit, which was why Ignat had not progressed further than this single-barrelled Baikal 12-gauge, a sturdy weapon that lacked the finesse of a class gun; made to do a job, not a wall-piece. He weighed it in his hands, solid and dependable; there were traces of rust on the barrel and he had not cleaned it since it was last used. Which was immaterial now. Cold steel; it gave him a fleeting sense of power.

He carried it through and laid it on the kitchen table, rummaged in the lower sliding cupboard until he found a hacksaw. That, too, was rusty but he tested the serrated blade with his thumb and drew a fleck of blood. It was keen enough, it would do the trick.

Ignat Grinbat worked steadily, sawing methodically until the sweat poured from his ageing body and he had to pause for breath. His heart was hammering, he could feel his temples drumming and there was a roaring in his ears. It was a long time since he had done anything like this.

The barrel first; he sawed through the steel six inches above the breech. Grating, knowing that it was going to take a long time. Turning it over, starting the other side and hoping that his incisions would meet in the right place. At times he seemed to be making little or no progress and then he noticed that the blade had sunk in another quarter of an inch. Sweat droplets fell and glistened on the shiny metal, there was a scattering of filings on the table and down his trousers. He wished he had a vice to stop the tube from sliding on the smooth surface but he had never been a handyman; there were always others willing to do menial tasks.

At last he broke through, the cylinder parted, left him with the short length he needed. A grunt of satisfaction, he went through to the lounge and poured himself a stiff shot of vodka. Just the stock now, the saw would make short work of the polished mahogany.

He cut through below the ostentatious half-pistol grip, tried to shape it as best he could, working with a zest now that the hardest part was done. Twenty minutes perhaps, no more, before he was left with a crude pistol, something that resembled a blacksmith’s job from the last century. He cocked the small hammer, clicked it on the firing pin. It worked.

He had to search for cartridges and eventually found a half-full carton of ten hidden behind some old sweaters also in the wardrobe. Baikal shells to match the gun, number fours, duck shot. He put them on the table alongside the improvised handgun and went back into the living room, noticing that it was just 4.30 a.m. He stretched himself out on the couch. Five hours to wait. He would not be able to sleep but at least he would rest his weary old body. And in the morning …

Vasily Petrov gave an exaggerated sigh, raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘Not again!’ he groaned.

‘He is waiting outside.’ The orderly shuffled with embarrassment ‘Says he must see you this morning.’

‘Every day,’ Petrov banged the desk with the flat of his hand, ‘every bloody day Ignat Grinbat comes round and asks me if I have any news of his daughter. I tell him that the moment I hear anything I will call him. But no, he repeatedly pesters me.’

‘He won’t go until you’ve seen him, sir.’

‘I know that. All right, tell him I’m busy and that I’ll see him as soon as I’m free. It might be an hour.’ I’ll make damned sure it is.

‘Comrade Petrov will see you when he’s free.’ The orderly thought it rather strange that the visitor wore a full-length raincoat on a bright sunny day but there was no accounting for the whims of the ageing. They felt the cold even in summer. ‘It could be an hour, perhaps longer. Would you like to come back later?’

‘I will wait, thank you,’ Grinbat smiled. ‘Perhaps I may be permitted to browse, to study the fine paintings that adorn the corridors of the Kremlin.’

‘Of course. Please excuse me.’

Grinbat waited until the other had gone before rising to his feet. He moved with a stiffness that was partly arthritic and partly caused by having to conceal the home-made pistol in the pocket of his raincoat, supporting its weight with a hand on the outside so that it did not hang heavily. Moving slowly, a journey throughout which he must feign an interest in the works of the old masters which were hung the length of the wide corridors. Browse and try to look inconspicuous, shuffle a yard or two when nobody is looking. Ignat Grinbat, Sergey Prokop’s father-in-law and a friend of the Defence Minister; an old fool but harmless enough. Don’t stop and talk to him else you’ll be delayed half an hour. Pretend not to notice him. Which was how Ignat found himself within a yard of the door to Lenin’s office, unchallenged.

He was shaking uncontrollably. But there was no drawing back, he was beyond the point of return. He advanced on the door, carved oak panels, the very same that had been the hallmark of the portals to Lenin’s seat of authority. Habitually he raised his hand to knock, but then lowered it. No, this was no time for humility. Ignat glanced once more up and down the corridor. No guards in sight, he had breached the defences, an old man had penetrated the heart of the Kremlin. And then he stepped inside, slid the Baikal free of its restricting pocket, pulled the hammer back.

A small foyer, just a wooden bench against the wall. His keen, grey eyes noted the door leading off, a smaller one of polished oak. He advanced on it, stopped a moment to listen. An awful thought: suppose the office were empty, Keschev not here. Then he would wait hide somewhere, lie in ambush for days if necessary. And then he heard the sound of heavy breathing, the squeak of a chair as its occupant changed position. Ignat Grinbat knew that his journey had not been in vain.

He held the pistol in his right hand, depressed the handle of the door with his left, pushed it wide and stepped over the threshold.

Andre Keschev was seated at his desk, poring over some papers, that bald head glinting in the light from the fluorescent strip immediately above him. He wore a grey suit, the jacket unbuttoned, revealing a shirt that was a size too small straining on his powerful torso. Dropping his pen, sitting upright, those heavy eyebrows knitting into a frown of surprise and annoyance. Eyes that were dull, the orbs of the blind; slowly clearing, focusing. Stoking up the anger inside him.

‘What is this?’ A deep resonant voice, thick lips retracted to reveal teeth that were capped with gold. Grinbat was aware of an unpleasant smell, the coldness of the room too.

‘You murdered my daughter,’ Grinbat hissed, ‘just as you have murdered thousands of other innocent citizens.’

Keschev did not answer. His gaze dropped to the pistol and those lips stretched into a leer. There was not a trace of fear in either his expression or his voice as he said ‘So you have come to kill me, to put an end to it all?’

‘That is right.’

‘I see. Old man, you will go to the camps and that is where you will die.’

Grinbat sensed a force, something that came at him from the other, an invisible barrier between them, a small voice somewhere inside him whispering that perhaps he was mistaken after all. His finger relaxed on the trigger, he had to exert all his willpower to tighten it again. Shoot now, before it is too late!

He fired. The shot seemed to explode the whole room, a recoil that threw him back, almost wrenched the gun out of his grasp. The jagged, sawn-off barrel bucked skywards, choking grey smoke wisping up out of it. The report seemed to bounce back off the walls, buffet him. Eyes streaming, brain numbed, trying to work out what had happened.

His fingers groped in his pocket, feverishly searching for another shell; he must have missed. The smoke pall wafted, giving him a hazy, restricted view of the room. God Almighty, he hadn’t missed!

The charge of shot had hit Keschev, mostly in the chest, had lifted him up out of his chair, hurled him back against the wall. The oversize jacket had been ripped open as though by the claws of a wild animal, the fabric hanging in charred shreds, the breast bone visible through the mangled flesh. Thick fingers clutched at the ghastly wound, the heavy features a mask of shock and horror. Snarling, cursing; losing his balance, crumpling out of sight behind the desk.

Ignat Grinbat just stood there. Disbelief at what he had done, looking at the still-smoking shotgun pistol in his hand. The crazy plan had worked. And now he had to face the consequences.

A dozen jumbled thoughts crammed his mind. Take your own life, quickly, before it is too late. He tried scooping cartridges out of his pocket; they snagged in the lining. He extricated one, it slipped out of his grasp, bounced on the floor and rolled away. He tried another, could not free it. A third came away. His fingers were shaking uncontrollably and only after several attempts did he manage to open the breech of his weapon. The spent case did not eject, he must have damaged the ejector mechanism in his crude improvisations. He tore at the brass head, ripped a fingernail, tried to prise the empty cartridge out. It was stuck, he would need a knife or a sharp instrument. In frustration he hurled the gun from him, turned to flee.

Confused, not knowing which way to go. Right or left? It did not matter. Even as he turned he heard shouts, the drumming of approaching booted footsteps. Stopping, flight forgotten. Just waiting.

Two uniformed soldiers appeared at the head of the main staircase. Both carried pistols at the ready, skidded to a halt. They saw but they did not understand; they did not have to, they were trained to shoot and ask later.

Once more the corridors of the Kremlin echoed to gunfire, crouching marksmen picking their target, every shot counting. Ignat Grinbat spun crazily, felt the bullets thudding into his frail body, tearing flesh, smashing bone. Falling forward, thrown back upright by a second volley. Sprawling, his outstretched limbs not even flinching; dead before he hit the polished floorboards.

The soldiers reloaded, stepped over the bloody corpse and hastened into the office from which Lenin had once ruled a mighty Russia.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Counter-assassin

‘Your father-in-law attempted to assassinate me, Prokop.’ Keschev’s tone was such that he might equally have said ‘I saw your father-in-law on the Square today’. Smiling, calm.

Sergey Prokop felt a kind of rigor mortis spread over his body, a freezing of nerves and muscles, his skin goose pimpling along with it; up to the neck and into the scalp, threatening to numb his brain. Shock waves that he tried to hide, wondered if he was capable of speech. So Ignat had carried out his threat.

Sergey’s eyes fastened on the man behind the large desk in Lenin’s office. A shirt collar that was pulled too tight, hoisted up as though it had something to hide below the neck. But nothing could hide those revolting black pockmarks on the coarse features, a series of holes as though blackheads had been gouged out or were burrowing inwards. Shotmarks, the wounds left by a 12-gauge blast, a point-blank discharge that no man had a right to come out of alive. Keschev should have been fighting for his life in the intensive care unit. Instead he was sitting in his office, terribly disfigured but apparently physically unharmed. Sergey had been summoned and that boded ill. Yet somehow he managed to remain impassive; I am not responsible for my wife’s father’s actions.

‘There is a plot against me.’ Andre Keschev leaned back in his chair as though deliberately trying to relax, maybe even to put the other at his ease. ‘Oh yes, I have been aware of it for some time. Since my … illness, in fact. Perhaps Denanko instigated it, that we shall never know. Various methods have been tried to … remove me. All have failed. Fools, they cannot kill me. You know that, don’t you, Prokop?’

Sergey found himself nodding. ‘There has been general unrest, I know.’

‘Of course there has.’ A wide disarming smile. ‘No truly brilliant leader is popular with his people. Even Stalin had his enemies. One must learn to live with them. But, likewise, one cannot tolerate them. This cancer which is threatening to spread and destroy our nation must be cut out. The masses are poised to revolt, only the machine guns have kept them in check so far. But the enemy within is whittling away at the System. That is why I need you, Prokop.’

Sergey felt his stomach flip. His brain, his ingenuity was becoming like a computer being fed with conflicting data. Spy for the Russians, spy for the British, kill Keschev for us and now …

‘I want these men eliminated.’ Andre Keschev held up a piece of paper on which was crudely printed a list of some seven or eight names. PETROV … KOVAK … GOLITSYN … that was where his mind began to falter, a carburettor that has suddenly picked up a particle of foreign matter; stuttering, threatening to cut out. Keschev held up the list for perhaps ten seconds. Read and commit to memory, the only evidence will be retained photographically in a trained mind.

Sergey nodded again, watched the other fold the paper, tuck it into his pocket.

‘Time is running out.’ The leader’s eyes bored into him. ‘I picked you out, Prokop, as the man for the job. You work directly for me, nobody else. It has to be that way, the secret police is now a conspiracy against me. You understand?’ Which is why I did not kill you at the dacha.

Sergey experienced a sense of unwilling loyalty, almost like hypnotism. I will obey, Comrade General Secretary. Numbing shock waves that remained with him until he was back outside in the warm sunshine. Only then did they begin to fade and the true implication of his position hit him with stunning force. Spy and counter-spy, assassin and counter-assassin. Life had become very complicated. And very terrifying. He was the chief pawn in a game of Politburo chess and the outcome of the result did not bear thinking about.

Only then did he remember that tonight he had to talk to Ursula Ramanninov. Possibly she was the only person who really understood.

The Palace of Congresses theatre had an air of desolation about it, an emptiness that even the lighting could not hide when it dimmed; possibly 600 people scattered amidst the 6,000 seats. Almost a duty to the performers to attend, perhaps an indirect order from a higher authority that a tradition must continue even in the face of impending revolution and war.

The scenery seemed to frown at the audience, the mock Kremlin with its pointed domes and elaborate façade, the carpeting like a river of blood running from its portals. Actors huddling, their fear reality. Everything so frighteningly real.

Sergey Prokop was tense. Above him, slightly to his right, was the curtained box where Andre Keschev sat, a monster lurking in its lair. On stage Imrie Nevski, his bearded features dark and scowling, his voice thundering in the huge building. And Ursula; cowering, weeping. Tears that ran freely, pleading with the watchers in the shadows, her gaze sweeping the rows of seats. Where are you, Sergey? Are you there Sergey? I have to see you.

Prokop was disturbed, found it impossible to concentrate on the play. Glancing at the luminous dial of his watch, he willed the performance to end. Kill the young prince and have done with it for real lives are at stake.

He remained in his seat during the interval. A half-glance showed him that Keschev’s curtains were closed; there was no way of knowing whether or not he had left his box. People shuffled to and fro, pushed past him. The intermission was longer tonight, prolonging his agony.

The last two scenes. The evil of Boris Godunov was becoming more and more apparent, the murderer preparing to strike. Those features, twisted with hate, the complexion almost purple. Sergey recognized more than just make-up, the way the veins protruded and throbbed, the man beside himself with fury. A brilliant performance, one that would go down in the annals of Soviet stage, an actor who had become the character he portrayed. The prince was gone, he would be seen no more. The milling crowd had already lynched two Jesuits; now they were going to march on Moscow. Famine. Pillaging. The audience sensed that the awfulness of it extended far beyond this stage in front of them.

An army on the march. Nobody was safe. Now Boris Godunov was a towering creation of demoniac power. His words faltered, picked up again. He clutched at his chest and there was no mistaking the agony in his expression. I am about to die. Do they not realize that the Dead can walk?

Sergey stiffened, sat upright in his seat. He focused his opera glasses on Nevski. The actor’s lips were blue, moving but no words came from them. A rigid posture, staring up at the box above, eyes rolling. Shrinking back, clutching at his chest again. Stark terror that had transcended his role, his lines forgotten. Boris Godunov will die again, just as he has done since the opera was first performed. He has ordered the death of the Tsarevich Dmitri and justice must be done. Mutely the audience bayed for his blood.

Sergey saw again the tomb in the Cathedral of the Archangel, the white marble running with fresh blood, a blasphemous inverted crucifixion. A tall, bald-headed man kneeling beside it and sobbing. The prince is dead, weep for him that he might live again.

Imrie Nevski reeled, lost his footing and fell. Writhing on the stage and still nobody realized. Except Sergey Prokop. He gripped his glasses, saw but did not understand. Why? There is no reason. Boris Godunov is dead, long live Tsarevich Dmitri. Madness. Mussorgsky himself died in an asylum not long after having written the opera and the madness lived on.

Screams from the stage, Ursula Ramanninov rushing forward, dropping onto her knees beside the fallen actor. Mutterings from the audience, some were already beginning to leave. And then the curtain fell. Boris Godunov was dead, long live the prince.

‘Imrie Nevski is dead.’ Ursula looked white and shaken as she refilled her vodka glass. It was 1.30 a.m. before she had returned to her apartment to find Sergey waiting in the shadows. ‘Heart failure. Struck down because he ordered the assassination of the Tsarevich Dmitri.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Sergey was concerned for her, the strain was proving too much. ‘Legend has it that Godunov ordered the killing; one version anyway. But the opera has been performed thousands of times and …’

‘But never like tonight!’ Her voice was a whisper, a glance towards the locked door. ‘On stage it suddenly became real. You sensed death, everybody did. A force that controlled you like destiny. Tonight somebody was going to die, we all knew that. Andre Keschev’s presence dominated us all. His fury was a living force that took us over. Keschev, or rather that which lives within the body of Keschev.’ She drained her glass and put it down on the table. ‘Here, this is what I have to show you and I don’t think that even you will be able to dispute the evidence, Sergey.’

She opened a drawer of the sideboard, lifted out a heavy book and carried it back to the table. A leather-bound, gilt-inlaid volume, bumped and scratched, the spine fraying. Opening it up, yellowed brittle pages, a date on the front end paper – MDCCLXXX. A title page: The Historie of the Heretics.

‘What’s this got to do with …’

‘Just look.’ She was flipping the pages until she found the one she wanted. An etching, a portrait of a bearded man. The palm of her left hand covered the caption, hid the name from him. The fingers of her right curled, obscured that shock of dark hair, balded the head. ‘Just forget the beard, too,’ the hands on the book trembled, ‘look at the features, mostly the eyes. And tell me, Sergey. Oh God, I want to hear it from your own lips!’There was no doubt, even that mangy, dark growth of coarsely sprouting hair could not disguise the likeness. Eyes that burned even in black and white, mouth twisted amidst the shaggy beard, snarling with bestial rage. Features so familiar that the picture might have been a recent photograph. Unmistakable, there was no doubt in Sergey’s mind; he instinctively shied away, turning his gaze so that he did not have to meet those eyes.

‘My God!’ he was visibly shaken, almost afraid to ask the question for which Ursula waited. ‘And who is it, the picture in the book, I mean?’ Afraid to put into words what he knew.

‘See for yourself.’ She withdrew her hands, exposed the block lettering.

‘Ivan the Terrible!’ he stared, wanting to disbelieve but the evidence, the proof, was there, an indisputable artist’s portrayal of the first Tsar of Russia. ‘Drawn from an actual portrait. Ivan the Terrible – or Andre Keschev?’

‘One and the same.’ She slammed the book shut as though to remove the evil, to close those staring, hypnotic eyes which seemed to see and understand even in portraiture. She returned the volume to the drawer, and could not suppress a sigh of relief that it was out of sight.

‘I … don’t understand,’ he said.

‘You do but you’re too much of a realist to put it into words.’ She gave a faint smile. ‘Don’t you see, Sergey, this second-rate occultist, Yafremov, has provided the very opening for which Ivan the Terrible has waited for centuries? It is not Andre Keschev whom the KGB have recalled from the dead but Ivan the Terrible! In the beginning the Tsar did a lot of useful work, rebuilt Russia in fact, and then his power got too much for him. Russia was subjected to a reign of terror which is comparable with what we have today. A dictator eliminating any who might rival him. But Ivan’s son, Dmitri, was murdered by Boris Godunov and now the spirit of Ivan has come not only to seek revenge but to carry on where he left off. The man we know as Andre Keschev is in fact Ivan the Terrible and he will not stop until he has destroyed the country which rebelled against his latter-day tyranny! Tonight was but a token of his vengeance, Imrie Nevski struck down because he was unfortunate enough to play the part of Boris Godunov.’

‘It figures,’ Sergey said, dropping into the nearest chair. ‘It’s crazy, impossible, but everything fits. Even so, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. So it was Ivan I was supposed to watch tonight.’

‘I didn’t know what was going to happen.’ Her self-confidence seemed to disappear momentarily. ‘Oh, Sergey, it has been hell without you. Every second of the day and night I’ve been expecting to be arrested. During performances Keschev never takes his eyes off me.’

‘Where’s Josef?’

‘Gone. Just walked out because he couldn’t stand it any longer. He talked of going to Poland but he’ll never make it. Any word of Olga?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve long given up hope of that. Ignat went over the top, walked into Keschev’s office with a shotgun, and blasted him.’ Sergey’s lips tightened. ‘There’s pellet spray on his face, the full charge took him in the chest. And he just got up, had a change of clothes and carried on as normal! I don’t know what he did to Alexey, though. Whatever it was it was pretty horrible. The poor bugger looked like he’d fallen into a sty of man-eating pigs. Rats probably. Keschev seems a past master at the art of controlling creatures. I saw how he turned that boar on to Gmyrya, then halted it when it looked like charging at himself. Then there was the dead ridgeback in Yafremov’s apartment. The brain starts to go funny if you think too much about it.’

‘There has to be a way of killing him.’

‘If there is then I’d give a thousand roubles for the formula.’ He smiled wryly. ‘And in the meantime what am I supposed to do? The Politburo hired me to rid them of Keschev, and within a few days Andre has given me a special commission to knock them all off one by one. I am still officially a Soviet spy but I’m also supposed to be working for British Intelligence. And to enrich the mixture we’re now virtually certain that Andre Keschev is really Ivan the Terrible reborn.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Well, I’m not going to help anybody by killing Petrov or any of the others. Which means I have to try and work out some way of exterminating this so-called Kremlin Beast. I’ve been kicking myself for passing up two chances, once out at the dacha and once in the Cathedral of the Archangel. I now know different, thanks to Ignat. A slug in Keschev’s back would have been the end of me.’

‘Then you’ll have to go into hiding.’

‘That won’t solve anything.’

‘Why not? If Keschev’s given you a free hand to do the remainder of his killing for him you won’t achieve that by sitting at a desk in the Kremlin. Assassins are often missing for weeks.’

‘True enough.’ And he did not have any reason to go back to his apartment anymore.

‘Stay here, Sergey. Please. Oh God, I’m scared to go back to the opera. Now that Imrie is dead, who will be next? It’s only a play and yet the prince’s killer is a real assassin in the eyes of the leader. His way of showing his anger at what happened hundreds of years ago, a demonstration of his vengeance, a sign of what is to come. And all the time I can feel his eyes on me. I am sure he knows.’

‘If he knows about you then he must know about me. We don’t know the extent of his power. Perhaps we are both his pawns, serving a purpose.’ And when that purpose exists no longer …

‘I will stay here, for the time being at any rate.’ He kissed her. ‘And I will spend the time trying to find an answer to how to rid us of this fiend. The history books have told us who he is. Perhaps they can also tell us how to destroy him.’

‘Perhaps.’ She took his hand, began to lead him through to the bedroom. If only this threat were not hanging over them it would have been like old times. Nevertheless, it was a lull and every moment was precious.

‘Maybe we could both flee Russia,’ he said.

‘There would be no point.’ She shrugged her shoulders out of her dress. ‘Ivan is bent upon the ultimate holocaust, from the ashes of which no phoenix will arise. The world is on the brink of war. There will be no hiding places, Sergey. Better to die in the motherland than on foreign soil. But whilst there is life there is hope, as they say; hope that we can somehow find a way.’

It was like a dream, her naked body pressed against his own again, her soft lips brushing his. A dream around which a nightmare hovered, waiting to spoil it all. But for a short while even that could be forgotten.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - The Killing Game

The auditorium of the Palace of Congresses was like a deep, black chasm that stretched beyond the stage and went on and on. Endless. Limitless. The edge of outer space where you were uncertain as to whether any life form existed. Andre Keschev was out there watching, Ursula knew that much, felt his presence although she could not see him. An evil force that came from out of the blackness and focused on herself.

Marching on Moscow again; the prince’s fate was sealed. But it is not my fault; if I could only save him I would.

Korsko was a poor understudy for Nevski; smaller of stature, a weaker voice, the stamp of fear was upon him even before the curtain rose. He acted as though it were a part to be played, nothing else; as though he were afraid to enter into the spirit of it. His fear was contagious; the audience watched a timid cast whose reluctance to bring about the downfall of Ivan and the death of the prince was all too evident. An opera that laboured, bored, a pedestrian course en route to the final curtain. And at the end of it Korsko still lived, his make-up running with sweat, smearing and smudging. An unwilling slave to the work of Mussorgsky.

Ursula changed slowly, took her time removing her make-up. Relief that tonight had passed without incident, afraid for tomorrow. Weakened by her ordeal and knowing that she had to go through it all again the next day. And the night after that and for many nights to come. No respite; Keschev seemed obsessed with the opera. It was impossible to see him out there beyond the stage lights but you sensed his presence, a huge spider lurking in a dark corner. Just watching. She shuddered.

She left her dressing room and walked down the long corridor towards the stage door. Outside a chauffeur-driven car would be waiting, a nondescript, uniformed man sitting behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. Another routine. No exchange of words between them, merely a drive of a mile or so, depositing her outside her apartment. Then he left, a pair of vanishing red tail lights like fireflies fleeing in the face of the breaking dawn. And back again at eleven in the morning. A servant doing a job, there was no point in striking up a relationship. Unnecessary relationships were dangerous.

The car was not there. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. Perhaps he had been held up in the traffic. No, there was no traffic apart from military vehicles. A breakdown then, a puncture. Somehow it did not ring true. A show of disapproval by those who organized the opera? Tonight was below par, an amateurish performance. Walk home and learn a lesson.

Ursula was on the point of turning back, going inside to phone for a car, when two figures detached themselves from the shadows, obscure raincoated men whose movements bespoke authority. Closing in on her, one on either side. A hand gripped her arm, not roughly but firm enough to hold her, prevent her returning indoors.

‘You will come with us.’ The taller of the two spoke in guttural tones.

Her heart gave a flutter, seemed to miss a beat and she felt her breathing quicken. ‘I am Ursula Ramanninov.’ She spoke falteringly. ‘There should be a car waiting for me.’

‘A car will not be necessary. It is only a short walk to where we have to take you.’

The grip on her arm tightened, anticipating resistance. ‘We have our orders. Police!’

Ursula thought she was going to faint. The Trotsky Tower opposite tilted in the shadows, a silhouette that threatened to spin crazily, go tumbling down to crash onto the Kutafya Tower in an avalanche of masonry. The arsenal to her right was a squat, leering creature watching her with its double row of windows. She found herself falling into step between them, did not ask where they were going because she did not want to know.

Across the courtyard of the Granovitaya Palata with its faceted hall, through a triple archway where it was pitch dark. They emerged into a courtyard and she recognized the Grand Kremlin Palace.

And, knowing where they were taking her, she wished that somehow she could have died right there, a sudden cardiac arrest such as Imrie Nevski had suffered.

Andre Keschev had left the theatre midway through the final act, a departure that went unnoticed in the darkness. He moved with remarkable stealth for his size, down the dimly-lit staircase to the foyer. A guard watched him impassively, followed the balding silhouette outside with his eyes, but did not notice which way the other turned.

There was an eagerness about the leader’s step. Across Ivanovsky Square and before him the magnificent Cathedral of the Assumption rose out of the darkness of a summer night, its high central dome haughtily aloft amidst the four lower ones. Walls and pillars a myriad of frescoes as he stepped through the arched doorway and carefully closed the door behind him. The darkness was like a living entity, the coolness to his liking.

Treading stealthily as though determined that his footsteps should not echo, glancing up at the unlit chandeliers, the high roof with its tall, narrow windows that reflected the orange glow of Moscow night lighting, a sun that never set.

The half-light glinted on the magnificently carved throne at the far end, a seat of majesty cordoned off by a square of chain-link fencing. Keschev unhooked a length and passed through. Then he paused, drew himself up to his full height, and looked down on the throne that had once belonged to Ivan the Fourth, his throne. An acquaintance renewed, a comrade who had been on a long journey and had returned. Stretching out a hand, stroking its smooth surface, scarcely able to believe. An altar, a shrine that had lain idle for five centuries, a seat of power.

Andre Keschev lowered his bulk into it, felt the life that throbbed through it like an electric current, an exciting, tingling sensation. The first time; he should have returned earlier but only now was his struggle nearing its end. The overthrow of a false regime was at hand, his rightful kingdom was about to be restored to him. A week, perhaps less, and then he would be crowned as he once had been, an absolute ruler with none left to stand in his way. Puppets crushed and broken, cast to one side, his armies ready to conquer the world. He laughed softly to himself.

And then his thoughts turned to other matters, the needs of this human body which was now his, the pleasures that were the right of every tsar. Past memories, a beautiful dark-haired girl who had given him her body and when he had finished with it he had disposed of her, left her to float in a bloody swimming pool. And of those that were in store; the most beautiful woman in Moscow, the idol of the opera, supple and sophisticated. Men fawned around her, worshipped her, an aloof, erotic fantasy that would never become reality. Only for himself.

It was because of her that he did not linger in this regal place. Two performances he had witnessed that had brought him pleasurable sensations, feelings that cried out to be satisfied. And so they should. He recalled her poise, her figure; visualized her naked, imagined her clad in the long robes of an empress. All that would come about in a week or two but this very night she would share his bed, share his pleasures.

He rose to his feet, resisting the urge to hurry. She would be there waiting whenever he returned.

‘You are very beautiful, Ursula.’ Andre Keschev sat on the edge of the ornate four-poster still clad in the suit he had worn to the opera. The shirt buttons were undone or else had popped, Ursula noted with disdain; she saw the whiteness of the disfigured chest beneath the material. A torso blasted open, horrific wounds that would neither bleed nor knit. Eyes that saw through her clothing like X-rays, lusted openly. Turn this way, turn that way; a model demonstrating an expensive dress for a prospective purchaser. A pirouette for his pleasure; she almost lost her balance.

‘Now you may take off your clothes.’ There was a huskiness in his tone now, an eagerness that he tried to hide. Take them off or I will rip them from your body! She nodded, fumbled with the waistband of her jeans. A striptease, so sordid. A visiting whore obeying the commands of a wealthy client.

Naked, hurrying with the last garment, not through any sense of eagerness but wanting to get it over. There, feast your eyes on me and have done with it. Turning slowly, affording him a view from all angles. But it would not remain as purely the pleasure of a voyeur. A finger beckoned; come hither and let me touch!

She closed her eyes, did her best not to flinch as he ran a forefinger the length of her shoulders, traced a slow path down and lingered on a breast. So deathly cold, like a stalactite scraping over her. Going on down, smoothing, prodding. Her thighs eased apart; there was nothing to be gained by resistance. Bracing herself, closing her eyes. Oh Sergey, that I should ever have to submit to this.

She tried telling herself that she was undergoing a medical check, one of those that was required of players at the Bolshoi. Zinderling minutely examining her, probing all the necessary places. Try to relax; it was impossible.

Suddenly she realized that he was not touching her anymore. She could hear him breathing hard, the rustle of clothing. And then his hand was back, a firm grip on her wrist, pulling her towards him. She opened her eyes, saw, and it was all that she could do to check a rising scream.

A mountain of rippling mutilated flesh and muscle heaved before her, a naked, white thing with unbelievable strength, completely hairless except for that mangled chest, and as she tried not to look into those eyes she saw the full extent of his wounds. The chest had been ripped open, a ragged cavity that exposed the breastbone and gave off an odour of putrefaction. And that organ, it was surely the heart, damaged beyond repair, it did not beat and yet he still moved and breathed. The Living Dead, a corpse that ruled a once-mighty nation and burned with human desire. Do they not realize that the Dead can walk?

His breath was foul, suffocating, his touch so cold. She tensed, knew that it would hurt her because there was no way she would be able to lubricate herself for this unholy union. His weight on top of her was crushing, she could scarcely breathe, his entry agonizing. She nearly passed out, slipped into a state of semi-consciousness that was a blissful, self-induced anaesthetic.

Sometime later she was aware that they were no longer coupled, that she lay beside this monster on the massive bed and that the light was out. She turned her head slightly and only then did she discover that he was not sleeping, merely lying on his side looking at her in the half-light. His eyes, reflecting the ethereal glow that penetrated the curtains, seemed to burn into her.

‘You are truly beautiful,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Such beauty I never imagined existed. Truly you will be rewarded, Ursula. Your stage role will be exchanged for that of an empress. Empress of the World.’ He laughed and his madness frightened her.

She found herself hating her own body, flesh that had been defiled, stank of his odours.

‘This is your home from now onwards,’ he went on. ‘The Great Palace is yours to strut through and any who hinder you will incur my wrath.’

‘I … I have to return to my apartment.’ It sounded feeble, and as she moved to get up a strong, cold hand pushed her back down.

‘Why? Do you have a lover there?’ A guttural, mirthless laugh, a threat.

‘No. My things, I …’

‘They will be collected, I will order it tomorrow.’

Ursula felt herself sinking to the bottom depths of despair, a black whirlpool sucking her down. ‘The opera, it is my life …’

‘I wish you to continue, I shall watch your every performance.’ His voice lowered to a whisper, ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’

‘You are Ivan the Fourth, first Tsar of Russia,’ she said and trembled in anticipation of his reaction.

‘And how did you know that?’

‘I came across your picture in the Historie of the Heretics. There could be no doubt.’

‘Brains as well as beauty.’ He threw back his head and laughed again, peals that were shrill, high-pitched. ‘I knew I had not made a mistake the first time I set eyes on you.’ His tone became a hiss, ‘Five hundred years ago I made Russia great, gave the people a country to be proud of, a land of the rich. But they bit the hand that fed them, sought to usurp my power. They murdered my son, the Tsarevich Dmitri, so that they could wrest the throne from my bloodline. And look what has happened to them! They pretend to be Communists, the rich grow richer and the poor grow poorer. They bluff and bluster but soon the West will overcome them. Because they have had no leaders, only a succession of puppets, old men who ruled and died within a few years. Oh, how I longed to come back. And then, one day, the way was opened up to me. But they must pay for what they did to me; these greedy people must be annihilated. And if only you and I remain, so be it. Together we shall rule the world and I shall make you immortal with me. It can be done, for I have walked with Death and I have learned the secret of immortality!’

Ursula closed her eyes. It had to be a bad dream and soon she would wake up. Sergey would be by her side. Then Keschev touched her again and she knew it was no nightmare. This monster had plucked her off the stage, commanded her to be his in a life that was against all the rules of mortality.

‘By the way,’ he was grinning in the gloom of the massive bedchamber, ‘did you know that Sergey Prokop was a spy?’

Her brain reeled and she replied feebly ‘Yes’, for to have lied would have been futile. She began to shake, feared that she was going to vomit all over these fine bedclothes.

‘A useful man,’ Keschev was trembling with mirth, ‘and a valuable pawn in a little game I am playing. This corrupt Politburo have sought to assassinate me. One by one they have died but a few remain, worthless minions. I could exterminate them all if I wished. But no, a little game purely for my amusement. This man Prokop was hired by the KGB to assassinate me. So what did I do? I assigned him specially to kill them!’ More fits of laughter, the bed vibrating as his body shook uncontrollably, ‘Listed as a double agent, too. A little game, the mouse stalking the cat, and I shall watch with great interest. And if he succeeds and kills these men then his reward will be …’ The leader made a swift chopping movement in the air with his hand. ‘I have lain awake at night laughing to myself over it. Just a little bit of amusement in this drab world, my dear. I think you have met the man, haven’t you?’

Ursula had to make two attempts to get the words out ‘Yes, I knew him once.’

‘A man of courage and talent, which adds to the irony of my little game.’

He lay back, stretched himself. Ursula feigned sleep, prayed that he would not touch her again tonight. Listening; Keschev’s breathing was heavy and regular but she could not be sure if he slept.

The dead certainly walked but did they sleep?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Massacre on the Streets

Sergey Prokop had been uneasy all evening. Perhaps he should have gone to the performance, there was no reason why he should not. Except that he had gone into hiding before he needed to. At least then he would have been able to keep an eye on Ursula.

Midnight. He found himself listening for the car, his ears attuned to every passing vehicle, but none slowed. She should have been home by 12.30, there was nothing to delay her. By one o’clock he was pacing the living room in his stockinged feet. Something had gone wrong; he began to get another of his hunches.

By 2.30 he had resigned himself to the fact that Ursula was not coming home tonight. He resisted the temptation to go out and search for her. He could not check the prisons without arousing suspicion. In the morning he would make inquiries at the theatre. Just another disappearance. ‘I am sorry I cannot help you, Captain Prokop. She left the theatre as usual last night. We have not heard from her since.’

Boris Kovak would know if the KGB had taken her in. But if the arrest had been carried out by the GRU then a veil of secrecy would be drawn over it. Like it had been with Olga.

He forced himself to sit down on the couch, stretched himself out. Relaxation was an art, part of army training.

Like yoga in a way; you had to relax your mind, your body would follow. He closed his eyes. There is nothing you can do before morning, Sergey Prokop, and you will need all your resources then.

Sometime later he slipped into an uneasy doze, a slumber that was alive with flitting dreams. Olga; he passed her in the street but she did not speak, hurried on. Let her go, I don’t need her anymore. At least she is alive and well.

The crucifixion in the cathedral; this time he managed to get a good look at the body. It wasn’t Denanko, it was Ignat Grinbat, the old man’s bloody face a mask of crimson terror. Somebody had thrust a pointed wooden stake in through his mouth and the sharp end was protruding from the back of his neck.

Keschev came and went, a stalking figure that moved in and out of the shadows so that you could not see his mutilated chest. Coming and going, you found yourself looking out for him, cowering, trying to hide in places where there was nowhere to hide. Troops constantly on the move, the city echoing with gunfire. People fleeing. Massing.

Now there was a ragged army on the march, gaunt-eyed workers in their thousands. The machine guns mowed them down but still they came on, like rats answering the call of the Pied Piper. Converging on the Kremlin, storming the Tsar’s Tower. Rioting. They carried burning torches, were throwing them. The air was thick with rancid smoke, a black column rising high into the sky.

The Great Palace was ablaze, tongues of flame licking out of the windows, shrieks from those trapped inside. And then, out onto the balcony staggered a burning man, recognizable only by his bald head. An effigy, arms aloft, being consumed by fire. Now you saw the face clearly, the evil face of a devil incinerating in his own hell, roaring with rage, trying in vain to beat out the flames. Keschev; even now he saw Prokop, picked him out of the watching crowd. ‘You did this to me, this is how you repay me for what I offered you. You betrayed my trust, and now I must die again.’

The walls were cracking, great splits appearing in the stonework as the heat intensified. The Palace tilted, masonry was showering down. And then the entire edifice collapsed, threw up a cloud of dust and smoke, buried the evil in it forever.

Prokop awoke and lay staring at the wall, watching the grey morning light creep in. His mouth was dry and sour; he saw that he was trembling. He sniffed the air; it was clean, there was no smell of smoke. Just another dream. Keschev still lived.

Everything came back to Sergey and he groaned aloud. Ursula had not returned, she would not be coming back now. Utter despair, not even bothering to check the bedroom in case she had crept in late whilst he slept because he knew she would not be there. He would go to the office, check out the latest list of arrests. A disturbing thought; if they knew about her then surely they knew about himself. His cover was blown.

They would probably come and search the apartment. Indeed, he was surprised that nobody had been yet. In which case they would find him here. If he ran there was nowhere to go so he would stay. He went through into the kitchen and made some coffee.

He could not shake that dream off. If he closed his eyes he saw an inferno, the Kremlin blazing, Keschev on the balcony. So vivid, the man being consumed by fire. Being destroyed …

Fire! He almost felt its heat, wondered why he had not thought of it before. Fire had been the curse of the Kremlin over the ages. The original Kremlin had been a wooden fortification, built on the orders of Prince Yuri Dolgorukiy. It was burned to the ground and then the first stone walls were laid in 1366, the brick towers built in 1485. And again there had been fires. The cycle was not yet complete … Sergey pursed his lips, wondered. Whatever else, it was worth a try. But how and when? An incendiary device of some kind; it had to be made, planted in the right place at the right time. No slip-ups; there would be no second chance. A last desperate throw and if that did not work …

He switched the radio on, more out of habit than a desire to listen. Voices, company, what they said didn’t matter. Except that he came in on the tail end of a news bulletin. Soviet troops had crossed the Russian-Pakistan border ‘at the request of the Pakistani government’. An auxiliary force to help quell rioting and unrest in the cities. The White House had demanded the withdrawal of all USSR troops and weapons, had issued a deadline, warned that the consequences would be irrevocable if it was ignored. Midnight on Thursday, less than 48 hours away. A footnote: Russia had also agreed to supply armaments to Libya. Provocative, depending upon one’s nationality.

Sergey switched off the radio and went back into the other room. It smelled stale, his own sweat smell lingering. But it didn’t matter because time was running out for everybody. They had all left it too late.

Still he could not shake off that mixed-up dream. Surely fire would destroy Keschev? After all, corpses were cremated, and when a body burned there was nothing left but ashes. Surely even the evil spirit of a hate-filled tsar could not operate from a pile of ashes? Certainly the body would be destroyed. Sergey had nothing to lose. If they arrested him, shot him, then he would be spared the ultimate holocaust. That was one way of looking at it. He wondered, too, if Olga’s God existed. It was a fascinating idea. The name cropped up regularly as an expletive in the Russian language yet the Communist regime denied the existence of a deity. And if there were evil spirits, devils like Ivan the Fourth, then surely there had to be something else to keep the balance. It was an interesting thought.

Damn it, he was going to have one last go at Keschev. Shit or bust, as they used to say in the army. A kamikaze attack like Grinbat’s. But first he needed a device.

Sergey dressed in his uniform, went outside. In the distance he heard a burst of firing, the rumble of heavy trucks. He walked quickly, an air of purpose and confidence about his step as he reached Dzerzhinsky Square. Feliks watched him carefully, almost as though the stone statue knew. Good luck, my son, in the name of Russia. In through the main entrance, up the stairs to the first floor where the Third Directorate was situated. Armed Forces Division.

‘Yes, sir?’ A young sergeant answered his call on the desk bell.

Sergey slapped his official ID card down, produced the pass which Keschev had personally issued him with. A carte-blanche, the freedom of the city courtesy of the General Secretary himself. And don’t fucking argue or hinder me. The sergeant clicked his heels together.

‘I need an incendiary device.’ Sergey looked him straight in the eye. ‘One with a timing mechanism, preferably a small one that is easily carried.’

The sergeant nodded, not so much as a raised eyebrow. The Soviet leader’s orders were not to be questioned. If he wanted an arsenal all to himself then it could be arranged. ‘I can issue a requisition slip for one to be drawn from the armoury.’ He tore a sheet off a pad, began to scribble. ‘It may take some time …’

‘There is no time. Send somebody to fetch it.’

‘Very good, sir.’ He folded the paper in two, turned away. ‘I won’t keep you longer than I can help, sir.’

Sergey could smell the sweat under his arms. Question me and you question the General Secretary. And if Keschev asks then it’s to incinerate Vasily Petrov. Heads I win, tails you lose. All the same it had you sweating.

In 25 minutes Prokop had his bomb. A flat pack in a plastic case. No instructions; you asked for it, captain, now go play with it. ‘Thank you.’ He turned and walked back out into the Square. It might have been a trick of the bright sunlight but it seemed that Feliks Dzerzhinsky winked this time. Well done, son, now go blow the bastard up.

Prokop returned to Ursula’s apartment. He needed a temporary base and if the KGB were looking for him then they would pick him up just as easily at his own place as here. They could have arrested him in Headquarters but perhaps his bluff had been just too good. A man with a conscience that was becoming confused; it was too much to try to work out which charge they would hold him on.

He unlocked the door, walked straight in. And froze.

‘Hallo, Sergey.’ Ursula was busy packing some things into a small holdall bag on the table. She looked deathly white, her long, dark hair was no longer immaculate. Smudged make-up on her face; she hadn’t bothered to wash. Doing her best to smile, and failing. ‘Oh, Sergey, thank God you’ve come back!’

‘Whatever, what …?’ Sheer relief robbed him of his words. Ursula was here. Alive, apparently unharmed. And that was a bonus.

Briefly she explained what had happened since her last performance at the theatre. Tight-lipped, not going into details, not wanting him to know, afraid of reminding herself. She could still feel those icy fingers creeping over her body, the way her obscene lover had taken her. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said. ‘Keschev said that a car would be sent to collect my belongings but I had to come. Oh God, I could have wept when you weren’t here.’

‘There is a way.’ He took her hand, squeezed her fingers. ‘The Beast is not indestructible. His Achilles’ heel is fire!’

‘How do you know?’

‘I dreamed it last night.’

‘You … dreamed it?’

‘Yes, but it has to be true. Fire will consume most things. Dead bodies are cremated. So why not his? I have a bomb.’

‘It sounds feasible,’ she murmured.

‘And fire has always been the curse of the Kremlin. More than once it has been razed to the ground, so why not again?’

‘Except that now it is built of brick and stone.’

‘But there are enough combustible materials in the Great Palace to create a raging inferno.’

‘Okay, then, how do you propose to go about it? Slip it into his pocket when he’s not looking?’

He sucked in his lips. Part two of his plan was not ready yet. Part one – obtain a firebomb. Accomplished. Part two – plant it. Not quite so easy.

‘I have access to the Kremlin now,’ he spoke with uncertainty. ‘After all, I am his hired private assassin.’

‘He knows you’re a spy.’ She clenched her fists. ‘Also that the Politburo have hired you to kill him. He told me last night. It’s all a game he’s playing. And if you eliminate them, then …’

‘God Almighty! Then I’m a marked man all round. And if he knows about me then he must know about you.’

‘Possibly, but I’m excused because I’m his mistress. I shall be empress of a world where civilization no longer exists. I shall be able to strut proudly amidst the smouldering ashes after the holocaust and tell myself that I am alive because I gave my body to the Antichrist Sergey, you cannot go to the Kremlin, you must hide. I do not think that even here is safe.’

‘I have to go. Tomorrow night the deadline given by the Americans is up. What is my life against the population of the world?’

‘I shall plant the bomb.’ She spoke calmly, picking the small container up off the table.

‘No!’

‘Yes. There is no alternative. Show me how it works and tonight I shall secrete it in the bedchamber. Then …’

‘I won’t let you. It’s certain death for you.’

‘No. I shall make an excuse to leave the room. An urgent call to the toilet, run and leave him to be cremated.’

He did not reply. Logically it was the only way. Ursula was above suspicion. The memory of Pasha came back to him. I will give you the knife, stick it in him as he sleeps. And the following morning Pasha had been floating in the swimming pool with her throat cut. The Beast had a charmed life, the life of an immortal. And yet if they failed tonight then the whole world would be plunged into war, for no way would Andre Keschev give the order for the troops to withdraw from Pakistan. And even if the impossible happened then Libya was preparing for war with a ghastly armament of Russian missiles. The Chinese peace gesture, too, was likely to be their own destruction. Two lives against millions.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘you plant the bomb, but first we had better have a look at it. If we don’t get the setting right then everything has been in vain.’

The firebomb was simplicity itself. A timing device similar to a standard cooker timer, attached to wire and a magnesium cartridge. A plastic cylinder that would ignite at the appropriate time. And the whole thing fitted snugly in the palm of your hand.

‘A child could set it.’ Ursula watched as he closed the lid. ‘These are the firebombs that the Soviets have been supplying to terrorists worldwide, I guess.’

‘You can bet on that.’ His expression was grim. ‘God, I’d like to burn the whole bloody rotten lot of them. Maybe one day I will complete that hit list Keschev gave me.’

‘Let’s do the important job first.’ She kissed him quickly, fearing to linger in case she stayed too long. ‘I must hurry in case he misses me. God, my performance at the opera tonight will hit rock bottom.’

‘I’ll see you later.’ His lower lip was quivering. ‘I’ll be right here. Come back to me, darling.’

‘I’ll be right back, I promise.’ She turned and walked quickly out of the door. Down the steps and into the road, not once glancing back because she knew he would be watching her from the window.

Tonight she was going to hell. And back; that was a promise she meant to keep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - Bedchamber of the Fiend

He was out there again tonight. Ursula sensed Keschev’s presence more strongly than ever even though she could not see into the darkness beyond the stage lights. A cold force that centred on her, controlled her every movement. Turn this way for me, my lovely. Now the other way; pirouette. It was like being dragged on a marathon run by invisible hands; you flagged, couldn’t keep up the pace but something was driving you beyond your own limitations.

The performance was staccato, the actors like life-sized puppets that moved only because their strings were worked from above. Jerky, unnatural. She was one of them, repeating meaningless words without expression. This is how it will be when you are an empress in a dead world, one of the living dead. The curtain rose and fell; rose again. Tsarevich Dmitri had made his last bow, the young actor was probably already in his dressing room changing out of his costume.

It’s all a game. Pawns on a giant chessboard. In the end they would all die. It seemed an eternity before the final curtain dropped. Ursula thought she was going to faint; the wooden Kremlin Palace shimmered like the mirage of a desert outpost across the sand dunes. Steadied. With faltering steps she walked backstage.

‘Are you ill, Miss Ramanninov?’

‘Thank you, no, I am just tired.’ She pushed past the others. I have to hurry for my master awaits me.

She had planted the firebomb earlier that afternoon. A brief visit to the State bedchamber, a furtive fumbling with hands that shook uncontrollably but somehow she had managed to set the timer. 2 a.m. Later might have been preferable but every hour she delayed meant further degradation. Her flesh felt grimy, soiled, even the long bath had failed to cleanse her. As she changed out of her costume she tried not to glance at her body in the mirror. God, how she despised her own beauty.

Nervously, she left by the stage door. The sky had clouded over, there was not a star to be seen. Depressing, almost an omen. Even the stars shun this night of terror.

Thank God Keschev had not returned yet from the Palace of Congresses. A brief respite. She sat on the bed fully dressed. Every passing minute was a bonus. And then she heard his footsteps coming down the corridor, the click of the doorknob as it turned.

‘Superb!’ He stood in the doorway looking at her, his wide mouth stretched in a smile. ‘The best yet, my lovely. Tonight you were inspired, perhaps because you have become the Empress of Ivan the Fourth.’

‘Perhaps.’ Her answering smile was timid, her lips quivering. The other wore a dark evening suit; she noticed that the starched white shirt was spottled crimson. He crossed to the wash basin, swilled his hands under the running tap.

‘I have kept you waiting and for that I apologize,’ he said.

‘That is all right.’ It’s fine, keep me waiting all night.

‘I had some business to attend to.’ He turned round and she found herself shrinking from those penetrating orbs. ‘Business which our friend Prokop failed to accomplish.’

Please don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.

‘Our traitorous Defence Minister.’ Keschev’s smile vanished. ‘An unauthorized attempt to pacify the Americans. A coward in the face of their threats. Fortunately I anticipated his treachery.’ A laugh which had her wanting to flee from the room, throw herself down the long flight of steps and pray God her neck broke when she hit the hallway below. ‘As a boy I used to enjoy wringing the necks of fowl for the cook pot. Sometimes I underestimated my own strength and head and body parted. That happened again tonight. Imagine Comrade Petrov still standing upright without his head on his shoulders!’ She thought she was going to be sick. ‘Do you know, his headless body even took a step before it fell! Quite incredible. I have seen a chicken run round the yard whilst its head was still in my hand. They tell me it is purely due to the nerves, the message has not yet got through to the limbs. I do wish that you could have seen Vasily. But, of course, you know that the Dead can walk, don’t you?’

Ursula shuddered, closed her eyes. Any second he would touch her with those same hands, still warm with the blood of the man he had slain. As she began to undress she reminded herself of the bomb that was ticking silently away beneath the thick feather mattress. The thought saved her sanity. She left her jewelled wristwatch on; it was a matter of life and death. At 1.57 she must excuse herself, go to the toilet. And flee from this chamber of fiery death.

Naked and defenceless, a whore awaiting her master’s pleasure. There was something different about Keschev tonight, more than just the arrogance of a dictator. The way he looked at her with his disfigured features. She was a plaything, a wind-up toy to move about and amuse him. He dried his hands on the towel, streaking it with pinkish bloodstains. Then he began to take off his clothes; it was the deliberation rather than his previous frenzied lust which disturbed her. She tried not to look towards the bed. God, she hoped that bomb was still going, that she had set it right, that the timing mechanism had not stopped. Listening and praying that she would not be able to hear the steady ticking.

‘The fools,’ he grunted, ‘they thought they could kill me. Me! Ivan, Tsar of Russia. Once they destroyed me but it was different then. I was different. Now that is all changed.’ That film clouded his eyes, she noticed the moistness, a tear beginning to trickle slowly down his shot-scarred cheek. ‘My boy, if only he was here now. But he shall be with us before long.’

Her uneasiness was mounting.

‘They killed him, on the orders of Boris Godunov. A crime for which the whole of Russia must pay, for every one of them willed it, they were accessories to the assassination. Kill Ivan the Terrible and wipe out his bloodline with him. But they have failed. Dmitri shall be reborn!’He advanced on her, a giant horrifically disfigured, a body that had no right to move and talk. ‘You, my lovely, shall help me resurrect my beloved son, heir to the throne of Russia. You shall bear me a son who will be Tsarevich Dmitri!’

Ursula thought she was going to faint. Those icy fingers gripped her, pulled her close to the living corpse. A foul kiss that stifled her scream, his fingers scraping her creeping flesh. Mate with me and bear me a son, an unholy babe who will defy the laws of creation.

Roughly he dragged her onto the bed, threw her down beneath him. Fearfully she looked up at him. The mist had rolled back, those orbs were glowing again with the lust of the fiend. Searching out her mind. Oh, God, he knows! His blistered lips stretched. If we die then we die together and we shall be born again out of the inferno, immortals to rule a dead world, to stalk the smouldering ashes. She felt her senses starting to slip from her. No, I must fight him to the very end for the sake of civilization. If there is a God then I pray to him.

It was as though her body were slipping into his, merging with the monster who straddled her. No, I will not give birth to a foul creature such as this. I will not! You will!

He was lying spent on top of her. She could not see his face in the gloom, did not wish to. Anxiety, fear; stealthily she slid her arm free, turned her head, could just make out the green, luminous digits. 1.35. Twenty-five minutes until this very bed exploded in flames.

And then the bedside phone buzzed. A harsh bleeping, a welcome, humdrum noise disturbing terrible surrealism. Vibrating, insistent. Ominous. She felt Keschev tense but he made no move to answer it. A plastic thing that screamed at them, louder and louder until she wanted to press her hands over her ears. I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going mad, I am mad! I’ve conceived and I want to die. Suddenly the phone stopped. At least she thought it had, the bleeping was still echoing in her brain.

A long silence. She began formulating her excuse to leave the room. She had gone over it a thousand times during the day but she had to get it right, sound convincing. Andre, I have to go to the toilet. It sounded weak. But everybody had to go to the toilet. I won’t be a minute. Which was why she had to leave it late so that he did not come looking for her when she did not return. He must be in this room at 2 a.m. He knows. No, he doesn’t, he can’t. Then how did he know about Sergey? The KGB, eyes and ears like an infestation of ants in every building in Russia. Then I’ll die with him. And be resurrected, like him! The thought spun her brain crazily. The birth, the fear of every mother that her offspring will be deformed; it could not be otherwise when Keschev, the Beast, was the father of her child.

He was tense beside her. That phone call had disturbed him. His breathing was faster. And then she heard footsteps outside, fast, urgent ones. Somebody knocked on the door; a timid tap at first, then a louder rapping.

‘Comrade General Secretary?’

Ursula was conscious of the trepidation in those tones that seemed to come from afar like a shout from the bottom of a deep well. Fearing retribution for intruding upon the leader’s privacy, disturbing the nuptial chamber. Muffled voices, a discussion amongst whoever it was. Then more knocking.

‘Go away!’ Keschev turned towards the door, shook a fist in the darkness. ‘How dare you! Go away and do not disturb me!’

‘But Comrade General Secretary …’

‘Go away!’

The voice dropped to a whisper and then Ursula heard those footsteps receding, being dragged unwillingly over the thick carpeting of the palace corridors. The silence rolled back.

‘Fools!’ Keschev muttered and his fingers strayed back to her soft breasts. ‘They came to tell me that Vasily Petrov has been found headless in his apartment. Now they scuttle away to cower in terror. Who will be next? Who? That is an interesting thought, one we will leave until tomorrow, my darling. I will decide then. Unless, of course, your friend Prokop comes up with any of his own ideas. One never knows.’

Terror stabbed at her. He was toying with her. If necessary we shall both die together. 1.45.

She did want to go to the toilet; at least she would be speaking the truth. It was ironic. A feeling of discomfort, the nagging of a full bladder. She wondered if she could hold out another few minutes; it was becoming quite painful.

‘Andre, I shall have to go to the toilet in a minute.’ Testing him, seeing if there was any resistance to her request. Like a child in school, hand raised, please I have to go for a wee. The teacher not convinced, suspicious. It will be breaktime shortly, you’ll have to wait

‘What a pity that bodily functions should intrude upon our love-making.’ There was a tenderness underlying his nasal reply, a seemingly genuine regret that she must leave their bed even for a few moments.

‘There is a chamber pot beneath the bed,’ he grunted after a moment as though he had only just remembered it

A wave of despair came at her in the wake of his words. A rush of cold air that froze her, dashed her hopes.

‘I … I would sooner go to the toilet, Andre,’ There was a lump in her throat that made her stammer. Perhaps he would mistake fear for inhibitions.

‘Inhibitions do not make for a successful marriage,’ he laughed softly and now she would have liked to see his expression. Was this another of his subtle games?

‘Another time perhaps, when we have got used to each other. But now I would prefer to use the lavatory.’

Before he could answer the phone buzzed again. Angrily.

Keschev sat up; she saw his profile, the way it tensed, the rage within him being stoked. ‘I will not have this!’ A roar, fist clenching, a powerful arm raised; smashing down. She heard the instrument shatter, the plastic casing disintegrate, showering to the floor. An angry buzzing as the wiring fused its anger. Fingers snatched, tugged. She winced as the cable was torn from the wall, cast amidst the wreckage like a dead snake.

‘Damn them!’ he hissed. ‘Somebody will be court-martialled for this!’

Ursula stole another glance at her watch. 1.56. She almost panicked, watched him lower himself back down onto the bed, felt his fingers slide up onto the outside of her thigh.

‘Andre, I have to go to the toilet. I cannot leave it another minute. It is painful.’

‘Use the chamber pot.’ A grunted order. ‘The light is out but I will look the other way, nevertheless.’

She sat up, swung her legs over the side. They felt weak, might fold under her once she put her full weight on them. Run, girl. You have four minutes, maybe less.

‘I’m sorry, I want to use the toilet,’ her voice quavered. ‘Just a minute or two of privacy and then I’ll be right back.’

Her legs did bear her weight, she forced them to. The door was only a couple of yards away; through that there was a hallway, the lavatory was on the right. Open the toilet door, close it loudly. Creep to the outer door, sneak out into the corridor. Run and keep on running. Ignore the guards, dash out into the street. Hide if there are soldiers about, try to make it home if there are not. Don’t look back.

Maybe she ought to put a gown on. It was draped over the back of a chair. But it might arouse his suspicions; you didn’t clothe yourself just to go to the loo on a warm summer night. One step; two. Don’t hurry yet.

She had covered perhaps a yard when strong, cold fingers shot out of the shadows and grabbed her wrist, twisted it cruelly so that she cried out.

‘You have yet to learn obedience.’ There was pent-up fury in his rasping whisper, foul dungeon fumes exuding from his open mouth. ‘Do not defy me, woman. Use the chamber pot!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - The Kremlin Curse

Ivanovich Agayan had worked his way up through the Defence Ministry to become deputy to Petrov during Gorbachev’s rule. A slightly-built man of few words, Agayan had progressed steadily. Secretly he coveted the post of Defence Minister and it would be his in time, barring disasters.

Then, within the space of an hour, the top job was his and suddenly he did not want it. Pakistan had been invaded, Libyan weapons were on the point of being dispatched. But Chinese retaliation had been overlooked, the yellow men underestimated. The diminishing threat, the drastically reduced conventional forces, the withdrawal of half their missiles had all been part of a deliberate ploy, Chinese wisdom and cunning. They had made ready for war and struck without warning, David determined to strike down Goliath whilst the giant’s attention was distracted elsewhere.

The Soviet warning system had picked up the missile. Petrov had been called. No answer. His body had been discovered, the bloody head had come to rest in a corner of the room, the corpse slumped across the desk, still pouring blood from that elongated, torn neck-stump. But that did not matter, there were only minutes remaining. In desperation Agayan called Keschev and the call went unanswered. Now the deputation had been refused entry to the Chairman’s apartment and responsibility bounced back on to Ivanovich Agayan. He panicked, began issuing orders. Defend and retaliate – immediately!

Sergey knew that he could not remain in the apartment. He had deceived himself that he would stay there until Ursula returned but with the approach of midnight his frustration was becoming unbearable.

You cannot do any good by going to the Kremlin. Neither can you help by remaining here. You can’t help at all, it is out of your hands. Just as it was with Pasha at the dacha. He went through into the bedroom, changed into his uniform, a captain’s summer parade outfit, dark green with yellow shoulder stripes. Easily recognizable from a distance. Just in case he met up with a patrol. It could mean the difference between a salute or a bullet in the back.

Once he had been proud to wear the uniform, but now it seemed to suffocate his pride. The hallmark of tyranny, branding him a puppet of the dictator. He strapped on his pistol, took one last look round the apartment. Memories, that was all that were left, things that had been and gone. The future was an empty void, the atheist’s acceptance of what comes after death. Nothing.

He went out, did not even bother to close the door. Tonight would be a disaster, he could not hope for anything else. He felt spits of light rain on his face and his depression deepened. Far better that Keschev had killed him at the dacha, then it would all have been over.

He took a deliberate detour. It would have been foolish to have gone direct to the Kremlin. Unfair to Ursula; she had played along, he had to let her see it through now. All so pointless, like buying a child’s pet hamster. A brief interlude of happiness but ultimately death and sadness as the end result. Everything led to grief; life was so cruel.

The Moskva was a dark, oily ribbon. Perpetual motion, ceaseless until the end of time. It had outlived rulers, it would still be here when Andre Keschev was gone. He walked slowly on, along the Kremlyovskaya embankment, past the Moskvoretsky Tower and into Red Square. Lingering in front of the Lenin Mausoleum, checking the time again. 12.58. An hour to go, it might as well have been ten decades. Time had suddenly ceased to exist; this was how it would be, everything just stopped, himself condemned to wander this dark, rainy night forever. If there was a hell then this was it and you found yourself praying for fire.

Which set him thinking about God again. No, Olga had been wrong, it had just been something to turn to because he had let her down. He should have let her lean on him but the System would not allow it. Spy for the System, spy on the System. Kill Keschev, kill the members of the Politburo. Everybody was playing the game. The God Game.

1.32. He entered the Kremlin through the Nikolsky Tower entrance. The night guard saluted him from the shadows. Spruce trees were struggling to erect a natural barrier around the three cathedrals and the bell tower, more shadows, a fixation with hiding something. Artificial lighting, the buildings illuminated even though there were no tourists, a crazy mixed-up place full of contrast. You see us, you don’t see us. A nation which refused to own up to its inbred fears. He settled down to wait.

Something was happening. Sergey pressed himself back into the shadows, found himself with an unrestricted view of the Great Palace. Soldiers were rushing to and fro, shouting commands that he could not make out. He thought, oh Jesus Almighty, she’s blown it, the bastard’s rumbled her! Instinctively he slid his pistol out of its holster, which was a Christ-damned stupid thing to do unless you were going to blow your own brains out. But hold on and see what it’s all about.

Soldiers on the move, scurrying, going nowhere and coming back again. And then he heard the first siren. A second, then a third took it up, a relayed warning that would encompass the city and beyond, computer-linked to Leningrad, Kiev, the entire Soviet.

It didn’t add up. There was a frown on Prokop’s features as he pressed back deeper into the shadows. This would fuck it all up, get Keschev out of that room of fiery death. It didn’t add up, there were another 23 hours to go until the American deadline and even then they would issue several final warnings. The Yanks would try everything, would only press the button as a very last resort.

Time was supposed to have stopped, he reminded himself. Somebody was making sure it didn’t. The sirens were rising to full pitch, hurting your eardrums like a monotone disco where the needle had stuck in a groove in the record. Sending you crazy, everybody’s crazy.

1.58.

He glanced up from his watch and at that very second the whole Kremlin seemed to erupt into a ball of flame.

In desperation Ursula tried to resist, pulled. But there was no way she could free her hand from Keschev’s grip. She felt the skin twist and burn, cold to his touch then scorching. She screamed, was aware of something snapping, falling and bouncing on the carpet. Her watch, it lay face uppermost, the digits flickering green, offset against the pale carpet. 1.57.

‘Let me go, please!’

‘Stupid wench!’ She thought he was going to strike her but his upraised free hand fell back down to his side. ‘Do you think you can leave my bed just when you please? Have you tired of your tsar lover already?’

‘I … must … go to the … toilet.’ Perhaps it was too late already to save herself. Even as she spoke she was aware of a warm wetness that trickled slowly down the insides of her thighs. ‘Is that too much to ask? If you profess to love me then at least allow me to go to the lavatory. Am I some sort of a prisoner?’

‘Only if you make it so,’ he hissed. ‘Foolish girl, I think you plan to run away. How far do you think you would get? The Great Hall, perhaps, and the guard would bring you back. It is an honour to be chosen by Ivan the Fourth. Now,’ he scooped a foot beneath the bed and she heard something rattle, stared as he drew out a receptacle that resembled a giant tea cup. ‘I would not put you to any physical discomfort. Use it!’

She sighed loudly. Suddenly the desire had gone, her feet were wet. At that very moment she gave up, her imprisoned hand went limp; she did not pull anymore.

‘That is better,’ he smiled, ‘now let us go back to bed. You see, your feelings deceived you. You did not want to go after all.’

She lay there, closed her eyes, felt him pulling her legs apart, kneeling in between them, the bed groaning its protest.

Mentally she tried to shut herself off, let her mind go blank. The plot had failed, the timing mechanism on the firebomb had gone wrong. She was not even going to die; she was going to spend the rest of her life in his hell, the slave mistress of Ivan the Terrible. She would bear him his son and then her use would have expired. She was all part of a System that had begun long before 1917.

Waiting, bracing her body against the vile entry. It did not come. Still waiting, refusing to open her eyes.

She felt the heat first, like lying too close to a log fire when it suddenly blazes up. A scorching inferno, searing her flesh, a burning tornado whipping at her. Lifting her up, throwing her across the bed.

She opened her eyes and screamed. The bed, the whole room, was ablaze, tongues of flame shooting up from the rumpled sheets, a blinding, orange-yellow light like looking into the direct rays of the sun. Shrieking her fear and pain as she saw her own body catch fire, the skin blackening, shrivelling. Igniting.

And then she saw Keschev. He had been jerked upwards, was clutching at an overhead stanchion of the bed; a curious trick, a monkey jumping through a blazing hoop except that he had got caught midway. Writhing, kicking, swinging. Roaring his wrath and pain.

The flesh on his features was melting, thick rivulets like molten tallow running and dripping. Baring the bones, the giant shrinking, reducing. Ageing.

Those features mouthed obscenities out of the hellfire, a devil incarnate being consumed in his own Hades; the blackened mouth twisting, slobbering, the vile spittle hissing as it boiled. Convulsing, cursing, held upright by the sheer force of the fiery gale.

Almost a skeleton but still living, bones cracking in the heat, disintegrating until only the eyes remained, still glowing in those twin black cavities, smouldering hate and pain. Finally despair succumbing; ashes that were swept up in the heat blast, scattered. Buried beneath the masonry as it came tumbling down.

One moment Sergey was staring in disbelief, the next he was lifted up off his feet and hurled into the air. A hurricane that had surely come from the arid deserts, hot and growing hotter by the second. Flung down again, feeling an arm break, a burning sensation all over as though he had been immersed in a bath of acid.

Not understanding but trying to tear his smouldering clothing from his body, ripping at it with his uninjured arm; screaming in pain as the material caught fire. Buildings were collapsing all around, avalanching and vibrating the ground with the force of an earthquake. A roaring as though some unseen deity fanned the flames with a pair of bellows. Something fell on top of him, not heavy enough to crush him but merely pinning him down. One of those conifer saplings, its needles shrivelling up, falling off. Branches curled, cracked. Oh please God, if there is a God, let me die quickly!

Sergey’s prayer went unanswered. Still living, his uniform charring on his toasting flesh. He closed his eyes but it was impossible to shut out the brightness. In a few seconds he would be blinded.

It was impossible that the firebomb could have done all this. And yet … the Kremlin burned, toppled, was fast being razed to the ground as though those pillagers of centuries ago had returned, crossed the gulf of time in search of vengeance on those who administered the new Russia. Demons of fire, the armies of hell on the march.

Sergey heard a hissing as though a mighty cauldron seethed and bubbled. God, it was the Moskva, the river boiling and steaming! In the far distance he heard people screaming but not for long. Now his singed uniform was beginning to blaze; he kicked and struggled but even had his arm not been broken he doubted whether he would have been able to free himself. Black, choking smoke swept across his vision as though to hide the inferno, a suffocating cloud of shame.

One last building still stood, tottering, buckling, when all the rest were flattened, smouldering debris: the Cathedral of St Michael the Archangel. Then, like a pack of cards suddenly collapsing, it came shuddering down, spilling out its interior as it hit the ground. A scattered kaleidoscope of multi-coloured frescoes and smashed stained glass, mahogany carvings kindling wood that ignited at once.

And in the midst of the debris a white marble tomb, chipped but still intact. Smoke-grimed, cracking as though its long-dead occupant was trying to force his way out. Heaving, settling back down, impervious to the passing of the giant fireball. A tomb that would remain a tomb forever, incarcerating the spirit of a 14-year-old boy who had been summoned by his dead father; he had tried to answer the call but he had failed, and was condemned to remain in his majestic grave for eternity.

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.

We hope you enjoyed the read!.

Guy.

This ebook is the forty-sixth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2012.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of The Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 : The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2: Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

12. Locusts.

13. The Origin of the Crabs.

14. Caracal.

15. Thirst.

16. Deathbell.

17. Satan's Snowdrop.

18. Doomflight.

19. Warhead.

20. Manitou Doll.

21. Wolfcurse.

22. Crabs On The Rampage.

23. The Pluto Pact.

24. Entombed.

25. The Lurkers.

26. Sabat 1: The Graveyard Vultures.

27. Sabat 2: The Blood Merchants.

28. Sabat 3: Cannibal Cult.

29. Blood Circuit.

30. Accursed.

31. Sabat 4: Druid Connection.

32. The Undead.

33. Crabs' Moon.

34. The Walking Dead.

35. Throwback.

36. The Wood.

37. The Neophyte.

38. Abomination.

39. Snakes.

40. Cannibals.

41. Alligators.

42. Bloodshow.

43. Thirst II: The Plague.

44. Demons.

45. Crabs: The Human Sacrifice.

46. Fiend.

The next book will be :-

47. The Island.

"It's 1746 and the Laird of Ulver maroons his wife and four daughters on remote Ulver Island after she fails to give him a male heir on the fifth attempt. On the island, the youngest girl turns murderess, after meeting Satan himself in a cave. Modern day, and no one has lived on Ulver since a couple threw themselves onto the rocks in 1948. Frank Ingram is too busy mourning his wife, and moves in anyway. Life is hunky dory until a woman with her four daughters mysteriously arrive out of nowhere."

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.

View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.

Table of Contents

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE - The Death

CHAPTER TWO - The Spy Who Came Home

CHAPTER THREE - The Awakening

CHAPTER FOUR - Armaments Build-up

CHAPTER FIVE - Refuseniks

CHAPTER SIX - ‘Do You Not Know that the Dead Can Walk Again?’

CHAPTER SEVEN - Human Cargoes

CHAPTER EIGHT - The Assassins

CHAPTER NINE - Geneva

CHAPTER TEN - ‘Deny Thy God!’

CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Eighth Directorate

CHAPTER TWELVE - Crucifixion!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Destroy Him!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN -The Germ Factory

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - The Survivor

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Night of the Dog

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - The God Factor

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Torture

CHAPTER NINETEEN - Wild Boar in the Forest

CHAPTER TWENTY - The Whore at the Dacha

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - The Killing of Josef Zuttenberg

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Tears at the Tomb

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Killer Rat

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Shotblast

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Counter-assassin

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - The Killing Game

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Massacre on the Streets

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - Bedchamber of the Fiend

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - The Kremlin Curse

The End