Volodya began to worry. Had Markus been found out? He worked as assistant to the ambassador, and therefore saw everything that crossed the ambassador’s desk; but Volodya had been urging him to seek access to other documents, especially the correspondence of military attaches. Had that been a mistake? Had someone noticed Markus sneaking a peek at cables that were none of his business?
Then Markus came along the street, a professorial figure in spectacles and an Austrian-style loden coat, white snowflakes spotting the green felt cloth. He turned into the Ukraine Bar. Volodya waited, watching. Another man followed Markus in, and Volodya frowned anxiously; but the second man was obviously a Russian worker, not a German counter-espionage agent. He was a small, rat-faced man in a threadbare coat, his boots wrapped in rags, and he wiped the wet end of his pointed nose with his sleeve.
Volodya crossed the street and went into the bar.
It was a smoky place, none too clean, and it smelled of men who did not often bathe. On the walls were fading watercolours of Ukrainian scenery in cheap frames. It was mid-afternoon, and there were not many customers. The only woman in the place looked like an aging prostitute recovering from a hangover.
Markus was at the back of the room, hunched over an untasted glass of beer. He was in his thirties but looked older, with a neat fair beard and moustache. He had thrown open his coat, revealing a fur lining. The rat-faced Russian sat two tables away, rolling a cigarette.
As Volodya approached, Markus stood up and punched him in the mouth.
‘You cowfucker!’ he screamed in German. ‘You pig’s cunt!’
Volodya was so shocked that for a moment he did nothing. His lips hurt and he tasted blood. Reflexively, he raised his arm to hit back. But he restrained himself.
Markus swung at him again, but this time Volodya was ready, and he easily dodged the wild blow.
‘Why did you do it?’ Markus yelled. ‘Why?’
Then, just as suddenly, he crumpled, falling back into his chair, burying his face in his hands, and beginning to sob.
Volodya spoke through bleeding lips. ‘Shut up, you fool,’ he said. He turned around and spoke to the other customers, who were all staring. ‘It’s nothing, he’s upset.’
They all looked away, and one man left. Muscovites never voluntarily got involved in trouble. It was dangerous even to separate two scrapping drunks, in case one of them was powerful in the Party. And they knew that Volodya was such a man: they could tell by his good coat.
Volodya turned back to Markus. In a lowered voice he said angrily: ‘What the hell was that for?’ He spoke German: Markus’s Russian was poor.
‘You arrested Irina,’ the man replied, weeping. ‘You fucking bastard, you burned her nipples with a cigarette.’
Volodya winced. Irina was Markus’s Russian girlfriend. Volodya began to see what this might be about and he had a bad feeling. He sat down opposite Markus. ‘I didn’t arrest Irina,’ he said. ‘And I’m sorry if she’s been hurt. Just tell me what happened.’
‘They came for her in the middle of the night. Her mother told me. They wouldn’t say who they were, but they weren’t regular police detectives – they had better clothes. She doesn’t know where they took her. They questioned her about me and accused her of being a spy. They tortured her and raped her, then they threw her out.’
‘Fuck,’ said Volodya. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? It must have been you that did it – who else?’
‘This is nothing to do with Army Intelligence, I swear.’
‘Makes no difference,’ Markus said. ‘I’m finished with you, and I’m finished with Communism.’
‘There are sometimes casualties in the war against capitalism.’ It sounded glib even to Volodya as he said it.
‘You young fool,’ Markus said savagely. ‘Don’t you understand that socialism means freedom from this kind of shit?’
Volodya glanced up and saw a burly man in a leather coat come through the door. He was not here for a drink, Volodya knew instinctively.
Something was going on, and Volodya did not know what it was. He was new to this game, and right now he felt his lack of experience like a missing limb. He thought he might be in danger but he did not know what to do.
The newcomer approached the table where Volodya sat with Markus.
Then the rat-faced man stood up. He was about the same age as Volodya. Surprisingly, he spoke with an educated accent. ‘You two are under arrest.’
Volodya cursed.
Markus jumped to his feet. ‘I am commercial attache at German Embassy!’ he screamed in ungrammatical Russian. ‘You cannot arrest! I have diplomatic immunity!’
The other customers left the bar in a rush, shoving at each other as they squeezed through the door. Only two people remained: the bartender, nervously swiping the counter with a filthy rag, and the prostitute, smoking a cigarette and staring into an empty vodka glass.
‘You can’t arrest me, either,’ Volodya said calmly. He took his identification card from his pocket. ‘I’m Lieutenant Peshkov, Army Intelligence. Who the fuck are
