said as dismissively as possible: ‘You may go now.’
It was actually the superficiality of Panchenko’s written account that had prompted Malik to conduct a personal interview without imagining so much would be disclosed. But what exactly had been disclosed? Malik demanded of himself objectively. Facts? Or merely impressions, formed from inconsistencies. It was inconsistent for a trained investigator – a strict observer of rules of procedure – to have begun so properly in establishing Agayans’ whereabouts and assembling his squad and then not bothering to time his arrival at the man’s apartment: and then to be so adamant about the length of time Agayans was alone in the bedroom. Which brought him to the biggest inconsistency of all. It was inconceivable for Panchenko to have allowed Agayans go to his bedroom unaccompanied: here Malik thought the explanation unacceptable to the extent of being a downright lie. And why had the man denied knowing the reason for the arrest? Malik distinctly remembered mentioning Afghanistan when he telephoned Gofkovskoye Shosse because he’d immediately considered it a mistake, ahead of the formulation of any specific charge. And what about Panchenko’s demeanour? At the start the man’s attitude had been one of arrogance, practically contempt. Unthinkable from someone so newly promoted, appearing before a joint First Chief Deputy. And then the change. From arrogance to sweated uncertainty. Uncertainty about what? The realization that his behaviour was wrong? Irritation at having his expertise questioned and so easily shown up to be wanting? Or apprehension, at something more? What was it that could be more? Too many questions lacking too many answers. So what was there? Only impressions that he was in danger of imagining to be facts: unsubstantiated, unpresentable, unprovable facts.
Abruptly Malik recalled the inquiry that had occurred to him during the interview, and reached just as abruptly for the internal telephone. It took less than an hour to get the information from Personnel Records and Malik sat gazing down at the print-out, sure at last of a fact. And even surer that it had significance. Lev Konstantinovich Panchenko had been promoted to colonel and to head the internal security division upon the instigation and personally endorsed recommendation of Victor Ivanovich Kazin.
The link, decided Malik. Not proof of anything but enough to support the suspicion about Kazin that had arisen and stayed with him from that first encounter. Certainly enough to subject whatever revised report he received from Panchenko to an examination even more rigorous than that which it – and its author – had already undergone. But possibly not an isolated examination. There had been a four-man squad. How much would their individual recollections differ from that of the man who had commanded them? Maybe not at all. But then again, maybe a lot. It was certainly worth conducting individual interviews. Would there be enough time before the inquiry? He regretted now demanding a hearing so quickly.
Yevgennie Levin was suffused with an unnatural feeling: a sensation verging on the supernatural. He felt as if he were suspended over his own body, like some outside commentator judging himself perform and act and observe the rituals of his normal day. Maybe it was the effect of his mind – or whatever the responsible organ – flooding his body with adrenaline, hyping him through the final moments: keeping him alert. It was absolutely essential he remain totally alert. It had been from the moment he went into the United Nations library to see at once the signal for which he had waited so anxiously, telling him it was tonight. He’d watched himself go through the ritual of a committee meeting (the last ever!) and make his contribution to the Minute records (never read!) and supported a recommendation for a conservation proposal for the rain forests of Brazil (meaningless!) and sought Solov’s approval for the outing that night with Galina and Petr (approved!) and still he watched himself, unable after so long actually to believe it was happening. Judgement so far? Acting entirely as he should have been, unobtrusively, properly, making all the necessary and proper moves.
Levin’s control wavered the moment he arrived back at the apartment, with Natalia’s shyly smiling photograph on a table and another on the mantelpiece, and felt Galina’s concentration burning into him when he announced to her and Petr that they were dining out.
‘Great!’ responded Petr in English, immediately enthusiastic.
Petr was a fervent American television watcher and was wearing American jeans and a sweatshirt proclaiming UCLA, which occurred to Levin – why did such small things intrude, at a time like this? – to be 3,000 miles out of place. Like he and Galina and Petr were 3,000 miles out of place: more, to be geographically accurate.
‘Where?’ asked Galina. She asked the question with dulled expectation.
‘The Plaza,’ announced Levin.
Galina said nothing. Petr said: ‘Neat!’
Petr wore his American suit – the one he’d bought at Bloomingdale’s – and Levin changed, too: a new suit for a new life. Galina remained in the clothes she was already wearing. They got a cab immediately and the crosstown traffic was unaccountably light, with no holdups or gridlocks. Levin, unthinking and anxious to make conversation, said: ‘Easy tonight, isn’t it?’ and at once Galina said: ‘No, it isn’t easy at all.’
It was two minutes before seven when Levin guided his wife and son through the narrow side doors off Central Park South but Proctor was already there, waiting by the promised jewellery display directly beyond the central elevator bank.
Three other people – one a woman and none of whom Levin had seen at any previous meeting – moved protectively and at the same time as the American came forward. Proctor didn’t smile. He said: ‘OK?’
‘I think so,’ said Levin.
‘Ma’am,’ greeted Proctor politely.
Galina did not respond.
‘Hi, Petr,’ tried Proctor.
The boy looked curiously between his parents and the strangers but didn’t speak either.
‘We’d better go,’ said Proctor.
‘Dadda, what is this?’ asked the boy at last.
‘You must come,’ said Levin.
All but Galina started off.
‘Please!’ Levin implored her, stopping.
‘I want to know what’s happening,’ insisted Petr weakly.
‘I can’t,’ protested Galina, unmoving.
‘Don’t abandon me! Not now!’ said Levin, imploring more.
Petr began to back away, frightened. One of the escorts reached out towards him and Galina said, too loud: ‘Don’t you touch him! Don’t you dare touch him!’
The man stopped the gesture and Proctor said: ‘This isn’t the way, Yevgennie. You know this isn’t the way.’
‘Galina!’ begged Levin.
There were isolated looks from people in the crowded foyer.
‘There’s no going back, not now,’ said Proctor.
‘Going back where?’ demanded Petr, halfway between belligerence and bewilderment.
‘We should go now,’ said Proctor, alert to the woman’s weakening.
Levin was conscious of it too. He said: ‘I promise I’ll get her out.’
‘Who?’ intruded Petr.
The boy was ignored again.
‘Ready, Yevgennie?’ asked Proctor.
‘Yes,’ said the Russian with a sigh of finality.
The group started to move in a slow, inviting way and after a moment’s hesitation Galina started to walk with them, head bent in an effort to hide the sobbing. The unidentified woman immediately went to her, both comforting and concealing. Petr was in the middle, his head in constant movement, eyes bulged. They rounded the Palm Court lobby cafe to go through the swing doors instead of the central, revolving exit. Two of a fleet of three or maybe four window-blackened limousines pulled immediately away from the far pavement to come against their kerb and Levin felt a push, urging him into the back. Proctor got in to his left and Galina was helped in to his right. Petr was ushered into the front, alongside the driver, with one of the escorts protectively against the door, arm outstretched.
The cavalcade immediately took off across town, eastwards. Petr said: ‘Please tell me what is happening!’
‘We’re going to live in America,’ said Levin simply.
