away in a fold of a hill, like an ornament on a shelf. There was no sign of life around it. Nearer, directly over the water, insects startled awake by the unexpected heat misted in surprised confusion and birds – swallows he thought, although he was not sure – dived and swooped, to feed on the unexpected feast. Probably eating better than he would, from the contents of the cans back in the house, Yuri thought. The older man sat awkwardly on the grass beside the stream, an abrupt, slumping movement that reminded Yuri of a large animal, a horse or a cow maybe, collapsing to rest. The irreverent reflection made him feel uncomfortable: he wondered why, now, he seemed so conscious of his father’s deformity. He sat down too, waiting.
‘I think Agayans’ death is suspicious,’ announced Malik abruptly.
‘How suspicious?’
‘Possibly that it wasn’t suicide,’ said Malik. His son’s disbelief was obvious and Malik regretted beginning so dramatically: he wanted agreement, not doubt. More carefully he told of his interview with Panchenko and of learning the man’s sponsorship by Kazin and why, because of the quickness with which the inquiry had been convened, he had not been able to extend the necessary interrogation to the rest of the seizure squad on the night of Agayans’ death.
Throughout the explanation Yuri sat nodding, not needing to be convinced of the absurdity of what had been proposed in Kabul but finding difficulty with everything else. When his father stopped talking, Yuri said: ‘You believe he was killed!’
‘Such things have happened before.’
‘In Stalin’s day, maybe. Not now.’
‘There are still a lot of people nostalgic for Stalin’s days,’ insisted Malik. ‘The sort of people who don’t want the type of changes being introduced now.’
No! rejected Yuri. Dzerzhinsky Square politics and infighting maybe, but not killing. This was real life, reality, not fiction. The reflection brought him up short. He leaned forward curiously towards his father and said: ‘Would you? Kill, I mean?’ and was surprised when there was not an immediate dismissal.
Instead Malik remained silent for several moments, carefully choosing his reply. Then he said: ‘Not cold bloodedly: premeditatedly. But I think I could kill someone who tried to kill me.’
‘That’s not an answer to the question,’ said the younger man, refusing his father the escape. ‘What you’re talking about is self-defence, against attack.’
Again there was a hesitation and then the man said: isn’t that what we are talking about: ourselves being under attack?’
Now it was Yuri’s turn to remain silent. The second answer was better than the first but he still couldn’t conceive that the paunchy, high-shouldered man idly plucking at grass tufts with his hand honestly meant what he was saying. It was like debating with a complete stranger. At once came the contradiction. It wasn’t like that at all. Rather it was getting to know the man for the first time, if it weren’t preposterous to imagine getting to know his father for the first time at the age of twenty-three. Preposterous or not, that was definitely his feeling. He said: ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Inquiries can be reopened,’ suggested Malik.
‘You’re going to interrogate the rest of the squad?’
‘To start with.’
‘What else?’
‘I haven’t decided yet, not completely. Save things, certainly.’
‘Save things?’
‘I’ve made copies, of everything. Files, cipher records, Panchenko’s report: even the diary entries.’
‘Isn’t that taking a risk?’
‘It’s the sort of risk you had to decide upon in Kabul… which I’m glad you did, incidentally.’
‘Will it be difficult, to reopen the inquiry?’
‘Impossible without some evidence directly contradictory to that already presented,’ admitted Malik.
Yuri shifted from the position in which he was sitting, although his discomfort was not physical. The night of his arrival from Kabul his father had suggested that the scheming might involve him, as well. He said: ‘What else can you do? Something positive, I mean?’
‘Nothing, not unless I get the proper evidence,’ conceded Malik.
It was all too uncertain, thought Yuri. And he didn’t like uncertainty. Along with all the other formative-year images of his father, Yuri had always considered the man to be invulnerable. He did not like the sudden contradiction. Reminded by the reflection of Kabul, Yuri said: ‘But you’re in the superior position now?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Malik.
‘I don’t want to stay any longer in Afghanistan.’
Malik nodded reflectively. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can intercede now. In fact to do so would show up Kazin’s weakness. I’ve got to capitalize upon that as much as I can.’
Yuri was about to speak again when the telephone shrilled, back in the house. He watched his father lope back in his odd, rocking gait, aware there was another explanation he was still lacking. It was a very quick call, the older man reappearing almost at once from the house to return, head sunk in thought against his chest, to where they had been sitting. He didn’t sit again, so Yuri had to squint up against the sunlight.
‘There even seems to be a vacancy for you,’ Malik said. ‘There’s been a defection, in New York.’
‘You didn’t tell me what happened between you and Kazin,’ reminded Yuri.
For several moments his father remained staring down at him and because of the brightness it was difficult for Yuri to see the expression on the man’s face. Then Malik said: ‘I know I didn’t,’ and turned back towards the dacha.
The supposed compartmenting failed to prevent the outcome of the inquiry becoming known throughout every department and Vladislav Belov approached the meeting with the censured Kazin even more reluctantly than he had on the previous occasion, when they’d finalized the American operation. Angry, too, at Kazin stupidly initiating the defection without any consultation. The whole scheme could have been ruined: might still be. In Dzerzhinsky Square there could be a whirlpool effect from being linked to a sinking man, and Kazin appeared inevitably to be sinking.
‘The timing was premature,’ Belov said, immediately critical.
‘I didn’t consider it to be,’ said Kazin. He knew this was going to provide a better recovery than he’d already imagined: when it all meshed together, like cogs engaging a gear, it would erase completely the setback of the tribunal. Beneath the desk his leg pumped in its usual nervousness.
‘The promise to Levin was always that they could go together, as a family.’
‘Keeping the girl makes it look more genuine.’
‘What if Levin hadn’t crossed?’
‘He didn’t have a choice. There was the evidence of his association with the FBI and he knew it.’
Belov succeeded in keeping the incredulity from showing, but only just. Surely the mad fool would not have done that? Unless he was mad. He said: ‘You mean she’s some sort of hostage?’
‘After the blandishments of the West, wasn’t there a possibility of his defection being genuine?’ asked Kazin, question for question.
‘It wasn’t necessary,’ insisted Belov. He wondered if the other man believed the reflection he saw in his shaving mirror every morning.
‘I thought it was,’ said Kazin, in the voice of a superior indicating that the conversation was at an end. ‘It’s an academic discussion anyway. He did defect.’
Belov refused to be dismissed, seeing the weakness. He said: ‘Isn’t the greater risk of the defection becoming genuine because of our keeping the child? Of his trusting the Americans more than us?’
‘He’d know that way there’d never be a chance of his seeing her again,’ rejected Kazin. ‘Holding the daughter ensures that Levin behaves exactly as we want him to. As it’s been planned.’
‘She’s to be allowed to leave, then?’ seized Belov.
‘In time,’ said Kazin. ‘When the proper indications start to come from America. Which is what we’re supposed to be discussing.’
‘Activate Kapalet?’
‘At once,’ ordered Kazin. ‘But just sufficient at this stage to start the panic: nothing more than a hint from which the Americans can discover for themselves that there’s a Soviet spy within the CIA.’
