too long on it, perhaps, no matter how expert it was.
But to know a thing is not true is not necessarily to accept it. Knowledge is not always the final arbiter. Belief, acceptance, these are the things that knowledge relies upon–most of all, acceptance. The trick itself was crude, if it was a trick. Of course, the Forest used forgeries like this all the time. I did not believe that either Patrushev or Yuri would expect me to fall for these things. What they did expect–and what they got–were seeds of doubt that I could not completely banish.
No matter what I thought I knew, I could not forget the image of Finn and Karin, nor the possibility of Finn as a fantasist with a self-dramatising account of his childhood.
Vladimir accompanied me as we left the building and walked up the street, past the Bentley showrooms, and into a small cobbled street that led to Red Square. We found a cafe and ordered two coffees. Vladimir couldn’t persuade me to eat. Vladimir, the Forest’s velvet glove, I thought. He himself suggested the possibility of forgery in the cafe, so that I’d believe he was on my side. He was kind, attentive, eager to bend over backwards to understand my feelings.
And all I wanted was to get away from him. I went to pay for the coffees but he preceded me. Nothing was too much or too little for him when it came to taking care of me. He offered a car to take me to Barvikha, before our meetings and further debriefings the next day, but I declined. I wanted nothing he had to offer.
I walked alone down towards Red Square and wandered idly through the expensive shopping precinct that was once the GUM store reserved for the nomenklatura in my youth.
There were mostly young couples, newly enriched, looking in the windows and buying handbags, fur coats or jewellery.
The irony was that, in the Communist years, my family was able to shop here because we were the elite. Now only the new elite, the wealthy and corrupt, could afford to come here. My father, who had always existed happily on his salary, had lost his savings in the crash of ’98 and was reduced to eking out his meagre state pension.
I was looking aimlessly through a shop window at a mink coat when my phone rang. It was him.
‘Anna?’
My father sounded old, tired, and I felt an immediate sense of guilt that I had not contacted him once in four years. I’d had nothing to say to him. I spoke to my mother, very occasionally, and Nana often, even though she couldn’t hear most of what I said on the phone.
‘I know you’ve only just arrived,’ he said, ‘but I would like to see you when you have the time.’
This was not like my father, who’d always ordered me to do what he wanted. I detected no anger any more in his voice. I asked him where he was and he gave me an address of an apartment in a street on the far side of the Kremlin from where I was. I was immediately suspicious of his manner. Would he, too, turn out to be another agent of the Forest’s slow demolition of Finn? For the first time, I felt like an alien in my own country. I realised that there was no one in Russia, apart from Nana, whom I could trust. But I told him I would see him in half an hour.
His apartment was in a block reserved for loyal subjects of the Forest in their retirement. The block was close to the Kremlin and had recently been repossessed from one of Moscow’s rapacious property developers. They were all Heroes of Russia in this block. It was a Madame Tussaud’s of ageing intelligence officers, a gallery of rogues who’d served their country well, committed its crimes without question, and were honoured for the mayhem they had visited on different parts of the world.
They were all Soviets at heart who cursed the past for bringing their country to a dead end and cursed the present for its capitalist ‘American’ ways. Putin brought some sense to their confused and bitter world. He had brought their old service back from near annihilation and elevated it to supreme power. After the shame of the nineties, at last their deeds were respected again. They were the fathers of the new elite, myself included.
When I stepped out of the lift on my father’s floor, I saw his door was open and that he was waiting on the threshold. I was shocked at his appearance. He looked an old man, completely grey, and the lines caused by the anger and anxiety that had carried him through his career had deepened into leathery gullies and crevices that made him look like one of those bodies which are found in peat bogs from twenty thousand years ago.
He was wearing a grey suit, white shirt and red tie, as if he were still going about the State’s business, and his breath, when I let him brush my cheek with his lips, smelled of a long acquaintance with vodka and stale tobacco. Once upon a time, they made men like him president.
‘Anna, I’m glad you came.’
‘You’ve got yourself a nice place,’ I said. ‘Does Mother come here too?’
‘Sometimes, sometimes. She is…she stays away often. She still does her charity work.’
‘The Sakharov Foundation,’ I said and saw the old glitter of anger pass across his eyes.
‘Is that it?’ he said, but I knew he knew it perfectly well and that my mother’s work made him ashamed and furious.
‘Sit down. You’ll have some tea? Or some vodka?’
‘I only have a few minutes,’ I said. I had nothing to say to him, I realised.
‘I know, I know, you’re busy. You’re doing great work, I’m told. We’ll have vodka.’
He walked with surprising strength of purpose to an inlaid Iranian wooden cabinet I remembered from Damascus days. He took out two glasses and filled them both. I sat on the only chair and left him the sofa.
‘I have a fine view of the Kremlin from here,’ he said, handing me the glass. He raised his own. ‘To Russia!’ he said. He made the toast still standing, drained his glass without waiting for me to drink, and poured another from the bottle in the crook of his arm. I sipped the vodka.
‘You don’t drink to Russia?’
‘To Russia,’ I said and he smiled wolfishly.
He sat down across the low table from me and refilled both our glasses.
‘We are a great power again, Anna. Sure, some heads have to roll, but that is normal. You think the Americans and the British don’t do the same?’
I didn’t reply. I didn’t know why I had agreed to come but it certainly hadn’t been to talk about politics and violence. I felt as if I were in one of his drinking sessions of old and I saw a man who couldn’t express himself without pouring liquor down his throat. And even then, his mind only worked in some impersonal world of power. More power, more control; it was all he and those like him were capable of.
‘Just make sure you don’t lose your head in all of this,’ he said.
I felt suddenly exhausted, after nearly twenty-four hours without sleep. The day had already been filled with innuendo and insinuation, always with some veiled threat in the background.
‘To Vladimir Vladimirovich,’ I said and drank my glass in one to Putin.
He followed me, delighted to be drinking to Putin, and refilled the glasses again. Neither of us had anything to say to the other outside the sterile rigmarole of empty toasts.
I looked around the room out of embarrassment, the need to look anywhere but at him. I realised I hated him. I had hated him for a long time. I wanted to leave but my exhaustion and the vodka begged me to rest a while longer. I took in the tall lamp by the door with its pinkish fabric shade, the low table between us, some bookshelves empty but for a few photographs of men in uniform, a small corner table with curved legs in the shadow of the room, and then found myself staring to the left of him at the sofa on which he was sitting, leaning slightly forward. I felt him watching me. My unease was no longer controlled by the vodka in my stomach. It increased steadily into a thumping heartbeat, a hot flush, and then fear. The room began to take on the aspect of another room, another room much the same as this room of my father’s. It was the room that I had seen in the pictures of Clement Naider.
I don’t remember how I left him, or how I got out into the street. I had to vomit into a cardboard box beside a rubbish bin that overflowed with garbage before I was aware of very much. I remember an old woman laying her hand on my shoulder and clucking sympathetically, offering me a handkerchief and asking me if I was OK, if I needed a doctor.
I took a service car out to Barvikha. Nana was standing at the top of the three wooden steps that led on to the veranda of the dacha. She had watched the car’s lights as it swung on to the track that led to our home. We embraced as the car left, its driver telling me pointedly he would be back at six-thirty the following morning to pick me up.
Nana was much frailer now, nearly ninety years old, but still able to hobble about with a pronounced limp where her hip had given up. The first thing she did as we entered the dacha was to put her finger to her lips and
