“I found out the same thing this afternoon,” he told her. “From our side.”
“Then that’s when we can expect something to happen in Sevastopol. According to Miller.”
“I agree,” he replied.
He picked up her hand suddenly in his and appeared to study it, but it was his own hand feeling hers that was his “vision” of it. “You have a great tendency to independence, Anna,” he said, running his thumb between her thumb and forefinger. “We’re alike in that way. How is it we’ve spent so much of our lives doing the bidding of others?”
“It takes time,” she said, “to overturn a lifetime.”
And then he said, “It’s my birthday. The first of May. A good time for change. To close the book on my beginnings.”
And then they paid for their drinks and left the bar to walk up the hill farther from the port, he sometimes holding her hand, she watching the long slope of his step or the back of his brown neck as they walked up a narrow stone stairway. Neither of them spoke. Once, he stopped and turned to her and put his hand on her cheek. “I’ve a lot to thank you and your mother for,” he said, but he turned and walked on before she could reply.
When they reached Trinity Church, with an ancient, round, ruined wall tower on a small cliff above it, which was called Kalamita, they both turned and she surveyed the city below. For a long while, neither of them spoke. The lit dockyards were spread below them. The
“Wait for me up here,” Balthasar said at last. “I have one thing to do this evening. My contact at the base is expecting me to check in. I must see him, even more so now. We need to find what is out of the ordinary about the first of May.”
He let go of her hand. She watched him standing and apparently watching the sea. Then he turned to her. “Don’t think that I won’t come back alone,” he said, “but I don’t need to tell you that, I hope,” and then he turned to retrace their steps to the city.
There was a bar on the embankment where the Russian sailors went. The Ukrainians tended to go to another one, farther along the front, since fighting between the two had become a regular occurrence. Military police were evident on the stone embankment, leaning against motorbikes or chatting on the wall. An uneasy agreement between Moscow and Kiev had been reached in order to keep the peace.
Balthasar flashed his KGB identification at two Russian marines who stood guard at the door. They saw its “Special Purposes” elite stamp and the implication was immediately noted. “One of you come with me,” Balthasar said.
The inside of the bar was noisy and close, the smell of beer and men and smoke mingling in a wash of stale air. Music was playing loudly in the background. For a moment Balthasar felt disoriented, the noise and crush of people interfering with his fine instincts.
“Is there a table at the back?” he said. The marine walked away a little, then came back and said to follow him.
When he was seated, Balthasar dismissed the man. He sat still, collecting his hidden senses, and began to form a mental picture of the mass of sailors around him. A waitress came and he ordered a beer, sitting at the edge of his seat, his antennae working overtime until he felt he could comfortably “see” the layout of the men and the bar’s interior. Then he sat back and waited, taking a small sip of beer, careful not to draw the attention of anyone.
At just after 10:30 he felt someone sit down opposite him. There was a coded greeting, softly spoken, which he returned. It was all correct, as it should be, as it had been on three occasions before. He sensed his contact’s mind and began to focus on the man’s thoughts and behaviour. The man was afraid of him, Balthasar noted, but he also felt a thread of contempt to be deferring to a blind man. He couldn’t understand Balthasar’s importance. It made little sense to him, and by now it was late in the evening, and he didn’t want to be here. He was tired, perhaps. The man was bored, Balthasar realised. There was nothing much happening in Sevastopol and there hadn’t been since the early 1990s when the nuclear submarine bunkers had been closed and then reopened as a tourist attraction, and the steady decline of the Russian fleet continued, apparently without concern to the Kremlin. Earlier in the day, in fact, Balthasar had noted that there were just two modern warships in the port—the
“Your superiors at the Forest want to know why they haven’t received the go-ahead from you,” his contact stated with a hint of defensive aggression. “What’s the problem?”
“The group is suspicious, that’s all,” Balthasar replied. “They’re worried that taking money may link them to something undesirable.”
“As it undoubtedly will—but only you people know what. Why do they think that?”
“Maybe they’re just cautious.”
“And maybe something else.”
“They haven’t survived this far without being careful,” Balthasar replied. “The Qubaq are a clean organisation and they want to hang on to that reputation.”
“There’s been a change of plan. The payments need to be made on the second of May,” the contact said. “That’s in four days’ time. Not before and not after. The second of May exactly. We need account numbers and we need a document from them requesting that the money be paid.”
“I always said that a document was unnecessary,” Balthasar replied. “The money could simply be paid into their accounts without them even knowing. They’re still implicated.”
“Nevertheless, the Forest wants it done this way. They want it to look like an approach was made. That ties it up neatly. No one can deny it afterwards.”
Balthasar didn’t reply. He sipped his beer thoughtfully and waited.
“So when are you going to overcome their caution?” the contact said impatiently. “It’s a matter of days, we haven’t any leeway.”
“What’s so special about the second of May?” Balthasar replied slowly.
“It’s the first of May that’s special,” the contact said. “The payment on the day after is crucial so that it looks like a reward.”
A reward for what? Balthasar wondered. But he didn’t pursue his line of questioning. He felt the man lean in across the table.
“I spoke to the fleet commander this morning,” the contact said. “In Moscow, Putin is holding the biggest May Day parade since 1989. And here? Nothing. The Black Sea fleet might as well not exist. All they’re doing on the first of May are special drills on land and maintenance work in the harbours.”
Balthasar shrugged. “Oh yes?”
The contact didn’t say anything further. Balthasar’s head was thumping from the music, and he couldn’t focus as he was used to doing. But he knew this would be his only chance to keep the contact talking.
“There are special operations in the harbour that day,” Balthasar said matter-of-factly. “They’re a celebration of Russian power in themselves, surely.”
“You’d know,” the contact replied.
“And the fleet commander would know most of all.”
“All right,” the contact replied. “So you know all about it. On the first of May they’re switching off all the sonar in the harbour for an hour at midday. Something to do with maintenance on the sonars, they say, but I don’t believe it.”
“Why not? It seems perfectly logical to me,” Balthasar replied.
There was a further silence. Then Balthasar felt the contact lean in towards him again.
“What am I to tell them at the Forest?” he said.
“Tell them that arrangements will be made. The account number, the document—they’ll have everything they want by the end of the day on the first of May.”
When the man had gone Balthasar sat and sipped the beer in the now half-full glass. He listened and with his acute hearing picked up conversations. He felt his sensory powers begin to strengthen and a map of the bar room and its occupants—their feelings and thoughts—began to take shape in his mind. After a while, by now thoroughly
