selling threadbare blooms, for the temple. Four he remembered: orange, to be placed on the left of the offering shelf on the shrine. The theatricality of it all suddenly struck him as absurd: no one would believe it if he ever did tell them. The seller was a woman, shapelessly layered despite the heat in brown and black, a shawl over a smock over a dress. There was a black cowl covering her head and her face appeared to be caving inwards on a toothless mouth. Gower smiled and pointed to the flowers he wanted, holding up six fingers. As she gathered them, he assembled the foreign exchange currency in readiness, holding the money out for her to help herself. She took the money before offering the meagre flowers. Gower moved towards the pots and troughs, variously filled with scraggy contributions.
He never reached them.
It started with a shout: an alert, not a challenge. At once there was a matching yell, like a reply, and then a whistle sounded and people were running at him, not just from the main road but behind from further up the side- street. There were uniforms – blue, he thought, and then khaki – and a very thin man who reached him first lashed out, hitting him in the chest. It would not have been hard enough to knock him over if the troughs hadn’t caught him behind his knees, tripping him backwards. The first jar into his back was where he fell into someone’s knee but the second blow, into the side of his face, was a deliberate kick. Everyone seemed to be shouting at once, too many people trying to grab at him: there were several more kicks and two obvious punches before Gower was able to turn on to his hands and knees to get upright. Before he fully succeeded, hands did get to him, finally pulling him from the ground.
One voice persisted louder than the rest, gradually forcing the uproar to subside. The squad pulled back, creating a tiny space, but stayed in a tight, enclosing circle.
The loud voice belonged to a thickset, neckless man in one of the khaki uniforms. Gower couldn’t detect any insignia of rank.
‘Spy!’ Although it was now comparatively quiet, the man still shouted, in English.
‘I am attached to the British …’ Gower tried, but there was a sudden thrust in his back, winding him so that he couldn’t finish.
‘Spy!’ yelled the man once more.
Hands grabbed at Gower again, thrusting him forward. He staggered, wishing his attempt to recover his breath didn’t sound like a whine. His head was bent forward in the strained, gasping effort: he saw the signal flowers trampled underfoot. There was a windowless van blocking the street where it joined the larger road. A lot of people were anxious to push him inside. Gower fell at the last moment, pitching full-length on the metal floor, but scrabbling up before he could be kicked any more. He just managed to get on to one of the metal benches that ran along either side before the van lurched away with a jerk that would have thrown him off his feet again.
Gower remained doubled up, arms across his body, face hidden so they couldn’t see his eyes and mouth squeezed tightly closed with the determination with which he was fighting against his bladder collapsing. No, he prayed: please God, no!
It happened but it wasn’t much: not enough for the wet stain to show for them to know how frightened he was.
Panicked desperation drove Fyodor Tudin personally to go to Petrovka, although he didn’t at the moment of arrival properly know why the Militia enquiry had been made at Mytninskaya, only that it had something to do with the boy: knew even less how to explain his coming there at all. So initially he didn’t attempt an explanation, clawing for guidance from the reaction of the policeman. He judged himself lucky with Kapitsa: one of the old school, only knowing the old ways.
‘I expected her to come back: not somebody else.’ The room was thick with cigarette smoke.
‘Is that what she said?’ He had to feel out with every word, like someone walking across a frozen lake unsure of the thickness of the ice.
‘Something about needing time to work out what we were going to do.’
Good but not good enough: not quite. ‘That was all?’
Kapitsa frowned. ‘You haven’t discussed it with her?’
Tudin thought he knew the way, although the personal risk was appalling: but then all the risks he faced were appalling. ‘I’m here on behalf of the Agency as much as for General Fedova: we’ve got to work out the proper balance, to avoid embarrassment to the Agency as well as General Fedova. You see that, don’t you?’
The investigator remained doubtful. ‘I would have thought the two were virtually the same.’
Tudin nodded. ‘For the moment, until everything is sorted out, this meeting – this discussion – must remain strictly between ourselves.’ Still hardly good enough, he conceded.
The policeman’s uncertainty was still obvious. ‘But we’re talking of some arrangement, aren’t we: something acceptable to everyone? Everything settled to everyone’s satisfaction?’
It was like a signpost, lighted before him. ‘Is that what she said?’ he chanced, tailoring his reply from the investigator’s attitude.
‘Not precisely: it was definitely to that effect.’
Gold-dust, thought Tudin, ecstatically: sparkling, glittering, life-saving gold-dust. ‘That an arrangement could be found?’ he pressed.
‘Yes.’ There was another hopeful smile. ‘We want to cooperate as much as possible, of course. Within reason. We need a prosecution.’
We both do, thought Tudin. ‘Everything will be worked out.’ He smiled, leaning forward, man to man. ‘It’s important wires don’t get crossed: what arrangement was General Fedova considering?’
‘She didn’t say. It was actually the boy who first used the word arrangement. She agreed that one had to be found.’
Tudin guessed his already flushed face was an even deeper red, in his excitement. He couldn’t have expected it to be this good: not in a million years. Striving to keep his voice level, he said: ‘What did Eduard say?’
Kapitsa shrugged, as if disassociating himself from the remark. ‘Seems he’s boasted about his mother’s position, in the KGB and in the new security agency: let the Lubertsy Family know he’d be protected if ever there was any trouble.’
‘And she agreed that he would be?’ Oh God! Oh dear, wonderful, rewarding God! Careful. Calm down. Shouldn’t get too euphoric; too carried away. This was the chance, the incredible, unimaginable chance to destroy the bitch absolutely, and he had to drain every last drop that was available.
The shrug came again from the policeman. ‘She wanted time to think: to fix it. Eduard was very upset, later. Still is. He expected to be released at once.’
Dare he see the boy? Try to get him to repeat the claim, even in some sort of legal, devastating affidavit? Yes! he decided, positively. Already, at this stage, there was probably enough for an internal agency investigation into the propriety of what she was doing, but Tudin wanted more than that. Regulations existed for an officer to lay a formal accusation of abuse of power against another before the ultimate chairman, and at that moment this was the course upon which Tudin determined. He’d get his evidence and confront her face to face, be her prosecutor at their own mini-trial. Eduard could be forced to testify, lured by the promise of immunity. And this disgusting, smoke-stained man would quickly realize whose side he had to take. It would all have to be handled with infinite care but he knew he could do it. He could bury her, Tudin concluded, triumphantly: bury her alive. ‘You’ve helped a lot.’
‘What would you have us do?’ asked Kapitsa.
‘Just give us a little more time. And remember, no mention of this visit. It’s not important for her to know how concerned we are. How much we want to protect her.’
That night Fyodor Tudin got very drunk.
Thirty-two
Only two men travelled with him in the van. One was the thickset officer who had appeared to be in charge of the arrest. The other was a civilian, a thin, bony man in a black, Western-style suit who made frequent gestures as he talked. There was a lot of conversation between the two of them. Although he could not understand what was being said, Gower got the impression the civilian was in some way superior to the officer, whose attitude was deferential.
