Tom did not believe the plan would work, and was highly surprised to find Olga's mother sipping tea with Saenz when he returned. Saenz saw the startled look on Tom's face and laughed, "Meet Anna, my mother-in-law," he cried, leaping to his tea and almost upsetting the table.
"I am pleased to me you," said Tom, offering his hand.
"He did not believe you would come," said Saenz, still laughing, "he did not believe that the message would get through."
Anna smiled, "have some tea Mr Wilson."
Tom removed his coat, and sat down. "I am more surprised that you got here so quickly. I imagined a journey from the Crimea would take days."
"But I haven't been in the Crimea," answered Anna.
"She is a wanted woman comrade," added Saenz. "She is nearly as wanted as us. Well me perhaps. No one is more sought after than you."
"I don't pretend to understand what is happening."
"How did you meeting with Drimov go?" Asked Anna, handing Tom a cup of hot sweet tea.
"Saenz told you?"
"Of course," replied Saenz, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "I trust Anna like no one else in the world."
"It is not looking good," begand Tom, taking the tea and sipping it. He winced at the copious sweetness of the warm syrup. "Drimov claims that we will have to wait at least a week before he will risk moving us."
"It's an old trick," said Anna dryly. "They always say that. They get someone to help them do a job they are too cowardly to perform and then they leave them to hang. You should not have gone to meet him."
"I did not meet him. There is a dead-letter box in a lamp post by the offices of Pravda. I left him a note two days ago and recieved his reply today."
"It is still unwise to believe these people. I have seen it before. The only way to be safe is to be connected to them, to have a threat that you can use if things go wrong. Even then it is not safe. Because they will twist things. We must keep a distance."
"That is easy to say," remarked Tom, "but given our current situation I don't see that there is much we can do. The routes out of the city are teaming with polcie and soldiers. It would not be possible to leave without the correct papers. And it is impossible for me to contact anyone in the British embassy. Our only hope is Drimov."
"Not our only hope," said Saenz.
"What do you suggest?"
Tuesday, 6 November 2007
Chapter 16
Drimov waited anxiously in the car. The street was largely deserted just the odd woman winding her way back from the shops. Drimov knew that this was beyond his duty but matters had long since spiralled out of his control.
Chapter 17
"Who are you working for?" asked Oblomov. Maxim did not answer. "You know that Magda is dead?"
"I know," replied Maxim, flatly. A guard had told him the night before. He sat upright in his chair, trying to maintain dignity: despite his torn and filthy clothes. "You no longer have a hold over me."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed."
"I know," replied Maxim, flatly. A guard had told him the night before. He sat upright in his chair, trying to maintain dignity: despite his torn and filthy clothes. "You no longer have a hold over me."
"Indeed?"
"Indeed."
Monday, 5 November 2007
Chapter 18
Saenz was anxious. He paced backwards and forwards by the window, occasionally stopping to peer out into the gloom of falling night. Olga watching him from the bed, the baby sleeping at her breast. "He will come," she said, soothingly.
"How do you know?"
"I know," she said, "I can see it in his face. He has a kind face."
"The devil eats kind men."
"He will come." The baby made a mewling noise before licking it's lips and settling back. "She is dreaming," said Olga smiling. "Tom has not abandoned us yet, has he? He could have given us up many times but each time he has helped us. I refuse to believe that he will foresake us now."
"What do you know of people?" snapped Saenz.
The girl smiled gnomically, "do you think you are the only one who has seen life?"
Saenz nodded, and turned to gaze out of the window. He knew that to pursue that line of arguement would be fruitless. He knew very little of Olga's background, what little he did know was that her family had seen much suffering. Indeed, he knew that she did in all likelihood know far more than he about the nature of the human heart.
"How do you know?"
"I know," she said, "I can see it in his face. He has a kind face."
"The devil eats kind men."
"He will come." The baby made a mewling noise before licking it's lips and settling back. "She is dreaming," said Olga smiling. "Tom has not abandoned us yet, has he? He could have given us up many times but each time he has helped us. I refuse to believe that he will foresake us now."
"What do you know of people?" snapped Saenz.
The girl smiled gnomically, "do you think you are the only one who has seen life?"
Saenz nodded, and turned to gaze out of the window. He knew that to pursue that line of arguement would be fruitless. He knew very little of Olga's background, what little he did know was that her family had seen much suffering. Indeed, he knew that she did in all likelihood know far more than he about the nature of the human heart.
Friday, 2 November 2007
Chapter 19
A shiver of electricity ran through the building at the sight of the cars drawing up outside. Mother's called their children in from play, hustling them inside the flats and locking the door. Once inside the the children were shushed, or bribed to silence with pieces of bread or sweet treats. The collective breath of the building was held.
A few brave souls, or those who had nothing to fear, peered around around the curtains and saw the policemen gather before the front door of the building. Oblomov was the last to emerge from the cars, and all eyes looked to him. He stood for a moment, straightened his uniform and looked at the facade of the building. The watchers drew back for his gaze. Oblomov gave a signal and one of the policemen, a callow youth hurried to the door and hammered on it with the flat of his palm.
Nothing happened. So the policeman beat on the door again, this time shouting "open the door." Just as he was about to knock again the sound bolts being drawn back from within could be heard. No sooner had the door begun to open than the young policeman forced entry, sending the elderly caretaker reeling back into the hallway. The other policemen piled through the door and took up position at the foot of the stairs and against the doors on the ground floor. Oblomov casually followed.
The caretaker, an old peasant with sly features was forced to sit in a chair beneath the letter rack. He was bewildered by the sudden turn of events. His demenour was not exactly one of terror but he was cetainly frightened. His wife who had emerged from their flat cast him supportive glances.
Oblomov walked towards the old man and stood towering above him. "Have no fear comrade," began Oblomov, "we are here on official business." Oblomov lifted the flap of his jacket pocket and slid three photographs from it. "We are seeking information about enemies of the state." The caretaker nodded, his yellowing eyes looking upwards imploringly. "Have you seen this man?" With a dramatic flick of his fingers Oblomov turned the photograph of Saenz to face the caretaker; carefully watching the his reaction.
The caretaker looked at the photograph carefully, "I'm not sure," he said, in a faltering voice after a moment. He looked at his wife and then back to the photo. "He looks like so many people."
Oblomov turned over the picture of Olga. "How about this girl?" The caretaker gave an involuntary nod of the head, just the slightest movement but enough to condemn him. "He's lying," announced Oblomov, loudly and in a sneering tone. A couple of the policemen grinned. Oblomov indicated that the man stand. He was roughly manhandled to his feet. In a sudden spasm of violence Oblomov grabbed the man by his collar and wrestled him against the wall. The man's body hung in his grasp like a rag doll. "You have no idea what I have planned for you, you piece of pathetic shit. I know all about you. I have seen your file. I know all about the part you played in the Kusnetzov case. Don't think your friends can save you this time." Oblomov threw the man back against the wall and once more pushed the picture of the girl in his face. "Have you seen this girl?" he repeated, in a low menancing voice.
"Yes," the man answered, meekly.
"Is she living here?"
"Yes."
"Show me." The caretaker led the way up the six flights of stairs to the attic. Oblomov tried the door knob but the door was locked. "Have you got a key?" The caretaker lifted a large iron key rign from his belt and rifled through the keys until he found the correct one. He unlocked the door. Oblomov pushed the door open; the room was empty.
Oblomov and the young policeman kept a watch on the caretaker while the other officers began the task of searching the room. In truth, there was not much searching necessary. The room was tiny, and the furnishing pitifully sparse: just a bed, a table with two chairs and a wash stand. The stove was bone cold.
"Take him and keep him in his room," ordered Oblomov, "No one enters this building or leaves. And I want everyone questioned. Take the children from the women and question them seperately. Arrest anyone on the slightest suspicion of not co-operating. Now get to it."
Oblomov entered the room and crossed to the window. He knew the bird had flown. He equally knew that Maxim had lied to him. What he did not know was why. Had the world really changed so much that solid police officers would join in conspiracies against the state? This troubled him. He had known Maxim for many years. He had worked with him. Together they had stepped into blood and bound their fates so tightly together in the bond of police brotherhood that this betrayal was beyond belief.
He traced the paths in his mind of what Maxim had told him. And each time he returned to the central secret; the secret so stark that it could not be spoken. Could it really be possible that Stalin's own son was behind the plot to kill him? Oblomov could not believe this. If such a thing was possible, then how could this girl be involved? It was not possible. He knew that Vasily was a drunkard and a womaniser, but the women with whom he consorted were actresses, starlets, the daughters of senior Party members: not peasant girls from the provinces. And what of the German?
No, Oblomov simply refused to countenance such fantasies.
And yet, the order to arrest Maxim had come from Air Force Intelligence.
Oblomov ran matters over in his mind. In part his problem was who to tell. The wind of change was blowing and he was an experienced policeman: experienced enough to know not to be asking questions about matters tangentially connected to his work. He had seen too many men go to a squalid death out of misplaced patriotism.
The caretaker and his wife were waiting in their flat. Oblomov sat on the battered chaise-lounge, decorated with the faded crest of a long gone aristocratic family. "When did you last see the girl?" He asked.
"Comrade, we do not know the girl," began the woman, "she came here about a month ago. She had the rent money and her papers were in order. We did everything asked of us by the aurthorities. We don't know her. This is an orderly house. Whatever she has done, it has been done without our knowledge."
"She was very private," added the caretaker. "She told us that she had come to Leningrad to visit a sick aunt. You have to believe us comrade policeman, we had no reason to doubt her."
"Did she have a child? A baby?" asked Oblomov.
"Oh yes," said the woman, nodding vigorously, "a girl. A very pretty child. She was an exemplary mother. The child was so sweet natured. And she never spoke a harsh word to it."
"And this woman, did you ever see her?" Oblomov, proffered a picture of Olga's mother. Releuctantly the woman took it, studied it before passing it to her husband. "Well?"
"I haven't," said the caretaker.
"I have," said his wife, to the old man's alarm. "She came here two days ago. She said she was the girl's aunt. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I thought the aunt was in the hospital. Of course I didn't say this to her. It's not my place to interfere with people's business, you understand. The girl wasn't here. I invited her to wait, but the woman said she didn't have time."
"Who is she?" asked the caretaker.
"She is the girl's mother," replied Oblomov, stretching to retrieve the photograph.
"There is something," said the woman, "a letter. May I?" She indicated towards the table, Oblomov nodded and the woman went to the table and took a letter from the drawer. "It came yesterday," she explained as she handed it to Oblomov. "I haven't opened it."
Oblomov took the letter and roughly opened the envelope. The letter was brief. It simply stated that the sender was going home and would try reunite them as soon as possible. Oblomov realised immediately that the sender must be Saenz.
Leaving instructions that the questioning should continue he hurried back to the police headquarters. Not a moment could be lost. A look at the map showed the proximity of Leningrad to the Finnish border, and Oblomov immediately saw the potential escape root. He immediately reported his suspicions to his superiors and asked for orders.
A few brave souls, or those who had nothing to fear, peered around around the curtains and saw the policemen gather before the front door of the building. Oblomov was the last to emerge from the cars, and all eyes looked to him. He stood for a moment, straightened his uniform and looked at the facade of the building. The watchers drew back for his gaze. Oblomov gave a signal and one of the policemen, a callow youth hurried to the door and hammered on it with the flat of his palm.
Nothing happened. So the policeman beat on the door again, this time shouting "open the door." Just as he was about to knock again the sound bolts being drawn back from within could be heard. No sooner had the door begun to open than the young policeman forced entry, sending the elderly caretaker reeling back into the hallway. The other policemen piled through the door and took up position at the foot of the stairs and against the doors on the ground floor. Oblomov casually followed.
The caretaker, an old peasant with sly features was forced to sit in a chair beneath the letter rack. He was bewildered by the sudden turn of events. His demenour was not exactly one of terror but he was cetainly frightened. His wife who had emerged from their flat cast him supportive glances.
Oblomov walked towards the old man and stood towering above him. "Have no fear comrade," began Oblomov, "we are here on official business." Oblomov lifted the flap of his jacket pocket and slid three photographs from it. "We are seeking information about enemies of the state." The caretaker nodded, his yellowing eyes looking upwards imploringly. "Have you seen this man?" With a dramatic flick of his fingers Oblomov turned the photograph of Saenz to face the caretaker; carefully watching the his reaction.
The caretaker looked at the photograph carefully, "I'm not sure," he said, in a faltering voice after a moment. He looked at his wife and then back to the photo. "He looks like so many people."
Oblomov turned over the picture of Olga. "How about this girl?" The caretaker gave an involuntary nod of the head, just the slightest movement but enough to condemn him. "He's lying," announced Oblomov, loudly and in a sneering tone. A couple of the policemen grinned. Oblomov indicated that the man stand. He was roughly manhandled to his feet. In a sudden spasm of violence Oblomov grabbed the man by his collar and wrestled him against the wall. The man's body hung in his grasp like a rag doll. "You have no idea what I have planned for you, you piece of pathetic shit. I know all about you. I have seen your file. I know all about the part you played in the Kusnetzov case. Don't think your friends can save you this time." Oblomov threw the man back against the wall and once more pushed the picture of the girl in his face. "Have you seen this girl?" he repeated, in a low menancing voice.
"Yes," the man answered, meekly.
"Is she living here?"
"Yes."
"Show me." The caretaker led the way up the six flights of stairs to the attic. Oblomov tried the door knob but the door was locked. "Have you got a key?" The caretaker lifted a large iron key rign from his belt and rifled through the keys until he found the correct one. He unlocked the door. Oblomov pushed the door open; the room was empty.
Oblomov and the young policeman kept a watch on the caretaker while the other officers began the task of searching the room. In truth, there was not much searching necessary. The room was tiny, and the furnishing pitifully sparse: just a bed, a table with two chairs and a wash stand. The stove was bone cold.
"Take him and keep him in his room," ordered Oblomov, "No one enters this building or leaves. And I want everyone questioned. Take the children from the women and question them seperately. Arrest anyone on the slightest suspicion of not co-operating. Now get to it."
Oblomov entered the room and crossed to the window. He knew the bird had flown. He equally knew that Maxim had lied to him. What he did not know was why. Had the world really changed so much that solid police officers would join in conspiracies against the state? This troubled him. He had known Maxim for many years. He had worked with him. Together they had stepped into blood and bound their fates so tightly together in the bond of police brotherhood that this betrayal was beyond belief.
He traced the paths in his mind of what Maxim had told him. And each time he returned to the central secret; the secret so stark that it could not be spoken. Could it really be possible that Stalin's own son was behind the plot to kill him? Oblomov could not believe this. If such a thing was possible, then how could this girl be involved? It was not possible. He knew that Vasily was a drunkard and a womaniser, but the women with whom he consorted were actresses, starlets, the daughters of senior Party members: not peasant girls from the provinces. And what of the German?
No, Oblomov simply refused to countenance such fantasies.
And yet, the order to arrest Maxim had come from Air Force Intelligence.
Oblomov ran matters over in his mind. In part his problem was who to tell. The wind of change was blowing and he was an experienced policeman: experienced enough to know not to be asking questions about matters tangentially connected to his work. He had seen too many men go to a squalid death out of misplaced patriotism.
The caretaker and his wife were waiting in their flat. Oblomov sat on the battered chaise-lounge, decorated with the faded crest of a long gone aristocratic family. "When did you last see the girl?" He asked.
"Comrade, we do not know the girl," began the woman, "she came here about a month ago. She had the rent money and her papers were in order. We did everything asked of us by the aurthorities. We don't know her. This is an orderly house. Whatever she has done, it has been done without our knowledge."
"She was very private," added the caretaker. "She told us that she had come to Leningrad to visit a sick aunt. You have to believe us comrade policeman, we had no reason to doubt her."
"Did she have a child? A baby?" asked Oblomov.
"Oh yes," said the woman, nodding vigorously, "a girl. A very pretty child. She was an exemplary mother. The child was so sweet natured. And she never spoke a harsh word to it."
"And this woman, did you ever see her?" Oblomov, proffered a picture of Olga's mother. Releuctantly the woman took it, studied it before passing it to her husband. "Well?"
"I haven't," said the caretaker.
"I have," said his wife, to the old man's alarm. "She came here two days ago. She said she was the girl's aunt. I wasn't sure what to make of it. I thought the aunt was in the hospital. Of course I didn't say this to her. It's not my place to interfere with people's business, you understand. The girl wasn't here. I invited her to wait, but the woman said she didn't have time."
"Who is she?" asked the caretaker.
"She is the girl's mother," replied Oblomov, stretching to retrieve the photograph.
"There is something," said the woman, "a letter. May I?" She indicated towards the table, Oblomov nodded and the woman went to the table and took a letter from the drawer. "It came yesterday," she explained as she handed it to Oblomov. "I haven't opened it."
Oblomov took the letter and roughly opened the envelope. The letter was brief. It simply stated that the sender was going home and would try reunite them as soon as possible. Oblomov realised immediately that the sender must be Saenz.
Leaving instructions that the questioning should continue he hurried back to the police headquarters. Not a moment could be lost. A look at the map showed the proximity of Leningrad to the Finnish border, and Oblomov immediately saw the potential escape root. He immediately reported his suspicions to his superiors and asked for orders.
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