had to do was observe Calder. Report on his moods, his thinking – party-line or otherwise – his habits. Encourage him to talk about the past – and the future.
Touch his soul.
‘No!’
Spandarian lit another of his terrible cigarettes. ‘When I was talking about the penalties involved in that disastrous affair on Women’s Day I omitted one. You would be expelled from the Soviet Union. I would see to that.’ The words rolled from his mouth in smoke.
So this was patriotism. Her beliefs shrank, tarnished.
Spandarian explained. ‘To serve one’s country one has to carry out acts that are sometimes distasteful. It’s unfortunate but when you’re dealing with unscrupulous enemies there isn’t any alternative. Always remember that these acts are a means to an end – the survival of the Soviet Union.’
‘No!’
‘And is what I’m asking so distasteful? I can assure you that at the head offices of State Security in Dzerzhinsky Square and on the Outer Ring, they would be far more unpleasant. My duties are more … delicate. Perhaps that’s why I am permitted such pleasant offices away from harsh realities.’
No. But this time she didn’t speak.
‘And don’t forget Svetlana Rozonova,’ he said.
Bastard.
‘I’m not asking you to betray anyone. Just to keep a defector under observation.’
‘Why is he so important?’
‘That needn’t concern you.’
She thought: So that’s why I’ve been allowed to stay active in the women’s movement and keep my job. Blackmail.
She felt soiled.
‘Will you do it?’ he asked.
‘I’ll think about it,’ she said. Give me time to think of a way out.
‘Think well, Katerina Ilyina.’ Stroking his moustache, he stood up and bowed. For the time being it was over.
From 25th October Street she walked into Krasnaya Ploschad, Beautiful Square in old Russian, better known as Red Square. To her left the windows of GUM and, farther away, the barley-sugar baubles of St Basil’s; in front of her the Kremlin walls and the red-granite block of Lenin’s Mausoleum where, in a glass sarcophagus, the father of the Revolution lay in peace. What would he have thought of the choice facing her?
She walked past the queue waiting on the cobblestones to pay homage to the embalmed spirit of Bolshevism and past the main entrance to the Kremlin, the Redeemer’s Gate.
She was arrested three days later.
A bald man and a woman with a pale face slit by bright lipstick, both in plainclothes, called at the apartment on Leningradsky and took her in a black Volga to the women’s section of the prison at 38, Petrovka.
They were courteous but uncommunicative. Katerina conducted herself with dignity but she wanted to weep.
The cell was painted dark green. It contained two bunks, one above the other, a scrubbed deal table and two chairs, a washbasin, a slice of red soap and a galvanised bucket.
The door shut with jarring finality.
She sat on the bed. Concentrate on the logic of it, she thought, otherwise you’ll break. Humiliation. Question: why? Three days ago I was useful to them; suddenly I’m disposable, garbage.
A shiny cockroach as big as a thumb made a run across the wall opposite her.
She wondered if she would be expelled from the Soviet Union.
A key turned in the lock and Svetlana was pushed through the door.
She held out her arms and they embraced. Katerina felt courage pass between them.
Svetlana said: ‘Let’s call room service and have a drink.’ She wore an emerald two-piece, a leftover from the reign of the pilot, and looked stunning. ‘Are you looking forward to life in New York?’
‘You think they’ll throw us out?’
‘We had one yellow card. This is the red.’ She sat beside Katerina and put her arm round her.
From the corridor they heard scuffling. A woman with a Ukranian accent shouting: ‘Get in there, you fucked-out old iron.’ A cell door slammed.
‘One of the girls,’ Svetlana remarked. ‘Railway station material by the sound of it. We’re in good company Katerina Ilyina.’
The key turned in the lock. Katerina smelled spicy brilliantine. Spandarian came in carrying a document headed MINISTRY OF INTERNAL AFFAIRS.
He handed it to Katerina. ‘Your expulsion order,’ he said.
‘But you said ….’
‘That was three days ago, this is now.’
Svetlana stood up, a little taller than Spandarian. ‘And mine?’
‘Yours? Who said anything about you being kicked out?’
Katerina froze. To be expelled without Svetlana, that was worse than a death sentence.
Svetlana said: ‘Listen you Georgian prick, if Katerina goes I go.’
Spandarian hit her across the face with the back of his hand but before she could throw herself at him an immense wardress invaded the cell and pinioned her arms.
‘If you don’t behave yourself,’ Spandarian said mildly, ‘we’ll have to lock you up with the old whore next door.’ He bowed to Katerina. ‘Read this document and digest it. If there’s anything you don’t understand I’ll be happy to explain. As we cross the border,’ he added. He lit one of his yellow cigarettes. ‘And now the contents of your handbag. A formality, you understand.’
He picked up Katerina’s handbag and pillaged it. Compact, lipstick, crumpled one-, three- and five-rouble notes, a few kopeks, tissues, punished wallet, ballpoint pen. A nondescript mess.
Spandarian opened the wallet. Flipped through the plastic-sheathed ID cards hinged inside. A couple of ten-rouble notes, photograph of her mother and step-father at a camping site at Adler on the Caucasion coast road, a few visiting cards and a couple of invitations. Spandarian examined one of these. Frowning, he asked: ‘Where did you get this?’ He was surprised, and that with Spandarian was a small victory.
Realising that it was the card the young man on the bus had given her and realising that Spandarian was impressed, she said: ‘From its owner, of course.’ She wished she had read the card.
‘I wasn’t aware you knew him.’ Him. Who? Spandarian was patently furious that the name hadn’t featured in the blue folder. Someone would fry! ‘Have you known him long?’
‘Since childhood.’ They would boil!
Spandarian
