The House of Special Purpose Page 12

  ‘The only stamp I have is for Southampton. Three or four times in a dozen years.’

  ‘You’re not much of a traveller. Your father was born in England so you occasionally visit. ‘

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will in a little while.’ Zarubin held up the wallet. ‘Philip Groman’s wallet. In it an Ontario driver’s licence in that name with your Somerset Street address in Ottawa. Several business cards, an old ticket stub from the Capitol Theatre on Bank Street, a photograph of you with your sister Margaret. On the back it says ‘Skippy and Bunny,’ Meach Lake, 1936. Meach Lake is across the Ottawa River in Quebec. There is another photograph of a young man in a British army uniform from the Great War, presumably your father. In the wallet there is two hundred dollars in mixed U.S. and Canadian currency.’

  ‘Why both currencies?’

  ‘Because you’ve been on a short visit to the United States and now you’re returning home.’

  ‘To Canada.’

  ‘Yes.’ Zarubin sighed. ‘You will make your way to Halifax, where you will take a train to Montreal. From there you will get on the connecting Canadian Pacific transcontinental train for Vancouver. Once there you will board the Soviet freighter Klara Zetkin to Vladivostok and safety.’

  ‘A long journey.’

  ‘Better than spending the rest of your fife in prison or worse.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maddox, his voice resigned. He slipped the wallet and passport into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘What next?’

  ‘The journey begins,’ Zarubin answered. He reached out and patted Maddox on the shoulder. ‘Be of good cheer, my friend. A hero’s welcome awaits you in Moscow.’ Maddox smiled weakly and nodded. ‘Now,’ Zarubin continued, ‘drive down to the corner and turn right.’

  Maddox started the engine and did as he was told, turning towards the Portland waterfront. Following Zarubin’s directions, the one-time university-professor-turned-traitor took a left again, rumbling over the two sets of railway tracks that ran down the centre of Commercial Street. It was still bustling at this time of night as freighters unloaded cargo at State Pier, while at Central Pier a little farther on the trawlers of the Portland fishing fleet were preparing to go out on the next tide so they could reach their fishing grounds by early morning.

  Zarubin told Maddox to leave the car at the far end of Portland Pier and they climbed out into the night air, redolent with the smell of fish and a hundred other cargoes that had seeped into the cedar piles and the railway-tie underpinnings of the cobbled roadway. Of all the piers on the waterfront this one was still reminiscent of the city’s past shipping glory, complete with crooked-roof ancient buildings with nets strung from their upper windows to dry and the dozens of ship chandlers and outfitters on the far side of Commercial Street.

  Halfway down the pier they reached a set of stone steps that led down to the water, the lower half still slick and wet from the last high tide. At the foot of the steps a short stocky man wearing a dark overcoat waited. Behind him, shifting slightly against the rubber-tyre bumpers at the foot of the steps, was a Chris-Craft cabin cruiser. The hull was white, the upperworks the standard Chris-Craft plain varnished wood. The name Dawn Treader was picked out in black and gold on the bow.

  ‘We’re going to Canada in this?’ asked Maddox, surprised.

  ‘Certainly,’ Zarubin said. ‘The ferries go from here to Yarmouth in ten hours. We usually do it in half that. We’ll have you there by dawn and none the wiser.’

  ‘You’ve done this before?’ Maddox asked.

  ‘In both directions,’ Zarubin lied. ‘It’s a perfect place to bring people in or take them out.’ He nodded across the water to a large boat docked a hundred feet or so away. ‘All we have to worry about is the Algonquin, the Coast Guard cutter. We could outrun her easily if necessary but she’s got so much territory to cover it’s unlikely we’ll have to.’ The Russian gestured for Maddox to climb aboard, which he did, helped by a hand on the elbow from the still silent man in the dark coat. Zarubin followed him, the man in the coat cast off the aft and forward lines and almost immediately the engine fired and caught and they began to move away from the pier. Ahead of them lay utter darkness, broken only by the regular sweep of the beam from Portland Head Light.

  ‘You left that man on the pier,’ said Maddox nervously.

  ‘He’ll deal with the car,’ Zarubin answered. ‘Wouldn’t do to leave it where it is. Not with New York plates.’

  ‘I’m cold,’ said Maddox. ‘Can we go into the cabin?’ He inclined his head towards the closed doorway forward.

  ‘Why don’t we sit out here for a while?’ the Russian suggested, guiding Maddox with a hand pressed on his back, gently pushing him towards a bench that ran along the port-side gunwale. Zarubin took out a yellow package of Sportsman cigarettes and lit one from a book of matches, cupping his hand over the fragile paper flame.

  ‘I thought you smoked Camels,’ said Maddox. Zarubin smiled to himself. Maddox, like any animal in flight from a predator, had all his senses finely tuned.

  ‘I like to change from time to time. What is it they say, variety is the spice of life?’

  For the next two hours they sat side by side, Zarubin smoking one Sportsman after another, Maddox becoming more and more nervous with each passing mile. They were soon surrounded by darkness and even the faint lights of Portland were long gone, vanished somewhere over the stern of the Dawn Treader. The boat roared at full throttle, a frothing white wake marking their passage. The Russian enjoyed his cigarette for a few moments and then, without comment, reached into his overcoat pocket and brought out a large, and quite ugly, Polish Radom 9mm automatic. He laid it on the bench beside him. Maddox looked down at it as though he were staring at a snake about to strike. Zarubin shifted slightly in his seat and looked at his companion, lit now only by the burning end of his cigarette and the bright green port-side running light.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Maddox asked. He looked around but there was nothing to see except the dark rolling water and the black night sky.

  ‘Do you know what your new friends are doing right now?’

  ‘What new friends?’

  ‘Fleming, Detective Black and his female companion, as well as half a dozen New York policemen.’ Zarubin paused, took a last drag on his cigarette and flipped the butt out into the darkness. ‘They are exhuming the body of Robert Sheldon Harte.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Quite so. And as we know, when they open the grave they are going to discover that Mr Harte is not buried in it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Mr Harte was once your student. This is correct, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were lovers, yes?’

  Maddox looked stunned. ‘You knew about that?’

  ‘Of course we knew,’ said the Russian.

  Maddox looked down at the pistol resting between them. It was flat black and roughly made, the end of the narrow, tapered barrel taped for a silencer. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  Zarubin ignored the apology. ‘Mr Harte was sent down to Mexico to infiltrate the Trotsky household. He was to gather as much information as possible, pass it on to Siqueiros, who actually organised the project, and then follow through with the kidnapping charade. He escaped from his captors.’

  ‘Yes.’ Maddox swallowed. ‘He told me he was afraid that he’d be killed, that he was no longer of any use except as a martyr.’

  ‘He was right.’ Zarubin nodded. He lit another Sportsman and inhaled deeply. The powerful engine thundered, sending its vibrations through the hull of the Chris-Craft as they continued east into the dark night. ‘He came to you after he escaped, didn’t he?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘The young man is many things – being a fool is not one of them. He knew we would be watching his apartment and probably his parents’ house in Queens.’ The Russian paused. ‘You had some way of communicating with him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Y
es.’

  ‘What did he tell you that he didn’t tell Siqueiros?’

  ‘He told him everything.’

  Zarubin picked up the Radom and caressed the American’s cheek with it. ‘No, he left something out.’

  ‘I swear!’ Maddox protested, flinching at the gentle touch of the gun. ‘You must believe me!’

  ‘I did not get to my present position within the NKVD by believing people, Comrade Maddox. Everyone lies – it is a fact of life. Some lie more than others and I can assure you some lie much more poorly than others. People such as yourself.’ Zarubin sucked in a mouthful of smoke and pulled back the slide on the Radom, cocking it. ‘You were his lover, James. He told you everything. He even told you about the key Comrade Trotsky wore on a silver chain around his neck.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘We only needed his corroboration.’

  ‘And when you had it?’

  ‘We would have killed him.’

  ‘Then he was right.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dear God, this was not what I became a communist for. There is no honour here. This is no people’s government.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Zarubin wanted to laugh at this bit of ivory-tower naïveté. ‘It is a system, like any other form of government, that’s all. The rest is politics and power. Marx has been dead for a very long time, comrade. What he wrote in the Reading Room of the British Museum half a century ago has very little practical relevance today. Think of it this way: Comrade Stalin is not always right, but he is never wrong, and when he uncovers a hidden enemy, he has that enemy removed whether the person in question was really an enemy or not. It is an efficient and expedient method. If the person really was an enemy, then Comrade Stalin has succeeded, and if the person was not an enemy, he never really existed at all, do you understand?’

  ‘You are justifying murder.’

  ‘Murder doesn’t need justification, only rationale. Sometimes not even that.’ The Russian felt a faint touch of mist on his face. All the better to hide their progress.

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’

  ‘Why on earth would we do that?’ Zarubin shook his head. ‘If we were going to kill you, we would have done so a long time ago and we certainly wouldn’t be going to all this trouble.’ He paused again. ‘A few more questions, though.’

  ‘Yes?’ The man sounded exhausted and confused.

  ‘The idea was for Mercador to get into Trotsky’s study and kill him silently, then retrieve the key and leave with it, but he panicked and was caught. But he has managed to tell us that there was no chain around Trotsky’s neck and no sign of any key.’

  ‘Perhaps he is lying.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then perhaps Trotsky hid the key after the first attempt.’

  ‘Possible. But where?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Perhaps he gave it to someone else.’

  ‘Again, I have no idea.’

  ‘Would your young friend know?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I’d like the chance to ask him myself.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  This time Zarubin used the barrel of the Radom to tap Maddox on the side of the head, hard, but not hard enough to break the skin. ‘You’re lying. He came to you for help and you gave it to him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I told you. If you cooperate, we are willing to overlook your small transgressions. You have been of great service to us in the past and we are grateful but this is very important. I promise you the boy will not be harmed but it is paramount that we discover what happened to that key.’ The Russian could see the conflict on the man’s face and understood it. Betray his lover and become a hero; remain silent and his likely destination would be the basement of the Lubyanka Prison on Dzerzhinskiy Square. Which was it to be, love or survival? The conflict resolved itself and Zarubin saw the man’s shoulders sag with relief.

  ‘Santa Barbara. An old colleague at the state college owed me a favour and found him a job at the public library.’

  ‘Does he live by himself?’

  ‘No. My friend took him in.’

  ‘Your friend’s name?’

  ‘Pelham. Rupert Andrew Pelham.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Zarubin put the Radom back into his pocket and patted Maddox on the shoulder again. ‘You did very well.’ The Russian stood up.

  ‘You won’t hurt him?’ Maddox asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Zarubin. ‘He never had anything to worry about. He should simply have come to you openly and we could have solved the problem with ease.’

  ‘What will you do with him?’

  ‘Send him on to Moscow if that is what he wishes.’ Zarubin smiled pleasantly. ‘Perhaps the two of you will be reunited.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Maddox answered wistfully.

  ‘For the time being, let’s go into the cabin and I’ll make us some coffee.’ He helped Maddox stand and keep his balance on the vibrating deck. ‘Perhaps I’ll add some brandy to it as fortification against the cold.’ He pushed Maddox gently towards the cabin door.

  As Maddox reached for the handle, Zarubin had just enough time to bring out the Radom again. He held it by the barrel and brought down the heavy butt of the gun on the back of the American’s skull. Maddox dropped to his knees, groaning, and Zarubin struck him again. He hit him a third time and Maddox slid down to the deck, silent. The Russian tapped on the cabin door.

  A few seconds later a slim, good-looking woman named Guadalupe Gomez appeared on deck. Gomez, who travelled under a number of assumed identities, was Cuban by birth but had spent most of her formative years attending various schools in Moscow and elsewhere in the Soviet Union, including the infamous English School. She was wearing deck shoes, a pair of corduroy men’s trousers and a heavy navy blue sweater. Over her shoulder Zarubin could see Tuzov, one of his New York illegals, seated on a high stool at the helm of Dawn Treader, manipulating the small wheel and staring into the darkness ahead. The woman closed the cabin door and looked down at Maddox.

  ‘Is he dead?’ She spoke in Russian but there was definitely something else in the accent.

  ‘I have no idea.’ Zarubin shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Not really. Help me with him.’

  Together they dragged Maddox to the stern then balanced him on the transom so that his head dangled over the rear of the boat.

  ‘Did you get what you needed?’

  ‘Yes.’ Zarubin nodded. ‘The young man is in Santa Barbara.’

  ‘Is he to be killed?’

  ‘Eventually. Interrogated first.’

  ‘You wish me to do this?’

  ‘No,’ Zarubin said. ‘I’ll deal with him myself, I think. The weather will be warmer too.’ He smiled. ‘I could use a little sun. Besides, at the moment I have another, more urgent task for you.’ He reached into his overcoat and took out the Sportsman cigarettes and the book of matches. He slipped them into the side pocket of Maddox’s jacket. As the woman dragged Maddox higher up onto the broad transom, the one-time academic began to groan again.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ said the woman.

  ‘Then we should be quick about it.’ Zarubin looked out over the water. ‘How far out are we?’

  ‘Sixty-five, seventy miles. Bangor is due north from this point.’

  ‘The tide?’

  ‘Rising. He’ll be taken by the currents of the Fundy bore if we’re lucky. Fifteen-foot tides at Sandy Point on the Canadian side. Moving at twelve knots.’

  ‘And if we’re not lucky?’

  ‘He washes up on Cheney Island. I studied the charts carefully, as you requested. I can’t see that makes any difference, not in the shape he’ll be in.’ She shrugged. ‘They’ll simply assume he fell off one of the ferries. It has happened a number of times in the past.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Zarubin helped shift Maddox even farther until his head was actually in the water and they were holding him
by his lower legs.

  ‘A little more,’ said the woman.

  They both shifted their grip to Maddox’s ankles, letting him slide down farther. Suddenly a stuttering howl erupted from the engine as the twin propellers bit into the American’s skull, turning his head to ruin. Together they pulled up on Maddox’s heels a little, lifting the remains of his head away from the propellers.

  ‘There are sharks in these waters as well, I think,’ said Zarubin.

  ‘Blue sharks, mako, porbeagle and threshers.’ The woman nodded. ‘I checked.’

  Earlier that day she’d purchased an eight-and-a-half-inch Don Carlos fish-gutting knife from one of the chandlers on Commercial Street in Portland. She took it out of the sheath on her hip, ripped open Maddox’s shirt and then plunged the knife into his belly, just above the pubic bone.

  Angling the blade slightly, she sliced up through the belly and the heart, ending at the base of the man’s throat. Viscera, blood, fecal matter and bile poured out of the man’s body, tumbling down over what was left of his head. Zarubin and the woman let go of the American’s heels and he slid overboard, swallowed up almost instantly by their wake. The woman had sliced open Maddox so neatly there wasn’t a trace of blood showing anywhere except on the blade of the knife, which she threw overboard into the darkness.

  ‘I doubt if he’ll last long,’ said the woman.

  Zarubin stared into the darkness, following the foaming line of their wake. How easy it was to make someone vanish, as though they’d never existed at all. No one to care for the passing of a non-existent soul. He smiled a little at that. Not that any good communist even believed in the concept of such a thing.

  ‘So where do I go next if it’s not to be this Santa Barbara place?’

  ‘You’re bound for Mexico,’ said the squirrel-cheeked man.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday, November 25, 1941

  Mexico City

  After leaving the cemetery in Brooklyn, Jane Todd and Morris Black just managed to catch the Eastern Airlines sleeper flight to San Diego and after a four-hour layover they boarded an Aeronaves de Mexico flight into Mexico City. By the time they arrived the day was gone and it was all they could do to stay awake on the taxi ride from the airport on the eastern edge of the city to the Regis Hotel on the Avenida Juarez, supposedly Mexico City’s version of Fifth Avenue in New York.