I heard Bukov open the door to the flat and they went inside. I did not hear the door close; I stayed where I was with the pulse shaking me like a pneumatic drill. And then I heard Bukov, very distinct, in Russian: “He has been here.”
There followed the other man’s short grunt and then footsteps into the hall.
Bukov said, “Harry?”
I didn’t stir.
He started up the stairs.
I turned, ready to break into the nearest door but his voice arrested me:
“He’s a friend, Harry. It’s all right.”
Only half trusting him I went down slowly and he retreated to the landing to wait for me; he was talking to the other man who was inside the flat: “Draw the drapes before you switch on the light.” Then turning to me: “Where did you leave the car?”
I had to swallow and clear my throat. “Behind that row of shops.” I pointed through the wall to my right.
I heard drape cords slide; a light came on, splashing a yellow fan along the floor through the open door. Then Bukov’s companion appeared there, blocking the light. He was a big greying old man who had been red-haired; he had coarse features, there was a heavy roll to his lips. Bukov was arctic and aloof. “You’d better give the keys to Pudovkin.”
Without objection I produced them and handed them to the old man. They disappeared into his fist; Bukov ushered me toward the door and Pudovkin went down the stairs quickly, still in his overcoat.
Bukov shut the door behind us. “Pudovkin spent ten years of his life hunting down Germans in Johannesburg and Buenos Aires. He’s one of the best we’ve got.”
“You expected to find me here.”
“Don’t be so awed. Your escape stirred things up. The first thing they did was alert all border stations, and I have people at several of those. I’ve had the word for several hours.”
“They moved fast. I left my driver in the middle of a dirt track in the wheat farms. I didn’t see any telephone lines.”
“He picked up a ride with a lorry. It only took him twenty minutes to reach a telephone. Was it that same fellow who came here with you?”
“Yes. Timoshenko.”
“Pity. He’s an inoffensive sort. They’ll have his hide for this.”
“It wasn’t his fault. They ought to see that.”
“I’m sure they will-but they’ve got to have someone to vent their rage at. Would you like another glass of beer?” He asked it drily; he’d picked up the glass I’d left near the window.
“You offered me your help,” I said. “That’s why I came.”
“I hope you’ve got a first-class reason. You’re putting us all in jeopardy.”
“I had very little choice. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sure you’ve considered what you’re doing-the consequences. You’ll be an outsider forever, you know. You’re consigning yourself to exile-a blind wandering to an unknown destination. You’re not the type, Harry.”
It took me a moment to catch up with him: then my head rocked back. “How do you know that, Bukov?”
“You found the gold, didn’t you.”
It was Karl Ritter all over again. I sank into a chair, raging in hopelessness.
“You’ll be an outsider everywhere until you share the secret with someone.”
Someone entered the building and Bukov listened to the climbing footsteps because he knew the tread of each of his neighbors and acquaintances. He relaxed before I did. The steps went on up the second flight. Bukov said, “Comrade Litvinov,” in a tone Napoleon might have used in pronouncing Wellington’s name.
I said, “I didn’t find anything. But they think I did. I won’t be tortured for something I haven’t got.” It was the story I’d decided on-to use in case I had to. It had become necessary far earlier than I’d anticipated.
Bukov was remarkably uninterested. “In any case it’s still my job to assist you. I gather you wish to get out to the West.”
“It’s a terrible imposition.”
“Don’t apologize. I offered our help. We’ve rather expected you to accept the offer.”
I didn’t want to think about that at the moment; it had too many implications I wasn’t prepared to face.
Pudovkin came up the stairs and Bukov, recognizing his step, met him at the door. “Where did you put it?”
“The railway motor-pool garage. I smeared the number plates. It’s just another official car-they’ll be a while noticing it.” Pudovkin shrugged out of his coat. “There’s a man standing by the station trying not to look like an agent. I think I know his face-I’ve seen him in Yalta.”
“Naturally. They know their man might come here for help.”
I half rose from my seat; Bukov waved me back. “It’s taken into account. But we’d better not stay here any longer-he may take it into his head to come up and inspect the premises. Come along-bring your things.”
Thinking he had a rear exit in mind I began to put on my coat but he said, “You won’t need to wear it.” I gathered up the hat and my case, hung the coat over my arm and followed them out of the flat.
We went up the stairs, Bukov several steps ahead of me; he reached the landing and surveyed the hall before he motioned us to follow.
A key from his pocket: he unlocked a door and let us into a dark room, stuffy with disuse. Pudovkin silently closed the door and Bukov hit a light switch-a ceiling fixture flickered and brightened.
The room was windowless and not more than twelve feet square. It contained an old desk, four straight wooden chairs and a row of shelves on which stood dusty bound volumes of postal and railway regulations. “My office,” Bukov explained. “I rarely use it. I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep on the floor. There’s no heat but we’re in the center of the building, it won’t freeze here. You’ll have to rough it.”
“For how long?”
“Until we can make the arrangements.”
“I feel like such a bloody fool,” I whispered.
“No need to keep your voice down. Litvinov is stone deaf and there’s no one else on this floor. The railway department uses most of it for storage of records. But one word of caution-don’t let Litvinov see you, he’s the sort of old woman who loves to inform.”
“Is it risky living in the same building with someone like that?”
“Quite the contrary. He’s a good cover.”
There was a door in the wall behind the desk. He went to it and opened it. There was a cupboard the size of an ordinary clothes closet with shelves across it at two-foot intervals. The upper shelves held rows of green metal file-card boxes; the lower two shelves were empty. Bukov knelt and pulled the lowest shelf out. It slid away easily in his hand. He pointed at the back of the cupboard.
“If you hear someone approaching, slide through. The rear wall is a door on spring hinges. You’ll find yourself under the eaves. It will be very cold but they won’t find it if you remember to slip the shelf back into place behind you.”
I nodded. It wasn’t the first time he’d used this room as an underground railway station. He’d designed the cupboard for that purpose.
Pudovkin had a heavy voice like lumps of coal rumbling down a metal chute. “You’d better keep your things in that cupboard while you’re here-in case you have to hide them quickly.”
I put the briefcase, hat and coat on the floor of the cupboard and Bukov closed the door on them. “You’ll have to wait until morning to use the lavatory. Can you hold out?”
I said I thought I could. “After Litvinov goes to work you’ll be free to move around during the day.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday. Will he go to work?”
“Yes.”
Pudovkin said something in dialect; Bukov gave it a moment’s thought. “It might be wise.” He turned to me: “How committed are you?”
“To what?”
“This nineteenth-century romantic gesture of yours. How great is your rage to survive? Greater than your rage to escape?”