Every person in the Victory Hall was waiting for Rizhin to appear.
At two o’clock precisely he did. The small crowd gave a soft wordless visceral rising moan of delight.
Rizhin, simple white uniform blazing under the lights, paused a moment to acknowledge the reception–a modest deprecatory smile–and took his place with the rest of the committee. His chair was no grander, his place no higher than the rest.
I am the servant of our people. I do what I can.
As soon as Rizhin had settled, the Victory Hall was flooded with warm pink illumination. The chamber orchestra in their cramped pit below the platform began to play. At the sound of the first familiar bars every person except Rizhin rose to their feet, and they all began to sing, falling naturally into the fourfold harmonies of which everyone always knew their part.
Kistler leaned across to whisper in Lom’s ear. ‘When the time comes they will not do it, Lom. All this, it’s too strong. It’s too much to go against. They’ll lose their nerve.’
‘It’ll be fine. You’ve done what you can.’
The members of the Central Committee came to the lectern one by one to deliver their reports and were received with warm applause. The afternoon wore on. Rizhin was to speak last, and as the time approached he began to flick through his script. Shifting in his chair, preparing to stand.
Gribov was in the chair. He cleared his throat nervously and stood. ‘Colleagues…’
Rizhin was already coming to take his place. Gribov held up his hand to stop him. Rizhin paused and looked at him, puzzled.
Gribov motioned him back to his seat.
Rizhin hesitated, shrugged and sat down again.
‘Colleagues,’ said Gribov again, ‘at this point the planned business of the Plenum is suspended. I require the public galleries to be cleared.’
There was a collective murmur of surprise. A burst of muttered protest.
Lom kept his eye fixed on Rizhin, who frowned and looked at Gribov, but Gribov was ignoring him. Then Rizhin glanced at Hunder Rond, but Rond was avoiding his gaze.
‘Clear the room!’ called Gribov. Plenum officials and officers of the VKBD began to usher the protesting ambassadors and the press corps towards the door. Lom and Kistler moved to one side, half-hidden from the platform. The officials ignored them as Gribov had arranged.
The non-voting delegates were permitted to remain. Gribov called the room to order.
‘The Central Committee by collective agreement in accordance with Standing Order Seven has resolved to bring before you an urgent and extraordinary resolution.’ Gribov’s voice was gravelly. He struggled to make himself heard. Took a sip of water. ‘The resolution, in the name of Secretary Yashina is, “To remove Osip Rizhin from all official positions, responsibilities and powers with immediate effect.” ’
Silence fell in Victory Hall. No delegate moved. None spoke. None made a sound.
Rizhin sat back in his chair. He looked relaxed. Almost amused. A wry scornful smile on his scarred face.
‘So it comes to this,’ he said, scanning the line of faces, fixing the committee one after another. ‘Well done then. Bravo. Of course it’s all shit, it’s nothing, but let’s see what you make of it.’
You mustn’t let him react, Kistler had said to Gribov when they made the plan in secret conclave at Yashina’s house. Once you start, the momentum is yours, but you have to keep it. If he speaks, if he fights back, it’ll be a battle between competing authorities and you could lose control. It’ll turn into a shouting match. Don’t get into a battle with him.
Gribov turned to Rizhin.
‘You may leave us now, Osip,’ he said, ‘or you may remain and hear what is said. But you may not speak. The resolution will be proposed and a vote will be taken. There is to be no right of reply. If you speak you will be ejected from the hall.’
There was a commotion on the floor of the hall.
‘Shame!’ someone shouted. ‘Criminals! Betrayers!’
The cry wasn’t taken up. It fell on silence. The shock and bemusement in the chamber was palpable. And fear, above all there was fear. The observer delegates collectively maintained a tense, terrified silence.
Lom guessed some of them were beginning to wonder if they would make it out of the room alive. If they would ever go home again.
He saw Rizhin look towards Hunder Rond again. The two men’s eyes locked. Rond kept his face studiously, stonily impassive. Rizhin raised his eyebrows and gave an almost imperceptible nod: And you, Rond? That’s how it is then? Well it’s your loss. It means nothing to me.
Lom wondered what kind of deal Kistler and his cronies had made with Rond. He watched Rizhin’s eyes slide from Rond to Yashina and from her to Gribov. Rizhin was obviously wondering the same thing.
Rizhin sat back in his chair and slipped his hands into his tunic pockets carelessly.
‘Thank you, Gribov,’ he said. ‘I will not leave. This is my chamber and I am President-Commander of the New Vlast. I’ll go when and where I choose. But this could be interesting. So come on, let’s hear what you arseholes have to say.’
Gribov ignored him. He yielded the floor to Yulia Yashina.
‘They’re doing it,’ hissed Kistler in Lom’s ear. ‘They’re fucking doing it. I have to go now.’ He squeezed Lom’s arm as he left. ‘Oh I could kiss you, you beautiful man. Look at that fucker wriggle.’
‘It’s not finished yet,’ said Lom as Kistler disappeared.
5
Tall and slender, elegant, Yulia Yashina moved to the microphone and began to speak. Like Gribov, for the first few sentences her voice was dry and weak. She then drank some water and proceeded, more loudly and with growing purpose and confidence, speaking the words that Kistler had drafted for her.
‘When we analyze the practice of Osip Rizhin in regard to the direction of the Vlast,’ she said, ‘when we pause to consider everything which this man has perpetrated, we see that his achievements in leading our country during war have transformed themselves during the years of peace into a grave abuse of power.’
A single gasp broke the silence in the hall. Yashina pressed on. She spoke slowly, with absolute clarity and determination, looking occasionally towards Rizhin as she went. By this moment she would live or she would die.
‘As President-Commander, Osip Rizhin has originated a form of rule founded on the most cruel repression. Whoever opposes his viewpoint is doomed to removal from their position and subsequent moral and physical annihilation. He has violated all norms of legality and trampled on the principles of collective leadership.
‘Friends, of the original ninety-four members and candidates of this plenum after the war, sixty-seven persons have been arrested and shot. Yet when we examine the accusations against these so-called spies and saboteurs we find that all their cases–all of them, every single one–were fabricated. Confessions of guilt were gained with the help of cruel and inhuman tortures—’