“Professor, Dr Limner, may I introduce – or probably reintroduce – Mr Gareth Jones of the Western Mail and his translator, Evgenia? You may remember them from Moscow?”
Aubyn offered a weak half-smile, Limner not even that.
“Captain, Sir, I believe that you will be taking Professor Aubyn, Dr Limner and I to Turkey first thing tomorrow morning. The professor has recommended that the United States recognise the Soviet Union. He’s written a report praising how things are done there,” Duranty’s eyes glittered with mischief.
The Captain and the officer bowed and soon the maitre d’ appeared, ordering for more chairs and places to be set at the table.
When the champagne, Duranty proposed the toast. “To a new era in America-Soviet relations! To us!”
Evgenia and Jones repeated the toast, all smiles, and drained their glasses.
Duranty’s easy grin clouded. “Champagne is warm. Bloody peasants.” Turning to the maitre d’, he barked, “Can you please bring us some ice to chill the bubbly?” Then, turning back to Jones, he said, “Nice suit you’ve got there, Jonesy. Pity about the boots. What have you been up to all this time? Moscow hasn’t been the same without you. We really missed you.”
“Researching a piece on Soviet culture, Duranty.”
“Good on you. Not much blood and gold in that. But,” his eyes were a-glitter as they turned to Evgenia, “but sex for sure.”
The party studied the menu and ordered caviar, oysters, foie gras, steak and salmon, all washed down by a good Bordeaux.
“Professor Aubyn’s report,” Duranty continued for the benefit of the Danish officers, “highlights the progress the Soviet Union has made with food production. Isn’t that the case, Professor?”
Aubyn nodded, acknowledging the tribute. The captain sipped his beer and then said, “You reported that the food situation for the people was good?”
“It is excellent,” said Aubyn, Limner nodding.
“Why on earth do you think that?” asked the Captain. “Do you not see the people starving?”
“Because it is the case,” said Limner, flatly. The Captain turned to Jones and Evgenia.
“Have you not seen the starving people, the beggars pitifully thin, the corpses?”
Evgenia tried to deflect. “It’s the Party’s…”
But Jones cut in.
“Yes, Captain,” he said. “I have.”
The captain stared into his beer.
“Captain,” said Jones, “may I have a private word?”
“If you’re asking about a berth in the ship for you and your translator, my officer has already broached the matter and the answer is yes.”
“That would not be appropriate,” said Limner.
“I beg your pardon,” said the Captain.
“That would not be appropriate,” Limner replied. “Mr Jones and his translator have eccentric views and Miss Miranova was unable to suppress her hostility to Professor Aubyn when she was supposedly translating for him.”
“She fainted is what you’re trying to say,” said Jones.
Duranty cut in. “Hey, let’s not all fall out boys and girls.”
Limner gestured at Jones and Evgenia. “You see, it would be impossible for Professor Aubyn’s party to travel in the same ship as these two.”
“It’s my ship, sir,” said the Captain to Limner. “If you want to stay in Odessa, so be it.”
Limner stood up, bowed and said, “I shall make the necessary representations to the authorities,” then left the room.
The meal continued, more miserably than before, Duranty making small talk about his time with Stalin, the professor moaning about his travel delays, Jones and Evgenia replying as economically as possible. In the background, above the noise from the band, they could occasionally make out Limner talking heatedly down a telephone. Limner returned but said nothing.
After they finished the main course, the gypsy band swung vigorously into action and the red curtain parted to reveal Winnie in her distinctive get-up, Soviet boiler suit and black bowler hat. She started out singing a moody jazz number about unrequited love but her voice faltered. The band struggled on for a few more bars, then gave up.
She dipped her head, then began, “I want to dedicate this song to two friends of mine. They’re good people. And I…” Her voice broke. Tears were streaming down her face. “I do not deserve to be called their friend.”
The drummer swished a cymbal, inappropriately. She closed her eyes and the beauty and power of her voice filled the room. The last lines went:
She stopped once again, the band staring at her, uncomprehending.
From out of a boiler suit pocket she produced a small revolver that gleamed dully in the spotlights. Her hand shaking, she pointed it at the table of dignitaries. Aubyn fell off his chair and dived underneath the table, Limner half-slid to join Aubyn, the Danes stared, unmoving, Duranty looked on, his face a picture of nonchalant amusement.
“It’s a trap, for God’s sake!” said Winnie. “I betrayed you. They said, they said I could go home to New Orleans. That’s why I did it – but they were just lying, lying like they always do… I just overheard them tell Dr Milner there’s no way you two are going on the ship, nor the negress too.”
Jones stood up, started to walk towards her. “Winnie!”
She screamed, “Go!”, then pointed the revolver at her temple and fired.
In seconds, Evgenia and Jones were out of the door and running. Passing a statue of Lenin, they headed downhill towards the docks. The Cheka were chasing them, shouting, blowing whistles, military boots stamping on the cobbles, voices bellowing for them to stop. Jones turned to block them but he was brought down, fists pumping into his back and the side of his head. Evgenia ran on, the letter from Yagoda in one hand, bag in the other; then she too was tripped up. As she fell to the ground, the tin case tumbled out of the bag and under the brilliant moonlight it bounced down, down, down the Odessa steps until it disappeared into the shadows below.
After a time, Lyushkov emerged, the film reel clasped in his sausage-chaped fingers.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lyushkov lit a cigarette and studied the smoke coiling upwards through the open window. Jones sat on a chair on the other side of a desk, his left eye a liquid slit in the blue-black pulp the Cheka had made of his face.
“Good news, Mr Jones. Moscow has decided that you are free to go.”
Jones said nothing.
“When your face looks better, naturally.”
“Naturally,” said Jones, deadpan.
Not so far away, a ship’s horn blasted its farewell to Odessa. Much closer, a bird started to trill its welcome to spring, the sweetness of the sound contrasting with the racket from nearby speakers calling for workers to forswear alcohol for the good of New Soviet Man.
“And Evgenia?”
Lyushkov stubbed out his cigarette on the desk and, yawning, stretched himself. Studying Jones all the while, he picked up a pencil from a holder on the table. “Mr Jones, it is my unpleasant task to tell you that Miss Miranova has been diagnosed by eminent doctors of the mind. They have found that she is suffering from acute neurasthenia. As such she is incapable of travel at the current time. You understand?”
“Of course.”
“This talk of famine…”
“What famine?” Jones replied.
The pencil snapped in two. A long pause, then, “We have watched your film, Mr Jones.”
“What film?”
Lyushkov nodded to a figure behind Jones who moved out of the shadows and tapped Jones on the left side of his face with a short metal rod. His arms handcuffed behind his back, Jones offered no resistance, and nor could he. He did his best to suppress a gasp of pain. In that goal, he did not succeed.