For ten years in the labour camp he’d handled nothing but wood. Felled unending forests of it. The scent of pine became so much a part of himself that he was no longer capable of differentiating between the smell of wood and the smell of his own skin. At times – desperate times – he had gnawed the rough bitter bark. It stained his teeth a strange russet colour and lay hard and indigestible in his gut, but it had granted him the illusion of food when he most needed it. For that he was grateful.

Some mornings when he woke in the stale, odour-heavy air of the crowded prison barrack hut, he’d inspected his fingertips intently, convinced they would start to sprout tiny green buds one day soon. The buds would grow into whippy little twigs and eventually into massive branches that he would have to drag out through the forest with him each day to the Work Zone.

Starvation does strange things to the mind.


***

‘Faster. The work must progress faster.’

The words were spoken by Colonel Tursenov, but the two men standing either side of him nodded vehement agreement. The Colonel was a reasonable man in his position as Controller of the Development Centre but he was under heavy pressure. Lazar Kaganovich himself, a leading member of the Soviet Politburo, telephoned each Friday evening to question progress. That meant each Saturday at seven o’clock in the morning the team of six senior engineers was summoned to stand in a rigid line in Tursenov’s office and ordered to speed up their work rate.

Jens Friis took one step forward. The sign that he wished to speak.

‘What is it, prisoner Friis?’

‘Colonel, we are working all hours already and the construction is making steady progress – which is what we are all aiming for,’ he added solemnly. ‘But the reason the test last week was aborted was because the metal supplied for the rear support struts proved to be of poor quality. It was too brittle and so it snapped under the weight of-’

‘Silence!’

Jens forced himself to contain his words. But he didn’t step back into line. The other engineers, prisoners like himself, were wiser. They said nothing, just fixed their eyes on Tursenov’s highly polished shoes and nodded each time he spoke. The Colonel was a big man with a big voice which most of the time he kept reined in, speaking softly and deliberately, but on the rare occasions he relaxed he forgot and let it boom out like gunfire. Today it was soft. The Colonel’s mouth settled into a familiar line of disappointment and Jens feared he was suspecting sabotage, but nothing was said. When the silence in the room had lasted so long it became painful, Tursenov turned to the stocky woman with iron-grey hair behind him, who was clutching a notebook and a red pencil.

‘Comrade Demidova,’ he said, ‘check the supplier. Report them.’

‘Da, Comrade Colonel.’ She scribbled something on the paper.

‘No more stoppages,’ he said curtly.

‘No, Comrade Colonel.’

‘How long before I can see a demonstration?’

‘It will take at least a month,’ Jens began, ‘before-’

‘Two weeks.’ It was Elkin who had spoken at the end of the row. ‘It will be ready in two weeks.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Yes, Colonel.’

‘Otlichno! Excellent! I shall inform Comrade Kaganovich. He will be pleased.’

Elkin smiled and concentrated on the polished shoes. Tursenov took his time scanning the men in their khaki overalls, noted that Jens was still forward of the line and frowned. ‘Anything more, prisoner Friis?’

‘Yes, Colonel.’

‘What is it you wish to say?’

‘If a demonstration is conducted before the problems are fully overcome, the canister could open prematurely and that would be highly dangerous to-’

‘Two weeks,’ Tursenov interrupted in his softest voice. ‘Overcome them in two weeks, prisoner Friis.’

Their eyes met for no more than a second but it was enough. Jens knew now he couldn’t delay the project any longer. Tursenov’s suspicions were roused. Without another word he stepped back into line.

24

‘Wait here,’ Lydia said.

‘Don’t worry, girl, you wouldn’t get me in there if you paid me.’

Elena folded her arms comfortably over the bulk of her bosom and positioned herself to one side of the large double doors like an incongruous sentry in a headscarf. She faced out on to the busy road and her eyes became stubborn slits in her broad face. Lydia wasn’t yet good at reading this woman’s expressions but she had the feeling Elena preferred to keep it that way. Today she noticed Elena looked tired, the lines sinking into ragged crevices around her eyes, but she was careful not to mention it – or the new navy coat Elena was wearing.

The brass plaque on the wall stated in discreet lettering: COMMUNIST PARTY LIAISON OFFICE.

‘I’ll be quick,’ Lydia promised.

‘The words quick and Communist Party aren’t even on speaking terms,’ Elena muttered, stamping her feet to keep warm.

Lydia darted up the steps.

‘Papers?’

A uniformed middle-aged man with receding fair hair and kindly eyes stood just inside the door. He stepped in front of Lydia, shoes squeaking on the marble floor, and held out an expectant hand.

‘Dobroye utro, comrade,’ she said and tipped him a smile.

‘Back again?’

‘Da.’

‘You must like it here.’

‘Not as much as you,’ she joked and was pleased when he laughed. It made her feel safer.

She handed over her precious residence permit and identity document and immediately started chatting. ‘It’s not so cold today,’ she said, waving a hand at the window where the mist outside hung like a grey, secretive curtain. He started to examine her papers. This was the moment when her heart skipped. Forgot to beat. It was always the same. ‘Do you think it’s going to snow later?’ she asked.

He glanced up and smiled at her. ‘Why? No umbrella today?’

She yanked off her hat and saw him watch her hair tumble to her shoulders. ‘I was in too much of a hurry to get here,’ she laughed.

‘How many times is it you’ve come here now?’

‘Not enough yet, it seems.’

He handed back her documents without further scrutiny. ‘Well, I look forward to tomorrow then,’ he chuckled.

She touched her throat with a slow soft stroke, a gesture she’d seen her mother use when in the company of men. His eyes followed the movement.

‘I’ll be here,’ she said.

‘So will I.’

They both laughed. She didn’t think he’d even bother to look at her papers next time.


The man at the desk was not so easily entertained.

‘You again,’ he said. He didn’t hide his irritation.

‘Yes, comrade. Me again.’

‘Comrade Ivanova, I told you yesterday – and all the other days – that I have no way of contacting this person.’

‘But this is the International Liaison Office. That’s what you do. Liaise. So you must liaise with Communist Parties across the world.’

‘That is true.’

‘So why not with-?’

‘I’ve told you already that it’s not possible. Stop wasting my time, comrade.’

He was one of those men who fiddle a lot, always twitching and straightening and tapping with his fingertips. It was the turn of his moustache today. He combed its luxurious growth with the long nail of his little finger and she wondered if he grew both the facial hair and the nail especially to satisfy this inner need. What was it he had to feel so nervous about? Maybe his own papers were no more convincing than hers. She tried a smile, sent it winging across the icy gap between them, but it fluttered and died. She’d tried it before and found this apparatchik totally smile-proof.

‘Is something amusing you?’ he demanded sharply.

‘No, comrade.’

‘Then I suggest you go home.’ He plucked up a pen and started tapping the end of it on his desk.

Lydia’s cheeks flushed. She should leave, she was getting nowhere. She looked round at the vast domed entrance hall with its acres of marble flooring, designed to intimidate. Fat marble pillars were draped with blood-red flags and slogans that read TOGETHER WE SHALL FIGHT. TOGETHER WE SHALL WIN THE VICTORY.

Fight. Win. Victory. Communism seemed immersed in a constant, exhausting battle. Even within itself. Footsteps clicked back and forth across the polished floor as clerks and neatly dressed secretaries scurried like worker ants to and from their offices, arms heaped with brown faceless files, and Lydia felt horribly out of place.

She gripped the front edge of the desk to keep her feet exactly where they were. She didn’t trust them not to turn and run.

‘Pozhalusta, please,’ she urged politely.

He sighed, twitched at his tie and raised bored eyes to hers.

‘His name is Chang An Lo,’ she said. ‘He is a member of the Chinese Communist Party, an important member of-’

‘So you said.’

‘I want you to contact the Chinese Communist Party’s Headquarters in Shanghai and leave a message for him.’

‘That’s not my job.’

‘Then whose job is it?’

‘Not mine.’

‘Please, it’s important. I must contact him and-’

A blast of cold air swirled in from the street, nipping at bare skin with icy pincers. The man behind the desk shed his air of indifference and jumped to his feet faster than a buck rabbit, startling Lydia. She turned and stared.

A man in his mid-thirties was just tossing his leather overcoat to the attendant at the door and they were both laughing at something he’d said. Then he strode across the marble floor, his heels echoing with life in the empty dead air, his beautifully tailored suit rippling elegantly as he moved. The thing about him that struck Lydia immediately was his hair. It was thick, springy and neatly trimmed, but it was an even more fiery shade than her own. As he approached the desk she looked away. One glance at the intense grey eyes with their coppery lashes told her this was a man who would not be easily fooled by her tales. Or by her papers.