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  “You won’t find a Judas among us,” said another voice, as Vladimir stifled a cough. The men all stood as one to acknowledge Karpenko as their leader.

  “Then we will meet again on Saturday morning, but until then we must all remain silent, and keep our own counsel.”

  Vladimir’s heart was thumping as the men rose and shook hands with their leader, before leaving the church. He remained crouched behind the altar until the voices had faded, but he still didn’t move until he finally heard the great west door slam shut and a key turn in the lock. He scurried back to the vestry, and with the help of a stool, wriggled out of the window, clinging on to the ledge before dropping down to the ground like a seasoned wrestler. The one discipline where Alexander wasn’t in his class.

  Aware that, he didn’t have a moment to lose, Vladimir ran in the opposite direction to Mr. Karpenko, and headed toward a street that didn’t need a NO ENTRY sign, as only party officials ever entered Stalin Prospect. He knew exactly where Major Polyakov lived, but still wondered if he had the nerve to knock on his front door at that time of night. At any time of the day or night, for that matter.

  When he reached the street with its leafy trees and neat cobblestone pavement, he stood and stared at the house, losing his nerve with every second that passed. He finally summoned up enough courage to approach the front door. Vladimir raised a fist and was about to knock when the door was flung open by a man who didn’t like to be taken by surprise.

  “What do you want, boy?” he said, grabbing him by the ear.

  “I have information,” said Vladimir, “and you told us when you visited our school last year looking for recruits, that information was golden.”

  “This had better be good,” said Polyakov, who didn’t let go of his ear as he dragged his unwelcome visitor inside. He slammed the door behind him. “Start talking.”

  Vladimir faithfully reported everything he’d overheard in the church earlier that evening, and by the time he’d come to the end, the pressure on his ear had been replaced by an arm around his shoulder.

  “Did you recognize anyone other than Karpenko?” Polyakov asked.

  “No, sir, but he mentioned the names Yuri, Mikhail, and Stefan.”

  Polyakov wrote down the names before he said, “Are you going to the match on Saturday?”

  “No, sir, it’s sold out, and my father wasn’t able to—”

  Like a conjuror, the KGB chief produced two tickets out of an inside pocket and handed them to his latest recruit.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Vladimir, beaming.

  The KGB chief opened the front door and added, “And one more thing, Vladimir, make sure you don’t tell anyone where you got them.”

  2

  KONSTANTIN CLOSED THE bedroom door quietly, not wanting to wake his wife. He took off his heavy boots. If he left early enough in the morning, he wouldn’t have to explain to Elena what he and his disciples had been up to, and even more important, what he had in mind for Saturday’s meeting. Better she thought that he’d been out drinking even had a mistress, rather than tell her the truth. Konstantin knew his wife would only try to convince him not to go ahead with the planned speech.

  After all, they didn’t have too bad a life, he could hear her reminding him. They lived in an apartment block that had electricity and running water. She had a job as a cook at the officers’ club, and their son was waiting to hear if he’d won a scholarship to the prestigious foreign language school in Moscow. What more could they ask for?

  That one day everyone could take privileges like that for granted, Konstantin would have told her.

  He lay awake that night, penning a speech in his mind that he couldn’t risk transferring to paper before he delivered his message to the three thousand dockers on Saturday morning. He rose at 5:30, and once again took care not to wake his wife. He doused his face in freezing water, but didn’t shave. He dressed in overalls and a rough, open-necked shirt before finally pulling on his well-worn hobnailed boots. He crept out of the bedroom and collected his lunch box from the kitchen: a hard-boiled egg, two slices of bread, and cheese. Only members of the KGB would eat better.

  He closed the front door quietly behind him as he left the flat and made his way slowly down the well-worn stone staircase before stepping out onto an empty street. He always walked the six kilometers to work, eschewing the overloaded bus that ferried the workers to and from the docks. If he hoped to survive beyond Saturday, he needed to remain fit, like a highly trained soldier in the field.

  Whenever he passed a fellow worker in the street, Konstantin always acknowledged him with a mock salute. Some returned his salutation, others nodded, while a few, like bad Samaritans, looked the other way. They may as well have had their party numbers tattooed on their foreheads.

  Konstantin arrived outside the dock gates an hour later and immediately clocked on. As works convener, he liked to be the first to arrive and the last to leave. He walked along the dockside while he considered his first assignment of the day. A submarine destined for Odessa in the Black Sea had just berthed at dock 11 for refueling and to pick up provisions, before continuing on its way, but that wouldn’t be for at least another hour. Only the most trusted men would be allowed anywhere near dock 11 that morning.

  Konstantin’s mind drifted back to the previous night’s meeting. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put a finger on it. Was it someone and not something, he wondered, as a vast crane at the far end of the dock began to lift its heavy load and swing slowly toward the waiting submarine on dock 11.

  The operator seated in the crane’s cab had been chosen carefully. He could unload a tank into a hold with only inches to spare on either side. But not today. Today he was transferring barrels of oil to a submarine that needed to remain submerged for several days at a time, but the task also demanded pinpoint accuracy. One piece of luck, no wind that morning.

  Konstantin tried to concentrate as he went over his speech once again. As long as none of his colleagues opened their mouths, he felt confident everything else would fall neatly into place. He smiled to himself.

  The crane operator was satisfied that he had judged it to an inch. The load was perfectly balanced and still. He eased a long, heavy lever gently forward. The large clamp sprang open and the three barrels of oil were released. They came crashing down onto the dockside moments later. Inch perfect. Konstantin Karpenko had looked up, but it was too late. He was killed instantly. A dreadful accident, for which no one was to blame. The man knew he must disappear quickly before the men clocked in for the early shift. He swung the crane’s outstretched arm quickly back into place, turned off the engine, climbed out of the cab, and began to make his way down the ladder to the ground.

  Three fellow workers were waiting for him as he stepped onto the dockside. He smiled at his comrades, not spotting the six-inch serrated blade before it was thrust deep into his stomach and then twisted. The other two held him down until he finally stopped whimpering. They bound his arms and legs before pushing him over the side and into the water. He reappeared three times, before finally disappearing below the surface. The operator hadn’t officially signed in that morning, so it would be some time before anyone noticed he was missing.

  * * *

  Konstantin Karpenko’s funeral was held at the Church of the Apostle Andrew, and the turnout was so large that the congregation spilled out onto the street, long before the choir had entered.

  The bishop who delivered the eulogy described Konstantin’s death as a tragic accident, but then he was probably among the few people who believed the official communiqué issued by the docks commandant, and only then after it had been sanctioned by Moscow.

  Seated near the front of the packed pews were eleven men who knew it wasn’t an accident, and the promise of a thorough investigation by the KGB wouldn’t help their cause, because they had lost their leader, and state inquiries usually took at least a couple of years to report their findings, by which time their moment would ha