Mazurka by Campbell Armstrong Read Free Book Online

Volovich. He caught the sickly citric scent of Volovich’s Italian hair oil. It was awful, but anything was better than the odour surrounding Greshko’s bed.
    â€œThis is the most patriotic thing you have ever been asked to do,” Greshko said. “If it helps, think of yourself as a loyal officer of a small, elite KGB that operates secretly inside the larger one. Think, too, of how this elite KGB is connected to some of the most powerful figures in the country, men who are just as discontented as ourselves.”
    Epishev was already thinking of the drive through darkness back to Moscow and the visit to the Printer. He was thinking of identification papers, a passport, airline tickets.
    â€œRemember this,” Greshko said. “If there are complications and you’re delayed outside the country, I want to be informed. I want news, no matter how trivial it may seem. Don’t call me directly on my telephone. Volovich here will be the liaison. Every day, Viktor. I expect that much. But let’s be optimistic. Let’s hope the business is straightforward and our worries needless.”
    There was a sound from the bedroom door. The nurse stepped into the room, carrying a tray which held small medicine bottles. “I need my patient back,” she said, and she smiled cheerfully.
    â€œIt’s feeding time at the zoo,” Greshko remarked. He winked at Epishev, who turned away and, without looking back, left the bedroom.
    On the road to Moscow a fog rolled out of the fields, clinging to the windshield of the car. Volovich drove very slowly even when he’d turned on the yellow foglamps. Epishev sat hunched in the passenger seat. He blinked at the layers of fog, which parted every now and then in the severe glare of the yellow lights, only to come rushing in again.
    â€œDoes it constitute treason, Dimitri?”
    Volovich stared straight ahead, looking grimly into the fog. “I never think about words like that.”
    â€œI’m asking you to think about them now.”
    Volovich shrugged. “I take my orders directly from you. Always have done. I’m a creature of habit, and I’m not about to change at this stage of my life. If you’re asking whether I’m loyal, the answer is yes. Besides, I never think about politics.”
    Epishev leaned back in his seat. He closed his eyes. Politics . This was no mere matter of politics. If Volovich chose to simplify it for himself, that was fine. But it came down to something that was far beyond the ordinary course of Party personalities and rituals. What was going on here was a struggle between the old ways and the new, and Epishev – who loved his country as fiercely as Greshko – knew where his own heart lay. There were flaws in the old ways, but it was a system that worked in its own fashion, one that people had come to accept. And if there were failings, they were temporary, and inevitable, because the road to Communism wasn’t exactly smooth – or even straight. The Revolution had never promised an easy path. Epishev, who had been a Party member for more than thirty years, and before that a dedicated child of the Komsomol, knew what the Revolution had intended. Like an ardent suitor with a faithful passion, he had committed his life to this one mistress. He tolerated all her failings and loved all her glories. And sometimes, when he thought about the Revolution – which he saw as an ongoing process, unlimited, as demanding as it was endless – he experienced an extraordinary sense of iron purpose. He was in the slipstream of history. Everything he did, every task he carried out, no matter how distasteful, had been shaped by the historic forces that had overthrown the Romanovs in 1917.
    But to toss all this away! To open windows and throw the old system out! To change the purpose of the Revolution! And to do all this with such indecent haste! Heresy was hardly the word.
    Epishev stared into the