Party.
Vladimir Mamantov. My God, he hadn't thought about Vladimir Mamantov in half a decade, and suddenly here he was, crossing his path twice in a morning. The years fluttered through his fingers - ninety-five, ninety-four. . . Some details of the meeting were starting to come back to him now: a morning in late spring, a dead dog revealed in the thawing snow outside an apartment block in the suburbs, a gorgon of a wife. Mamantov had just finished serving fourteen months in Lefortovo for his part in the attempted coup against Gorbachev, and Kelso had been the first to interview him when he came out of jail. It had taken an age to fix the a ppointment and then it had proved, as so often in these cases, not worth the effort. Mamantov had refused point-blank to talk about himself, or the coup, and had simply spouted Party slogans straight out of the pages of Pravda. He found Mamanrov's home telephone number from 1991, next to an office address for a lowly Party functionary, Gennady Zyuganov.
'You're going to try to see him?' asked Efanov, anxiously. 'You know he hates all Westerners? Almost as much as he hates the Jews.'
'You're right,' said Kelso, staring at the seven digits.
Mamanrov had been a formidable man even in defeat, his Soviet suit hanging loose off his wide shoulders, the grey pallor of prison still dull on his cheeks; murder in his eyes. Kelso's book had not been flattering about Vladimir Mamantov, to put it mildly. And it had been translated into Russian - Mamantov must have seen it.
'You're right,' he repeated. 'It would be stupid even to try.
FLUKE Kelso walked out of the Lenin Library a little after two that afternoon, pausing briefly at a stall in the lobby to buy a couple of bread rolls and a bottle of warm and salty mineral water. He remembered passing a row of public telephones opposite the Kremlin, close to the Intourist office, and he ate his lunch as he walked - first down into the gloom of the metro station to buy some plastic tokens for the phone, and then back along Mokhavaya Street towards the high red wall and the golden domes.
He was not alone, it seemed to him. His younger self was ambling alongside him now - floppy-haired, chain-smoking, forever in a hurry; forever optimistic, a writer on the rise. ('Dr Kelso brings to the study of contemporary Soviet history the skiiis of a first-rate scholar and the energy of a good reporter' - The New York Times.) This younger Kelso wouldn't have hesitated to call up Vladimir Mamantoy, that was for sure - by God, he would have battered his bloody door down by now if necessary.
Think about it: if Yepishev had told Volkogonov about Stalin's notebook, might he not also have told Mamantov? Might he not have left behind papers? Might he not have a family? It had to be worth a try. He wiped his mouth and fingers on the little paper napkin and as he picked up the receiver and inserted the tokens he felt a familiar tightening of his stomach muscles, a butteriness around his heart. Was this sensible? No. But who cared about that? Adelman - he was sensible. And Saunders - he was very sensible.
Go for it.
He dialled the number.
The first call was an anti-climax. The Mamantovs had moved and the man who now lived at their old address was reluctant to give out their new number. Only after he had held a whispered consultation with someone at his end did he pass it on. Kelso hung up and dialled again. This time the phone rang for a long time before it was answered. The tokens dropped and an old woman with a trembling voice said, 'Who is this?'
He gave his name. 'Could I speak with Comrade Mamantoy?' He was careful to say 'comrade': 'mister' would never do.
'Yes? Who is this?'
Kelso was patient. 'As I said, my name is Kelso. I'm using a public telephone. It's urgent.'
'Yes, but who is this?'
He was about to repeat his name for a third time when he heard what sounded like a scuffle at the other end of the line and a harsh male voice cut in. All right. This is
Vladimir Mamantov. My God, he hadn't thought about Vladimir Mamantov in half a decade, and suddenly here he was, crossing his path twice in a morning. The years fluttered through his fingers - ninety-five, ninety-four. . . Some details of the meeting were starting to come back to him now: a morning in late spring, a dead dog revealed in the thawing snow outside an apartment block in the suburbs, a gorgon of a wife. Mamantov had just finished serving fourteen months in Lefortovo for his part in the attempted coup against Gorbachev, and Kelso had been the first to interview him when he came out of jail. It had taken an age to fix the a ppointment and then it had proved, as so often in these cases, not worth the effort. Mamantov had refused point-blank to talk about himself, or the coup, and had simply spouted Party slogans straight out of the pages of Pravda. He found Mamanrov's home telephone number from 1991, next to an office address for a lowly Party functionary, Gennady Zyuganov.
'You're going to try to see him?' asked Efanov, anxiously. 'You know he hates all Westerners? Almost as much as he hates the Jews.'
'You're right,' said Kelso, staring at the seven digits.
Mamanrov had been a formidable man even in defeat, his Soviet suit hanging loose off his wide shoulders, the grey pallor of prison still dull on his cheeks; murder in his eyes. Kelso's book had not been flattering about Vladimir Mamantov, to put it mildly. And it had been translated into Russian - Mamantov must have seen it.
'You're right,' he repeated. 'It would be stupid even to try.
FLUKE Kelso walked out of the Lenin Library a little after two that afternoon, pausing briefly at a stall in the lobby to buy a couple of bread rolls and a bottle of warm and salty mineral water. He remembered passing a row of public telephones opposite the Kremlin, close to the Intourist office, and he ate his lunch as he walked - first down into the gloom of the metro station to buy some plastic tokens for the phone, and then back along Mokhavaya Street towards the high red wall and the golden domes.
He was not alone, it seemed to him. His younger self was ambling alongside him now - floppy-haired, chain-smoking, forever in a hurry; forever optimistic, a writer on the rise. ('Dr Kelso brings to the study of contemporary Soviet history the skiiis of a first-rate scholar and the energy of a good reporter' - The New York Times.) This younger Kelso wouldn't have hesitated to call up Vladimir Mamantoy, that was for sure - by God, he would have battered his bloody door down by now if necessary.
Think about it: if Yepishev had told Volkogonov about Stalin's notebook, might he not also have told Mamantov? Might he not have left behind papers? Might he not have a family? It had to be worth a try. He wiped his mouth and fingers on the little paper napkin and as he picked up the receiver and inserted the tokens he felt a familiar tightening of his stomach muscles, a butteriness around his heart. Was this sensible? No. But who cared about that? Adelman - he was sensible. And Saunders - he was very sensible.
Go for it.
He dialled the number.
The first call was an anti-climax. The Mamantovs had moved and the man who now lived at their old address was reluctant to give out their new number. Only after he had held a whispered consultation with someone at his end did he pass it on. Kelso hung up and dialled again. This time the phone rang for a long time before it was answered. The tokens dropped and an old woman with a trembling voice said, 'Who is this?'
He gave his name. 'Could I speak with Comrade Mamantoy?' He was careful to say 'comrade': 'mister' would never do.
'Yes? Who is this?'
Kelso was patient. 'As I said, my name is Kelso. I'm using a public telephone. It's urgent.'
'Yes, but who is this?'
He was about to repeat his name for a third time when he heard what sounded like a scuffle at the other end of the line and a harsh male voice cut in. All right. This is
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