The Doomsday Conspiracy

Over the next week, Olga visited the Zurichhorn Park and the Rietberg Museum and the Gross Miinster, the church erected in the eleventh century, and a dozen other wonderful tourist attractions. Finally, her time was running out.

The hotel clerk at the Leonhare said to her, “The Sunshine Tours Bus Company has a fine tour of the Alps. I think you might enjoy that before you leave.”

“Thank you,” Olga said. “I will try it.”

When Olga left the hotel, her first stop was to visit Spriingli’s again, and the next stop was at the office of the Sunshine Tours Bus Company, where she arranged to go on a tour. It had proved to be most exciting. The scenery was breathtaking, and in the middle of the tour they had seen the explosion of what she thought was a flying saucer, but the Canadian banker she was seated next to explained that it was merely a spectacle arranged by the Swiss government for tourists, that there were no such things as flying saucers. Olga was not completely convinced. When she returned home to Kiev she discussed it with her aunt.

“Of course there are flying saucers,” her aunt said. “They fly over Russia all the time. You should sell your story to a newspaper.”

Olga had considered doing it, but she was afraid that she would be laughed at. The Party did not like its members to get publicity, especially the kind that might subject them to ridicule. All in all, Olga decided that, Dmitri and Ivan aside, her vacation had been the highlight of her life. It was going to be difficult to settle down to work again.

The ride from the airport into the centre of Kiev took the Intourist bus one hour, driving along the newly built highway. It was Robert’s first time in Kiev, and he was impressed by the ubiquitous construction along the highway, and the large apartment buildings that seemed to be springing up everywhere. The bus pulled up in front of the Dnieper Hotel and disgorged its two dozen passengers. Robert looked at his watch. Eight p.m. The library would be closed. His business would have to wait until morning. He checked into the huge hotel, where a reservation had been made for him, had a drink at the bar and went into the austere whitewashed dining room for a dinner of caviar, cucumbers and tomatoes, followed by a potato casserole flavoured with tiny bits of meat and covered with heavy dough, all accompanied by vodka and mineral water.

His visa had been waiting for him at the hotel in Stockholm, as General Hilliard had promised. That was a quick bit of international cooperation, Robert thought. But no cooperation for me. “Naked” is the operational word.

After dinner, Robert made a few inquiries at the desk, and meandered over to Lenkomsomol Square. Kiev was a surprise to him. One of the oldest cities in Russia, it was an attractive, European-looking city, situated on the Dnieper River, with green parks and tree-lined streets. Churches were everywhere and they were spectacular examples of religious architecture: there were the Churches of St Vladimir’s and St Andrew’s and St Sophia’s, the last completed in 1037, pure white with its soaring blue bell tower, and the Pechersk Monastery, the tallest structure in the city. Susan would have loved all this, Robert thought. She had never been to Russia. He wondered if she had returned from Brazil yet. On an impulse, when he returned to his hotel room, he telephoned her, and to his surprise the call was put through almost immediately.

“Hello?” That throaty, sexy voice.

“Hi. How was Brazil?”

“Robert! I tried to telephone you several times. There was no answer.”

“I’m not home.”

“Oh.” She had been trained too well to ask where he was. “Are you feeling well?”

For a eunuch, I’m in wonderful shape. “Sure. Great. How’s Money … Monte?”

“He’s fine. Robert, we’re leaving for Gibraltar tomorrow.” On Moneybags’ fucking yacht, of course. What was the name of it? Ah, yes. The Halcyon. “The yacht?”

“Yes. You can call me on it. Do you remember the call letters?”

He remembered. WS337. What did the WS stand for? Wonderful Susan … Why separate … Wife stealer?

“Robert?”

“Yes, I remember. Whiskey Sugar 337.”

“Will you call? Just to let me know you’re all right.”

“Sure. I miss you, baby.”

A long, painful silence. He waited. What did he expect her to say? Come rescue me from this charming man who looks like Paul Newman and forces me to go on his 250-foot yacht and live in our squalid little palaces in Monte Carlo, and Morocco, and Paris, and London, and God alone knew where else. Like an idiot, he found himself half hoping she would say it.

“I miss you, too, Robert. Take care of yourself.” And the connection was broken. He was in Russia, alone.

Day Twelve

Early the following morning, ten minutes after the library opened, Robert walked into the huge, gloomy building and approached the reception desk.

“Good morning,” Robert said.

The woman behind the desk looked up. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Yes. I’m looking for a woman who I believe works here, Olga …”

“Olga? Yes, yes.” She pointed to another room. “She will be in there.”

“Thank you.”

It had been as easy as that. Robert walked into the other room, past groups of students solemnly studying at long tables, preparing for what kind of future? Robert wondered. He reached a smaller reading room and walked inside. A woman was busily stacking books.

“Excuse me,” Robert said.

She turned. “Yes?”

“Olga?”

“I am Olga. What do you wish with me?”