Moscow

Zhukov was unkempt, unshaven, dirty and drunk. Vodka spilled out of a half empty bottle clutched tightly in his right fist. He lurched across the road, ranting and raving. Still raving unintelligibly, he waded knee-high into a rain swollen river. The water swirled around him but he waded even deeper. Now the water was up to his chest and his right arm flourished the vodka bottle over his head. It seemed both a symbol of defiance and a cry for help. His shouting became even louder. Now he was up to his neck in the water and his eyes were bulging out of his head. Suddenly he was out of the river, dripping wet, vodka bottle still in hand, now standing motionless like a statue in the middle of the road. Cars seemed to appear out of nowhere, travelling in both directions, missing him by mere inches. Still he stood there like a rock as though daring them to hit him.

MacDara's first conscious sense was the rapid noisy beating of his heart. His next sense was fear. Sweat poured off his body and the single sheet that covered him was damp and clammily cold around his neck. He sat up, turned on the light and reached for his watch. It was four a.m. He swung his feet onto the floor and into the crumpled pile of his clothes, dropped there when he had fallen drunkenly into bed two hours earlier. He went out to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. His heart was still racing. Alcohol and adrenalin. The deadly combination. Last night was the first time he'd really set out to get drunk since Kate died. Oh yes, he'd known what he was doing. He had wanted it all to go away. Kate's death. Anna's murder. All the deaths. All the killing. He made his way back to the bed, climbed in and sat upright, thinking.

This dream, this nightmare, had seemed so real. His rational mind told him that it was the drink that caused it. But another deeper sense told him not to be so sure about that. His Celtic sense of life's mysteries insisted that life existed on many levels. Maybe it's an omen. A prophesy. A warning. Some form of ESP brought to life by his night of boozing. Oh yes, he knew he'd pay for it. His body was out of practice. But last night he hadn't given a damn. It had all started here, at this 'safe house', where Bob Alexander had brought him after he fled from the killings in the Kaminski. The 'safe house' was Dr. Ion Cretu's. His Moldovan consultant. A man with no particular love for the Russians. Ion had produced the vodka as soon as they had arrived. Medicine for trauma and shock. But it had soon become obvious as that first bottle emptied that Owen MacDara had wanted more than a pain killer. He had wanted oblivion.

Six hours later he woke up with a violent headache. He was slumped upright in an awkward position. The light was still on. He moved and then winced from the pain in his neck muscles. He felt nauseous and stumbled out to the toilet. His attempts at vomiting only succeeded in dry retching. He wished he were dead. Out of his misery. Then he swore he'd never do this again. The price was too great. He sat on the floor beside the toilet holding on to the rim of the bowl for support. Somehow the cool feel of the ceramic bowl earthed him, brought his mind back in focus. He remembered his dream, his nightmare. He closed his eyes and concentrated. The entire dream came back to him. He saw the drunken Zhukov up to his neck in the river, then standing statue-like in the road as the traffic whizzed past him. The dream was too vivid to dismiss. He determined to see Zhukov. Even if Misha Kedrov was scouring Moscow for him. He had to risk it. He needed to see Zhukov anyway. He had always felt that Zhukov had not told him everything. Now he thought he knew what Zhukov was holding back. He needed confirmation of that.

Mariinsk, Siberia.

The flight from Moscow to Kemerova, the regional capital of the Kuzbass region of Russia took a little over four hours. Owen MacDara sat silently beside Dr. Ion Cretu, staring ahead, blankly, stupidly. Perfectly in character with his papers which identified him as Dr. Cretu's retarded cousin. To Owen it wasn't too difficult. Unshaven and eyes red rimmed, he still hadn't recovered from his drunk of three nights previously. The morning after that drunken night, Bob Alexander and Ion Cretu, at MacDara's insistence, had attempted to find Zhukov. He wasn't at his apartment. He wasn't at his house in Safonikha. No one had seen him lately. A little bribery and couple of cases of vodka soon produced results. It seemed that Zhukov had been arrested for stealing sausages and vodka. He had protested his innocence. But to no avail. He was now in detention, awaiting trial. That could take from eighteen months to two years. There is no bail. Zhukov had already been in prison for three months. Russia's prison system was overcrowded and underfunded. Moscow's overflow was sent to the Kuzbass region in Siberia, the place where the Soviets and the Tsars sent their dissidents, their political foes, and their poets, artists and writers who failed to conform. Many died there from disease, harsh treatment and starvation. Ten thousand people work in the jails of Kuzbass, jails packed with over thirty thousand inmates. Many prisoners spend up to 23 hours a day in their cells. They are undernourished and unhealthy. TB is the biggest scourge of all. Prison hospital colonies are filled with tubercular inmates. This was the destiny of Georgy Zhukov. Dr. Ion Cretu had learned from his sources, lubricated with sufficient cases of vodka, that Zhukov had caught TB soon after his detention. He was now in Hospital Colony No. 27 in Mariinsk. Dr. Cretu was posing as his nephew and had requested permission to visit his uncle. Permission was granted. The bureaucracy had become lax and non-existent since the collapse of the Soviet Union.

At Kemerova a car was waiting for them, arranged and paid for by Bob Alexander. A three hour drive through forest and farmland and they were in Mariinsk. Dr. Ivan Malenkov ushered them into his spartan office.

"You may find that your uncle does not know you, Dr. Cretu," said Dr. Malenkov. "He is old and very sick and his mind wanders. Sometimes he doesn't know who he is or where he is."

"I don't understand," said Dr. Ion. "Six months ago, he was strong and healthy. What happened?"

"Oh, in a way, he did it to himself. He wouldn't eat when he came to Kemerova. Claimed he was innocent. They all do, you know. Claimed it was a conspiracy. To silence him. Another familiar claim," said Dr. Malenkov, eyeing Owen with some interest as Owen stared blankly into space fidgeting with the buttons on his coat, "but, of course, those days are gone. We don't have any political prisoners any more."

"When was he sent here?" asked Ion.

"About a month ago. When he wouldn't eat he just got weaker. Then he caught TB. We're treating him now. But he needs to take all of his drugs. Every day. Even then it may take up to a year to cure him. But only if he eats and only if he takes all his drugs. He's eating a bit, but not enough. We can't be sure if he's taking all of his drugs. There's been very little improvement in him since he came here. As I said, you're welcome to see him. But he may not know you," said Dr. Malenkov and then, pointing to Owen, said, "What about him?"

"My cousin. He was born like that. Can't speak or hear. But Uncle Georgy loves him. I brought him with me. Just a chance it might help," said Dr. Cretu.

The meeting was over. Dr. Malenkov called in a nurse, a stocky middle-aged, battle-weary woman.

"Nena," said Dr. Malenkov, "take Dr. Cretu and his cousin to see Georgy Zhukov," and then ushered them all out of his office.

Before they saw Zhukov, Nurse Nena asked them to put on white gauze masks, to protect themselves.

"It's safer if you wear these. It's better here now than it used to be. But you should still protect yourself. A couple of years ago about a third of our patients were dying from TB. We buried about one hundred a month. But now the World Health Organization is helping us. We're getting more money and more drugs," she said. "But don't stay with him too long. I doubt if he'll know you, anyway. I'm sorry."

With that she turned on her heel and plodded ahead of them to the corner of a ward unit where a hollow-cheeked, frail old man sat on the sagging mattress on his metal-framed bed. He was leaning on a walking stick that anchored him to the floor between his two bony knees. The man who sat there was only a shadow of the strong oak-like Zhukov that Owen found tilling his vegetables in Safonikha. Nurse Nena departed and left them there. There were no other patients in the ward. Georgy Zhukov looked at them. There was no recognition. Of course, there wouldn't be in the case of Dr. Ion Cretu. They had never met each other before. And the masks didn't help either, Owen decided. The old man was coughing now, a deep racking cough that shook his frail body. Owen stepped out of range of the cough and pulled down his mask.

"Mr. Zhukov. My name is Owen MacDara. Do you remember me? I went to see you in Safonikha in May. We talked about the KGB….about the Congo. I told you that the President of the United States had sent me to see you. I asked you abut the death of Dag Hammarskjold in the Congo. The U.N. Secretary General. Do you remember?" asked Owen, watching Zhukov for a sign of recognition, any sign. But Zhukov said nothing, trying to suppress his coughing, and looking intently at Owen. His eyes were bright, abnormally bright, the eyes of one whose mind seemed to be fired by the wasting of his body.

Dr. Ion Cretu spoke through his mask. "Owen, I'm afraid Dr. Malenkov is right. He doesn't remember you. I doubt that he would know his own mother. I'm afraid you'll learn no more here. Whatever you were looking for is going to stay that way. Maybe that's why Zhukov is here. To shut him up. If it is, they've succeeded."

"Oh, I know that's why he's here. This proud old man would never steal. He was framed. I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for him. Except hope that the drugs ease his pain. OK, let's go," said Owen putting on his mask again and looking at Zhukov for the last time. But Zhukov had taken his hands from the walking stick and propped it against the bed. He was unbuckling his belt and pulling it through the loops. Owen stopped and watched. Zhukov slid a long chisel-like thumb nail along a section of the belt and the seam came apart. He reached in with his bony fingers and took something out, something that looked like a piece of paper that had been folded and folded until it wasn't much larger than two postage stamps. He reached out and gave it to Owen. He still didn't speak but there was just the faint trace of a smile at the edge of his lips.

In the car on the return journey to Kemerova, Owen MacDara gingerly unfolded the piece of paper given to him by Georgy Zhukov. The writing was small, neat, precise. And Russian. He knew enough of the language to get the gist of it. This was the mirror image of the revelations in the Wainwright diary. Confirmation that the orders to kill Hammarskjold had come from Washington and Moscow. From someone instrumental in the overthrow of the Soviet Union. Someone now very powerful in the new Russia. This was what Misha Kedrov wanted. This was what he might already know. This was news that would topple the fragile Russian Government. This is exactly what Misha Kedrov wanted. It all became perfectly clear to Owen MacDara. Misha would get his revenge. And profit from it handsomely. His maffiya would be the only organization to survive the chaos that would ensue. A perfect revenge. Kedrov had to be stopped. At any cost.

Moldova

Dr. Ion Cretu slowed his Volga to a crawl as they approached the border crossing into Moldova. Looking at his passenger he said:

"Remember, you are my cousin. My retarded cousin. You are deaf and dumb. Keep that look. I'll do the talking for both of us."

Owen MacDara looked the part. He even felt the part. Unshaven for the past week, his eyes were red-rimmed and blotchy from lack of sleep. He had adopted a vacant stare and purposely looked straight ahead as Ion Cretu spoke. His lower lip was slack and a dribble of saliva appeared at the corner of his mouth.

There were two guards at the border. One seemed to be in charge. He did the talking. The other appeared to be just a functionary. Dr. Ion Cretu got out of the car and approached them. After an exchange of words the guard examined their identification documents and pointed towards Owen who could see Ion's body movements as he explained the sad condition of his cousin. The functionary walked back to the car and said something to Owen, first in Russian and then in Moldovan. Owen didn't budge, stared straight ahead vacantly. The guard walked away again and Owen could see him shake his head as he approached the other guard who was now handing back the documents to Ion. The leather folder displaying the doctor's medical credentials helped to impress him, especially the five folded US $20 dollar bills inside. He palmed the dollars as he returned the folder. Ion thanked him, walked back to the car, never looking at Owen, started the engine and moved slowly past the border post.

They were in Moldova. But they didn't speak for at least a mile. Then Dr. Ion Cretu looked across at Owen MacDara again:

"Now you don't have to look like an idiot any more."

"Ion, I've been playing the part like my life depended on it. And it probably did. So it's hard to give it up. But I'll try", said Owen, now grinning from ear to ear.

"We're not far from Kishinev now. You'll probably see more police before we get there. We have plenty of them in Moldova. But we shouldn't have any trouble. If any of them stop us, this always works", said Ion, gesturing with his hand and rubbing the thumb and fingers together intimating the passing of a bribe, "Your papers are good. They passed the test so you shouldn't have any problem getting to Bucharest. We and the Romanians are blood brothers anyway and it's easy going back and forth from Kishinev to Bucharest. We should be able to get you out of here in a couple of days."

Exactly three days later Owen MacDara, travelling under his own passport, boarded a British Airways flight from Bucharest to London.

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