The Yermakov Transfer. Derek Lambert

      He oiled the thought with more vodka.

      Then he thought: Why generalise? Why not deprive the Soviet Union of the nucleus of one branch of science?

      He was talking to an assistant editor of Novy Mir who, with a Molotov cocktail of champagne and vodka under his belt, was giving his personal opinion of the literary merits of Daniel and Synyavsky. “Just my opinion,” the editor said, looking furtively around. “Just between you and me. Understand?” He prodded Pavlov in the ribs.

      “Of course,” Pavlov said conspiratorially. “I understand.”

       Supposing I could get all the Jewish nuclear physicists to emigrate?

      Adrenalin and vodka raced in his veins.

      “… and that’s my opinion of Pasternak.” The Novy Mir editor said challengingly.

      Pavlov said: “I agree.” With what? “I’ve been to his grave. No one looks after it. Did you know that?”

      The editor looked bewildered. “Fancy that,” he said.

       What if I persuaded a team of Jewish nuclear physicists capable of making a hydrogen bomb to emigrate?

      “Solzhenitzyn,” the editor whispered. “A great writer.”

      Pavlov countered with: “What about Kuznetsov?”

      But, of course, the Soviets would never grant nuclear physicists exit visas. The idea was crazy. Unless.…

      The editor was still deliberating over Kuznetsov. His brain worked laboriously and his tongue was thick in his mouth. “Ah,” he managed, “Kuznetsov, a fine writer but …”

      Unless I found a way to force their hand.

      His mind raced with the possibilities; but it got nowhere, not that night.

      The Novy Mir editor abandoned the enigma Kuznetsov. The flushed guests began to leave.

      Tomorrow, Pavlov thought as he shook their hands automatically, I must reaffirm my faith with David Gopnik.

      * * *

      His wife was lying in bed waiting for him. She wore a pink cotton nightdress. She looked warm and sleepy and unheroic.

      “Viktor,” she said, as he undressed clumsily, “you were very bad tonight.”

      “I know.”

      “I’ve never seen you drunk before.”

      He fumbled with his shoelaces, sitting on the edge of the bed. “It doesn’t often happen.”

      “Why tonight? Was there a reason?”

      “Not particularly. It doesn’t matter. Everyone else was drunk.”

      He was naked, searching for his pyjamas. “They’re under the pillow,” she told him. He climbed into bed, his legs heavy, and gazed at the spinning ceiling.

      “Who was that man you were talking to?”

      “Which man?”

      “The man you were stuck with in the corner for nearly an hour.”

      “His name’s Gopnik. He’s one of the best men on computers in the Soviet Union.” He closed his eyes but even the darkness lurched.

      “Is he Jewish?”

      He opened his eyes. “What if he is?”

      She looked surprised. “Nothing. I just wondered if he was.”

      He knew the drink was talking and he knew he must stop it. “You made it sound as if he was a leper.”

      She was bewildered. “I didn’t mean to. I’ve nothing against the Jews. I just don’t understand why they want to leave Russia.”

      The answers struggled to escape, but he fought them. He said: “Because they believe they have a land of their own.”

      “But they’re more Russian than they’re Jewish.”

      He wanted to shout “I’m a Jew” and see the shock on her face. “Not now,” he managed. “I’m too tired. Too drunk.” He reached for her. “Turn the other way. The smell of vodka must be foul.”

      Obediently, she turned and he slipped his arms around her. She felt warm and soft, still smelling faintly of perfume. He cupped one breast in his hand. We’re good together, he thought. And yet I have to destroy our happiness.

      “Viktor,” she said, “I’m frightened.”

      But he was asleep.

      * * *

      The sky was pale blue this October morning with the sunlight finding the gold cupolas of the Kremlin and the sapphires in the frost on the cobblestones of Red Square.

      The eternal queue was shuffling into the tomb, made of slabs of polished dark-red porphyry and black granite, to pay homage to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, the man who gave them what they had.

      Gopnik was waiting beside the queue wearing a shabby overcoat and a woollen scarf. He looked very vulnerable, Pavlov thought.

      He greeted Pavlov almost shyly. “I believe I was rude last night. I’m sorry – I’m not used to alcohol. As you know we don’t drink too much.”

      Pavlov patted him on the shoulder. “That’s all right. You had just had a disappointment.”

      They walked beside the Kremlin walls, which enclosed so much beauty and so much intrigue, until they reached the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Alexander Gardens. The eternal flame was pale in the cold sunshine.

      Gopnik pointed at it. “I, too, fought.”

      “For what?”

      “I sometimes wonder,” Gopnik said.

      They drove in Pavlov’s black Volga to the Exhibition of Economic Achievements. A vast park with 370 buildings, models of sputniks and space ships, industrial exhibits, shops and cafés. A few brown and yellow leaves still hung on the branches of the trees.

      They toured the radio-electronics building first to give credence to their visit. Then they sat on a bench with dead leaves stirring at their feet.

      Pavlov said: “You know why I wanted to see you?”

      “To tell me you’re a Jew. You didn’t have to.” Gopnik paused to light a cigarette. “Don’t take any notice of what I said last night. You have more sense than me.”

      “Not necessarily. But I have my reasons. But I couldn’t allow you to leave Moscow thinking I was a hypocrite.” He smiled faintly. “A Judas.” He dug his hands into the pockets of his grey Crombie. He was conscious of his clothes, the deep shine to his black shoes, the elegant cut of his trousers. He asked: “How long have you been trying to get out of Russia for?”

      Gopnik opened a cardboard case and consulted several sheets of paper headed Ukranian Academy of Science. “Like most people,” he said. “Since June, 1967.”

      “How many times have you tried?”

      “Twenty.” Gopnik ran his finger down the list. “The Director of the Department of Internal Affairs … The Chairman of the Council of Ministers of the U.S.S.R. … the Prosecutor General of the U.S.S.R. … the Chairman of the Commission of Legal Provisions of the Council of Nationalities, Comrade Nishanov … the editor of Literaturnaya Gazata, Comrade Chakovsky.…”

      He paused for breath. “You see, I’ve tried.”

      “Yes,” Pavlov said, “you’ve tried.”

      “My story is the same as that of any Jew with brains. You can see the Russians’ point – ‘Why give your brains to the enemy?’ “

      “Why