Prisoners of Tomorrow (16 page)

Nolan stood up flushed and tight-lipped, and marched toward the door without saying anything. The light above came on, the beeper beeped, and he was gone. The two scientists stared for a moment longer and returned to what they had been doing.

“Hear, hear,” Smovak murmured barely above his breath, and looked back at the chess game. Mungabo was cackling delightedly in the top bunk by McCain. Scanlon moved over to his own bunk opposite and sat down. “I see ye’ve been getting a piece o’ the indoctrination,” he said to McCain.

“Doesn’t he ever quit?” McCain asked.

“He’s worse with the new fellas,” Scanlon said. “Either he makes a friend, or he shuts up . . .” he nodded at McCain, “and sometimes somebody shuts him up. It’s a little peace we’ll all be having for a while now, I’m thinkin’.” Scanlon watched until McCain turned his head toward him, then pulled the top of his jacket aside to reveal the top of a metal flask. He winked, and his voice fell to a whisper. “From a little still that somebody’s got running in a place I won’t mention. As good as poteen, but I can’t vouch for how well it compares to your own mountain dew. Maybe a drop or two later, eh?”

“Sure. Is there a price?”

“Oh, let’s say it’s on credit. When I need a favor, I’ll let you know.” Scanlon scratched the side of his nose pensively. “But then again, from the tail end of what I just heard, I’d say you’ve already earned it.”

“Well, I never argue with a guy who’s buying.”

Scanlon gave McCain a long, curious look, as if weighing him up. “And it’s not as if that system of theirs is anything for himself to be getting so excited about.”

McCain looked uncertain. “What system? You mean Nolan? The Russian system?”

“Ah, sure, and what else would I be talking about?” McCain frowned, wondering what this had to do with anything. Scanlon rolled his eyes pointedly, indicating that walls had ears.

“They don’t trust anyone, either,” McCain replied, nodding to show that he understood. “It’s kind of a conditioned reflex. Did you know that Tolstoy’s serfs didn’t want him to free them when he tried? They thought it was a trick. They wouldn’t have a school either. They said the only reason he wanted to educate the kids was to sell them to the czar as foot soldiers.”

Scanlon shook his head solemnly. “That’s terrible, now.”

“I wonder what does it.”

“Centuries of living under rapacious rulers,” Scanlon said. “A system that did nothing to discourage exploitation.”

“You mean like the Brits?”

Scanlon stared back fixedly for a moment. “Let’s go for a walk outside,” he suggested.

“It seems to me that you’re already well on your way to understanding the way things are in Zamork, Lew,” Scanlon said. “I’ve a feeling you’re from some kind of background that hasn’t exactly made you a newcomer to such things, but what it might be I’ll leave as your business.” They had come out through the door at the rear of the B Block mess area into the general compound, which contained its usual evening crowd of gray-clad figures standing, walking, talking, watching. “What do you make of the place so far?”

“Strange kind of a prison,” McCain answered.

“It is that. And have ye had any thoughts as to why that might be?”

McCain could see nothing to lose by being frank. “It’s an information mine,” he said.

“Now there’s an interesting thought,” Scanlon answered.

“Mines have miners in them. Also, there has to be something to dig. But in this mine it’s hard to tell the difference.”

For McCain’s conclusion was that the whole place was set up for the gathering of sensitive information—the practice of which had always been a Russian passion. From foreign intelligence operatives like himself to Russian domestic dissidents, Zamork was full of people who knew a lot about the enemies of the regime at home and abroad, and their intentions—a priceless trove of information to be gathered. It followed that the place would also be full of others put there to do the gathering. He was unlikely to be the first to have arrived at such a conclusion, and no doubt that was why nobody trusted anybody. The theory fitted, too, with the laxness in discipline beneath the superficial pretense: the authorities
wanted
the inmates to mix, talk, and go through the motions of defying the system—and the looser their tongues became in the process, the better.

They passed a group practicing gymnastics on homemade equipment, and Scanlon steered McCain toward a gathering in the center, where an improvised choir a dozen or so strong was delivering a hearty rendering of a Romanian folk song. “Well, Mr. Earnshaw or whoever you really are, I’ve decided to take a chance on ye.” He had to lean close to McCain and shout into his ear to be heard. McCain noticed that most of the others around them were behaving similarly and taking no notice of the singing whatever. He smiled faintly as the meaning of the choir dawned on him.

He turned his head toward Scanlon. “Why?”

“Three things ye did that stoolies don’t do.”

“Such as what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scanlon said. McCain thought he already knew, anyway. He hadn’t posed as a transfer from elsewhere in Zamork, which would have provided a reason for being familiar with anything a new arrival wouldn’t know about; he hadn’t denied that he spoke Russian; and he hadn’t shown any eagerness to tell a cover story and get it accepted. Scanlon went on, “And besides, I pride meself on being a sound judge of people.”

“Okay, Kev, I’m glad to hear it. So what do you want?”

“To buy your soul. What else would you expect from the devil himself?”

“Who said it was for sale? In all the stories I’ve read, it never turns out to be a good deal.”

Scanlon clapped him on the back. “Aha, always the cautious one, eh! That’s good. Now, I’m thinking that there’s some of us as might be able to be of a little help to ye.”

“I’m interested. Go on.”

“My understanding is that you’ve been trying to obtain certain information through the official channels via Luchenko.”

“I asked him for an interview with the commandant,” McCain agreed. “I brought it up the day I arrived, and again three days after that.”

“And what was the result?” Scanlon asked.

“Nothing. I think they’re jerking me around.”

“What was it that ye wanted to know—in general, if you take my meaning? You don’t have to be specific.”

“I was with a colleague when I was arrested. I just want to get some news.”

Scanlon nodded and watched the singers for a while, who had switched to a song that McCain recognized as the melody of part of a Brahms violin concerto. Then, as if abandoning that line of conversation suddenly, Scanlon said, “It’s not that Russians are incapable, you understand. But their system doesn’t give them sensible goals to aim at. They’re not rewarded for being efficient. They’re rewarded for achieving the Plan, even if the Plan makes no sense.” He paused, and added absently, “It leads to a lot of corruption—endemic to the society, you might say. . . . A man will get nothing done without paying the right price to the right person. And then again, if you look at it the other way round, there isn’t anything that can’t be done, provided you know who to ask.”

“If Luchenko needs greasing, he should find a way to say so,” McCain said. “I don’t read minds.”

“Ah well, it’s his way to let people stew until they get anxious. It raises the price. But then, on the other hand, maybe it isn’t Luchenko that ye need to be dealing with at all.” Scanlon paused, giving McCain a sidelong glance, and moved his head closer as he came to the point. “Some of us have a little understanding with one of the guard officers, who has access to central record information. I can put you in contact with him. He’ll be able to find out if there’s any news of your friend.”

“And what will he want out of it?” McCain asked.

“What does anyone want out of anything? Money, drink, sex, a good time. A new coat for the wife, if he has one, or bikes for the kids. Asian and Western goods still fetch fabulous prices on the Soviet black market.”

“Look, this may come as a surprise, but I didn’t come here stocked up for a long stay. And I don’t think of myself as all that pretty.”

Scanlon went off on one of his apparent tangents again. “Tell me something, Lew, is it a fact that ye’ve been something of a Russian scholar in your time? You seem to know a lot about them.”

“I majored in modern history and languages. That’s not uncommon for a journalist,” McCain said. Both statements were true. It was best if cover identities drew as much from reality as was practicable.

“Did you ever read Dostoyevsky?”

“Sure.”

“Then ye’ll have heard of the secret society of thieves who as good as ran the Russian criminal underworld back in the times of the czars. They penetrated the prison system, too, got themselves special treatment, and sometimes intimidated the authorities. Also, they had a communications network that bordered on being uncanny.” McCain nodded. And as Solzhenitsyn had described a century later, they were still around and doing a thriving business long after the Revolution. Scanlon drew on McCain’s sleeve and they began walking slowly across the compound, keeping their distance from the walls. “It works like this,” he said. “Today it’s turned into a sophisticated operation called ‘the Cooperative,’ and survives through having connections into all the state bureaucracies, even the KGB. And it exists here, too.”

“In Zamork, you mean?”

Scanlon waved a hand vaguely. “Around
Tereshkova,
generally.”

“Do we know who?”

“Not unless they want you to. But there are account numbers in the Exchange that you can voucher points to, which through processes that we needn’t concern ourselves with will end up as rubles in a Moscow bank. Through a code system, you authorize your creditor—in this case the guard officer that I mentioned—to draw it out. So whether he wants a blonde for himself or a bike for the kids, he’ll find the wherewithal waiting for him when he goes back on his next Earthside leave. Then, when you finally get out, you settle your accumulated account with the Cooperative in US dollars, yuan, or yen—plus interest, naturally.”

“In other words they’re offering a loan service for bribing the guards.”

“Exactly.”

“How much does this cost?”

“Well, it’s not cheap, I’ll admit. But then again, we’re not talking about the world’s most secure line of investment either.”

“Suppose a guy doesn’t get out.”

“Bad debts are factored into every business. So you can see why it wouldn’t be cheap—the losses have to be recovered somehow.”

“Suppose somebody forgets to settle up when he does get out?”

“I’d advise strongly against it.”

McCain fell silent as they turned at the tripwire five feet inside the wall and began retracing their steps. With the ability to put guards, officers, and possibly even some of the senior officials in their pocket, a termite operation like that could undermine the whole system. The fact that it extended into Zamork suggested that somebody influential somewhere had been persuaded that he’d serve his own interests better by not interfering. If this typified what was going on beneath the surface everywhere, then maybe the whole Soviet Potemkin illusion was on the verge of caving in.

He thrust his hands into his pockets and considered the implications and risks. If the officer failed to deliver, all McCain would have lost would be a few points of Monopoly money, and the Cooperative would have forsaken any opportunity of doing repeat business. If he got what he wanted but rubles failed to materialize in the Moscow bank, that would be the officer’s problem, not McCain’s. What was Scanlon’s angle on it? he wondered. The Irishman made no secret of having worked with terrorist groups, and McCain had already categorized him, beneath his superficial bonhomie and calculated loquaciousness, as capable of acting with utter ruthlessness if a situation called for it: a killer. Not somebody who was disposed to handing out favors just to be nice to people.

They came back to the group standing in front of the choir, and stopped. “So, what’s in it for you?” McCain asked. “Are you on a percent of the take or something?”

Scanlon continued staring ahead impassively and shrugged. “A man has to make a living,” he said. It was as much of a concession as anyone could have asked for.

McCain drew a long breath and sighed. “Okay, deal me in,” he agreed. “Where do I sign?”

“Leave it with me,” Scanlon told him. “You’ll be hearing.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The next morning, four of the Siberians in the central part of the billet went on strike. Although from different nations and sects, they shared a religious taboo about pigs, and were protesting at being assigned to a work detail that involved cleaning out animal pens in one of the agricultural sectors. It was McCain’s turn for cleaning the billet that day, which meant that somebody from one of the other billets would be working the shift in the machine shop with Scanlon.

Some of the cleaning materials kept in a closet in the washroom area at the rear of the billet were getting low. McCain made a list of the items he needed and picked up an empty cardboard box to take to the OI store to collect them. When he came out into the billet, the Siberians were still sitting impassively on their bunks, as they had been when he passed through. Luchenko was standing in the center space, remonstrating with them. “Let us discuss this reasonably. You be fair with me, and I’ll be fair with you . . .” He directed his words mainly at a tall, clear-skinned Uzbek called Irzan, who seemed to be the strike organizer. Maiskevik, as always, was standing a few paces back, arms folded across his chest, scowling and silent.

News of the strike had spread, and when McCain emerged into the mess area he found a crowd of inmates from B-3 and other billets gathering outside the door to demonstrate their solidarity with the Siberians. A guard officer was facing them with several guards, urging them to disperse and leave the matter with the authorities. McCain left the mess area and went out onto Gorky Street. He crossed to the other side and began walking in the direction of the next corridor leading into the Core.

“Settling in?” a voice called from behind him. McCain turned and saw he was being followed by Peter Sargent, an Englishman from B-12, one of the upper-level billets. He was in his late thirties, with light hair and somewhat boyish features which he attempted to disguise, McCain suspected, with his ragged, sandy-colored mustache. McCain found him cheerful and amiable, reminiscent of some of the British he had worked with in Europe.