The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared (33 page)

‘I’m not taking a single step without Sonya and Buster!’

And then she was silent for a second before she added:

‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell!’

Since Benny for his part couldn’t contemplate taking a step without The Beauty, his enthusiasm rapidly evaporated.

‘Besides, I don’t suppose half of us even have a valid
passport
,’ he sighed.

But Allan calmly thanked Pike for his generosity with regard to how the suitcase money could best be shared. He thought a holiday was a good idea, and preferably as many thousands of miles from Director Alice as possible. If only the other members of the group could agree, they could surely sort out the transport issues and find a destination where they weren’t so fussy about visas for man and beast.

‘And how do you intend to take along a five-ton elephant on the plane?’ said Benny in despair.

‘I don’t know,’ said Allan. ‘But as long as we think positively, I’m sure a solution will appear.’

‘And the valid passports?’

‘As long as we think positively, as I said.’

‘I don’t think Sonya actually weighs much more than four tons, perhaps four and a half at the most,’ said The Beauty.

‘You see, Benny,’ said Allan. ‘That’s what I mean by thinking positively. The problem immediately became a whole ton less.’

‘I might have an idea,’ The Beauty said.

‘Me too,’ said Allan. ‘Can I use your phone?’

Yury Borisovich Popov lived and worked in the city of Sarov in Nizhny Novgorod, about 350 kilometres east of Moscow.

Sarov was a secret city, almost more secret than Secret Agent Hutton. It wasn’t even allowed to be called Sarov any longer, but had been given the not particularly romantic name Arzamas-16. Besides, the entire city had been rubbed out on all maps. Sarov did and didn’t exist at one and the same time, depending on whether you referred to reality or to something else – kind of like Vladivostok for a few years from 1953 on, except the opposite.

The city was fenced in with barbed wire, and not a soul was let in or out without a vigorous security check. If you had an American passport and were stationed at the American Embassy in Moscow, it was not advisable to come anywhere near.

CIA agent Ryan Hutton and his new pupil Allan Karlsson had practised the A to Z of spying for several weeks before Allan was installed at the embassy in Moscow under the name Allen Carson and with the vague title ‘administrator’.

Embarrassingly for Secret Agent Hutton, he had completely ignored the fact that the target that Allan Karlsson was intended to approach was unapproachable, shut in behind barbed wire in a city that was so well protected that it wasn’t even allowed to be called what it was called, or to be where it was.

Secret Agent Hutton told Allan he was sorry about the mistake, but added that Mr Karlsson would surely think up something. Popov must visit Moscow now and then.

‘But now you’ll have to excuse me, Mr Karlsson,’ said Secret Agent Hutton on the phone from the French capital. ‘I have some other business on my desk. Good luck!’

Secret Agent Hutton replaced the receiver, sighed deeply, and returned to the mess of the aftermath of the military coup in Greece the previous year – supported by the CIA. Like so much else in recent times, it had not exactly turned out as intended.

Allan, for his part, had no better idea than to take a
refreshing
walk to the city library in Moscow every day and sit there for hours reading the daily papers and magazines. He was hoping that he would come across an article about Popov making a public appearance outside the barbed wire that fenced in Arzamas-16.

The months went by and no such news items cropped up. But Allan could read about how the presidential candidate Robert Kennedy met with the same fate as his brother and how Czechoslovakia had asked the Soviet Union for help getting its socialism in order.

Furthermore, Allan noted one day that Lyndon B. Johnson had been succeeded by a man called Richard M. Nixon. But since he was still getting his expenses from the embassy in an envelope every month, Allan thought that he had better keep on looking for Popov. If anything changed, then Secret Agent Hutton would no doubt get in touch.

1968 turned into 1969 and spring was approaching when Allan in his everlasting thumbing through newspapers at the library came across something interesting. The Vienna Opera was going to give a guest performance at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, with Franco Corelli as tenor and the international Swedish star Birgit Nilsson in the role of Turandot.

Allan scratched his (now again) beardless chin and
remembered
the first and only entire evening that he and Yury had spent together. Late in the night, Yury had started to sing an aria. ‘
Nessun dorma
’ is what he had sung – nobody is allowed
to sleep! Not long afterwards, he had for reasons connected with alcohol fallen asleep anyway, but that was another matter.

To Allan’s way of thinking, a person who at one time could manage a more or less good rendering of Puccini and Turandot at a depth of 200 metres, would hardly miss a guest
performance
from Vienna with the same opera at the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, would he? Especially if the man in question lived only a few hours away and had received so many medals that he would have no problem getting a seat.

Or perhaps he might. And, in that case, Allan would have to continue his daily walks to and from the library. That was the worst that could happen, and that wasn’t so bad.

For the time being, Allan worked on the assumption that Yury might turn up outside the Opera, and then all he had to do was to stand there and remind him of their last drinking bout. And that would be that.

Or it wouldn’t.

Not at all, in fact.

On the evening of 22nd March 1969, Allan placed himself strategically on the left of the main entrance to the Bolshoi Theatre. The idea had been that from such a position he would be able to recognise Yury when he passed by on his way into the auditorium. There turned out to be a problem, however: all the visitors looked almost identical. They were men in black suits under a black coat and women in long dresses which showed under a black or brown fur coat. They all came in pairs and rapidly went from the cold outside into the warmth of the theatre, past Allan where he stood on the magnificent stairway’s top step. And it was dark too, so how on earth would Allan be able to identify a face he had seen for two days twenty-one years ago? Unless he had the incredible luck that Yury recognise him instead.

No, Allan didn’t have any such luck. It was of course far from certain that Yury Borisovich was now inside the theatre, but, if he was, he had passed a few metres from his old friend without noticing. So what could Allan do? He thought aloud:

‘If you have just gone into the theatre, dear Yury Borisovich, then you will pretty certainly be coming out again in a few hours through the same door. But then you are going to look just the same as when you went in. So I am not going to be able to find you. That means you will have to find me.’

So be it. Allan went back to his little office at the embassy, made his preparations and returned well before Prince Calàf had made Princess Turandot’s heart melt.

More than anything Secret Agent Hutton had impressed upon Allan the word ‘discretion’. A successful agent never made any noise. He should melt into his environment to such a degree that he was almost invisible.

‘Do you understand, Mr Karlsson?’

‘Absolutely, Mr Hutton,’ Allan had answered.

Birgit Nilsson and Franco Corelli were called back to the stage twenty times by the applauding audience; the performance was a huge success. So it took an extra long time before people who all looked alike started to stream down the steps again. What everyone then noticed was the man standing in the middle of the bottom step, with both arms in the air holding a home-made poster on which could be read:

Allan Karlsson had of course understood Secret Agent Hutton’s sermons; he simply paid no attention to them. In Hutton’s Paris
it was spring, but in Moscow it was both cold and dark. Allan was freezing, and now he wanted results. At first he had intended to write Yury’s name on the poster, but eventually decided that if he was going to be indiscreet then it should be on his own behalf.

Larissa Aleksandrevna Popova, Yury Borisovich Popov’s wife, lovingly held on to her husband’s arm and thanked him for the fifth time for the fantastic experience they had just shared. Birgit Nilsson was pure Maria Callas! And the seats!

The fourth row, right in the middle. Larissa was happier than she had been for a long time. And besides, this evening she and her husband would be staying at a hotel, and she wouldn’t have to go back to that horrid city behind the barbed wire for almost twenty-four hours. They would have a romantic dinner for two… just her and Yury… and then perhaps…

‘Excuse me, darling,’ said Yury and stopped on the top step just outside the theatre doors.

‘What is it, my dear?’ Larissa asked anxiously.

‘It’s probably nothing… But do you see that man down there with the poster? I have to go and have a look… It can’t be… but the man is dead!’

‘Who’s dead, darling?’

‘Come on!’ said Yury and negotiated his way down the steps with his wife.

Three metres from Allan, Yury stopped and tried to make his brain understand what his eyes had registered. Allan saw his crazily staring friend from long ago, lowered his poster and said:

‘Was she good, Birgit?’

Yury still didn’t say anything, but his wife whispered, ‘Is this the dead man?’ Allan said that he wasn’t dead, and if the Popov couple wanted to make sure he didn’t freeze to death it would
be best if they could immediately lead him to a restaurant where he could get some vodka and perhaps a bite to eat.

‘It really is you…’ Yury finally managed to exclaim. ‘But… You speak Russian…?’

‘Yes, I went on a five-year Russian course shortly after we last met,’ said Allan. ‘The school was called Gulag. What about that vodka?’

Yury Borisovich was a very moral man, and the last twenty-one years he had felt very guilty for having involuntarily lured the Swedish atom-bomb expert to Moscow for subsequent transport to Vladivostok, where the Swede
presumably
– if not earlier – would have died in that fire that all reasonably well informed Soviet citizens knew about. He had suffered for twenty-one years, because he had instantly liked the Swede and his unstoppable ability to look on the bright side.

Now Yury Borisovich was standing outside the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow, where it was -15°C, after a warming opera performance and… no, he couldn’t believe it. Allan Emmanuel Karlsson had survived. He lived. And he was standing in front of Yury this very moment. In the middle of Moscow. Speaking Russian!

Yury Borisovich had been married to Larissa Aleksandrevna for forty years and they were very happy together. They hadn’t been blessed with children, but their mutual trust knew no bounds. They shared everything for better or worse and Yury had more than once expressed to his wife the sorrow he felt over the fate of Allan Emmanuel Karlsson. And now, while Yury still tried to make sense of events, Larissa Aleksandrevna took command.

‘If I understand correctly, this is your friend from the old days, the man you indirectly sent to his death. Dear Yury,
would it not be a good idea if in accordance with his wishes we take him quickly to a restaurant and provide him with some vodka before he dies for real?’

Yury didn’t answer, but he nodded and let his wife drag him over to the waiting limousine in which he was seated beside his until recently dead comrade while his wife gave instructions to the driver.

‘The Pushkin Restaurant, please.’

They needed two good drinks for Allan to thaw out and two more for Yury to come to his senses again. In between, Allan and Larissa got to know each other.

When Yury was finally able to replace shock with joy (‘Now we’re going to celebrate!’), Allan thought it was time to get down to business. If you had something to say, better just to say it right away.

‘What do you think about becoming a spy?’ asked Allan. ‘I myself am one, and it is actually rather exciting.’

Yury choked on his fifth drink.

‘Spy?’ asked Larissa while her husband coughed.

‘Yes, or “agent”. I don’t really know what the difference is, actually.’

‘So interesting! Tell us more, please, Allan Emmanuel.’

‘No, don’t, Allan,’ Yury coughed. ‘We don’t want to know any more!’

‘Don’t be silly, dear Yury,’ said Larissa. ‘Let your friend tell us about his job; you haven’t seen each other for so many years. Go on, Allan Emmanuel.’

Allan went on and Larissa listened with interest while Yury hid his face in his hands. Allan told them about the dinner with President Johnson and Secret Agent Hutton from the CIA and the meeting with Hutton the following day, during which
Hutton suggested that Allan should travel to Moscow and find out how things were with the Soviet missiles.

The alternative that Allan saw before him was to stay on in Paris where he would certainly have his hands full with preventing the ambassador and her husband from creating diplomatic crises just by opening their mouths. Since Amanda and Herbert were two, and Allan couldn’t possibly be in more than one place at a time, he agreed to Secret Agent Hutton’s proposal. It sounded less stressful. Besides, it would be nice to meet Yury after all these years.

Yury still had his hands over his face, but he was peeping at Allan between his fingers. Had Yury heard Herbert Einstein’s name mentioned? Yury remembered him and it would certainly be good news if Herbert too had survived the kidnapping and the prison camp that Beria had sent him to.

Oh, yes, Allan confirmed. And then he told the story briefly, the story of the twenty years together with Herbert; about how his friend first wanted nothing more than to die, but when he finally did so, dropping dead at the age of seventy-six last December in Paris, he had completely changed his mind about that. He left behind him a successful wife – now widow – who was a diplomat in Paris, and two teenage children. The last reports from the French capital said that the family had coped well with Herbert’s death, and that Mrs Einstein had become something of a favourite in important circles. Her French was admittedly dreadful, but that was part of her charm; now and then she said stupid things that she couldn’t possibly mean.

‘But we seem to have got off our subject,’ said Allan. ‘You forgot to answer my question. What about becoming a spy. Isn’t it time for a change?’

‘But Allan Emmanuel, my good friend. This simply can’t be happening! I am more honoured for my services to the mother
country than any other non-military person in the modern history of the Soviet Union. It is absolutely out of the question that I should become a spy!’ said Yury and raised his glass to his mouth.

‘Don’t say that, dear Yury,’ said Larissa, and let her husband knock back drink number six, as he had knocked back number five.

‘Isn’t it better to drink your vodka instead of spraying it all over?’ Allan asked kindly.

Larissa Popova expanded upon her reasoning, while her husband again put his hands in front of his face. She and Yury would both be sixty-five soon, and what did they actually have to thank the Soviet Union for? Yes, her husband had received lots and lots of decorations and awards, and that in turn led to fine tickets at the Opera. But otherwise?