A Rude Awakening

Moscow, 22nd October 1993

As the tarmac of the road gave way to a sequence of pitted concrete
slabs, the twilight, already sultry, became ever more sulphurous. The
little car rattled along, now between shacks and slums and piles of
garbage as the carriageway narrowed. A tilt and a sharp camber
simultaneously sent Lewin somehow simultaneously upwards, downwards and
sideways, the brake responding only fitfully, but suddenly the car was
slowing down and the track petered out into the shallows of a gloomy
seashore ringed with dark basalt. The engine conked. The village, or
whatever it was he just passed through, had vanished. There was no way
either forwards or back. Lewin thought, I have had this dream so many
times, but I still cannot recall how it ends.

The next instant he was sitting bolt upright and wide awake.

The loudest noise he had ever experienced had just ripped through him,
pulsing through every nerve and hair of his body, and the shoddy
furniture of the hotel room was still juddering. The sensation
immediately following was the answering pounding of a vicious headache
on the roof of his skull, one relic of his overindulgence the previous
evening, which made him wince and fall back on his pillow.

There he encountered a further relic, a blonde girl lying with her back
to him, who appeared to be still asleep. And her name was&;#8230;..
Lewin struggled to summon his dishevelled faculties. Tanya? Svyeta? Now
deeply disoriented, he cautiously rolled to the edge of the bed and
experimented in standing. He was instantly demolished by the sound of
another explosion. In its aftermath he hauled himself cautiously to the
window.

The tank was immediately below him in Kutuzovsky Prospekt and was
accompanied by two or three others. They formed a 'front line' in front
of the Kalininsky Bridge, which had been occupied until the previous
evening by the rebel Parliament members. Lewin had strolled amongst
them, as a curiosity, listening to their crazy ranting about Yids and
Americans, and being careful not to snag his trousers on the pitifully
sparse shreds of barbed-wire that marked the outer ring of the White
House 'defences'. Of course at that time, when no-one knew on which
side the Army was likely to come out, it was not clear who could be
categorised as a rebel. The present bombardment seemed to resolve that
question, if nothing else.

Beyond the far end of the bridge, the steps of the Parliament building
were empty of yesterday's chanting crowds, and puffs of smoke were
already issuing from upper windows. Little else seemed to be happening,
apart from a gathering of spectators on an opposite roof and a few in
the street below behind the cordons. Guarding the cordons were burly
soldiers in black outfits with balaclava masks.

A third round from the tanks hardly fluttered Lewin at all, as his
headache had become his main preoccupation - amazing how quickly one
can adapt to situations, he complimented himself.

He glanced at his watch - exactly 7 a.m. The girl, amazingly, slept on,
her shoulders gently rising and falling, in oblivion of the possible
Armageddon breaking out below. She looked touchingly fragile in the
ugly room. Like a canary in a mine, Lewin thought, irrelevantly. And
then the name came, Varya. Kolya's present.

Civil war was not a contingency to which Lewin had given much thought
in his business plan. When he had spoken to the British Embassy prior
to his trip they had told him 'not to worry about the Parliament, it's
just a little local activity that will be cleared up without bloodshed'
- 'more of a tourist attraction than anything else' the voice had added
jovially. Eric and Arthur, his clients, had not batted an eyelid
between them; 'should just make it all a bit more fun', one of them had
said in his flat Birmingham accent. Which of them had said this Lewin
remained uncertain - he had categorised them mentally as 'Bill and Ben,
the scrap metal men', so indistinguishable were they, and so dedicated
to their chosen commodity.

True, there had been a different opinion amongst the 'dezhurniye' - the
brooding concierges on each hotel floor who, despite perestroika, still
kept an eagle eye on perfidious foreign visitors. One of the knacks
that Lewin had picked up quickest was to consult these Sybils on
arrival as to what was cooking - it was tricks like this that enabled
him to blazon himself as an 'expert'. He had come across a gaggle of
them sharing coffee and sandwiches in the fifth-floor laundry-room when
he arrived with his clients on the Wednesday, and they had told him
that the troops were poised to move in early Monday morning. When he
had mentioned this to Bill and Ben their response had been prompt; "No
problem my son, we're going back on Sunday anyway, looks like you'll
have to deal with it yourself". Ha bloody ha, thought Lewin, as he
turned up the Embassy number in his Filofax. As he picked up the phone,
the room rattled to a further discharge; but at least the line was
working.

'British Embassy, Duty Officer speaking'.

'Good morning. Look, my name is Lewin and I'm staying at the Ukraina
Hotel, and as you probably know' - boom- 'as you can hear, there seems
to be a little war going on here. Can you tell me what the situation
is?'

A pause 'Ah, well, there was some trouble overnight at the TV station,
and we know that troops are being deployed but - er - well - you're a
bit closer to it all than we are - perhaps you can tell us what's going
on?'

Following this unhelpful exchange, Lewin cradled the receiver on the
phone, and then his head in his hands, resting the top of his
eye-sockets on his fingers. Three strands of thought were
counterpointing the firing and the throbbing of his headache; first,
how to escape from this unpleasantly dangerous place; second, a dim but
growing recollection of his embarrassing performance, or
non-performance rather, with Varya; and third, most pressingly, the
need for some breakfast.

Whilst he repressed the second of these themes, and temporised with the
others, a new and most unwelcome consideration arose, namely that if
the present fracas were not swiftly and satisfactorily resolved, he
might not be able to extract his fee from his clients.

In fact he now began fulsomely to resent ever having got involved with
them, although this was completely unreasonable as he had gone out of
his way to sell them his services. He could still remember clearly his
meeting with a tedious Second Secretary at the Embassy in Kiev, during
which he had exercised himself with one of his most useful talents, the
ability to read upside down. Amongst the papers scattered on the
Secretary's desk, and clearly destined never to receive a response, was
a letter from Cuprex Metals Ltd., asking about opportunities for buying
non-ferrous metals and scrap.

Lewin's business card bore his name, followed by the words
'International Consultant'. To the question, 'What consultancy do you
specialise in?', he was wont to answer, 'Pay me money, you can consult
me about anything.' Lewin knew next to nothing about non-ferrous
metals, but it was the little bits and pieces that he did know that
made him a professional expert.

In the present case, he knew that the Ukraine was one of the few parts
of the former Soviet Union not to have any non-ferrous mineral deposits
whatever. And he also reasoned that Messrs. Cuprex, not having the nous
to realise this, might be sufficiently credulous to take him on board
as the man who could tell them where they should be looking.
Furthermore, he knew that he could get the contacts he would need
through Rodion Romanovich and Fat Kolya. So he made a mental note of
the upside-down phone number on the letterheading, and then back in
London contacted Eric - or was it Arthur? - and then one thing led to
another&;#8230;&;#8230;in fact, to his being in imminent danger
of being blown to pieces after a night of humiliation and leaving
behind nothing except an ungrieving wife and an enormous overdraft. The
bastards! They could, after all, simply have told him to get lost when
he had first phoned them.

From this little reverie of self-pity, always one of Lewin's favourite
occupations, he was aroused by a new level of noise, this time a
hammering on his door, accompanied by indistinct Russian bawling. This,
he instinctively felt, augured no good.

Regulars at the Ukraina Hotel became used to a variety of types of
knocking at the door. Afternoons of course brought the chamber-maids.
If it was early evening, it was likely to be one of a band of intrepid
entrepreneurs who bought basketloads of hamburgers from the MacDonalds
in Noviy Arbat, and then hawked them around the hotel, offering them at
a 20\\% on-cost. They usually found takers, because clammy and
disgusting as the items were after their journey, they were still an
improvement on the food available in the hotel's restaurants. Lewin had
availed himself of their services on more than one occasion rather than
venture into town with the unreliable taxi-drivers who haunted the
Ukraina's precincts.

With these exceptions, it was not a good idea for a guest to respond to
a knock, as the appellant was certain to be either a prostitute or a
thief. Sometimes of course the two were combined in one. Occasionally
less direct routes of entry were attempted, for example a phone call at
one in the morning asking if he wanted 'a nice clean Russian girl'.
This was all part of the fun of staying at the Ukraina.

This knock was however of an intimidating nature that Lewin had not so
far experienced, and was so aggressive that even Varya was showing
signs of waking. In the upshot there was no need to make a decision
about responding; the knocker had a pass-key and with a further volley
of oaths, coinciding with a tremendous spurt from the tanks, flung the
door open.

Lewin started back with a very sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The man was stocky, unshaven and wild-eyed, and had the complexion of a
'chyorniy' - the Caucasians who formed the backbone of Moscow's
criminal mafia and whom the locals derisively called 'blacks';
political correctness had not arrived in Russia and would be a long
time coming. Moreover the man carried a large gun and was waving it in
a manner which indicated that firing it was almost a foregone
conclusion.

Lewin's Russian, never at best robust, crumbled at this apparition, and
he managed only to wheeze, "Pazhal'sta, ya anglichanin" - 'Please, I'm
an Englishman' - which struck him as extraordinarily feeble even as he
uttered it. He was perfectly aware that the mafia had little
compunction about killing, though usually they reserved this sanction
for major opportunities, such as rubbing out their opponents. On a
previous visit he had been strolling down one of Moscow's central
streets in the early hours of the morning with friends (only a complete
idiot would do so alone) when the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire was
clearly heard and Kolya had remarked, casually, "A slushai,
strelyayut!" ('Oh listen, they're shooting.') Lewin had nothing much
worth stealing in the hotel room; but then, he instantly reflected, a
chaotic situation like this gave free-lance gunmen a unique opportunity
to do as they wanted with impunity.

In his terror, he did not notice that the newcomer appeared as much
taken aback as he himself was - but if the gun-man showed some dismay
at the sight of Lewin, he was soon reeling from a violent verbal attack
at peak volume from the now fully-awakened Varya, who was now sitting
bolt upright, having gathered the bedclothes about her to create a
perfect vision of affronted modesty.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, bursting in on a private
room? You blockhead, just because you've got a few stripes and you're
stoked on vodka you think you can come barging in on us like a fucking
elephant? Piss off out of here, you peasant! Kak uzhas!"

At this onslaught, the stranger was immediately and utterly cowed, with
his eyes downcast so as to avoid Varya's raw fury, the atavistic
scourging by the Russian female of the boorish moujik. His right arm
dropped, the gun now pointing at the floor. Now that Lewin was shaking
a little less, he saw that the man was indeed a soldier, with khaki
shirt and trousers but not wearing his jacket.

"Dear lady, I excuse myself, Mister Englishman, I am sorry, I have made
the most awful mistake, I was told that here was a man who should be
detained&;#8230;.". By now Varya had robed herself in the bed-sheet
to increase her dignity and her moral supremacy, and was standing by
the bed. She really looked quite striking, thought Lewin. long hair,
neat figure, classic Slavic cheek-bones. What a pity I cocked it up
last night. Then to his amazement, she shot him a brief smile. as the
soldier turned to Lewin and asked, now courteously:

"You speak Russian?"

"A little."

"Please, you will understand, the situation is serious, I am afraid I
must ask to see your passport and visa and the passport of this
lady."

"With pleasure."

For Lewin, whose papers were, alone amongst his possessions, in order,
this was no ordeal. However, he was aware that for Varya this could
present an unpleasant threat. Were their interrogator a policeman, not
an army officer, her presence in this room, or maybe even in Moscow,
might have been construed as a criminal offence redeemable only by a
substantial bribe.

However, after a few nervous moments, the inspection was completed to
the soldier's satisfaction. "Mr. Edward, I am most sorry to have
disturbed you. I can assure you that I and my men will take particular
care to ensure your safety and that of Miss Terekhova during our
operations. Varvara Gennadyevna, I excuse myself. My name is Pankin,
Sergei Aleksandrovich, Major. You will find my staff in room 542." And
with a salute, and what seemed to be smile, he was gone.

Lewin was drenched in sweat and his heart beat seemed to him louder
than the gunfire. As he turned to Varya, he glanced in passing at his
watch - not yet five past seven. The guns, which had been courteously
silent during the interlude of Major Pankin, resumed their business.
Never again would he address to himself his regular mantra on waking -
'Another day, another battlefield'.