Gaddis wished that he had brought his props. At UCL, his annual lecture on the siege of Leningrad was a must-see sellout, one of the very few events that every student in the Russian history programme felt both obliged and enthused to attend. Gaddis always began by standing behind a table on which he had placed a third of a loaf of sliced white bread, a pound of minced beef, a bowl of bran flakes, a small cup of sunflower oil and three digestive biscuits.
This, he tells the packed auditorium, is all that you get to eat for the next thirty days. This is all that an adult citizen of Leningrad could claim on their ration cards in the early years of World War II. Kind of puts the January detox in perspective, doesnt it? The lecture takes place in the early weeks of the New Year, so the joke always whips up a satisfying gale of nervous laughter. But enjoy it while you can. Confused looks in the front row. Plate by plate, bowl by bowl, Dr Gaddis now tips the food on to the floor until all that remains on the table in front of him are ten slices of stale white bread. By the time the siege really starts to bite, bread is more or less the only form of sustenance youre going to get, and its nutritional value is nil. The people of Leningrad dont have access to Hovis or Mothers Pride. This bread he picks up a piece and tears it into tiny pieces, like a child feeding ducks is made mostly from sawdust, from sweepings on the floor. If youre lucky enough to have a job in a factory, you get 250 grams of it every week. How much is 250 grams? Gaddis now picks up six slices of the bread and hands them to a student in the front row. Thats about how much it is. But if you dont work in a factory three of the slices come back you get only 125 grams.
And I warn you not to be young, he continues, channelling Neil Kinnock now, a politician from yesteryear whom most of his students are too young to remember. I warn you not to fall ill. I warn you not to grow old in the Leningrad of 1942. Because if you do at this point, he gets hold of the final three slices of bread, tossing them to the floor if you do, youll most likely starve to death. He lets that one settle in before delivering the coup de grace. And dont be an academic, either. Dont be an intellectual. Another gale of nervous laughter. Comrade Stalin doesnt like people like us. As far as hes concerned, academics and intellectuals can starve to death.
The beautiful woman in the knee-high boots was staring at him intently. At UCL, Gaddis usually picked out a volunteer at this stage and asked them to take off their shoes, which he then placed on a table at the front of the lecture hall. He liked to pull grass clippings and pieces of bark from the pockets of his jacket. Christ, if Health and Safety had allowed it, hed have brought a dead rat and a dog in, as well. That, after all, was what the citizens of Leningrad survived on as the Germans tightened the noose: grasses and bark; leather shoes boiled down for sustenance; the flesh of vermin and dogs. Cannibalism was also rife. Children would disappear. Limbs would mysteriously be removed from corpses left to freeze in the street. The meat pies on sale in the markets of war-torn Leningrad could contain anything from horse flesh to human being.
The beautiful woman in the knee-high boots was staring at him intently. At UCL, Gaddis usually picked out a volunteer at this stage and asked them to take off their shoes, which he then placed on a table at the front of the lecture hall. He liked to pull grass clippings and pieces of bark from the pockets of his jacket. Christ, if Health and Safety had allowed it, hed have brought a dead rat and a dog in, as well. That, after all, was what the citizens of Leningrad survived on as the Germans tightened the noose: grasses and bark; leather shoes boiled down for sustenance; the flesh of vermin and dogs. Cannibalism was also rife. Children would disappear. Limbs would mysteriously be removed from corpses left to freeze in the street. The meat pies on sale in the markets of war-torn Leningrad could contain anything from horse flesh to human being.
But tonight he kept things simple. Tonight Dr Gaddis spoke about Platovs aunt and first cousin surviving three years in a German concentration camp in the Baltics. He related how, on one occasion, Platovs mother had passed out from hunger only to wake up while she was being taken to a cemetery by men who had assumed she was dead. Towards eight oclock, he read a short extract from the new book about Platovs early years in the KGB and, by eight fifteen, people were applauding and he was taking questions from the floor, trying to make the case that Russia was reverting to totalitarianism and all the time wondering how to persuade the girl in the knee-high boots to join his party for dinner.
In the end, he didnt need to. As the launch was beginning to thin out, she approached him at the makeshift bar and held out her hand.
Holly Levette.
Sam. Her hand was slim and warm and had rings all over it. She was about twenty-eight with huge blue eyes. You were the one who was late.
A smile of what looked like genuine embarrassment. Her right cheek had a little scar on the bone which he liked. Sorry, I was held up on the Tube. I hope I didnt interrupt anything.
They moved away from the bar.
Not at all. He was trying to work out what she did for a living. Something in the arts, something creative. Have we met before?
No, no. I just read your article in the Guardian and knew that you were speaking tonight. I have something that I thought you might be interested in.
They had found themselves in a small clearing in the Travel section. In his peripheral vision, Gaddis could sense somebody trying to catch his eye.
What kind of something?
Well, my mother has just died.
Im sorry to hear that.
It didnt look as though Holly Levette needed much comforting.
Her name was Katya Levette. Before her death she was working on a book about the history of the KGB. A lot of her information came from sources in British and Russian intelligence. I dont want her papers to go to waste. All that hard work, all those interviews. I wondered whether you might like to have a look at her research, see if theres any value in it?
It could have been a trap, of course. A mischievous source in MI6 or the Russian FSB looking to use a mid-level British historian for purposes of propaganda. After all, why come all the way to the bookshop? Why not just phone him at UCL or send an email to his website? But the chances of a honey-trap were slim. If the spooks wanted a scandal, if they wanted headlines, they would have gone for Beevor or Sebag Montefiore, for Andrew or West. Besides, Gaddis would be able to tell in five minutes if the documents were genuine. Hed spent half his life in the museums of London, Moscow and St Petersburg. He was a citizen of the historical archive.
Sure, I could take a look at them. Youre kind to think of me. Where are the papers?
At my flat in Chelsea.
And suddenly the tone of the conversation shifted. Suddenly Holly Levette was looking at Dr Sam Gaddis in the way that mischievous female students sometimes look at attractive, fortysomething bachelor academics when they are up to no good. As if her flat in Chelsea promised more than just dust-gathering notebooks on the KGB.
Your flat in Chelsea, Sam repeated. He caught the smell of her perfume as he drank more wine. I should probably take your number.
She was smiling, enjoying the game, promising him something with those huge blue eyes. From the hip pocket of her slim jeans, Holly Levette produced a card which she pressed into his hand. Why dont you ring me when youre not so busy? she suggested. Why dont you call and we can arrange for you to come and pick them up?
Its a good idea. Gaddis looked at the card. There was nothing on it except a name and a telephone number. And you say your mother was researching the history of Soviet intelligence?
The KGB, yes.
A pause. There were so many questions to ask that he could say nothing; if he started, they would never stop. A male colleague from UCL materialized beside Gaddis and stared, with abandon, deep into Hollys cleavage. Gaddis didnt bother introducing them.
I should go, she said, touching his arm as she took a step backwards. It was so lovely to meet you. Your talk was fantastic.
He shook her hand again, the one with all the rings. Ill call you, he said. And Ill definitely take you up on that offer.
What offer? asked the colleague.
Oh, the best kind, replied Holly Levette. The best kind.
Chapter 3
Two days later, on a rain-drenched Saturday morning in August, Gaddis rang the number on the card and arranged to go to Chelsea to pick up the boxes. Five minutes after walking through the door of her flat on Tite Street, he was in bed with Holly Levette. He did not leave until eight oclock the following evening, the boot of his car sagging under the weight of the boxes, his head and body aching from the sweet carnal impact of a woman who remained, even after all that they had shared, something of a stranger to him, an enigma.
Her flat had been a bombsite, a deep litter field of newspapers, books, back issues of the New Yorker, half-finished glasses of wine and ashtrays overflowing with old joints and crushed cigarette packets. The kitchen had three days of washing up piled at the sink, the bedroom more rugs and more clothes strewn over more chairs than Gaddis had ever seen in his life. It reminded him of his own house which, in the years since Natasha had left him, had become a bachelors labyrinth of paperbacks, take-away menus and DVD box sets. He had a Belarussian cleaning lady, but she was near-arthritic and spent most her time chatting to him in the kitchen about life in post-Communist Minsk.
Hollys search for the KGB material had taken them downstairs, to the basement of the apartment block, where Katya Levette had filled a storage cupboard to capacity with dozens of unmarked boxes. It had taken them both more than an hour to locate the files and to carry them outside to Gaddiss car. Even then, Holly said that she could not be sure that he had taken everything with him.