The Price of Dreams: The Ruslan Shanidza Novels, #1

By Paul Clark

The first Ruslan Shanidza novel

 

He can throw away his future or he can betray his principles and the people he loves.

That is the stark choice faced by Ruslan Shanidza, an athlete from the southern fringes of the Soviet Union. He dreams of Olympic glory but despises the ruling Communists and longs for independence from Russia. Something has to give, especially after a fight with the son of a leading Party member brings him to the attention of the secret police.

Set in the final decade of the Cold War, this political thriller reads like historical fiction. It takes you to a time and place where the Communist Party seeks to control every aspect of life and anyone who resists faces heavy-handed repression. Later, as the dictatorship begins to crumble, Ruslan will find himself caught up in an ethnic conflict that re-ignites with catastrophic results.

 

"Magnificent, sweeping and powerful."

Paul M Muller, author of Flight of the Marbles and Suicide Inc.

 

"…will keep you turning the pages…Prepare to be sucked in with gripping characters and political intrigue until the very end."

OnlineBookClub.Org Official Review

 

"Highly enjoyable, gripping page turner, solid story and characters, political intrigue; what's not to like?"

E.P. Goodreads reviewer

 

"…takes you in, grabs a hold of you and does not let go until the very end where you are left wanting more."

N.A. Goodreads reviewer

• Language: English
• Publisher: Friston Books Ltd
• Release date: May 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393537823

Paul Clark

Paul Clark was born in the Forest of Dean and grew up in Coventry and Manchester. He graduated in modern history and became a teacher of English as a foreign language. He has lived in Italy and Thailand and has worked with people from more than 70 countries. He lives with his wife in Sussex. They have two grown-up children. This is his first novel.

Book preview

Ksord-Akhtarian Soviet Socialist Republic

C:\Users\paulc\Documents\Kuban Trilogy\Map of Ksordia-Akhtaria Book 1.bmp

See www.paulclark42.wordpress.com/map-1/ for a larger map and background information.

See www.paulclark42.wordpress.com/names-1/ for a cast of characters and glossary.

Part One

AUGUST 1983

Chapter One

THE MAJOR braced himself as his driver dropped him outside the Party’s imposing headquarters in Victory Square. He strode up the steps to the entrance, where the guards saluted and allowed him to enter without checking his papers. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the indoor gloom and make out the elaborate chandeliers and the fading frescoes of joyful peasants and muscular workers staring into the distance.

He approached the reception desk. ‘Good afternoon. I’ve come to see Sergo Lionidza.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No.’

‘You can’t see him without an appointment.’

‘He’ll see me.’

‘I’m sorry. Nobody sees Comrade Lionidza without an appointment.’

The Major leaned forward. ‘I suggest that you call his secretary. Tell him to cancel Comrade Lionidza’s next appointment to make room for me. Say that if he doesn’t, Comrade Lionidza may soon find himself dealing with someone very senior from Moscow.’ He emphasised the word ‘Moscow’ and glared at the receptionist.

She hesitated for a moment and picked up her phone.

Lionidza’s secretary was a wiry old man who always seemed to be suppressing a salacious grin.

‘Hello, Major. It’s nice to see you again.’

‘Hello.’ The Major didn’t return his smile.

‘So what brings you here?’

‘That’s for Comrade Lionidza to find out. Does he know I’m here?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you’d better tell him. My superiors wouldn’t like it if I were to be kept waiting.’

Lionidza’s secretary raised an eyebrow. ‘Very well. Please take a seat. Can we get you a glass of tea?’

‘No, thank you. I’m not planning to stay long.’

The secretary crept into Lionidza’s office as the Major sat down. He came out a moment later and approached a group of Party functionaries who were waiting to see Lionidza. In hushed tones, he explained that Comrade Lionidza had an urgent appointment with the Major but would see them as soon as he was free.

Ten minutes later, Sergo Lionidza came out with his previous visitors. A thickset man in his late fifties, his hair combed over his balding head, he shook their hands warmly and patted their backs as they left.

He turned to the Major. ‘Bebur, it’s good to see you again.’

The Major stood up without smiling and somewhat stiffly returned Lionidza’s embrace, exchanging the customary four kisses.

‘How’s your charming wife?’

‘She’s very well, thank you.’

‘And your two boys?’

‘Doing fine. The youngest starts school next month.’ The Major had managed all this without even the hint of a smile.

‘Doesn’t time fly? Anyway, do please come in.’

As they sat down on either side of his polished desk, Lionidza offered tea.

‘No, thank you.’

‘Would you prefer coffee?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Well at least have a cigarette.’

He reached into his pocket and took out a packet of Belomorkanal. The two men lit up.

‘I see you’re still a man of the people, smoking these flamethrowers,’ said the Major.

Lionidza grinned and the Major smiled the first smile of his visit. The ice had finally cracked.

‘So, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’

‘Comrade Lionidza, my superiors have asked me to let you know that they are, and I quote, fucking livid.’

Lionidza frowned. ‘Livid?’

‘Fucking livid.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’

‘Does the name Ruslan Shanidza mean anything to you?’

‘Oh yes, I read about that. Terrible. Do you know if he’s badly injured?’

‘Yes, he is badly injured. A transverse fracture of the right tibia.’

‘Pardon?’

‘A broken leg to you or me.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Oh dear indeed.’

‘Do you mind if I ask how come the military top brass are so angry about it?’

‘Because he was attacked.’

‘Attacked?’

‘Yes, with a hammer.’

‘What? But the newspapers said he was hit by a car.’

‘Yes,’ said the Major. ‘I wonder who fed that particular piece of donkey shit to the press. He was attacked. Three men pinned him down and a fourth whacked him on the shin with a hammer.’

Lionidza looked at the Major in astonishment. ‘God’s nails. No wonder the military are upset.’

‘Not upset, comrade. The phrase I was told to convey is fucking livid.’

‘When you say your superiors are livid, do you mean your superiors in Ksordia-Akhtaria or your superiors in Moscow?’

‘Moscow.’

‘So why have you come to me?’

‘Because the top brass want you to deal with it.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘What, down here? Presumably without involving anyone else in Moscow?’

‘Correct.’

‘That may not be easy.’ Lionidza pursed his lips. ‘Ruslan Shanidza always was a pain in the proverbial.’

‘We’ve been through all that.’

‘Yes, we have. Don’t forget that he was causing me grief long before your lot got involved in his case. He doesn’t get any less of a pain, does he?’

The Major laughed. ‘I don’t suppose he does. But on this occasion, it’s hardly his fault.’

‘No, I suppose not. Do they know who attacked him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Aleksander Mingrelsky’s son.’

‘Blood and damnation, this gets worse. Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know those two have history?’

‘I know. But tell me this: Mingrelsky Junior’s here in Ksordia-Akhtaria, doing whatever it is he does these days, and Ruslan’s in Azerbaijan with our boys. The two of them have had no contact for the best part of eighteen months. None whatsoever. So why would Mingrelsky Junior suddenly drive fifteen hundred kilometres over the Caucasian Mountains so he can jump on Ruslan and break his leg with a hammer?’

Lionidza sat back in his chair and took a long drag on his cigarette.

‘Why indeed? Has Mingrelsky Junior been arrested?’

‘No. The police are refusing to touch him. They say he’s got high-level protection.’

‘Well, it’s not from us, I can assure you.’

‘My superiors will be very pleased to hear that.’

‘And it won’t be his father either.’

‘No.’

‘So who’s protecting him?’

The Major gave Lionidza a quizzical look. ‘Well, who do you think?’

Chapter Two

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

RUSLAN OPENED his eyes just before sunrise. For a moment, he was disoriented and couldn’t remember where he was, but then he noticed Josep’s gentle breathing. He looked over at his alarm clock and decided to get out of bed before it rang so that his friend could sleep on undisturbed.

He sat up and looked for his running clothes and his watch. He reset the alarm for Josep, picked up his sponge bag, towel and keys and crept out of the room. In the staff bathroom, he splashed cold water onto his face and brushed his hair to make it behave.

He looked in the mirror, so old it was speckled with brown, and chuckled at his own vanity. Ruslan always liked his reflection: tanned, healthy young skin in a face dominated by his deep brown eyes.

He walked and jogged down the stairs into the car park, limbering up all the while. He found a hole in the fence under a tatty and faded poster that proclaimed, ‘Workers of the Soviet Union! Struggle for the completion of the tenth five-year plan!’

Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the slogan, Ruslan squeezed through to the beach.

The sun had by now risen over the distant peaks of the Caucasian Mountains, and he could feel its gentle warmth on his face. There were mornings when he didn’t want to run and had to drag himself out of his bed, but this wasn’t one of them. He was excited to be in a new place and was ready to go.

He ran on the spot for a moment, and then he was off, running along the hard, wet sand by the sea line.

He had scouted out his route the night before. His run would take in the whole sweep of the bay as far as the fishing jetty and back again. The time wasn’t important. All he cared about was his pulse rate: it had to stay as near as possible to 125 beats per minute. The important thing was to maintain a steady pace and run at or around his anaerobic threshold.

He ran to the jetty and was three quarters of the way back when he first noticed the girl on the beach by his sanatorium. He could see black hair, a white shirt and a dark skirt. She paddled in the water for a few minutes and then sat down on the dry sand, stretching her pale legs in front of her.

As he got closer, Ruslan could see that she was reading a book. She flicked her hair behind her ears, and the sun lit up her face. He was mesmerised by her profile: high cheekbones and a strong Anatolian nose.

Hailing as he did from a multi-ethnic region where guessing someone’s nationality came as instinctively as guessing their age, Ruslan decided that such a face couldn’t possibly belong to a Ksord and certainly not a Russian. She might be Greek. He could imagine her profile painted onto a vase or lovingly fitted into a mosaic. But Stalin had purged the Black Sea of its Greeks, so she was more likely to be Armenian. Not a pureblood but one with that dash of Turk that made so many Armenian faces special.

Just before he reached her, he remembered his pace. He was going far too slowly and had been doing so for some time, and it was too late to do anything about it.

He ran past her until he reached the first of the umbrellas that marked the Friendship Sanatorium’s beach. Then he collapsed into the sand and checked his watch. With two fingers on his right hand, he felt for his pulse by his Adam’s apple and waited for a beat to coincide with the second hand reaching a recognisable point. When it reached number eight, he counted ten beats, which took a little over five seconds, perhaps five and a quarter. Ruslan knew his conversion tables off by heart. This represented a pulse of about 114 per minute, just a few beats above his aerobic training threshold and nowhere near his anaerobic.

‘Hell and damnation.’

The run had been a complete waste of time.

He stood up and jogged slowly back to the sanatorium.

Back in the bathroom, he took off his clothes and stood naked by the largest basin as it filled with water. He needed to cool down gradually and had decided to rinse his running clothes and shave before entering the shower.

As he was shaving, the thick frame of his roommate Josep stumbled into the bathroom.

‘Pleasant run?’

‘No.’

‘What happened? Pulse five beats a minute too slow?’

Ruslan didn’t reply.

‘What? More? Let me guess. Ten beats?’

‘Eleven.’

When Ruslan and Josep went downstairs, the restaurant manager greeted them and took them through all the paperwork. ‘We’ll start you off straight away. I’ll get Murad to show you how to do breakfast.’

He led them into the restaurant. The four young waiters at the far side stopped chatting to look at Ruslan and Josep. Two of them were Tatars, a man and a woman, and there were two girls who seemed very young. One looked like a Ksord, but the other was the Armenian girl Ruslan had seen on the beach.

He nudged Josep and whispered, ‘The little one’s mine.’

Josep laughed.

Another waiter came striding towards them. He was tall and well-built, with a strong, masculine face.

‘New staff?’

‘Oh, hello Vakhtan,’ the manager said. ‘This is Ruslan and this is Josep.’

They shook Vakhtan’s hand.

‘Shall I show them what to do?’

‘I was thinking of asking Murad.’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘Oh, okay. As you wish.’

With that, the manager disappeared.

‘So you’re both Ksords, right?’ Vakhtan asked.

‘Yes, why?’

‘That’s good. There’s two more Ksordian lads. They’re still upstairs, but you’ll meet them in a bit. Apart from that, we’re stuck with those bloody Tatars over there. Those other two girls are both Rebels, and in case you get any ideas, that fit one’s a right stuck-up little slut, so don’t bother.’

Ruslan looked at her and she looked back at him. So, she was Akhtarian, or a ‘Rebel’ in the everyday parlance of the Ksords. She did look like an Armenian, though.

The other two Ksordian waiters ambled in. They greeted Vakhtan with two kisses on each cheek and Ruslan and Josep introduced themselves.

‘We outnumber the enemy now,’ Vakhtan said with a grin.

Ruslan glanced at Josep, who gave a little shrug.

‘I’ll tell you how it works,’ Vakhtan said to Ruslan and Josep. ‘Basically, we let the Tatars and the Rebels do all the work, and us Ksords sit back and have a laugh.’

His companions nodded.

‘Sounds like you’ve got this place sewn up,’ Ruslan said.

‘Yes.’

‘Fair enough. We’ll just go and say hello to the enemy, if that’s okay.’

With that, he and Josep turned their backs on Vakhtan and walked towards the other waiters.

‘What a half dick,’ Ruslan whispered.

‘You’re telling me.’

They reached the others, and Ruslan addressed the young man in Tatar, ‘Hello, are you Murad?’

‘You speak Tatar?’

‘A bit. I think the manager wanted you to show us what to do. I’m Ruslan, by the way.’

Murad smiled and shook him and Josep by the hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’ Speaking near-perfect Ksord-Akhtarian, he introduced the three girls: Fatima the Tatar and Tamara and Lana, the two Akhtarians.

Ruslan thought Tamara looked even better close up, what with her dramatic cheekbones and her blue-green eyes that looked as if they could swallow him. She was gorgeous.

‘So you’re the mysterious girl on the beach,’ he said as he shook her hand.

‘And you’re the mysterious runner who checks his pulse and swears.’

‘I tell you what,’ Murad said, ‘I’ll show Josep what to do over here, and you two mysterious people can take those tables over there by the windows.’

This arrangement suited Ruslan very well.

‘The guests are mostly Russians and Ukrainians,’ Tamara said as she led Ruslan to their station. ‘But they’re really nice. Most of them are on holiday with their workmates. They’re usually pretty hung over at breakfast, so you’ll need to give them plenty of coffee.’

‘Okay.’

‘Just because something’s on the menu, it doesn’t mean we’ve got it. There’s never any strawberry romanov, so if they order that, tell them and save yourself a walk. Apparently, there’s no salmon today. Usually, we run out of buckwheat blinis after the first half hour, so keep your eye on that. By eight-thirty, there’s only teacakes or rye bread.’

‘Why don’t you tell them what there is before they order it?’ Ruslan asked.

‘Yes, might be an idea. Now when they give their order, write it down, write the table number and take it to the kitchen. Stick it on the counter and say it out loud. Then if there’s an order for a different table ready, bring it out, and always serve it from the guest’s left-hand side. Me and you will just take orders from these tables, but when we bring food out, the whole lot of us work together as a team.’

‘Apart from Vakhtan and his friends.’

‘True.’

‘So how come they don’t do any work?’

‘The managers are scared of Mingrelsky.’

‘Mingrelsky?’

‘Vakhtan: his name’s Vakhtan Mingrelsky.’

‘What? Is he related to Aleksander Mingrelsky?’

‘Yes, he’s his son.’

‘Ah, that explains a lot.’

Aleksander Mingrelsky was a big fish in the Party. A very big fish indeed.

‘So what’s your accent?’ Ruslan asked Tamara. ‘Are you from Zeda’Anta?’

‘Yes. What about you?’

‘I’m from near Timashevsk, but me and Josep are at university in Ronkoni.’

‘Ronkoni? Are you Ksords then?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘And you and Lana must be Akhtarians.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Are you students?’

‘Yes, at secondary polytechnic. We’ve got a year to go.’

Ruslan guessed she must be sixteen or seventeen. A bit young perhaps. Pity. ‘Are you planning to go to university?’

‘Medical institute. I’m hoping to become a doctor.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘What about you? What are you studying?’

‘History.’

‘Oh God, I hate history.’ She looked at him and laughed. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?’

‘I’m not offended.’

‘So are you going to be a history teacher and torture kids like me?’

Ruslan grinned. ‘Not a teacher, no. I’m going to be a brilliant historian. Or maybe a brilliant athlete. I haven’t decided yet.’

‘What kind of athlete?’

‘A marathon runner.’

‘And whatever you decide, you have to be brilliant?’

‘You bet. You don’t want to be a crap doctor, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, there you go. You’ve got to set out to be brilliant.’

Tamara laughed. ‘Well, let’s see if you turn out to be a brilliant waiter.’

The first guests had just come in and Ruslan went to take their order. He started by telling them which items on the menu were unavailable, and then he and Tamara headed for the kitchen.

Vakhtan Mingrelsky blocked Ruslan’s path. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

‘What does it look like? I’m working.’

‘I told you: leave that to the Tatars and the Rebels.’

‘My papa wasn’t important like yours, so I have to work for a living.’

Ruslan pushed past Mingrelsky.

‘You want to be careful with him,’ Tamara said.

Ruslan shook his head. ‘Him? He’s just a spoilt brat.’

‘A very scary spoilt brat.’

The next morning, Tamara was on the beach again, in the same place. She gave a cheery wave as Ruslan approached. He waved back but he was concentrating on his pace.

Again, he stopped by the first Friendship umbrella and took his pulse. Ten beats in about 4.8 seconds or 125 beats per minute. At 80% of his maximum heart rate, that was exactly what he was looking for.

‘Good run?’

It was Tamara.

‘Yes,’ he panted. ‘Spot on.’

She sat down on the sand next to him and waited until he had got his breath back.

‘Are you serious about being a marathon runner?’

‘Yes, I decided when I was about seven or eight, the first time I saw marathon runners at a Spartakiad.’

‘Very young for a life-changing decision.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘So why did you swear when you took your pulse yesterday?’

Ruslan told her more than she ever wanted to know about aerobic and anaerobic thresholds and maximal oxygen uptake. Worried that he might be boring her, he asked about the book she was reading.

‘It’s an old Russian story, Ideal.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s about a girl who falls in love with this guy. She thinks he’s absolutely perfect, but then slowly she starts to realise that he’s a total cockroach.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Anatoly.’

‘Not Vakhtan?’

Tamara laughed. ‘No. Anatoly has one or two redeeming features.’

‘Not our man, then.’

They sat and watched the sea for a few minutes, until Ruslan looked at his watch and said, ‘I’d better go in.’

‘I’ll stay here for a bit.’

‘Okay, see you inside.’

The two of them saw quite a lot of each other over the next few days, both at work and in their free time. Every morning, she would sit on the beach and wait for him at the end of his run, and they would have a little chat before he went in. Ruslan found her very easy to talk to, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on his pulse rate. He was more concerned about whether she would be there.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, nor could he keep his eyes off her. Some of the sanatorium guests teased him about it: ‘You should concentrate on your work,’ one woman told him. ‘It’s as if you care about that girl more than you care about us.’

‘Oh no, when I close my eyes at night, it’s always my guests I think about.’

He was more forthright with Josep and Murad: ‘I think I’m falling in