There was no one near’ it. She warmed the lock with the petrol-fuelled handwarmer she kept for the purpose, pressing it against the icy metal, then inserted the key. Tugged the door open with a crack of ice and climbed into the driving seat. The storm’s noise hardly diminished inside the car. She could hear her own breathing though, and saw it cloud the inside of the windscreen. She thrust the ignition key towards the dashboard — hands, a stiff arm, around her throat. Heard someone else breathing, close against her face, closer than the soldier with acne, smelt the scent of his clothes and old sweat … Her head was being dragged back by the arm locked around her throat, dragged upwards to be snapped away from her body, the breath squeezed out of her. His fierce breathing beside her, his bulk leaning over the seat from the rear of the car where he had concealed himself … others?
Couldn’t breathe now, not at all, not even through her nose which was running, not through her mouth, clogged with saliva and terror … Sensed his success, the imminence of it, through his frame and stiff arm. The windscreen was blind but the snow was darkening, darkening — body a long way below her now, not part of her, head spinning but in darkness, just little flashing lights like red and green stars flickering in the blackness … Body further away, much too far to help, that slow-moving arm more distant than his arm around her throat, much too distant…
The shot deafened her, so that she hardly heard his roar of pain. Hardly felt his arm release its grip, or saw it wait in slow motion away from her, sliding like a defeated snake back over her seat into the rear of the car. She turned to watch the white hand as if it belonged to a waving friend. And her hand — really her finger — squeezed the trigger once more. The pistol exploded, illuminating his face and blinding her … There had been a great deal of blood from the first head wound.
She turned away from the dead man, her whole body shaking in the seat, her thoughts repeating that she had not noticed the wetness of recently melted snow on the door, should have noticed it was wet, should have …
She started the engine out of panic, and the car squealed and wriggled down the lane, thrown from rut to rut, drift to drift.
She winced in anticipation of firing from behind her. The last air bubbled out of the dead man’s lungs. She felt sick, so desperately sick — she had to stop …
… She threw the door open and vomited into the snow.
When she closed the door again, the shivering would not stop.
She was icily cold. She wiped her chin with the back of her glove. Gripped the wheel hard enough to still her arms, then slowly, deliberately accelerated. The car appeared much bigger, overwhelming her as it seemed to turn out of the lane towards the new town of its own volition. She clung to it as if vainly to restrain it from bolting.
They’d left only one man. Probably didn’t know it was hers, hadn’t given it much of a priority. The watcher had decided to be clever, hide in the car, or just be more comfortable than pressed against the wall of the church. She didn’t want to think about him. She could smell the blood but could not bring herself to stop the car again in order to bundle the body into the snow.
Not yet, anyway, not just yet They sat in the car, the engine and the heater off, where Lubin had parked it on K Street, one block from the entrance to Panshin’s club. The Cafe Americain was closed and lightless.
Panshin’s car was parked at the rear, as was the BMW driven by Kasyan. There were two other cars, small and Russian — but no transport in which half a dozen people could be easily smuggled lo another location. Lubin was watching the rear of the club, eager to erase any sense of insubordination his concern for Marfa might have’evoked.
‘You think they’re still inside?’ Vorontsyev asked.
‘Maybe — maybe not. Panshin’s in there, for sure. Let’s ask him, uh? How many other guys would be around at this hour?’
‘Three, perhaps four. The place has been closed for about an hour. In this weather, and with what he’s been hiding in the attic, he might not even have opened.’ He shrugged. ‘There could be more than four. Extra guards. Lock, we won’t know
‘what we’re walking into —’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Lock’s expression was bleak and introspective; dangerous to himself a’nd those in his immediate vicinity, Vorontsyev concluded. ‘It’s the only shot we have. We have to take it, both of you know that.’
Dmitri sighed, but he was nodding, however reluctantly and with however much reservation.
‘We’ll need Marfa — she can watch our backs.’
‘We need to go in now/ Lock said levelly. There was, once more, the sense of an actor rehearsing a role that did not quite suit, one that required another voice, a stranger’s mentality.
Vorontsyev remembered Lock’s CIA background. This was a field agent resurrected; bad old habits, recovered instincts. ‘Kasyan’s been back maybe twenty minutes now. They’ll have called for back-up. We don’t have much time.’
‘If she walks in blind, she could get herself killed!’
‘Then call her!’
Vorontsyev handed the phone to Dmitri, who dialled his own number.
‘Yes?’ Marfa sounded distant, removed.
‘AH right?’
‘Dmitri-!’ she burst out.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing!’ she snapped back. ‘Nothing.’
‘We’re going in to Panshin’s now. When you get here, wait outside, watch our backs. We don’t know who’s in there or how many. We may be coming out in a hurry — be ready for us.’
Dmitri snapped off the phone.
‘OK?’ he asked.
Vorontsyev nodded. The click as Lock slid a round into the breech of the Makarov was startling, bell-like in clarity. Dmitri exhaled noisily.
‘OK.’
Lock opened the door and got out, shutting it softly behind him. Vorontsyev looked darkly at Dmitri and murmured:
‘Don’t let anything he does get you killed, old friend. Remember that. We watch out for each other, not for him. Understand?’
Dmitri’s expression was a conflict of acceptance and disappointment, good sense struggling with some bright new loyalty that embraced the American. Then he said:
‘Understood — sir.’
Vorontsyev snapped: ‘Lock is dangerous to everyone around him, whichever flag they’re carrying. Just remember that! All he wants — still wants — is Turgenev dead. He’s humouring us.
Don’t let him humour you into your pine box!’
THIRTEEN
Members and Outsiders
‘Very well, Hamid — very well!’ His exasperation was like a broken bone thrust through the surface of their conversation; the polite mincing game he was forced to play kept tearing like ricepaper. ‘I will personally supervise your departure on my aircraft.’
There it was again, that note of pressure in his voice, that admission of the Iranian’s superiority.
It is temporary, he reminded himself, merely a negotiating ploy.
He was weary of the storm and his own narrowed focus, forced upon him by Hamid — above all he was weary of the small, neat, efficient Iranian. This’is temporary. He repeated the mantra, comforting himself.
‘Good, good — my friend, I realise I am trespassing on your patience and time.’ He shrugged. ‘I Śmyself have people I must please, even if that is not your situation. Thank you for helping me.’
Turgenev grinned and rubbed his hand through his thick fair hair. The apology was sufficiently generous for him to accept it; it smoothed him like a woman’s hand.