'An heir?'
- well, that would explain everything, wouldn't it? He'd take the risk for that. Let's face it, Yuri, Mamantoy's just about sick enough to - oh, I don't know -' he tried to think of something utterly absurd ' - to run Stalin's son for the Presidency or something. He does have haifa billion roubles, after all. .
'Wait a minute,' said Arsenyev. 'Let me think about this.' He looked across the airfield to the line of helicopters. Suvorin could see a muscle like a fish hook twitching deep in his fleshy jaw. 'And we still have no idea where Mamantov is?'
'He could be anywhere.'
'Archangel?'
'It's a possibility. It must be. If Zinaida Rapava had the brains to find Kelso at the airport, why not Mamantov? He could have been tailing them for twenty-four hours. They're not professionals; he is. I'm worried, Yuri. They'd never know a thing until he made his hit.'
Arsenyev groaned.
'You got a phone?'
'Sure.' Suvorin dug in his pocket and produced it.
'Secure?'
'Supposedly.'
'Call my office for me, will you?'
Suvorin began punching in the number. Arsenyev said, 'Where's the Rapava girl?'
'I got Bunin to take her back home. I've fixed up a guard, for her own protection. She's not in a good state.'
'You saw this, I suppose?' Arsenyev pulled a copy of the latest Aurora out of the seat pocket. Suvorin saw the headline:
'VIOLENCE IS INEVITABLE'.
'I heard it on the news.
'Well, you can imagine how pleasantly that~ gone down -''Here,' said Suvorin, giving him the phone. 'It's ringing.'
'Sergo?' said Arsenyev. 'It's me. Listen. Can you patch me through to the President's office . . . ? That's it. Use the second number.' He put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'You'd better go. No. Wait. Tell me what you need.'
Suvorin spread his hands. He barely knew where to begin. 'I could do with the militia or someone up in Archangel to check out every Safanov or Safanova and have the job finished by the time I arrive. That would be a start. I'll need a couple of men to meet me at the airfield. Transport I'll need. And some place to stay.
'It's done. Go carefully, Feliks. I hope -, But Suvorin never did discover what the colonel hoped, because Arsenyev suddenly held up a warning finger. 'Yes . . . Yes, I'm ready.' He took a breath and forced a smile; if he could have stood up and saluted, he would have done so. 'And good day to you, Boris Nikolaevich -'
Suvorin climbed quietly out of the car.
The tanker had been unhooked from the little aircraft and the hose was being wound up. There were rainbows of oil in the puddles beneath the wings. Close up, the dented, rust-streaked Tupolev looked even older than he expected. Forty, at least. Older than he was, in fact. Holy Mother, what a bucket!
A couple of ground crew watched him without curiosity.
'Where's the pilot?'
One of the men gestured with his head to the plane. Suvorin pulled himself up the steps and into the fuselage. It was cold inside and smelled like an old bus that hadn't been driven for years. The door to the cockpit was open. He could see the pilot idly pressing switches on and off He ducked his head and went forward and tapped him on the shoulder. The airman had a pouchy face, with the sandy, dull-eyed, bloodshot look of a heavy drinker. Great, thought Suvorin. They shook hands.
'What's the weather like in Archangel?'
The pilot laughed. Suvorin could smell the booze: it was not only on his breath - he was sweating it. 'I'll risk it if you will.'
'Shouldn't you have a navigator or someone?'
'There's nobody about.'
'Great. Terrific.'
Suvorin went aft and took his seat. One engine coughed and started with a spurt of black smoke, and then the other.
Arsenyev's limousine had already gone, he noticed. The Tupolev turned and taxied across the deserted apron, out towards the runway. They turned again, the sawing whine of the propellers falling then rising, rising, rising. The wind whipped the rain like dirty laundry, in horizontal sheets across the concrete. He could see the narrow trunks of silver birches on the airfield perimeter, grown close together like a white palisade. He closed his eyes - it was stupid to be scared of flying, but there it was: he always had been - and they were off, scuttling and swaying down the runway, the pressure pushing him back in his seat, and then there was a lurch and they were airborne.
He opened his eyes. The plane rose beyond the edge of the airfield and banked across the city. Objects seemed to rush into his field of vision, only to dwindle and tilt away - yellow headlights reflecting on the wet streets, flat grey roofs and the dark green patches of trees. So many trees! It always surprised him. He thought of all the people he knew down there -Serafima at home in the apartment they couldn't quite afford and the boys at school and Arsenyev trembling after his call to the President and Zinaida Rapava and her silence when he left her in the morgue -They hit the sudden underside of the low cloud and he was permitted one, two, three last glimpses through the shreds of thickening gauze before Moscow was blanked from view.
R. J. O'BRIEN stood on the street corner at the end of the alleyway leading to Vavara Safanova's yard, his metal case on the ground between his legs, his head bent over the map.
'How long d'you figure it'll take us to get there? A couple of hours?'
Kelso looked back at the tiny wooden house. The old woman was still standing at her open door, leaning on her stick, watching them. He raised his hand to wave goodbye and the door slowly closed.
'Get where?'
'The Chizhikov place,' said O'Brian. 'How long d'you figure?'
'In this?' Kelso raised his eyes to the heavy sky. 'You want to try to find it now?'
'There's only one road. See for yourself. She said it was a village, right? If it's a village, it'll be on the road.' He brushed a dusting of snowflakes off the map and gave it to Kelso. 'I'd say two hours.'
'That's not a road,' said Kelso. 'That's a dotted line. That's a track.' It wandered eastwards through the forest, parallel with the Dvina for perhaps fifty miles, then struck north and ended nowhere - just stopped in the middle of the taiga after about two hundred miles. 'Take a look around you, man. They haven't even made most of the roads in the city. What d'you think they'll be like out there?'
He thrust the map back at O'Brian and began walking in the direction of the Toyota. O'Brian came after him. 'We got four-wheel drive, Fluke. We got snow chains.'
'And what if we break down?'
'We got food. We got fuel for a fire and a whole damn forest to burn. We can always drink the snow. We've got the satellite phone.' He clapped Kelso on the shoulder. 'Tell you what, how about this: you get scared, you can call your mommy. How's that?'
'My mommy's dead.'
'Zinaida then. You can call Zinaida.'
'Tell me, did you screw her, O'Brian? As a matter of interest?'
'What's that got to do with anything?'
'I just want to know why she doesn't trust you. Whether she's right. Is it sex or is it something personal?'
'Oh-ho. Is that what all this is about?' O'Brian smirked. 'Come on, Fluke. You know the rules. A gentleman never talks.'
Kelso huddled further into his jacket and increased his pace.
'It's not a question of being scared.'
'Oh really?'
They were within sight of the car now. Kelso stopped and turned to face him. 'All right, I admit it. I am scared. And you know what scares me most? The fact you're not scared. That rea//y scares me.
'Bullshit. A bit of snow -'
'Forget the snow. I'm not bothered about the snow.' Kelso glanced around at the tumbling houses. The scene was entirely brown and white and grey. And silent, like an old movie. 'You just don't get it, do you?' he said. 'You don't understand. You've no history, that's your problem. It's like this name "Chizhikov". What's that to you?'
'Nothing. It's just a name.