“Maybe,” he said, grinning down at her.
“So what do we do now, Commander?”
He said promptly, “First, as of now you stop calling me Commander. The name’s Stephen Cane. Second… that depends. How are you feeling now?”
“Stronger,” she said. “Though I’ve been suppressing a hell of a desire to throw up — Steve. You know something? We both stink.”
“I know,” he agreed, “but it’ll wear off. Feel fit for a journey?”
“No, but I’ll survive. I guess I’ll have to.”
He held her closer, gratefully. “Good girl! Well then — we press on for Moscow and we don’t lose any more time.”
“We’ll never get there.”
Shaw said grimly, “It’s all we can do, so we have to try. What’s more, we’ve got to succeed. The coach was due in Moscow two days from now, and if Wicks and Fawcett get clear away they may even be organized to reach Moscow sooner than that. In fact if they hadn’t been I doubt if they’d have chanced crashing the road check. If my theories hold water, then Kosyenko’s in danger from now on, and so is all we’ve achieved in East-West relations all these years, if I need to remind you of that now you’ve seen the file.” He paused, then added, “We bypass Minsk — far too dangerous to show our faces anywhere so close to the wreckage of that coach—”
“You any idea how we go about this journey?” she asked in dismay. “You know how far it is to Moscow?”
“Minsk to Moscow is around four hundred miles, and we’re a fairish way off Minsk in addition,” Shaw answered, “and frankly I’ve no idea in all the world how to do it — yet.”
“Well,” she said, “That’s honest, anyway. Forms a good basis for us trusting each other, I reckon!”
He took a deep breath. “Virginia,” he said, “I’m going to trust you just so long as you don’t give me reason to do the other thing. If ever you do, being a woman isn’t going to help you — and I’m only going that far because I haven’t any option under present circumstances. Meanwhile, I hate to say it, but you might remember I’ve got Fawcett’s gun, and it’s not too clogged up to shoot with.”
Eleven
Shaw stopped, his feet sinking deep into the muddy, sticky ground. He said, “Hold on a moment. I’m going to change the plan. We head for Minsk after all.”
He could sense her astonishment. “Like this?” she demanded. “Wet and foul and slimy, and looking like we’ve just crawled out of a bog, which we have? We’d stand out like a bishop in a brothel.”
“Yes,” he said grimly, “I know we would! But before we hit the road for Minsk we’re going to have a wash and brush-up, and a change of clothing too. Where was your grip?”
“In the trunk, and that’ll be locked. And, if you ask me, they’ll have left a man on guard. There’s probably a traffic diversion.”
“There’s no diversion,” he told her. “The coach is well clear of the highway. All the same, you may be right about a man being left behind — and the trunk being locked. But there’s always the Webley, remember!”
“Maybe, but… well, I don’t like it, not even if we are cleaned up,” she said anxiously. “Minsk’ll be dead risky. You said so yourself.”
“Yes, I know, but it won’t be half so chancy as wandering around in the open country north or south of the town.” He shivered as a cold wind knifed through his body driving the bitter rain against him. “We’d be far too obvious out there, but in Minsk we’ll be reasonably anonymous.”
“Oh, sure,” Virginia said ironically, “once we get there! What if some MVD man decides to check the passports we don’t have any more?”
“We’ll worry about that later. I take it you do speak Russian?”
“Of course. I’m fluent, but don’t count it against me!”
He grunted at that. He said, “So am I. Now, once we’re a little nearer the road I’m going ahead to reconnoitre the coach. I’ll leave you in cover. All right?”
There was a note of amusement in her voice as she asked, “You beginning to really trust me after all?”
“Not really. Only you haven’t got a gun, so you can’t do much damage.”
“Uh-huh. So can’t I come with you?”
He shook his head. “You play this my way,” he said, “however genuine you may or may not be. There could be some way you can help later on, but at the start you’ll stay this side of the road, and you’ll stay there till I tell you different.” He nodded towards the marsh. “I wouldn’t try a getaway if I were you. The Pripet’s still there.”
The coach was in darkness now except for red lamps set at either end. Shaw and the girl went forward cautiously, and when they were within twenty-five yards of the roadway, Shaw whispered to Virginia to get down and stay out of sight. He crouched there with her for a while, brought out the Webley and ejected the cartridges while he cleared away the mud as best he could with his handkerchief and a twig broken from one of the scrubby bushes.
He said, “Queer… I don’t believe there is anyone on guard after all. Or if there is he’s crept into the coach for a quiet nap out of the rain.”
She was shivering. “Wouldn’t blame him if he did, I guess! But take care and watch it, just the same. I don’t want to be stuck here on the edge of a swamp all on my own, with a gunman on the other side of the highway… and your dead body in between.”
He grinned into the darkness as he reloaded the Webley and snapped it shut. “You know something, Virginia? You’re beginning to sound on the level… unless you’re just a first-rate actress!”
“Well,” she said seriously, “let’s say I’m both. You have to be, to be an agent. Check?”
“Check. And now — don’t worry. I’ll be taking all the care in the world.”
He slid forward on his stomach, the gun in his fist; the scrub brushed his face and hands as he wormed along through the mud. Half a dozen feet from the roadside, he stopped and remained dead still, watching the coach, which was faintly outlined now in the red glow from the warning lamps. Now and then a vehicle came along the road — a car, or a heavy lorry rumbling through the night with its load for Minsk or points east. Later on, he thought, he might stick up one of those long-distance transport vehicles and use it to get himself and Virginia through to Moscow. Speed was everything now… He watched as one or two of those passing vehicles eased down, the occupants evidently intrigued by the crashed coach — but not sufficiently so to stop for a closer look, just in case they should meet the MVD. Curiosity was not encouraged in the Soviet Union.
Nothing stirred on the far side of that ribbon of road; there was absolute quiet after the traffic had passed on, except for the hiss of the drenching rain and a distant sound as a night-bird called raucously. After ten minutes, Shaw felt convinced that the coach really had been left unattended. He wormed onward again, paused on the road’s edge for another five minutes, and then, when there was still no sign of life, he got to his feet and ran lightly across the highway. On the other side, he crouched down again and drew back the hammer of the revolver. To his straining ears, the click was loud enough to be heard inside the coach. He felt around until his groping fingers contacted a stone, which he threw towards the vehicle. It struck the bodywork with a clang.
Still nothing happened.
He moved on again, worming along as before, nearing the coach now, staring at the great dark mass between the red lamps. Dimly, he could see the underside, the axles, the wheels high in the air on one side, lost in the muddy earth on the other. It was as still and silent as the grave, eerie in the red glow and the persistent downpour. And still there was a smell of petrol.