'Second, killing Gerkhov — however skilfully, however carefully avoiding his own involvement in the actual "accidental" death — would not remove the problem at its root. It would be like cutting down a weed; in time it would only spring up again. Doubtless I would elevate someone else to the post, probably an ESPer, and what hope would there be for poor Ustinov then? That was his only real problem — ambition.
'Anyway, I am a survivor, as you see. I used Vlady to foresee what that old pig of a Bolshevik arse-kicker had in store for me, and got him before he could get me, and I used you to read his dead guts and see who else was involved. Alas, it was Andrei Ustinov. I had thought perhaps Andropov and his KGB might be in on it, too. They like me about as much as I like them. But they were not involved. I'm glad about that, for they don't give in very easily. But what a world of petty feuding and vendettas we live in, eh, Boris? Why, it's only two years ago that Leonid Brezhnev himself was fired upon at the very Kremlin gates!'
Dragosani had been looking thoughtful. Tell me some thing,' he finally said. 'When it was all over — that night at the Chateau, I mean — was that why you asked me if it was possible for me to read Ustinov's corpse? Or rather, the mess that was left of him? Because you thought he might have been got at by the newer KGB, as well as your retired old chum from the MVD?'
'Something like that,' Borowitz shrugged. 'But it doesn't matter now. No, for if they'd been involved at all it would have come out at the hearing; our friend Yuri Andropov would not have been so much at ease. I'd have been able to see it in him. As it was, he was just a bit pissed off that Leonid has seen fit to haul in his leash a bit.'
'Which means he'll really be after your blood now!'
'No, I don't think so. Not for four years, anyway. And if hen it is shown that I'm correct — that is, when Brezhnev r ealises Vlady's predictions, and so has proof positive of the effectiveness of the branch — not then either! So… with a bit of luck, we're free of that pack for good.' 'Hmm! Well, let's hope so. So, it would seem you've been very clever, General. But I knew that anyway. Now tell me, what other reasons did you have for calling me here today?'
'Well, I've more to tell you — other things in the pot, you know? But we can do that over dinner. Natasha is serving fish fresh from the river. Trout. Strictly forbidden. They taste all the better for it!' He got up, began to lead the way back up the river bank. 'Also' (over his shoulder) 'to advise you that you should now sell that box on wheels and get yourself a decent car. A second-hand Volga, I should think. Nothing newer than mine, anyway. It goes with your promotion. You can try it out when you go on holiday.'
'Holiday?' It was all coming thick and fast now.
'Oh, yes, hadn't I told you? Three weeks at least, on the state. I'm fortifying the Chateau. It will be quite impossible to get any branch work done…'
'You're doing what? Did you say you're — '
'Fortifying the place, yes,' Borowitz was very matter of fact about it. 'Machine-gun emplacements, an electric fence, that sort of thing. They have it at Baikonur in Kazakhstan, where they launch the space vehicles — and is our work any less important? Anyway, the work has been approved, starts Friday. We're our own bosses now, you know, within certain limitations… inside the Chateau, anyway. When I'm finished we'll all have passes for access, and no way in without them! But that's for later. Meanwhile there'll be a lot of work going on, much of which I'll supervise personally. I want the place expanded, opened up, widened out. More room for experimental cells. I've got four years, yes, but they'll go very quickly. First stage of the alterations will take the best part of a month, so — '
'So while all this is going on, I'm to get a holiday?' Dragosani was keen now, the tone of his voice eager.
'Right, you and one or two others. For you it's a reward. You were very good that night. With the exception of this hole in my shoulder, the whole thing was very successful — oh, and also the loss of poor Gerkhov, of course. My one regret is that I had to ask you to take it all the way. I know how hateful that must be for you…'
'Do you mind if we don't talk about it?' Dragosani found Borowitz's sudden concern for his sensibilities a bit much — not to mention entirely out of character.
'All right, we won't talk about it,' said the other. But half-turning and with a monstrous grin, he added: 'Anyway, fish tastes better!'
That was more like it. 'You sadistic old bastard!'
Borowitz laughed out loud. 'That's what I like about you, Boris. You're just like me: very disrespectful to your superiors.' He changed the subject:
'Anyway, where will you spend your holiday?'
'Home,' said the other without hesitation.
'Romania?'
'Of course. Back to Dragosani where I was born.'
'Don't you ever go anywhere else?'
'Why should I? I know the place, and I love the people — as much as it's possible for me to love anything, anyway. Dragosani is a town now, but I'll find a place outside the town — somewhere in the villages in the hills.'
'It must be very pleasant,' Borowitz nodded. 'Is there a girl?'
'No.'
'What, then?'
Dragosani grunted, shrugged, but his eyes narrowed to slits. Walking in front, his boss didn't see the look in his face when he answered, 'I don't know. Something in the soil, I suppose.'
Chapter Two
Harry Keogh felt the warm sun on the side of his face, beating through the open classroom window. He knew the solid, near-indestructible feel of a school bench under his thighs, its surface polished by tens of thousands of bottoms. He was aware of the aggressive hum of a tiny wasp on its tour of inspection of his inkwell, ruler, pencils, the dahlias in a vase on the window ledge. But all of these things lay on the periphery of his consciousness, little more than background static. He was aware of them in the same way that he was aware of his heart hammering in his chest — hammering far too quickly and loudly for an arithmetic class on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in August. The real world was there, all right — real as the occasional breath of breeze fanning his cheek from the open window — and yet Harry craved air no less than a drowning man. Or a drowning woman.
And the sun could not warm him where he struggled under the ice, and the wasp's buzzing was almost entirely lost in the gurgle and slosh of icy water and the burble of bubbles from his nostrils and straining, silently screaming jaws! Darkness below, frozen mud and weeds; and above —
A sheet of ice, inches thick, and somewhere a hole — the hole he (she?) had fallen through — but where? Fight the river's rush! Kick against it and swim, swim! Think of Harry, little Harry. You have to live for him. For his sake. For Harry …
There! There! Thank God for the hole! — oh, thank God!
Clawing at the rim, the edges of ice sharp as glass. And heaven-sent hands coming down into the water, seeming to move oh so slowly — almost in slow motion — dreadfully, monstrously languid! Strong hands, hairy. A ring on the second finger of the right hand. A cat's-eye stone set in thick gold. A man's ring.
Looking up, a face all aswim, seen through the chop of wavelets and the liquid flurry of water. And through the ice, his frosty outline kneeling at the rim. Grasp his hands, those strong hands, and he'll lift you out like a baby. And he'll shake you till you're dry for frightening him.