'He's mine at this point but I'm willing to hand him over. I don't want him.'
Wasting time.
'Yes,' I told Belyak, 'you do.'
He watched me with his black polished stones.
'Explain.'
'The agent is a former militia officer, major's rank. He was sacked for persistent drunkenness and killing three men on the firing range by culpable negligence. Since then he's been taking on clandestine operations, one of which has so far included the death of Zymyanin on board the Rossiya and the bombing of the train and the shooting of General Velichko here in Novosibirsk. If you don't pull him in as soon as you can, your head's going to be on the block and the people of Russia are going to lose a great deal of faith in their militia, whose job it is to protect the peace. The people of Russia are in a touchy mood these days.'
Another vehicle pulled up in the forecourt of the building and I felt the thread in my hand grow taut as the door banged open and boots clattered along the passage. I'm here to demand the release of my sister, Tanya Amelia Rusakova, and to make a foil confession in the death of General Gennadi Velichko.
I waited.
'Why have you decided to betray this agent?' Colonel Belyak asked.
'I've been considering it ever since he bombed the train. He took innocent lives. It's not my way. He needs stopping now, or God knows what he'll do.'
Boots tramping. I'm no good at waiting, doing nothing.
The gallant Captain Rusakov.
'All right,' Gromov said. 'Tell us where we can pick up this man.'
'I'll have to take you to him.'
'Why?'
'He's violent. If you put him in a trap he'll try to shoot his way out.'
Boots tramping, passing the door, not stopping.
'Others have tried that too,' the Colonel said.
'Look,' I told him, 'you can go in there with as many men as you like but you'll end up with a messy operation and get half of them killed unnecessarily. Or you can take me with you and I'll talk to him first and set him up for you and there'll be no bloodshed; I can promise an elegant, copybook operation, which I would think is more your style.'
I waited again, watching the Colonel and the Chief Investigator in turn, seeing first one and then the other start looking at his watch, seeing it again and again in my mind, but only there.
A cell door slammed shut along the passage and the boots sounded again.
Belyak opened his mouth but Gromov was first — 'What is your connection with this agent?'
'We were collaborators.'
'In what?'
'The same clandestine operation.'
'Its purpose?'
'To sabotage the Podpolia.'
That got a reaction, as I'd known it would. The hardline communist underground was known to exist and the Russian and Commonwealth police, militia and MPS were known to be smoking out its leaders, but some of its leaders were firmly ensconced in the Russian and Commonwealth police, militia and MPS, which made things difficult. I'd glanced from Gromov to Belyak when I'd said what I had, but couldn't catch anything: they were both trained to remain deadpan whatever was in their minds.
Gromov or Belyak could well be a member of the Podpolia, unknown to the other, but it didn't make any difference: each of them had a job to do and he'd get a great deal of kudos within his department if he could pull in the man who had bombed the Rossiya, whether he was in the underground or against it. The charge against him would be one of mass murder.
'You believe, then,' Gromov said,' that General Velichko was in -
'Yes.'
'And you would furnish me with a full accounting of both your own actions and your collaborator's, once he is taken?'
'A full accounting, in the expectation of leniency for myself.'
The Colonel looked across at Gromov again.' We should confer,' he said.
'I agree.'
Then Belyak looked at his watch.
'I'm glad to see, Colonel,' I told him,' that you're aware of the passage of time. It's critical, as I've warned you.'
Gromov opened the door of the cell and the Colonel followed him out and the door banged shut again, the look-through panel vibrating in its runners. The militia sergeant had come to attention when his colonel had gone out; now he was standing at ease. He'd been sorry, I knew, to hear I was ready to give a full accounting of my actions; he would have preferred orders to tear it out of me, word by word as the blood came running. I thought of talking to him, asking how the sweet peas were coming along, but he wouldn't have answered me: I was a dog brought in here from the streets, and he didn't talk to dogs. It would have been pleasant to stand up and stretch my legs, and have him order me to sit down again, and refuse, and give him the excuse to drive his fist into my diaphragm, so that I could parry the blow to the left and open him up and go in with some fast centre-knuckle jabs to paralyse the major nerves and finish up with a back-fist to stun the pineal gland and take him gently onto the floor. It would have relieved the tension in me and I could have used that, but of course it wouldn't have done any good because when they came back, the Colonel and the Chief Investigator, they'd have thought I'd been losing my temper, and wouldn't have trusted me anymore.
They'd been gone three minutes. I was sitting with my legs crossed and my left hand on my right thigh with the fingers spread out so that I could look down at my watch and check the time without moving. Three minutes was too long. One minute was too long, because we had two deadlines running: at any time at all, Captain Rusakov's patience could break and he could come storming into the building, or his sister could talk under interrogation and give the lie to everything I'd been telling these people, and in either case my fragile thread would finally snap, finito.
Four minutes, and the sweat came springing, itching on the scalp.
'You do much quilting, Sarge?'
'Keep your mouth shut.'
'Yes, Sarge.'
Five. Five minutes.
There was only one real chance of pulling this thing off and I started running it through my mind, over and over, to keep the nerves under controclass="underline" they were crying out for action and in the quiet confines of this bloody cell there was the itch in me to provoke this sergeant and melt him down and that was dangerous.
The only chance of pulling this thing off lay in the fact that I'd given Colonel Belyak and Chief Investigator Gromov an offer they'd find difficult to refuse. They'd nothing to lose.
Six minutes. I could smell the sergeant. Feet, most of it, filthy socks, typical of the breed, they're not the ultra-sensitive among us, these paid professional body-busters, I've known some, I tell you I've known some and I've left stains on their kitchen chairs and all I'm looking for is any excuse to plug this bastard's nervous system into some really high-voltage centre-knuckle techniques and — For Christ's sake watch it or you 'll blow the whole thing.
Perfectly right.
Seven minutes.
They'd nothing to lose. They could let Tanya Rusakova walk out of this building and through those rusting iron gates and across the square and they could get her back in five minutes, deploy patrols and cover the environment: they'd be quite sure of that, wrong but sure, unworried. And they could escort me to the place where I would direct them and surround it with half a regiment of armed militia before they let me in there, nothing to lose, they could pull me out again and slam me back into the patrol car or shoot me down if I resisted, whatever they chose to do, nothing to lose.
If they agreed to the deal at all, that would be their reason.
Eight minutes, and the sweat reached my chin and I brushed it off and the sergeant caught the movement and I saw him tense, the scarred leather-skinned hands lifting a fraction and the fingers forming claws ready to grab me and send me spinning backwards on the chair, you try that, you stinking bastard and I 'll — steady, for the sake of God, you'll blow Meridian.