‘But we need people,’ said Kistler. ‘Strong healthy people, educated, burning with energy. We need them to work. And we need steel. We need oil. We need power. We need mathematics and engineering. We need to be clever, Osip, or the Archipelago will—’
Rizhin brushed him off with a gesture. ‘The Archipelago will be ground to powder under the wheels of history, Lukasz,’ he said. ‘You underestimate inevitability.’
He raised the pistol and levelled it at Kistler’s head, the ugly blackness of the barrel mouth pointing directly between his eyes.
‘History is as inevitable and unstoppable as the path of the bullet from this gun if I pull the trigger. Effects follow causes.’
Kistler made an effort to take his eyes from the pistol. His gaze met Rizhin’s soft-brown gentle look.
‘Osip…’ he began.
Rizhin turned away and fired a shot at the target. The raw explosion echoed off the concrete walls. Kistler realised his hands were damp. The back of his shirt was cold and sticky against his skin.
‘I had hopes for you, Lukasz,’ said Rizhin. ‘I was going to involve you. You’re a man of fine qualities. An outstandingly useful fellow. I was going to take you with us. But I find you are also a sentimentalist. Your belly is soft and white and you aren’t to be trusted. You’ve let me down. Badly.’
‘I don’t understand this,’ said Kistler. ‘What’s happening here, Osip? Where is this going to?’
‘Tell me about Investigator Vissarion Lom.’
‘Who?’
‘Feeble. Feeble. Where is the famous Kistler fire in the guts? Where is the energy?’ Rizhin pulled a crumpled typescript from the back pocket of his trousers and pushed it towards him. Kistler read the first few lines.
Kistler Residential–Internal
23.47 Transcription begins
Kistler: Yes?
Unknown caller: I wish to speak with Lukasz Kistler.
Kistler: This is Kistler. Who the fuck are you?
‘I know this is Lom,’ said Rizhin. ‘He’s a man I know. He circles me, Lukasz. He buzzes in my ear. I can’t shake him off.’
‘So shoot me.’
Rizhin shook his head.
‘I want you to extend your vacation, Lukasz. Another week or two maybe. I’ve had enough of this bastard Lom. I want to trace him. I want to tie him down and finish him. And he’s not doing this alone; there are conspiracies here, Lukasz, and you’re deep in the whole nest of shit, and I’m going to know the extent of it. The whole fucking thing. Names. Dates. Connections. Circles of contact. You’ll stay here and spend some time with Rond and his people. We’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other. We’ll have more talks.’
4
Back in Mirgorod again after the long journey from Vitigorsk, Lom wasted no time. He dialled from a call box at the Wieland Station. The contact number Kistler had given him rang and rang. He hung up and tried again.
Eventually someone answered. A woman’s voice. Cautious.
Yes? Who is this?
‘I want to speak with Lukasz Kistler.’
Name, please. Your name.
‘I will speak to Kistler. Only Kistler. He is expecting me.’
Secretary Kistler is unavailable.
‘I’ll call back. Give me a time.’
The Secretary will be unavailable for some considerable time, perhaps days, perhaps longer. You may discuss your business with me. What is your name?
Lom cut the connection.
He took a cab across the city and walked the last few blocks to the war-levelled quarter of the rubble dwellers, to the cellar Elena Cornelius had led him to. His link to the Underground Road. Konnie and Maksim were there. So was Elena, looking strained. Hunted.
‘I can’t reach Kistler,’ said Lom. ‘I’ve got something he can use. Devastating material. Dynamite. In Kistler’s hands it will bring Rizhin down. Definitely. But Kistler is out of contact. His number’s no good. I thought you could—’
‘Kistler has been arrested,’ said Maksim.
Lom felt the warmth drain from his face.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. When?’
‘He went to Rizhin’s dacha. He’s being held there under interrogation. Rizhin is there with him, and so is Rond. Nobody else.’
‘How do you know this? How can you be sure.’
‘We have somebody there,’ said Konnie. ‘On the dacha staff. There is no doubt.’
‘But Kistler is alive?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Maksim. ‘For now he is alive, though what state he’s in…’
‘Is there anybody else?’ said Lom. ‘Anyone else who could use the material I have, like Kistler could?’
‘In the Presidium? No. Not a chance.’
‘Then I have to get Kistler out of there and back to Mirgorod,’ said Lom.
‘That’s impossible,’ said Maksim. ‘He’s being held by the Parallel Sector in Rizhin’s own fucking dacha.’
‘Nothing’s impossible,’ said Lom. ‘I need Kistler. Tell me about this dacha. Tell me about your contact there.’
‘No,’ said Maksim. ‘It’s out of the question.’
‘This material,’ said Konnie. ‘It’s as big as you say? It’s that dangerous for Rizhin?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Lom. ‘Poisonous. Lethal. In Kistler’s hands it will bring him down.’
‘What is it?’ said Maksim.
‘No,’ said Lom. ‘First you tell me about Rizhin’s dacha.’
‘But what you’ve got is really that good?’
‘Yes. If we can get Kistler back to Mirgorod, free, and arm him with what I have, he can turn the Central Committee against Rizhin and he will fall.’
Konnie glanced at Maksim.
‘We won’t tell you where Rizhin’s dacha is,’ she said. ‘You’ll need help. We’ll take you there. We’ll go with you.’
‘Konnie…’ said Maksim.
Konnie ignored him.
‘You can’t get Kistler out of there all by yourself,’ she said. ‘We have some resources, not much maybe, but better than one man on his own.’
Lom considered. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Yes. That would be good.’
Konnie turned to Elena.
‘You’re welcome to stay here,’ she said. ‘You’ll be safe. You won’t be found. Someone will bring you food. It won’t be more than a week.’
Elena Cornelius bridled. ‘I’m coming. I’m tired of hiding. I’ve got a job to finish and none of you can do what I can do. Get me a rifle and I will come.’
5
Every day in the first pale pink and violet flush of another new morning Vasilisk the bodyguard runs in the hills above Dacha Number Nine. Ten easy miles on yellow earth tracks before breakfast, taking the slopes through fragrant thorny shrub with cardiovascular efficiency, the early warmth of the sun on his shoulders. He sees the soft mist in the valleys. Sees the black beetles crossing the paths and the boar pushing through thickets. Watches the big hunting birds, high on stiff wings against the pale dusty blue, circling up on the thermals. Miles of rise and fall unrolling smoothly and effortlessly.
No words. No thoughts.
He knows the routes of the security patrols and the places they watch from and he does not go there; he prefers to drink the mountain solitude in, like cool sweet water. The watcher doesn’t like to be watched. Doesn’t like the feel of a long lens on his back. Ten miles of nobody in the morning sets him up for the day.
Two hundred push-ups, breathing steady and slow, two sets of fifty per arm, and a downhill sprint between pine trees–jumping tussocks and stony glittering streams–and Vasilisk the bodyguard steps out onto the road, corn-yellow hair slick with sweat. Sweat patches darkening his singlet.