Where are you? Who are you? What do you want of us?
She shivered, and turned into the cabin. Inside, she paced up and down the corridor, baffled.
You have a Harvard law degree.
Sheer popularity swept you into your second term. You won support for the Poverty Bill against the conservatives, and by some miracle you even got the Environment Bill through while keeping the oilmen on board.
You’re handling the Iraqi crisis like a maestro.
You’re a miracle-worker, Seth.
She tossed her coat, hat and gloves on to the bed and marched angrily through to the small kitchen.
So why are you taking your advice on this paramount issue from screwballs, nuts and hillbillies?
She filled the kettle with icy water.
Is it conceivable that something deeper than Bible Belt fundamentalism is holding you back?
An incredible thought leaped into her head:
Is it conceivable, by any stretch of the imagination, that Cardow and Harris are right?
She paced up and down some more, looked at her watch, and picked up a telephone.
29
Freya
‘I wonder what it will be like?’ Shtyrkov wanted to know. The metal grid protecting the bar had proved impenetrable but the men had used an antique stool as a battering ram on the door. Both stool and door now lay in splinters and an impressive array of bottles was spread over the coffee-table in front of them. He was cradling a tumbler of some green liquid.
‘What?’ Gibson, having downed four large J&Bs, spoke the word with exaggerated care. The hands of the big clock were pointing to just before midnight.
‘The slaughter. How will they do it? Will they smother us? Shoot us? Slit our throats?’
‘Cut that out. Think of the ladies.’ It came out chauvinistic but Gibson was too far gone to care.
Svetlana giggled. From time to time she rubbed her nose, as if the bubbles from her champagne were tickling it.
Hanning said, ‘I really don’t know what’s got into you people. Sangster went blue in the face telling you the soldiers are there as a simple precaution. To keep unfriendly people out.’
Shtyrkov finished his tumbler of green liquid and reached for the half-empty bottle. ‘But they’re keeping us in.’
Petrie looked round at his drunken companions, sunk in the blue armchairs: Shtyrkov, Gibson, Svetlana, Freya, Hanning and himself. Six of us. ‘Can we go over it again? The escape possibilities?’
‘What’s the point?’ Hanning asked.
‘The point is survival.’ Freya’s voice was tense. ‘There must be some way out of this. Didn’t you say the place reminded you of Colditz, Jeremy? Well, people escaped from Colditz, didn’t they?’
‘You’re clutching at straws,’ Gibson said, pouring his fifth whisky with immense care.
Hanning spoke gently. ‘Say I go along with this ridiculous fantasy for the sake of argument. Colditz was master forgers, tunnelling engineers, teams of specialists. Colditz was months of planning. Above all, Colditz was before night-vision optics.’
Freya waved an arm around. ‘Look at the brainpower in this room. We can think of something.’
Hanning shook his head. ‘You’re imbeciles in these matters. You have a few hours and we’re surrounded by a brigade of troops. There’s clear grass all the way around the castle and no way whatsoever of crossing it undetected. There are no tunnels. You can’t disguise yourselves as cleaning staff. You can’t hide in the trash cans. And you can’t fight your way past a hundred Kalashnikovs with kitchen knives. I’m sorry, Freya.’
Something wrong. Something about Hanning.
Through his alcoholic haze, Petrie analysed Hanning’s words. You have a few hours. You’re imbeciles in these matters. Not We have a few hours. We’re imbeciles in these matters. Was Hanning excluding himself from the imminent killings? Was it a slip of the tongue, or a case of in vino veritas?
‘There is no prospect of escape.’ Shtyrkov said it with emphasis, almost with a tone of triumph.
Petrie listened to the Russian’s words and his heart sank. Come on, Vash, you’re the sharp one. Think of something! Until now he had hoped, even believed, that Vashislav would find a way out. If there was a way out, some lateral thinking to be done, some trick, Vashislav would have come up with it. A sense of nausea washed over him. He said, ‘Still, “It is a sweet and seemly thing to die for one’s country.” Seneca. Right, Jeremy?’
Hanning raised a tumbler unsteadily. ‘Right. To Seneca.’
Petrie added, ‘Oh, God.’ Nobody paid any attention.
‘What’s that green slime?’ Gibson nodded at Shtyrkov’s glass.
‘Charlee, it is alcohol. It is called Green Slime and when I have finished this bottle I will start on another one.’
‘Well, you may have given up, pal, but I’m thinking survival…’
‘To the British!’ Shtyrkov raised his tumbler ironically.
‘… and I can’t do it with a spinning head. I’m for bed.’ Gibson stood up, steadying himself on an armchair.
‘Me too,’ said Petrie.
Gibson turned at the door, swaying. ‘Would any of you ladies care to join me?’
Svetlana giggled again. It was that or burst into tears.
A tap on the door. Petrie, his head still groggy with wine, dragged himself into a sitting position. He switched on the bedside lamp.
Freya, carrying an opened bottle of white wine and two glasses. She put them down on the table and sat on a chair, pushing Petrie’s clothes to the floor. ‘I can’t believe things like this happen.’ She was wearing her red sweater and long dark skirt, and was bare-footed.
‘All the rules are off,’ Petrie said, pulling his knees up. The headboard was cold on his back.
‘We think, when the cleaners come in the morning, we’ll take their van and ram our way out.’
‘Don’t be silly. Anyway the cleaners won’t come.’
‘How can they not? There’s a conference on Monday. But if that doesn’t work, we’ll hide until the conference people turn up. The castle is full of hiding places and we only need to hide for a day.’
‘They’ll sniff us out with dogs.’
Freya blew her nose. ‘I love dogs. Have you given up, then? The great pattern finder, the man who boldly goes where no problem solver has gone before?’
‘No way have I given up. I just need to sleep on it. So you love dogs?’
‘And life. I don’t want to go at age twenty-three. I want to go when I’m ninety, drinking and smoking a cigar and watching the northern lights. So sleep well, Thomas, and waken up with an idea.’ She moved over to Petrie’s bed, and sat on the edge. He caught a light whiff of eau de cologne, felt a sudden, sharp pang of attraction. Bloody hormones!
She asked, ‘Have you seen the aurora?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Oy! Oy! Oy! To die before you have lived! When you see them from the roof of the world, in their full glory, then you will believe in Thor and Odin.’
‘You’re a poetic sort of creature, Freya.’
‘And you’re a miserable, disembodied computer, a pale imitation of a real man.’ She poured two glasses. Petrie took a sip; the wine was cold.
‘Freya, I’m a bundle of inhibitions. I can’t sing or dance. But I’m in love with your hair.’
‘I see you have hairs on your chest.’ She touched his chest; Petrie wondered if she could feel his heart hammering.