And he did not care, not now, what would be the consequences of doing what he wanted — had no more thought of consequences than of helping Reuven Weissberg bring a package across the swollen river. He was a new man, changed, and did not expect the recognition of those who had known him before. He sought respect, satisfaction, and to be treated as an alpha player, and he wore a criminal’s weapon in a pancake holster on his belt.
The last shafts of the sunlight, and the final warmth from it, were on his shoulders and neck. He heard Mikhail cough again. Maybe something from those thoughts passed over his lips, came from his throat, but Reuven Weissberg looked sharply at him, was puzzled, then glanced at his watch before resuming his study of the river.
Carrick dropped his hands into the mud beside his hips and heaved himself upright. His back was to Reuven Weissberg and he faced Josef Goldmann, Viktor and Mikhail. He let his right hand drift behind his buttocks and flexed his fist, tightened and squeezed it. He had never had a street-fight, but he had seen them and knew that surprise, commitment and speed were key factors. He felt good, and it was what he wanted to do.
He took his eyeline on Mikhail and walked towards him. The man smoked, sat hunched and seemed unaware of him. He saw that Josef Goldmann shivered, could not stop trembling, that Viktor had let his head fall back against the bank, where it was steep, eyes closed and might have slept.
Carrick said, in his mind, ‘Something I want to show you, Mikhail. Over here, now.’
He repeated it. In a moment he would say it out aloud.
He did, said it, what he had rehearsed in his mind.
Mikhail looked up, languid, disinterested.
He said it again and hoped his voice had hardness.
Mikhail stood. Josef Goldmann watched, as if curious, but Viktor slept on.
Mikhail came towards him, seemed relaxed, not wary, but the shadow was on the face and Carrick wasn’t certain of it. Two more steps, then Mikhail would be close enough for the first strike with the fist.
He sucked in air. His wrist was held. He had not heard the movement. His wrist, at his back, was held tight, then twisted up high against his spine. He realized he was helpless. He was edged back, the sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder and elbow, and could not resist. He was taken to the place beside the river where he had sat, his wrist was freed, and the water swirled past. He saw Mikhail slump again beside Josef Goldmann.
Reuven Weissberg said, in his ear, ‘He would have broken your neck, Johnny. With a broken neck you are useless to me.’
‘Where does it go?’
‘Where does what go?’
‘Life …’ Luke Davies said. ‘Us.’
‘Does it have to go somewhere?’ She faced him.
A great log had been left by foresters. Among the pines and birches it had been a rare oak, uprooted by a winter gale years back. The upper sections had been cut off and carted away, but where the trunk joined the splayed roots it had been left for the weather to destroy. Luke Davies leaned against it and Katie Jennings sat astride it. He held her hand, or she held his, and neither loosened the grip.
‘It would be nice,’ he said.
Her eyes rolled. ‘That’s a big word to use to a girl, nice, makes her feel pretty special.’
‘I think it would be good,’ he said, slowly and with care, as if taking steps on ground where cluster bomblets had rained down. ‘Yes, pretty good, if things sort of moved on, went somewhere.’
‘Are we talking futures?’ Mouth open, eyes wide, mocking but not cruel. ‘Is that where we’re going?’
‘I think it’s where I’d like to go.’
‘For a proposal of cohabitation it’s a little off the obvious. Nothing agreed, right. Nothing accepted, understood. Just conversation. Where do you live? What’s there?’
He said, ‘It’s a room in a house, Camden Town. A grotty road and a nasty house. I have a room, single-occupancy tenancy, and the rest is full of nonentities. I can’t afford anything better. Shall I do my CV, what and where I am? I live there because what I’m paid doesn’t let me get higher up the bloody property ladder. I don’t have a car, and I save on the transport fares by cycling to work and back. I eat in our canteen because it’s cheap and subsidized, and I’m working late most evenings. I’m twenty-eight, I have first-class honours in East European and Slavonic studies, I’ve been with the Service for five years, and I think what I do is important and —’
‘And you’re paid a subsistence wage, probably less than me.’
‘— and most of the guys round me, and the girls, have had a lift up, financially, from parents. I haven’t — my dad cleans office windows and my mum’s a dinner lady. I have this bloody accent, can’t lose it unless I do speech training, and that typecasts me at VBX. What I’m saying is that I work hard, I don’t have any link left with home, and I’m not on everybody’s invitation list in the section. I suppose I’m pretty lonely, and I don’t like it.’
She grinned. ‘You and your tragic life.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean, you know …’
‘God. I have a one-bedroom place, with a living room, a kitchenette and a bathroom not much bigger than you’d need to swing a cat in. It’s down in south-west London, where I did beat work. I’m well paid, I do all right. I like going to work each day. Remember the narrowboat?’
‘I do.’
‘It’s my dad’s. I have the run of it any time I want. Wake up in the morning, nothing but cows on the bank, and the odd rat, and quiet, and—’
‘I remember it because he was there.’
‘What did I say?’
‘You said, “Nothing’s for ever.”
Katie Jennings’s leg was hard against his shoulder. He felt her warmth, the heat in her hand. Her eyes danced. ‘I decide who goes there. Me. No one else has ownership.’
‘Do you think they need us?’
‘If they need us they’ll call.’
He kissed her. More exactly, she kissed him.
Tadeuz Komiski saw them, their bodies locked together. The search for Father Jerzy’s wood had taken him longer, and he had gone further, than he had expected.
He stopped. Where they were, the curse had taken hold of him. He stayed. They were at the place where guilt had been born. He was among the trees, unseen by them, and a child’s memories were stirred.
Lawson listened.
Bugsy hung back but Deadeye spilled it. ‘We’ve been to the river, where they were yesterday. They’d left footmarks and fag ends but — and sorry about it, Mr Lawson — they’re not there today, haven’t been, and there’s no trace of the boat. Stands to reason it was where they did the reconnaissance and where they expected to find their people on the opposite side. Not there. We backtracked up- and downstream, tried to find them that way. Didn’t. We cut back into the forest and looked for the cars. By then, have to say it, we’d little chance because the light’d gone. Mr Lawson, we don’t know where they are, don’t know where to look. We’ve lost them. Somewhere they’ll be hunkered down and waiting for their pick-up, but I don’t know where to start looking for it.’
Lawson said briskly, ‘What we need now, Deadeye, is a smidgen of luck.’
He thought he’d spoken with confidence and authority. Where did luck come from? They stood in a half-circle but away from him. He thought they had such faith, deep reservoirs of trust. He smiled at each in turn, at Shrinks, Deadeye and Bugsy, at Adrian and Dennis, and they waited on him for an answer handed down as to where luck could be gained. He realized then how long young Davies and the girl had been gone, but they were not a solution. Two more bodies would make no difference.