He looked behind, but the view from the central mirror was blocked by the shape hidden under the tarpaulin. He leaned forward, saw the flash of blue lights in the wing mirror and heard the siren. He said, a hiss, ‘Fuck.’
Beside him: ‘What?’
Exasperation. ‘Are you deaf? Can’t you hear?’
A shrug. ‘I’m old. What should I hear?’
Molenkov wound down his window, felt the rain spatter on his face.
‘Now you hear it?’
‘We broke no speed restrictions.’
‘We broke, friend, the tail end of a fine BMW car.’
‘What to do?’
It closed on them. The siren screamed, the lights blazed. It was a new saloon, and could have outrun them, probably on three fucking wheels. Molenkov swore again. He noted the reaction, immediate, of Oleg Yashkin: foot on the accelerator, chin closer to the wheel, forehead nearer to the windscreen. For what? Futile. The police vehicle came up beside them, bucked on the verge, then was spewing back mud and rainwater from its tyres and was past them. No contest. He had seen two grinning faces under wide peaked caps, and a hand had gestured for them to pull over. Just a scrape of paint off a fucking BMW, and a broken tail-light or two. What exercised the mind of Colonel (Ret’d) Igor Molenkov, as the police vehicle slowed in front and blocked them, was the item covered with an old tarpaulin behind him. He reached back. Old ways died hard and old lessons stayed learned. He groped in the side pocket of his bag, found what he needed, set his face — and thought he looked at a half-share of a million American dollars, or the rest of his life in a strict-regime penal camp.
He said, ‘Stop the car, and don’t open your mouth.’
Defiance. ‘I can ram them.’
‘Stop the car — for once do as I fucking say — and don’t open your mouth.’
He was pitched forward, almost lost them, but the safety-pin mounted on them caught his trousers. He pinned them to his chest. The Polonez stopped. It was the only tactic he could think of using.
They came out of the police car. The bigger man had a cigarette hooked to his lips, at the side of his mouth, and the buttons of his uniform shirt were undone. The smaller man, younger, had his tie loosened and was lighting a cigarette. Both wore side arms in holsters. They sauntered. On Molenkov’s chest, hidden by his arm, were three rows of medals, mounted on a plastic frame. He saw the smirks on their faces. They came to the window, his side, and ash from the bigger officer’s cigarette fell on to the Polonez’s bonnet.
He heard a practised routine: ‘You were speeding.’
And, ‘In a restricted zone you were exceeding the limit.’
‘Without the payment of a spot fine, you are liable to arrest.’
He understood the procedures of extortion. His arm still concealed the medals because he was not yet ready to display them. Neither officer had in his hand the official notepad from which a receipt could be given in return for the payment of a fine. He wondered if they were near the end of their shift. The bigger man’s cigarette was now ground out on the bonnet. The younger man blew smoke into Molenkov’s face.
‘What are you carrying, old man?’
‘Open the boot. Show us what you have there.’
He climbed out of the car and snapped upright. At full height, with the rain falling lightly on him, his shoulders back and his medals now in their faces, he surveyed them. The medals glinted. Anyone of a colonel’s rank had three rows — a medal for long service, short service, passing promotion exams, taking part in Kremlin parades, party membership, for wiping his arse with his left hand, first class, and wiping his arse with his right hand, second class, for staying alive — and they rattled as he confronted them.
He spat, ‘You are a disgrace.’
The smirks faded.
‘A disgrace to your uniform and your country. You are criminals.’
He forgot his situation, relived his past. ‘You are khuligany, the scum that steal from kiosk-owners.’
Two sets of clenched fists, then the hands went into the pockets.
‘You think that I, with my service, do not know the senior officers responsible for policing this oblast? Try me — and get your fucking hands out of your pockets.’
Hesitation creeping over them. The hands came out of the pockets, hung limp against the trousers.
‘Your appearance is shameful. You, your buttons, do them up.’
Eyes blinked, then dropped.
And again, with cold contempt: ‘Do them up.’
Fingers at buttons.
‘And you, your tie. Are you a police officer, serving society, or are you a gypsy thief? It is for the neck, not the navel.’
The knot of the tie was raised.
‘Your shirt is filthy. I would not have my dog sleep on it. Stand straight when I address you!’
They stiffened, stood taller. The bigger officer dragged in his belly and his lip quivered.
‘I have given a lifetime of service to Russia. My son gave his life for Russia, and my friend’s father died for Russia to make a place safe for shites like you to steal and besmirch the honour of the police. Put that cigarette out.’
It was dropped and burned out in the rainwater.
‘Now your vehicle. What state is your vehicle in? Don’t shuffle!’
He led them to the patrol car. There were sandwich wrappers, drinks cans and discarded cigarette packets in the two foot wells, and magazines across the back seat.
‘You go to work like that? You shame the whole of your force. You shame your uniform and your profession. Have I worked to preserve the safety of crap like you? Get that car clean.’
They did. Rubbish filled a plastic bag. When it was nearly done, Molenkov ordered that the patrol car be moved on to the grass verge, but his prayer for a ditch went unanswered. It was moved. He made a small gesture, hidden to them, and Yashkin started the Polonez. He climbed in beside his friend and shouted through the window that they should, both of them, consider themselves fortunate that he would not report them in person to his friend, a senior police official in the municipality of Kolomna. The two policemen stood stiffly at attention as they passed … and the breath sighed out of Igor Molenkov’s throat. All bluff, nothing but bluff, and if bluff was called … Yashkin gripped his arm.
‘I have seen everything. They saluted. Really. They were kids on parade, and they saluted as we drove away. I think they expressed gratitude that you will not report them.’
They laughed. Not mirth, not amusement, but hysterical cackling. They laughed without control, veering right and left on the road, then back again, and Molenkov buried his head in Yashkin’s chest, and had to be pushed away so that his friend could steer.
Yashkin said, ‘You were supreme. If ever I doubted we would get to the Bug, the doubt is gone. Nothing can stop us, nothing and no one.’
They sat in a horseshoe round Christopher Lawson, who had the bench, and listened, while a brisk wind whipped them. ‘What you have to understand, gentlemen, is that disparate personalities are called together, and have only one common character defect. They will arrive on the scene of events from many directions that appear to have no link. It is the defect that governs them. All harbour a grievance against their society. Now it rules them. No love, no loyalty is permitted to gain supremacy over the grievance. I offer up a supposition — and I do not idly “suppose”. A warhead from the arsenal at what was once Arzamas-16 is being transported out of Russian territory. A further supposition. It will be bought, or has already been purchased, by criminal elements. More supposition. It will be sold on to those who wish to detonate the warhead. I believe in supposition. Without doubt, a clear and unmistakable danger exists, has many arms, but all of the participants are chained together by the factor of grievance. Find the origins of the grievances and we will find the men. We stun the beast, then stand with a boot on its throat and cut off its head. So, gentlemen, lady, welcome to Haystack, and I will do the introductions.’