Igor Molenkov did not sleep. Beside him, Yashkin slept after a fashion, but the rhythm of his breathing was punctuated by groans.
Every muscle in Molenkov’s body ached, every joint had pain locked in it, and every time he moved, it got worse. The floor on which he sat was concrete hard, and the two blankets they had been given were too thin to offer decent protection against the cold. At least the noise had stopped and the mechanic’s work was finished.
They had been — he did not know how many hours before, had lost count — on the final stage of the run into Bryansk. The countryside, flooded fields, flooded rivers and flooded forests, had been behind them. They had reached the lines of factories on the approach to the city and — of course — it had been raining when the engine had died, without a cough of warning. It was as if it had simply given up the ghost and gone happily, but inconveniently, to the arms of St Seraphim. It was twenty-four years since his beloved wife had passed on — twenty-four years, one month, two weeks and four days, never forgotten — and she had gone like that. She had been in the hospital bed, listening to his awkward talk, had turned to the window, where the rain lashed the glass, and had died, without warning. They had pushed the Polonez at least three-quarters of a kilometre, him at the back where the fucking useless heap was heaviest, and Yashkin at the side with his hand through the open window, manoeuvring the steering-wheel. Traffic had built behind them, horns had blasted, but no one had helped. They had pushed the Polonez half the length of Komsomolskaya Street, almost reached the city, when Yashkin had wrenched the wheel and they had been on the forecourt of a small garage.
Molenkov had sagged against the car’s roof and gasped for breath.
Yashkin had negotiated. Of course, the men were about to finish their day. Cash had oiled the palm of the chief mechanic.
Molenkov had heard the man say that the Polonez would be repaired and ready for the road by morning — the description of the engine’s death indicated an electrical malfunction, and the two old gentlemen should find lodging for the night.
And he had heard Yashkin say that they would sleep on the floor with their car. The chief mechanic had suggested that the Polonez be unloaded, the weight in the back taken out, before the car was pushed on to the ramp above the pit, and Yashkin had refused, with vehemence, then winked, as if he were an old thief moving stolen goods, or contraband. More money had been passed. More than a half of the cash they carried between them had slid into the back pocket of the chief mechanic, the fucking criminal.
They couldn’t have gone together to find a café and food. Molenkov had lumbered off into the night in search of rolls, cheese and an apple each. They had eaten, then lain down on the floor, with the dirt and the sump oil.
An hour ago, Molenkov had heard the engine started, and the old girl had run, he’d admit it, sweetly. He had tried to wake Yashkin to tell him that the repair was effected, but he had been sworn at and Yashkin had rolled over on to his side, away from him.
He shifted again. The bones of his buttocks dug into flesh. No respite to be found on the concrete floor. A night light, dulled, had been left on. He saw it. Was not certain, at first, of what he saw, then had confirmation. A rat quartered the oil-covered floor around the edge of the pit.
He looked across and saw the tail of the car weighed down.
He thought of what the car carried — lost all hope of an hour’s sleep in the last hour of the night — its weight, what he did, and what Yashkin did, and— A convulsing cough broke next to him. Yashkin shook, his head jerked up, and his hands rubbed hard at his eyes.
Yashkin grinned. Then he punched Molenkov’s shoulder and chuckled. The pain in his body was sheer and clear-running, and Yashkin chuckled.
Yashkin said, ‘I wouldn’t have believed it. In all this shit, on the floor, I slept like a baby. As good a night’s sleep as I can remember. What’s the matter? Didn’t you sleep?’
Molenkov had been awake to think of guilt.
Yashkin’s arm was round the shoulder where his punch had fallen. ‘I can sleep anywhere. I feel refreshed. You know, Molenkov, it could have been worse.’
Molenkov stood up, went to the pit, reached up, lifted the tail door and removed his bag. He unzipped it and took out his razor, some soap and the shaving-brush. He went towards the back of the workshop where there was a stinking lavatory and a grimy basin.
Yashkin called after him, ‘We should face the new day with confidence. What a team we make.’
He came out of the bathroom. Carrick had run the shower at full power as hot as he could bear it, and his skin tingled. He thought he had put some warmth back into his body. He had towelled himself with aggression, every word spat at him and every nuanced gesture from the night’s actions and encounter alive in him. He stepped over the sodden suit, shirt and shoes that littered the carpet.
The alarm went. He had reached the hotel some fifteen minutes before, had shown his guest card to the night porter or would not have been admitted. In the room’s mirror, he had seen himself half drowned, dishevelled, and had stripped. He had put on the TV. God alone knew why — maybe for company.
Carrick killed the alarm. He stood naked in the centre of the room, grimaced, and let his fingernails scrape into the skin of his palms, as if that would purge him of what he had done. He blanked out the insults spat quietly at him. The TV showed commercials. He took a plastic laundry sack from the wardrobe and dumped his clothes and shoes in it. He wrote his name and room number on it, as if his work still had a future ahead of it. He dressed. Had only the one change. A weather forecast played on the TV. He buttoned a shirt, knotted a tie, smoothed his hair, buffed his second shoes with a handkerchief, pocketed his wallet and the mobile phone, had everything, and was three minutes away from changeover time.
He left his laundry outside his door. Went the few paces down the corridor. Knocked. If the surveillance hadn’t tracked him, if the bastard hadn’t come to the step in the doorway on Fuggerstrasse, he wouldn’t have been at the outer door of the anteroom now, and it would have been over. Damp passport in a damp hand, taken from a damp jacket, offered at Tempelhof, and a flight home, telling himself he didn’t give a damn, a bus into London and a walk to a Pimlico street: ‘Sorry and all that, George, but I wasn’t up for it. Anything else on the horizon?’ The door was opened and he saw Viktor.
Carrick thought the man studied him. He thought the eyes covered his hair, his face, his tie knot and the clean shirt, the well-pressed suit that had been hung long enough in the wardrobe to lose the bag’s creases, the shoes.
Carrick was hit by it. Why did a man coming on guard duty at four in the morning, to lounge for four hours on an anteroom settee, shower and shave as if it was party time, put on a clean shirt and suit and change his shoes? Couldn’t answer it, and didn’t know whether Viktor asked. And didn’t know whether the Russian, an hour or two back, had come out of the anteroom, gone to his door, rapped on it and not been answered. Viktor had on scuffed shoes with the laces undone, crumpled trousers, a shirt open halfway to his waist and no tie. No comb had been through his hair. When Viktor turned to fetch his jacket, Carrick saw the pistol in his belt.
‘Is there anything I should know?’ he asked.
He thought Viktor smiled but could not be certain of it, then shook his head.
‘What’s the programme for the morning?’
Now Carrick was sure Viktor smiled, and was gone.