‘I tell you, Yashkin—’
‘What?’
‘You always fucking interrupt … I tell you I feel better.’
‘A pity we have no wine to celebrate.’
They were long past Pogar and had gone through Starodub, a miserable little place, Molenkov had thought, and were now on the main route, the M13. Not from choice, but there was no side road on which Molenkov could navigate them to Klincy, where they would sleep. He sensed that his friend’s sour mood came from his directions that they must use the highway. Every car sped past them, and every van, every motorcycle, every lorry hooted in a cacophony because the plodding Polonez was an obstacle. Drivers held up behind them hit their horns and flashed headlights, and when they came level they pointed to the hard shoulder, as if that was where a slow old car should be.
‘Are you sulking because I’ve omitted to ask why you feel better?’
Molenkov smiled. ‘You could ask humbly and I could reply graciously with an explanation.’
‘Fuck you. Why do you feel better?’
‘At last I feel luck is with us. Do you understand me? In thirty-five minutes, my estimation, we’ll be in Klincy and—’
‘I know nothing of Klincy, its history, industry or layout. Where we will sleep, I don’t know.’
‘Can you not interrupt me, Yashkin? Then we’ll be at the end of the fifth day, and will have achieved three-quarters — almost — of our journey. We’ve survived, haven’t fought each other, have kept the wreck on the road. With each kilometre we travel we’re each nearer to a half-share of one million American dollars. Those are achievements, and they tell me that luck is with us.’
‘You believe in luck, my friend?’
‘I do. What was it but luck that caused the sentry at the main gate not to search the cart and find the thing? More luck for you that I, the political officer, didn’t see you dig the hole and bury it, because I would have reported you. More luck that Viktor came and you, my friend, confided in me. I believe in luck.’
‘We’ll need luck for two more days.’
Molenkov, now sombre, said, ‘I think you have to earn it.’
They were dwarfed by lorries, most with swaying trailers, that streamed past them. The passenger in the cab of a lorry that hauled timber had his window wound down and hurled abuse at Yashkin, who gave him the finger. Molenkov turned in his seat, cursed the stiffness of his pelvis and reached back. He let his fingers fall on the rough canvas that covered the thing. He thought of his wife, dead, and his son, dead, and wondered with growing bitterness why they had not earned luck. A horn screamed at him.
The voice chirped in his ear. ‘You want to know about luck, Molenkov?’
He turned his head, saw bright mischief in Yashkin’s eyes.
‘A story about luck?’
‘Go on.’
‘Have you heard of the luck of the scientists at Arzamas-16 who did the first test?’
‘No.’
Yashkin said, ‘It was the twenty-ninth of August, 1949, the test was to be called Operation First Lightning, and the bomb was on a tower in what has become the Semipalatinsk test site. Lavrenti Beria, head of security for all of the Soviet Union, was overseeing the programme to build the bomb and he came to view the test. The device was fired. It worked. The bomb was the triumph of Igor Kurchatov. Beria then read, with the mushroom cloud in the sky, a letter of congratulation from Stalin, addressed to all the scientists who had made the firing successful. Kurchatov was lucky. He spoke afterwards to close colleagues of his luck and theirs. He said Beria had carried two documents from Stalin: the letter of congratulation and the warrant for the scientists’ execution. Had they not been lucky, had the device not exploded, they would have been killed — Kurchatov said so. One document in the right pocket of Beria’s jacket, and one in the left. You could say that Kurchatov earned his luck … There were nomads who lived in transient villages inside the zone of radioactive fall-out and they were not lucky. They were not moved before the test. As always, luck must be earned. You look miserable, Molenkov. I tell you, we’ll earn our luck, and take what’s owed us.’
They came off the M13 and drove into Klincy.
Lawson came to the car, panting. Davies followed, carrying the bags for both of them. The car was parked on the kerb behind the minibus, a hundred and fifty metres up the street from the hotel.
The girl pushed open the rear door for him, and said, ‘Goldmann’s wheels are at the front. All of that party is loaded up, their gear in the boot. They’re moving out. We’re ready to go.’
Lawson slipped into the rear seat and closed the door abruptly. Wasn’t going to tolerate young Davies beside him. He had exchanged only banalities with him since the spat in the minibus. Not that he wanted more. He preferred quiet. Not ten minutes ago, he had been in his room. Throwing his clothes into his bag, he had seen the biro he had used beside the notepad on the bedside table, had bent to pick it up, and his hand had brushed the telephone. He had not called Lavinia since he had left London. He had not told her where he was headed. He could have lifted the phone, punched the numbers, muttered a couple of platitudes to the answerphone, or even spoken to her.
‘Are we all fit?’
‘Never been fitter.’ There was still that bloody sneer in young Davies’s voice.
‘Ready to go,’ the girl said.
Lawson remembered the telephone he hadn’t lifted, the number he hadn’t dialled, and a slow frown formed on his forehead. He had been away from home for two nights, and he couldn’t have said with certainty that Lavinia would have noticed his absence.
‘A little change of plan,’ Lawson said. Like a bloody bright light that had come on — God, his mind was clouded, confused, and he’d not acted on an impulse. Should have done. They were staring at him from the front. ‘Slipping, sorry. Luke … Apologies to both.’
He said what he wanted done.
He climbed out of the car, took his bag from the boot and started to walk to the minibus. Wasn’t damn well losing it, was he? They’d be standing in a bloody great queue winding round the corridors of VBX for a chance to take a peek at him if word surfaced that Christopher Lawson had lost the plot. He reached the minibus, pulled open the side door. ‘Coming with you, gentlemen, wherever we’re headed. They’ll be following tomorrow.’
Mikhail was at the wheel of the car that had stopped behind theirs. Reuven had come to the front passenger door of their car and opened it. Clear enough what was intended.
Josef Goldmann was out, quick as a rat up a drain. Reuven was talking fast, but quietly. Josef Goldmann gaped. Reuven’s finger pointed to Carrick, who knew nothing. Showed no interest because that wouldn’t have been expected of him. He thought Goldmann tried to argue, that he was brushed aside. Carrick saw his shoulders slump.
Goldmann came to Carrick’s door. Beside Carrick was Viktor, who would have heard and understood but was impassive and stared straight ahead. Carrick opened his door.
‘He wants you to go with him.’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Reuven wishes you to travel, Johnny, in his car.’
Carrick said, ‘You are my employer, Mr Goldmann. I ride where you want me to ride.’
Carrick saw defeat cut Goldmann’s face. ‘Thank you, Johnny. I wish you to ride in his car.’
‘As long as you’re happy, Mr Goldmann.’
‘I am happy, Johnny.’
He went, sat in the Audi. Mikhail’s smile was as cold as bloody winter. Wondered then if, in fact, he had failed the test as the drill tip had neared his kneecap, wondered if he was dead. Recalled the support given him by Reuven Weissberg when they had walked from the warehouse. Knew nothing. Reuven Weissberg passed him a peppermint. Knew less than nothing.