Maroussia stared at him.
‘Who—’ she began.
‘Please,’ said Florian. ‘Please hurry.’
Maroussia looked at Lom. He nodded. Get through the next two minutes. Maroussia grabbed her carpet bag and climbed down from the back of the truck, clutching it tight in her hand. Lom picked up the lieutenant’s gun from the floor at this feet. Checked the magazine. It was full. He followed Maroussia out of the truck and into the street.
It was snowing hard. Lom spun round, checking on all sides. No visible immediate threat. People on the pavement were looking. One man in particular, bareheaded, open shirt, was staring hard. Considering getting involved but hadn’t made his mind up yet. Florian was already pushing his way through the gathering crowd, moving fast.
‘Go!’ Lom hissed in Maroussia’s ear. ‘Go!’
They followed Florian until he ducked through an arched brick entrance leading into shadow. At the corner by the entrance was a bakery. A torn awning. Curlicues of white script. BAKERY. GALINA TROPINA. PASTRY. COFF--. The archway opened into a long gully between high buildings. It was at least two hundred yards long, and deserted. There was no sign of Florian.
‘Do you know this place?’ he said to Maroussia. ‘Do you know where it goes?’
‘It leads to the back entrance to the Apraksin,’ said Maroussia. ‘The indoor market. There’ll be crowds.’
‘OK,’ said Lom. ‘Let’s go.’
They were about fifty yards into the gully when Lom felt the un-mistakeable zip of a bullet passing close to his ear. There was a sharp crack behind them. The echo followed. Lom swung round, pulling the Blok 15 from his pocket. The SV captain was silhouetted just inside the entrance, lining up for a better shot.
‘Hey! You! Captain!’
The shout came from somewhere up above them.
Antoninu Florian jumped from the high window ledge and landed with a heavy skid between them and the SV captain, crouching like an animal. He rose and charged with astonishing, loping speed. But there was too much ground to cover and not enough time.
The captain shot him in the belly.
Florian spun round with the force of the bullet hitting him. His knees went first. He staggered and collapsed almost at their feet in a hunched foetal curl, his hand at his stomach. Dark blood spilling out between his fingers and pooling on the ground.
‘Oh,’ said Maroussia quietly. ‘Oh.’
The SV captain raised his gun again, straight-armed for a careful aim. They had no cover. Nowhere to go. Lom shot him. The captain’s skull burst open in a spray of blood and fragments of bone. His lifeless body smashed back against the wall and toppled sideways to the ground.
There was a moment of stillness. Silence. Lom didn’t move. Nor did Maroussia. They were watching Florian. He was getting unsteadily to his feet. Maroussia ran forward. Lom followed. By the time they reached Florian he was standing, swaying, head bowed and holding his hands cupped together at waist level as if he was inspecting the sticky mess on the front of his coat. The thick spill of blood. Then he looked up at them, his eyes unfocused. Glassy surprise.
‘Shot, then,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Shot again.’
His legs gave under him and he would have fallen if Maroussia hadn’t caught him. He managed to get himself upright again.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry. Blood. On your coat now.’
‘Can you walk?’ said Maroussia.
‘Honestly don’t know. Let’s give it a try.’
Lom put his shoulder under Florian’s arm and lifted him, getting the weight off his feet, drag-carrying him along. His face against Lom’s cheek felt cold and damp. His lungs were dragging at short, fast, shallow breaths.
‘We have to get out of here,’ said Lom.
Stumbling awkwardly, they retreated down the long alley towards the Apraksin, the injured man a sagging, limping weight on Lom’s shoulder. As they got near the far end, Florian tried to pull away from Lom. He seemed to have recovered some strength, enough to stand unaided, though blood was dripping down the front of his coat and splashing the ground at his feet.
‘This is not right,’ he said. ‘I just need to sit down. Sort myself out. Could you? Find me somewhere? You can leave me there.’
‘No,’ said Maroussia.
‘Yes,’ said Florian. ‘Really.’ He leaned against the wall, took off his glasses, wiped them on his sleeve and put them back on. His face was papery white, his forehead beaded with sweat. ‘I’ll be fine. In a minute.’
‘You’ve been shot,’ said Maroussia.
‘True,’ said Florian. And for a second his face seemed to readjust itself. Looking at Maroussia, he reflected her own face back at her, mirroring her expression. Concern. Indecision. Shock. The dark bright eyes widening. He gave her a pained, sympathetic grin. ‘I am in some pain. And so for now I cannot walk. I must sit down. Or lie down. Even better. You can leave me. You need to go.’
‘He’s right,’ said Lom.
‘Vissarion—’ Maroussia began.
‘It’s true. We can’t take him with us. He can’t walk in that condition.’
‘But… we can’t just leave him here.’
‘No. So we need transport. And we need somewhere he can stay while we find it.’ Lom turned to go. ‘Wait here.’
Near the exit from the gully was a wide high wooden gate, peeling black paint, with a small wicket door set into it. Lom tested the wicket. It was unlocked, and opened into a wide linoleum-floored passageway. Bare electric bulbs hanging from the ceiling cast a bleak light on a clutter of stacked boxes and pallets. Shuttered entrances, grilles, closed doors. A porter’s trolley. A service entrance for the Apraksin market. There was no one about. Lom was thinking two minutes ahead. Maximum. Get through that. Then worry about the next. The only thing now was to get off the street.
Twenty feet into the passageway was a half-glazed door. Small panes of frosted glass. No light showing. Lom tried the handle but it was locked. He smashed a pane with his elbow, reached in past the sharp broken jags and unlatched it. Inside was a room for the porters, something like that: several tables and chairs littered with unwashed mugs and plates. In the corner was a small sink and an urn for hot water. He hustled back out into the alley.
‘I’ve found somewhere,’ he said.
Florian was drowsy, unsteady on his feet. Lom didn’t like it. A bullet in the gut was a killing wound, not immediately, but soon: bleeding out or infection, death either way.
They got him into the porters’ room somehow. Florian sat in a chair at one of the tables, his face pale, his eyes wide and dark behind their lenses. Sweat slicked his forehead. He took off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. Blood smeared his ribs, matted the thick hair on his chest, gathered in the thin folds of his belly. The entrance wound was a dark ominous leaking hole. His face tight with pain and concentration, Florian pushed his finger inside it and poked around, hooked something out and placed it on the table. A distorted fragment of brass sticky with blood. A bullet.
‘You got it out?’ said Maroussia.
‘Bad idea to leave it in,’ said Florian. ‘It hurt. A lot.’
He hauled himself to his feet, staggered and leaned against the table.
‘If you could just… pass me my coat.’
Maroussia hesitated.
‘You can’t…’ she said. ‘You don’t look—’
‘I am quite well.’ He shrugged the coat on painfully. ‘Thank you. I will go now.’
He took a step forward and slumped to the floor, sending the chair crashing over.
Between them Lom and Maroussia hauled Florian, a heavy dead-weight, awkwardly up into a chair and let him slump forward across the tabletop, head cradled on folded arms. To a cursory glance he would look like someone sleeping.