‘You’re in trouble, Major. Corruptly receiving bribes. Standing aside to let thirty million roubles go missing.’
‘You couldn’t prove that. Even if it was true, which it isn’t.’
‘You were following orders then. Whose? Tell me whose.’
‘Shit. You’re not joking are you.’
‘You want to stay a major for ever?
‘What?’
‘Taking bribes is one thing. But nobody likes the ones that get caught. It’s not competent. It’s not commanding officer material.’
‘I should kill you myself.’
The mudjhik’s feet moved. A sound like millstones grinding.
‘But you won’t. You don’t know who I’m working for. You don’t know who sent me. You think I’m here for the hell of it?’
‘Who?’
‘No.’
Safran shrugged and looked at his watch.
‘There was no informant.’
‘Yes, there was.’
‘No, there really wasn’t. It was just some drunk. I have people who make it their business to be amenable in the bars where the artists go. They keep their ears open. It’s not hard. Artists are always pissed. Neurotic. Boastful. Shutting them up is the hard thing. Anyway, there was this particular one, highly strung even in that company. Mild enough sober, but he likes a brandy and opium mix, and after a few of those he starts abusing anyone in range.’
‘And?’
‘So one evening this idiot starts broadcasting to the world that he’s mixed up with some great nationalist hero, and he’s got a sack full of bombs. You should all be shit scared of me, that was his line. One day soon there’s going to be a rampage. He tells everyone how he and his new friends are going to rob a strong-car when it makes a delivery to a particular bank he mentions. Turned out it was true.’
‘The name?’
‘Curly-haired fellow. A woman’s man. Studio somewhere in the quarter. I broke in to have a look. It stank. Obscene pictures too.’
‘The name.’
‘Petrov. Lakoba Petrov.’
21
Lom wanted to go back into the Registry to see if there was a file on Petrov, but when he got there he found the doors shut against him. The Gaukh Engine was closed to readers for the rest of the day. Shit. He looked at his watch. It was just past four. He considered going to his office, but what was the point? It occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. To eat he needed money, and for that he needed Krogh.
Krogh’s private secretary was in the outer office. He made a show of closing the file he was reading — Not for your eyes, Lom — and stood up. Making the most of his height advantage.
‘Ah. Investigator Lom.’
‘Nice office you got me,’ said Lom. ‘Thanks.’
‘Thought you’d appreciate it. How’s the Kantor case going? Anything to report?’
‘Not to you.’
The private secretary picked up the desk diary.
‘I can fit you in with the Under Secretary this evening. He’s very busy. But I can find a space. As soon as you like, in fact. Soon as you’re ready, Investigator. Just say the word.’
‘I need money.’
The private secretary sat down and leaned back, hands behind his head.
‘I see. Why?’
‘Because I do this for a job. The idea is I get paid for it. Also, expenses.’
‘Have you discussed an imprest with the Under Secretary? As I said, I can fit you in.’
‘No. You do it. Sign something. Open the cash tin. I need two hundred roubles. Now.’
‘What expenses, actually?’
‘Rent.’
‘But you’re staying with your friend, aren’t you. The good citizen Professor Vishnik at Pelican Quay. The dvornik there is a conscientious worker, not the type to be browbeaten, or bribed come to that. I have the Vishnik file with me now, as it happens.’ He picked up a folder from his desk and made a show of leafing through it. ‘His terms of employment at the university are rather irregular, I feel.’
Lom leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk.
‘Vishnik’s my friend. Something happens to him, I’ll know who to come and see about it. Just give me some money, Secretary. I don’t intend to live off my friends, or steal food, and I don’t intend to pay bribes for informants out of my own pocket. Especially not unreliable ones.’
The private secretary gave him a friendly grin.
‘Of course, Investigator. Anything for the Under Secretary’s personal police force.’
‘And who,’ said a woman’s voice behind Lom, ‘is this fellow, to get special treatment?’
It was Lavrentina Chazia. Commander of the Secret Police.
‘This is Investigator Lom, Commander,’ the private secretary said. ‘He is doing sterling work for the Under Secretary. On provincial liaison.’
Lom wondered whether he had imagined an ironic note in the private secretary’s reply: some hidden meaning, some moment of understanding that had passed between him and Chazia. Whatever, Chazia was examining him shrewdly, and he returned the gaze. Indeed, it was hard not to stare. She was changed, much changed, since he had seen her last. The sharpness and predatory energy were the same, but there was something wrong with her skin. Dark patches mottled her face and neck. They were on her hands as welclass="underline" smooth markings, hard and faintly bluish under the office light. He recognised the colour — it was in his own forehead — it was angel skin. But he had never seen anything quite like this. There had been rumours even in Podchornok that Chazia had been working with the angel-flesh technicians, experimenting, pushing at the boundaries. Lom hadn’t paid them much attention, but it seemed they were true.
‘So,’ said Chazia, ‘this is the notorious Lom. You’re from Podchornok, aren’t you?’
Lom was surprised.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I’m flattered. I’d hardly have expected someone like you — I mean, in your position—’
‘Oh I know everything, Investigator. Everything that happens in the service is my business.’ Again Lom had the uneasy feeling that she meant more than she said. Her pale narrow eyes glittered with a strange energy that was more than confidence. Something almost like relish. Hunger. ‘For example,’ Chazia continued, ‘I know that you were over at the Armoury this afternoon. Talking with Major Safran. No doubt you were… liaising with him.’
Lom felt his stomach lurch. The private secretary was watching him curiously. Lom felt… lost. Stupid. That was what he was supposed to feel, of course. Chazia was playing with him. It occurred to him that she hadn’t turned up in Krogh’s office by chance. She was showing herself to him. Letting him know who his enemies were. But why? What did it mean? Some political thing between her and Krogh that had nothing to do with him? Possibly.
‘Safran and I are both products of Savinkov’s,’ he said, indicating the lozenge of angel stuff in his head. ‘I don’t get many chances to compare notes.’
He wondered whether Chazia had already talked to Safran herself, whether she knew of his interest in the Levrovskaya Square robbery, and Petrov. But there was no way to read her expression.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I hope you got something out of it.’ She smiled, showing sharp even teeth, and her pale eyes flashed again, but her face showed little expression, as if the patches of angel stuff had stiffened it somehow. The effect made Lom feel even more queasy. Out of his depth. He was relieved when she had gone.
22
Lom took a tram back to Vishnik’s apartment.
The private secretary had signed him a chit. It took Lom more than an hour to find the office where he could get it cashed. It was only twenty roubles.