by Craig Thomas
Wrapped in his overcoat, he sat on the barrel of one of the cannons ranged before the facade of the Arsenal; the cannons had been captured from Napoleon’s army during its terrible winter retreat from Moscow. He stared up at the windows of the Palace of Congresses. Light snow flurried bt ween him and the towers and pinnacles and massive buildings of the Kremlin.
Lubin’s baby was grumpily cold, wrapped like a bundle of washing in his mother’s arms, held up beside her cold, pretty dark face. Marfa, hands thrust into the pockets of her grey coat, long scarf wrapped again and again around her neck and shoulders, studied him in a silence as weary as his own.
‘What did the deputy minister have to say?’ she asked eventually.
Hooded crows cawed from the high gutters in a mockery either of her question or his anticipated reply.
‘He said the Interior Ministry, the whole Federation, owed us a great debt.’ He shrugged and grinned acidly. ‘He told me I’d been promoted to Colonel, you and Lubin to Detective First Class. He hinled we could all look forward to Moscow postings, just as soon as the papers came through.’
He looked up at them. The news had not disturbed the lines of cold and disappointment on their faces. Katya Lubin alone appeared innocently pleased.
He had been released from hospital a week ago. He had spent those seven days in an endless round of pointless debriefings and meetings; now, he felt the sour, disillusioned ennui of an unsuccessful salesman, someone peddling religious tracts. No one really wanted to listen. After all, they insinuated, Turgenev was dead, the American’s body or what was left of it had been flown home, and Bakunin was to be disciplined for his excess of zeal and poor judgement in storming the plane. But even that was understandable, for there appeared to have been a bomb on board … He had struggled not to laugh aloud at that politest of fictions.
Turgenev’s criminal activities had been a profound shock and a temporary embarrassment. The smuggling of nuclear scientists had to be stopped at all costs. The other criminalities of which he had been guilty were of much less account.
He shrugged.
‘Waste of time/ he murmured, more to the late autumn temperature and the light snow than to his companions. ‘We made the trip for nothing.’
Their escape had been easier than he had expected. From Novyy Urengoy to Nadym at first, then skirting the Gulf of Oh to Salekhard. The blizzard had blown itself out during their journey.
They’d waited less than two hours for a flight to Vorkuta, and from there had flown direct to Moscow. If there had been any organised pursuit, they had never been aware of it.
I’m sorry, John Lock, he thought. I’m sorry.
Dmitri was dead, and he carried that weight on his back like a great rock. Lock — only Lock had achieved something; his revenge.
‘The American was the only one who got what he wanted/ he announced.
Marfa snorted angrily.
‘You’re feeling very sorry for yourself, ColonelV she snapped.
‘That bastard Turgenev’s dead, the smuggling of the scientists has been broken up — we broke it up! — and the heroin supplies have been disrupted for months, maybe even for a year. That’s something — isn’t it?’
‘That’s right — sir,’ Lubin chorused, rubbing his gloved hands as if before a warming fire. His wife appeared anxious to return to the hotel. ‘We did achieve something’
‘Quite a lot, in fact,’ Marfa persisted.
Vorontsyev shifted on the cannon. His bruises still ached. His ribs protested as his good hand slapped the gun’s old metal. He stood up, adjusting the sling on his broken arm. Grinned.
‘You’re sure, are you, children?’ Marfa’s anger was evident.
Lubin merely smirked. Vorontsyev raised his hands. ‘OK — we did it. We got one of the bastards. One of the very biggest …’ He gestured towards the Kremlin. ‘They’re out there — hundreds, thousands of them. The politicos, the old apparatchiks, the mafiosi and the biznizmen. This country’s endemically corrupt’
‘We’re not — you’re not!’ Marfa snapped at him. ‘We won’
After a silence, he put his good arm around her shoulder, then began walking across the cobbles towards the nearest gate in the high Kremlin wall, beyond which lay Moscow. Katya Lubin, holding her husband’s hand, trotted beside them, clutching the baby against her.
‘Very well,’ Vorontsyev announced. ‘But before the next crusade, I think a dinner to celebrate your promotion. I’ll pay!’
He did not feel lighthearted. Dmitri and Lock rubbed against him in memory, preventing the dissipation of his mood. But Marfa was right. Turgenev was dead. And there were other crooks out there easier to catch and convict. A lot easier. Yes, they had done something — won a battle if not the war.
He patted their shoulders, grateful for their innocence.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 92e8f236-c07c-4ff7-b5c7-873c3b51def1
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 12.1.2014
Created using: calibre 1.19.0, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Document history:
1.0 — создание документа fb2
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/