Wolfhound Century

by Peter Higgins

  ‘Did you make it do that?’

  ‘That’s not how it works.’

  ‘But you could have stopped it.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t try.’

  ‘And if I hit you, what would it do?’

  ‘Defend me.’

  ‘I saw your picture in the paper.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Levrovskaya Square. You were getting a handshake from a bank. I wasn’t sure what for.’

  ‘Protecting the money.’

  ‘But you didn’t. Thirty million roubles disappeared from under your nose.’

  Lom was rubbing his chest and pressing his ribs experimentally. The pain made him wince but nothing felt broken. The mudjhik had judged it just right.

  ‘It might have been worse,’ said Safran. ‘They didn’t get into the bank.’

  ‘They weren’t trying to. The strong-car was the target.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. The bank was happy. It wasn’t their money. Hadn’t been delivered.’

  ‘You were waiting for them. You must have known they were coming.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You could have stopped it. You were meant to let them get away.’

  ‘You should be careful, making accusations like that.’ The mudjhik took a step forward. ‘People have been killed wandering about in here. Accidents. It’s dangerous around mudjhiks if they don’t know you.’

  ‘Were you paid off?’

  ‘What’s your name, Investigator?’

  ‘Lom. My name is Lom.’

  ‘And who are you working for, Lom? Who are you with? Does anyone know you’re here?’

  ‘You could buy a lot of militia for thirty million roubles.’

  ‘And you should piss off.’

  ‘So how did you know they were coming?’

  ‘Detective work.’

  ‘You had an informant. Someone in the gang, maybe. Who was it?’

  ‘Don’t they teach you the rules where you come from, Lom? What’s the rule of informants? The first rule?’

  Never reveal the name. Not even to your own director. Even you, you yourself, must forget his name for ever. Remember only the cryptonym. One careless word will ruin both your lives for ever.

  ‘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 well: 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 noto
rious 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.

  ‘I’d give you more, Investigator,’ he had said. ‘If I could. But this is the limit of my delegated expenditure authority.’ He didn’t even try to pretend this was true. ‘Of course, if you’d prefer to see the Under Secretary…’

  At least now he had cash in his pocket. He stopped off on the way back to Pelican Quay and bought some onions, lamb, a box of pastries and a couple of bottles of plum brandy. Vishnik wouldn’t take rent, but it was something.

  When he got to the apartment, Vishnik was waiting for him, full of energy, strangely exultant, dressed to go out. Lom sat on the couch and started to pull his boots off. He shoved the bag of shopping towards Vishnik with his foot.

  ‘Here. Dinner.’

  ‘This is no time for fucking eating, my friend,’ said Vishnik. ‘It’s only six. We’ll go out. I want to take you to the Dreksler-Kino.’

  ‘Another day maybe. I’ve got to work.’

  ‘What work, exactly?’

  ‘Thinking.’

  ‘Think at the Dreksler. You can’t be in Mirgorod and not see the Dreksler. It’s a wonder, a fucking wonder of the world. And today is Angelfall Day. ‘

  Lom sighed. ‘OK. Why not.’

  Lom didn’t wear his uniform. On the crowded tram he and Vishnik were the only passengers without one. The Dreksler-Kino was draped with fresh new flags and banners, red and gold. Its immense marble dome was awash with floodlight. Vertical searchlights turned the clouds overhead into a vast liquescent ceiling that swelled and shifted, shedding fine drifts of rain. Inside, twenty thousand seats, ranged in blocks and tiers and galleries, faced a great waterfall of dim red velvet curtain. The auditorium was crowded to capacity. A woman with a flashlight and a printed floor plan led them to their seats, and almost immediately the houselights dimmed. Twenty thousand people became an intimate private crowd, together in the dark.

  There were cartoons, and then the newsreel opened with a mass rally at the Sports Palace, intercut with scenes from the southern front. The war was going well, said the calm, warm voice of the commentator. On the screen, artillery roared and kicked up churned mud. Columns of troops marched past the camera, waving, smoking cigarettes, grinning. Citizen! Stand tall! The drum of war thunders and thunders! The crowd cheered.

  The commentator was reading a poem over scenes of wind moving across grassy plains; factories; columns of lorries and tanks.

  In snow-covered lands — in fields of wheat —

  In roaring factories —

  Ecstatic and on fire with happy purpose —

  With you in our hearts, dear Novozhd —

  We work — we fight —

  We march to Victory!

  There was stomping, jeering and whistling when the screen showed aircraft of the Archipelago being shot down over the sea. Corkscrews of oil-black smoke followed the silver specks down to a final silent blossoming of spray.

  A familiar avuncular face filled the screen. The face that watched daily from a hundred, a thousand posters, newspapers and books. The Novozhd, with his abundant moustache and the merry smile in his eye.

  Citizens of the Vlast, prepare yourselves for an important statement.

  He’s looking older, thought Lom. Must be over sixty by now. Thirty years since he grabbed power in the Council and gave the Vlast his famous kick up the arse. The Great Revitalisation. Eight years since he re-opened the war with the Archipelago. Three decades of iron kindness. I go the way the angels dictate with the confidence of a sleepwalker.

  In the Dreksler-Kino everyone rose to salute, and all across the Dominions of the Vlast people were doing the same.

  ‘Citizens,’ the Novozhd began, leaning confidingly towards the camera. ‘My brothers and sisters, my friends. It is now three hundred and seventy-eight years exactly, to the hour, since the first of the angels fell to us. There and then, in the Ouspenskaya Marsh, our history began. From that event, all that we have and all that we are, our great and eternal Vlast itself, took root and grew. We all know the story. I remember my mother when she used to sit by my bed and tell it to me. I was a child then, eyes wide with wonderment.’

  The auditorium was in absolute silence. The Novozhd had never spoken in such intimate and fraternal terms before.

  ‘My mother told me how our Founder came to see for himself this marvellous being that had tumbled out of the night sky. And when he came, our Founder didn’t only see the angel, he saw the future. Some say the angel spoke to him before he died. The Founder himself left no testimony on that count, so we must say we don’t know if it’s true, although…’ The Novozhd paused and looked the camera in the eye. ‘I know what I believe.’ A murmur of assent and a trickle of quiet applause brushed across the crowd. ‘On that day,’ the Novozhd was saying, ‘the Founder saw the shape of the Vlast as it could be. From the ice in the north to the ice in the south, from eastern forest to western sea, one Truth. One Greatness. That’s what the first angel gave us, my friends, and paid for with the price of his death.’

  Lom had looked up synonyms of Vlast once. They filled almost half a column. Ascendancy. Domination. Rule. Lordship. Mastery. Grasp. Rod. Control. Command. Power. Authority. Governance. Arm. Hand. Grip. Hold. Government. Sway. Reign. Dominance. Dominion. Office. Nation.

  ‘You know this, friends,’ the Novozhd was saying. ‘Your mothers told you, just as mine told me. And this isn’t all. Something else came to us with the first angel, and it kept on coming as other angels tumbled down to us like ripened fruit falling out of the clear sky.’

  ‘All of them dead,’ whispered Vishnik. ‘Every single fucking one of them dead.’

  ‘Brave warrior heroes,’ the Novozhd was saying, ‘fallen in the battles that broke the moon. Giving their lives in the eternal justified war. A war that wasn’t — and isn’t — against flesh and blood enemies, but against powers, against hidden principalities, against the rulers of the present darkness that surrounds us.

  ‘And what else did the angels bring us? Didn’t they give us the Gift of Certain Truth? Try to imagine, my brothers and sisters, my friends. Imag
ine if you can what it must have been like to live in this world before the first angelfall, when people like us looked up at the night sky and wondered — only wondered! — what might be there. They knew nothing. They could only guess and dream. Speculation, ignorance and superstition. Dark, terrible times. Until we were freed from all that. The long cloudy Ages of Doubt were closed. We were given incontrovertible, imperishable, touchable EVIDENCE. Ever since the first angel fall, we have KNOWN.’ The Novozhd half-stood in his chair and smacked his fist into this palm. ‘KNOWN! On this day, three hundred and seventy-eight years ago, the first of the Years of the True and Certain Justified Vlast began! May we live for ever in the wing-shadow of the angels!’

  Roars from the twenty thousand. Shouting. Crowds on their feet, stamping. On the screen the image of the Novozhd paused, anticipating the ovation now being shouted and sung across five time zones. After a suitable period he raised his hand. Acknowledging, calming, requiring silence.

  ‘And today a new chapter is beginning.’

  The audience fell quiet. This was something different.

  ‘We have been fighting our own war, friends, which is part of the great war of the angels, and not different from it. We too have been fighting against hidden powers and unsanctified principalities. The Archipelago — the islands of the Outsiders — the Unacknowledged and Unaccepted Lands — where no angels have ever fallen. Where even their existence is not taken for certain and true.

  ‘Many brave warriors of the Vlast have fallen in the struggle. I know them all, I have felt the anguish of each one, and I’ve cried your tears — you who are listening to me now and thinking of your own sons and daughters, brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, comrades and friends. Let’s remember the fallen today. We owe them an unpayable debt. Don’t be ashamed to weep for them sometimes. I do. But praise them also.

  ‘I know you all. I am your friend as you are mine. The angels know you too. Friends, I am here to tell you that the time of Victory is close! The Archipelago is sending an ambassador to Mirgorod to sue for peace with us. The enemy weakens and tires. The light of truth dawns in their eyes. Yes, my friends. Victory draws near. One last push! One last supreme effort! The great day is soon.