Max Batu was thoughtful for a moment. ‘But if Shukshin did talk, surely he would be giving himself away, too? Wouldn’t he be admitting that he came to England in the first place as an ESP-agent of the USSR?’
Dragosani shook his head. ‘He doesn’t have to give himself away. A letter is perfectly anonymous, Max. Even a telephone call. And even though twenty years have gone by, still there are things he knows which Borowitz wants kept secret. Two things in particular, which might prove valuable beyond measure to the British ESPers. One: the location of the Chateau Bronnitsy. Two: the fact that Comrade General Gregor Borowitz
himself is head of Russian ESPionage. That is the threat which Shukshin poses, and that is why he’ll die.’ ‘And yet his death is not our prime objective.’ Dragosani was silent for a moment, then said: ‘No, our prime objective is the death of someone else, someone far more important. He is Sir Keenan Gormley, head of their ESPers. His death . . . and his knowledge – all of it – that is our prime objective. Borowitz wants both of them dead and stripped of their secrets. You will kill Gormley – in your own special way – and I shall examine him in mine. Before that we shall already have killed Viktor Shukshin, who also shall have been examined. Actually, he should not present too much of a problem: his place is lonely, out of the way. We’ll do it there.’
‘And you can really empty them of secrets? After they are dead, I mean?’ Batu seemed to have doubts.
‘Yes, I really can. More surely than any torturer could when they were alive. I shall steal their innermost thoughts right out of their blood, their marrow, their cold and lonely bones.’
A dumpy stewardess appeared at the cabin end of the central aisle. ‘Fasten your seatbelts,’ she intoned like a robot; and the passengers, equally robotic, complied.
‘What are your limitations?’ Batu asked. ‘Strictly out of morbid curiosity, of course.’ ‘Limitations? How do you mean?’ ‘What if a man has been dead for a week, for example?’ Dragosani shrugged. ‘It makes no difference.’
‘What if he has been dead for a hundred years?’
‘A dried-up mummy, you mean? Borowitz wondered the same thing. We experimented. It was all the same to me. The dead cannot keep their secrets from a necromancer.’ ‘But a corpse, rotting,’ Batu pressed. ‘Say someone dead for a month or two. That must be quite awful. . .’
‘It is,’ said the other. ‘But I’m used to it. The mess doesn’t bother me so much as the risk. The dead teem with disease, you know. I have to be very careful. It’s not a healthy business.’
‘Ugh!’ said Batu, and Dragosani actually saw him give a small shudder.
London’s lights were gleaming in the dark distance on the curve of night’s horizon. The city was a hazy glow beyond the small, circular windows. ‘And you?’ said Dragosani. ‘Does your talent have its “limitations”, Max?’
The Mongol gave a shrug. ‘It, too, has its dangers. It requires much energy; it saps my strength; it is debilitating. And as you know, it is only effective against the weak and infirm. There is supposed to be one other small handicap, too, but that is a matter of legend and I do not intend to put it to the test.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. There is a story told in my country of a man with the evil eye. It’s an old story, going back a thousand years. This man was very evil and used his power to terrorise the land. He would ride with his bandits into villages and rape and plunder, then ride out again unscathed. And no one dared hold up a hand against him. But in one village there lived an old man who said he knew how to deal with him. When the robber band was seen riding that way, the villagers took all their corpses and gave them spears and propped them on the walls. The robbers came and in the dusk their leader saw that the village was protected. He cast his evil eye upon the watchers at the walls. But of course, the dead cannot die twice. The spell rebounded and struck him down. He was shrivelled up no larger than a roasted piglet!’