Dragosani liked the story. ‘And the moral?’ he asked.
Batu grunted and shrugged again. ‘Doesn’t it speak for
itself? One must never curse the dead, I suppose, for they have nothing to lose. In any argument, they must always win in the end . . .’
Dragosani thought of Thibor Ferenczy. And what of the undead? he wondered. Do they, too, always win? If so, then it’s about time someone changed the rules . . .
They were met and whisked through Customs by ‘a man from the embassy’, their baggage delivered as if by magic to a black Mercedes bearing diplomatic plates. As well as their cold-eyed escort there was also a silent, uniformed driver. On their way to the embassy their escort sat in the front passenger’s seat, his body half-turned towards them, his arm draped casually along the back of the driver’s seat. He made small-talk in a frigid, mechanical fashion, trying to assume an air of friendly interest. He didn’t fool Dragosani for a minute.
‘Your first time in London, Comrades? You’ll find it an interesting city, I’m sure. Decadent, of course, and full of fools, but interesting for all that. I, er, didn’t have time to check on your business here. How long do you plan to stay?’
‘Until we go back,’ said Dragosani.
‘Ah!’ the other smiled thinly, patiently. ‘Very good! You must excuse me, Comrade, but for some of us curiosity is – shall we say – a way of life? You understand?’
Dragosani nodded. ‘Yes, I understand. You’re KGB.’
The man’s thin face went icy in a moment. ‘We don’t use that term much outside the embassy.’
‘What term do you use?’ smiled Max Batu, his voice a deceptive whisper. ‘Shitheads?’
‘What?’ the escort’s face slowly turned white.
‘My friend and I are here on business which is no concern of you or yours,’ said Dragosani in a level tone.
‘We have the very highest authority. Let me make that clear: the Very Highest Authority. Any interference will be very bad for you. If we need your help we will ask for it. Apart from that you’ll leave us alone and not bother us.’
The escort pursed his lips, drew one long, slow breath. ‘People don’t usually talk to me like that’, he said, his words very precise.
‘Of course if you persist in obstructing us,’ Dragosani continued, without changing his tone of voice, ‘I can always break your arm. That should keep you out of the way for two or three weeks at least.’
The other gasped. ‘You threaten me?’
‘No, I make you a promise.’ But Dragosani knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. This was a typical KGB automaton. The necromancer sighed, said: ‘Look, if you have been tasked to us I’m sorry for you. Your job is impossible. Moreover it’s dangerous. This much I’ll tell you, and this much only. We’re here to test a secret weapon. Now, ask no more questions.’
‘A secret weapon?’ said the other, his eyes widening. ‘Ah!’ He looked from Dragosani to Batu and back again. ‘What weapon?’
Dragosani smiled grimly. Well, he had warned the fool. ‘Max,’ he said, carefully turning his face away. ‘A small demonstration, perhaps . . .?’
Shortly after that they arrived at the embassy. In the grounds of the place Dragosani and Batu stepped down from the car and took their luggage from the boot. They looked after their own cases.
The driver attended to their escort. The last they saw of him was as he staggered away, leaning on the driver’s arm. He looked back at them only once – stared round-eyed and fearfully at Max Batu – before stumblingly disappearing inside the gloomily imposing building. And that was the last they saw of him. After that no one bothered them again.
The second Wednesday after New Year, 1977. Viktor Shukshin had known this feeling of encroaching doom for well over a fortnight now, a leaden psychic depression which had lifted only marginally upon the arrival of Gregor Borowitz’s fourth monthly registered letter containing one thousand pounds in large denomination notes. In fact it worried Shukshin that Borowitz had surrendered so readily, that he had made no counter threats of his own.