He sensed Gormley’s nod of acquiescence. That’s right, son. Let’s just hope you do it right, that’s all.’
Which was one sentiment Harry could only agree with.
Late that same evening, at the Russian Embassy Dragosani and Batu had finished their packing and were looking forward to their morning flight out. Dragosani had not yet started to commit his knowledge to paper; this was the last place for that sort of undertaking. One might as well write a letter direct to Yuri Andropov himself!
The two Russian agents had rooms with a linking door and only one telephone, which was situated in Batu’s apartment. The necromancer had just stretched himself out on his bed, lost in his own strange, dark
thoughts, when he heard the phone ring in Batu’s room. A moment later and the squat little Mongol knocked on the joining door. ‘It’s for you,’ his muffled voice came through the stained, dingy oak panels. The switchboard. Something about a call from outside.’
Dragosani got up, went through into Batu’s room. Sitting on the bed, Batu grinned at him. ‘Ho, Comrade! And do you have friends here in London? Someone seems to know you.’
Dragosani scowled at him, snatched up the telephone. ‘Switchboard? This is Dragosani. What’s all this about?’
‘A call for you from outside, Comrade,’ came the answer in a cold, nasal, female voice.
‘I doubt it. You’ve made a mistake. I’m not known here.’
‘He says you’ll want to speak to him,’ said the operator. ‘His name is Harry Keogh.’
‘Keogh?’ Dragosani looked at Batu, raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah, yes! Yes, I do know of him. Put him through.’
‘Very well. Remember, Comrade: speech is insecure.’ There came a click and a buzzing, then:
‘Dragosani, is that you?’ The voice was young but strangely hard. It didn’t quite fit the gaunt, almost vacant face that Dragosani had seen staring at him from the frozen river bank in Scotland.
‘This is Dragosani, yes. What do you want, Harry Keogh?’
‘I want you, necromancer,’ said the cold, hard voice. ‘I want you, and I’m going to get you.’
Dragosani’s lips drew back from his needle teeth in a silent snarl. This one was clever, daring, brash -dangerous! ‘I don’t know who you are,’ he hissed, ‘but you’re obviously a madman! Explain yourself or get off the phone.’
‘The explanation’s simple, “Comrade”,’ the voice had
grown harder still. ‘I know what you did to Sir Keenan Gormley. He was my friend. An eye for an eye, Dragosani, and a tooth for a tooth. That’s my way, as you’ve already seen. You’re a dead man.’
‘Oh?’ Dragosani laughed sardonically. ‘I’m a dead man, am I? And you, too, have ways with the dead, don’t you, Harry?’
‘What you saw at Shukshin’s was nothing, “Comrade”,’ said the icy voice. ‘You don’t know all of it. Not even Gormley knew all of it.’
‘Bluff, Harry!’ said Dragosani. ‘I’ve seen what you can do and it doesn’t frighten me. Death is my friend. He tells me everything.’
‘That’s good,’ said the voice, ‘for you’ll be speaking to him again soon – but face to face. So you know what I can do, do you? Well think about this: next time I’ll be doing it to you!’
‘A challenge, Harry?’ Dragosani’s voice was dangerously low, full of menace.
‘A challenge,’ the other agreed, ‘and the winner takes all.’
Dragosani’s Wallach blood was up; he was eager now: ‘But where? I’m already beyond your reach. And tomorrow there’ll be half a world between.’
‘Oh, I know you’re running now,’ said the other contemptuously. ‘But I’ll find you, and soon. You, and Batu, and Borowitz . . .’
Again Dragosani’s lips drew back in a hiss. ‘Perhaps we should meet, Harry – but where, how?’
‘You’ll know when it’s time,’ said the voice. ‘And know this, too: it will be worse for you than it was for Gormley.’
Suddenly the ice in Keogh’s voice seemed to fill Dragosani’s veins. He shook himself, pulled himself together, said: ‘Very well, Harry Keogh. Whenever and wherever, I’ll be waiting for you.’
‘And the winner takes all,’ said the voice a second time. There came a faint click and the dead line began its intermittent, staccato purring.