For long moments Dragosani stared at the receiver in his hand, then hurled it down into its cradle. ‘Oh, I surely will!’ he rasped then. ‘Be sure I’ll take everything, Harry Keogh!’
Chapter Fourteen
Back at the Chateau Bronnitsy in the middle of the following afternoon, Dragosani found Borowitz absent. His secretary told him that Natasha Borowitz had died just two days ago; Gregor Borowitz was in mourning at their dacha, keeping her company for a day or two; he did not wish to be disturbed. Dragosani phoned him anyway.
‘Ah, Boris,’ the old man’s voice was soft for once, empty. ‘So you’re back.’
‘Gregor, I’m sorry,’ said Dragosani, observing a ritual he didn’t really understand. ‘But I thought you’d like to know I got what you wanted. More than you wanted. Shukshin is dead. Gormley too. And I know everything.’
‘Good,’ said the other without emotion. ‘But don’t talk to me now of death, Boris. Not now. I shall be here for another week. After that… it will be a while before I’m up to much. I loved this argumentative, tough old bitch. She had a tumour, they say, in her head. Suddenly it grew too big. Very peaceful at the end. I miss her a lot. She never knew what a secret was! That was nice.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Dragosani said again.
At that Borowitz seemed to snap out of it. ‘So take a break,’ he said. ‘Get it all down on paper. Report to me in a week, ten days. And well done!’
Dragosani’s hand tightened on the telephone. ‘A break would be very welcome,’ he said. ‘I may use it to look up an old friend of mine. Gregor, can I take Max Batu with me? He, too, has done his work well.’
‘Yes, yes – only don’t bother me any more now. Goodbye, Dragosani.’
And that was that.
Dragosani didn’t like Batu, but he did have plans for him. Anyway, the man made a decent travelling companion: he said very little, kept himself more or less to himself, and his needs were few. He did have a passion for slivovitz, but that didn’t present a problem. The little Mongol could drink the stuff until it came out of his ears, and still he would appear sober. Appearance was all that mattered.
It was the middle of the Russian winter and so they went by train, a much interrupted journey which didn’t see them into Galatz until a day and a half later. There Dragosani hired a car with snow chains, which gave him back something of the independence he so relished. Eventually, on the evening of that second day, in the rooms which Dragosani found for them in a tiny village near Valeni, finally the necromancer grew bored with Batu’s silence and asked him: ‘Max, don’t you wonder what we’re doing here? Aren’t you interested to find out why I brought you along?’
‘No, not really,’ answered the moon-faced Mongol. ‘I’ll find out when you’re ready, I suppose. Actually, it makes no difference. I think I quite like travelling. Perhaps the Comrade General will find more work for me in strange parts.’
Dragosani thought: No, Max, there’ll be no more work for you – except through me. But out loud he said only, ‘Perhaps.’
Night had fallen by the time they had eaten, and that was when Dragosani gave Batu the first hint of what was to come. ‘It’s a fine night tonight, Max,’ he said. ‘Bright starlight and not a cloud in sight. That’s good, for we’re going for a drive. There’s someone I want to talk to.’ On their way to the cruciform hills they passed a field
where sheep huddled together in a corner where straw had been put out for them. There was a thin layer of snow but the temperature was at a reasonable level. Dragosani stopped the car. ‘My friend will be thirsty,’ he explained, ‘but he’s not much on slivovitz. Still, I think it’s only fair we should take him something to drink.’
They got out of the car and Dragosani went into the field, scattering the sheep. ‘That one, Max,’ he said, as one of the animals strayed close to the Mongol where he leaned on the fence. ‘Don’t kill it. Merely stun it, if you can.’