He went down to the first landing and into Breer’s room. The Razor-Eater was recumbent on his mattress in the corner of the room, his neck akimbo, his stomach impaled, gaping up at him like a lunatic fish. At the bottom of the mattress, drawn up close because of Breer’s failing eyesight, the television gabbled its inanities.
“We’ll be leaving soon,” Mamoulian said.
“Did you find her?”
“Yes, I found her. A place called Bright Street. The house-” he seemed to find this thought amusing, “is painted yellow. The second floor, I think.”
“Bright Street,” said Breer, dreamily. “Shall we go and find her then?”
“No; not we.”
Breer turned a little more toward the European; he had braced his broken neck with a makeshift splint, and it made movement difficult. “I want to see her,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have let her go in the first place.”
“He came; the one from the house. I told you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mamoulian. “I have plans for Strauss.”
“Shall I find him for you?” Breer said. The old images of execution sprang into his head, as if fresh from a book of atrocities. One or two of them were sharper than ever, as if they were close to being realized.
“No need,” the European replied. “I have two eager acolytes willing to do that job for me.”
Breer sulked. “What can I do, then?”
“You can prepare the house for our departure. I want you to burn what few possessions we have. I want it to be as though we never existed, you and I.”
“The end’s near, is it?”
“Now I know where she is, yes.”
“She may run off.”
“She’s too weak. She won’t be able to move until Strauss brings her drug. And of course he’ll never do that.”
“You’re going to have him killed?”
“Him, and anyone who gets in my way from this moment on. I’ve no energy left for compassion. That’s been my error so often: letting the innocent escape. You’ve got your instructions, Anthony. Be about your business.”
He withdrew from the fetid room, and went downstairs to his new agents. The Americans stood respectfully when he opened the door.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
The blond one, who had been the more compliant from the outset, started to express his undying thanks over again, but Mamoulian silenced him. He gave them their orders, and they took them as if he were dispensing sweets.
“There are knives in the kitchen,” he said. “Take them and use them in good health.”
Chad smiled. “You want us to kill the wife too?”
“The Deluge has no time to be selective.”
“Suppose she hasn’t sinned?” Tom said, not sure of why he thought this foolish thought.
“Oh, she’s sinned,” the man replied, with glittering eyes, and that was good enough for the Reverend Bliss’ boys.
Upstairs, Breer hoisted himself off his mattress with difficulty, and stumbled into the bathroom to look at himself in the cracked mirror. His injuries had long ago stopped seeping, but he looked terrible.
“Shave,” he told himself. “And sandalwood.”
He was afraid that things were moving too fast now, and if he wasn’t careful he was going to be left out of the calculations. It was time he acted on his own behalf. He would find a clean shirt, a tie and a jacket and then he would go out courting. If the endgame was so close that the evidence had to be destroyed, then he had better be quick. Better finish his romance with the girl before she went the way of all flesh.
60
It took considerably longer than three-quarters of an hour to cross London. A large antinuclear march was underway; various sections of the main body were assembling around the city, then marching toward a mass rally in Hyde Park. The center of the city, which was at best difficult to navigate, was so thick with marchers and arrested traffic as to be virtually impassable. None of which Marty had realized until he was in the thick of it, by which time retreat and rerouting was out of the question. He cursed his lack of attention: there had surely been police signs warning incoming motorists of the delay. He had noticed none of them.