‘How long have you – ‘ Jazz found the greatest difficulty in concentrating on what he was saying, found it almost impossible to take his eyes off the tank, ‘ – had this thing?’
‘Eighteen months,’ Khuv answered. “This was the third encounter.’
‘Of the too close kind,’ Jazz had finally got himself together.
‘Pardon?’ Khuv stared at him blankly.
‘Nothing,’ Jazz shook his head. ‘But tell me: what does it eat?’ He didn’t know why he’d asked that. Maybe it was the memory of all those teeth, and Khuv’s talk of prey.
Khuv’s eyes narrowed. Not defensively but thoughtfully. He opened the door, switched off the lights and beckoned Jazz and Vyotsky to come out. They went back to the perimeter and Khuv led the way to his own quarters. On the way Jazz asked: ‘I take it it does eat?’
Khuv remained silent but Vyotsky answered for him: ‘Oh, yes, it eats. It doesn’t need to, apparently, but it does when food’s on offer. It eats people – or anything else with good red salty guts! Or it would if it could. Its keeper feeds it on blood and offal which is pumped through a tube to it. He knows exactly how much to give it. Too much and it gets bigger and stronger. Too little and it shrivels, hibernates. When they’ve worked out a way to handle it safely, then they’ll try to find out what makes it tick.’
They?’
The specialists from Moscow,’ said Vyotsky, shrugging. The people from – ‘
‘Karl!’ Khuv stopped him with a word. And Jazz thought: so even though I’m a prisoner, and for all Khuv’s “glasnost”, still there are sensitive areas, eh?
‘Specialists,’ said Khuv, ‘yes. If they can find out about it, maybe they’ll also discover something of its world.’
Something else was bothering Jazz. ‘What about these flame-throwers I keep seeing?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Vyotsky scowled. ‘Are you stupid after all, British?’
‘Concentrated fire kills them,’ said Khuv. ‘Up to now it’s about the only thing that does. That we’ve discovered, anyway.’
Jazz nodded. Things were beginning to shape up in his head. ‘I’m starting to see the potential,’ he said, drily.
‘And no need to tell me where your “specialists” come from. The Department for the Study of Chemical and Biological Warfare on Protze Prospekt, right?’
Khuv made no answer. His mouth had fallen aslant in a twisted smile.
Jazz nodded. His own expression was a mixture of sarcasm and revulsion. ‘And how would that be for a biological weapon, eh?’
They had reached Khuv’s quarters. He opened the door, said: ‘Would you like a drink, or should I let Karl take you back to your cell and toss you around a little to improve your manners?’ His voice crackled like thin ice underfoot. Jazz had touched a tender spot. The British agent was much quicker on the uptake than Khuv had given him credit for.
Jazz looked at Vyotsky’s grinning face, said: ‘Oh, I think I’d prefer the drink every time.’
‘Very well, but try to remember: you are in no position to criticize anything. You are a spy, a murderer, a would-be saboteur. And remember this, too: you don’t know everything. We don’t know everything! Weapons? Like . . . like that? Personally I would rather close the place down, concrete it in, lock the Gate shut forever – if that’s at all feasible. So would Viktor Luchov. But the Projekt was sponsored – indeed it was ordered – by the Defence Agency. We don’t control anything, Michael, but are ourselves controlled. Now make up your mind: we can be “friends”, or I can have someone else, someone a lot less sympathetic, complete your briefing. It’s up to you.’
Briefing? For some reason Jazz didn’t like the way Khuv had used the word. A slip of the tongue, obviously. Briefing didn’t really apply here, did it? Why are you being given the treatment? a voice asked in the back of his mind. What’s in it for them? He didn’t have the answers and so put the question aside, said:
‘OK, I accept that. We all do what we have to. We all have our orders. But just answer me one more thing and after that I won’t interrupt you again.’