Dolgikh parked his Fiat, stopped a passerby and asked about public call boxes. ‘Three!’ the man told him, obviously disgusted. ‘Only three public telephones in a town as big as this! And all of them constantly in use. So if you’re in a hurry you’d best make your call here, at the exchange. They’ll put you through quick as a flash.’
In about ten minutes Krakovitch and his party had left the exchange, got into their car and driven off. Their tracker had been torn two ways: to follow them, or find out who they’d contacted and why. Since their car was bugged and he could always find them later, he’d decided on the latter course. Inside the small but busy exchange he’d wasted no time but asked for the manager. His KGB ID had guaranteed immediate co-operation. It turned out that Krakovitch had called Moscow — but not a number Dolgikh was familiar with. It seemed that the head of E-Branch had required higher authorisation for something or other; there had been some talk of blasting, and the big man in overalls had been very much involved. Krakovitch had allowed him also to use the phone. That was as much as anyone at the exchange knew of the matter. Dolgikh had then asked to be put through to Gerenko at the Château Bronnitsy, to whom he’d passed on all that he had learned.
At first Gerenko had seemed confused, but then:
‘They’re working directly through Brezhnev’s contact!’ he’d snapped. ‘Not through me. Which can only mean that they suspect! Theo, make sure you get them all. Yes, including that construction foreman. And when it’s done let me know at once.’
Tracking the bug he’d planted, Dolgikh had arrived at the depot of a local civil engineering firm in the town just in time to see Gulharov and Volkonsky loading a box of explosives into the boot of their car while Krakovitch and Quint looked on. Obviously the big Russian foreman was now a member of their team. Equally obvious, their contact in Moscow had cleared the use of materials for blasting. While Dolgikh still did not know what they intended to destroy, he did have an idea where it was. And what was more, that was as good a place as any for them to die.
While Theo Dolgikh was thinking back on the day’s events, Carl Quint’s mind was similarly engaged; and now that the broken fangs of Faethor Ferenczy’s castle once more appeared through the dark, motionless pines, so his memory instinctively homed in on what he and Felix Krakovitch had found there during their first visit this morning. All four of them had been present, but only he and Krakovitch had known where to look.
The place had been almost magnetic in their psychically enhanced minds: the exact spot had drawn them like iron filings to a magnet. Except they were not filings, and it was not their intention to get stuck here. Quint remembered now how it had been .
‘Faethor’s castle,’ he’d breathed, as they came to a halt at the very rim of the ruins. ‘The mountain fastness of a vampire!’ And in the eye of his mind he’d seen it again as it must have been a thousand years ago.
Volkonsky would have gone clambering into and amongst the crumbling stone blocks, but Krakovitch had stopped him. The ganger knew nothing at all of what was buried here, and Krakovitch didn’t intend to tell him. Volkonsky was down to earth as any man could be. At the moment he was committed to assist them, but that might change if they tried to tell him what they were doing here. And so Krakovitch had simply warned, ‘Be careful! Try not to disturb anything . . .‘ And the big Russian had shrugged and climbed down again from the tumbled mass of the decaying old pile.
Then Quint and Krakovitch together had simply stared at the place and touched its stones, and let the aura of its antiquity and its immemorial evil wash over them. They’d breathed its essence, tasted of its mystery and let their talents lead them to its innermost secret. As they had picked their way carefully, almost timidly through the fallen rubble of ancient masonry, suddenly Quint had come to an abrupt halt and said huskily, ‘Oh, yes, it was here all right. It still is here! This is the place.’