1. The dead men had families. They would now have to be told some sort of story – maybe there had been a ‘castastrophic accident’. That must be his go-between’s responsibility.
2. All E-Branch personnel must be recalled at once, including the three who knew what had happened here. They were in their homes right now, but they knew enough to say nothing.
3. The bodies of twenty-eight E-Branch colleagues would have to be gathered up, coffined, prepared as best as possible for burial. And that would have to be done here, by the survivors and those returning from leave of absence.
4. Recruitment must be started at once.
5. A Second in Command must be appointed, so that Krakovitch could begin a proper, complete investigation from scratch. That was something he must do himself, just as Brezhnev had ordered it.
And, 6 … he would think of 6 when the first 5 were working! But before any of that –
Outside he found the driver of the Army truck, a young Sergeant in uniform. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, listlessly. He must get some sleep soon.
‘Sergeant Gulharov, sir? he slammed to attention.
‘First name?’
‘Sergei, sir.r
‘Sergei, call me Felix. Tell me, did you ever hear of Felix the Cat?’
The other shook his head.
‘I have a friend who collects old films, cartoons,’ Crakovitch told him, shrugging. ‘He has connections. Anyway, there’s a funny American cartoon character called Felix the Cat. He’s a very wary fellow, this Felix. Cats usually are, you know? In the British Army, they call bomb disposal officers Felix, too – they have to tread so very warily. Ah! Maybe my mother should have called me Sergei, eh?’
The Sergeant scratched his head. ‘Sir?’
‘Never mind,’ said Krakovitch. Tell me: do you carry spare fuel?’
‘Only what’s in the tank, sir. About fifty litres.’
Krakovitch nodded. ‘Right, let’s get in the cab and I’ll ell you where to drive.’ He directed him around the Chateau to a bunker near the helicopter landing area, where they kept the Avgas. It was very close, but better to take the truck to the Avgas than bring the Avgas to the truck. On their way, bumping over the rough ground, the sergeant asked, ‘Sir, what happened here?’
For the first time Krakovitch noticed that his eyes had a glazed look. He had helped load his truck’s awful cargo. Never ask that sort of question,’ Krakovitch told him. ‘In fact as long as you’re here – which will probably be a long, long time – don’t ask any questions. Just do as you’re told.’
They loaded the cans of Avgas just inside the truck’s tailgate and drove to a wooded corner of the Chateau’s the Chateau itself that the tank did go, and by then the truck was a blazing shell anyway. Hearing the thunderous roar and feeling something of its concussion, they looked back. Cab and chassis and superstructure had all flown apart; bits of blazing debris were falling in the snow; a mushroom of smoke shot with flame was uncurling itself high over the trees. It was done . . .
Krakovitch spoke for some time on the telephone to his go-between, an anonymous voice which seemed hardly interested in what he was saying, yet precise and cutting as a razor when its owner required more information. He finished off by saying: ‘Oh, and I’ve a new assistant here, a Sergeant Sergei Gulharov, from the supply and transport barracks in Serpukhov. I’m keeping him on. Can you get him permanently posted to the Chateau, as of now? He’s young and strong and I’ll have plenty of work for him.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that,’ came the cool, clear answer. ‘He’ll be your odd-job man, you say?’
‘And my bodyguard,’ said Krakovitch, ‘eventually. I’m not much physically.’
‘Very well. I’ll check out the chances of getting him on a military close protection course. Weapons, too, if he’s not up to scratch. Of course, we could take a shortcut and get you a professional . . .’
‘No,’ Krakovitch was firm. ‘No professionals. This one will do. He’s fairly innocent and I like that. It’s refreshing.’
‘Krakovitch,’ said the voice on the other end, ‘I need to know this. Are you a homosexual?’