‘— In the rest of the Château,’ Krakovitch took up the story, his face deathly white, ‘it was. . . hell! I was there.
I lived through it. A few others with me. The rest died —horribly! Keogh was. . . some kind of monster. He could call up the dead!’
‘Not as big a monster as Dragosani,’ said Kyle. ‘But you were going to tell me what happened after Keogh died. How you finished off the job he started. What did you mean by that?’
‘Dragosani was a vampire,’ Krakovitch nodded, almost to himself. ‘Yes, you are right, of course.’ He got a grip of himself. ‘Look, Sergei here was with me when we clean up what was left of Dragosani. Let me show you what happen when I remind him about that — and when I tell to him there are more of them.’ He turned to his silent companion, spoke to him rapidly in Russian.
They were sitting at a scruffy bar lit by flickering neon in the airport’s almost deserted night arrivals lounge. The barman had gone off duty two hours earlier and their glasses had stood empty ever since. Gulharov’s reaction to what Krakovitch told him was immediate and vehement. He went white and drew back from his boss, almost falling from his barstool. And as Krakovitch finished speaking, so he slammed his empty beer glass down on the bar.
‘Nyet, nyet!’ he gasped his denial, his face working with a strange mixture of fury and loathing. And then, his voice gradually rising and growing shrill, he began a diatribe in Russian which would soon attract attention.
Krakovitch gripped his arm and shook him, and Gulharov’s jabbering faded into silence. ‘Now I ask him if we accepting your help,’ Krakovitch informed. He spoke to the younger man again, and this time Gulharov nodded twice, rapidly, and his colour began to return to normal.
‘Da, da!’ he gasped emphatically. His throat made a dry rattle as he added something else, unintelligible to the two Englishmen.
Krakovitch smiled humourlessly. ‘He says we should accept all the help we can get,’ he translated. ‘Because we have to kill these things — finish them! And I agreeing with him . . .‘ Then he told these strangest of allies all that had happened at the Château Bronnitsy after Harry Keogh’s war.
When he’d finished there was a long silence, broken at last by Quint. ‘We’re in agreement, then? That we’ll act together on this?’
Krakovitch nodded. He shrugged, said simply, ‘No alternative. And no time to waste.’
Quint turned to Kyle. ‘But how do we go about it?’
‘As far as possible,’ Kyle answered, ‘we go the straightforward way. We get it all right up front, without any of the usual —, The airport tannoy broke in on him, echoing tinnily as some sleepy, unseen announcer requested in English that a Mr A. Kyle please take a telephone call at the reception desk.
Krakovitch’s face froze. Who would know that Kyle was here?
Kyle stood up, shrugged apologetically. This was very embarrassing. It could only be ‘Brown’, and how to explain that to Krakovitch? Quint, on the other hand, was his usual ready-for-anything self. Calmly he said to Krakovitch, ‘Well, you have your little bloodhound following you about. And now it would seem that we have one too.’
Krakovitch gave a curt, sour nod. And with an edge of ‘sarcasm, echoing Kyle, he said, ‘Without any of the usual, eh? Did you know about this?’
‘it’s none of our doing.’ Quint wasn’t exactly truthful. We’re in the same boat as you.’
On Krakovitch’s orders, Gulharov accompanied Kyle to the reception-cum-enquiries desk, leaving .Quint and Krakovitch alone together. ‘Maybe this is all in our favour,’ said Quint.
‘Eh?’ Krakovitch had turned sour again. ‘We are followed, spied upon, overheard, bugged, and you say is favourable?’
‘I meant you and Kyle both having shadows,’ Quint explained. ‘It evens things up. And maybe we can cancel out one with the other.’
Krakovitch was alarmed. ‘I not being party to violence! Anything happen to that KGB dog, is possible I get the troubles.’
‘But if we could arrange for him to be, er, detained for a day or two? I mean, unharmed, you understand —completely unharmed — just detained. .