Cold Warriors (23 page)

"I was a pawn too, Tomas. You have to believe me. And you need to trust me."

"How can I?" She didn't say anything, and after a moment he added, "So you're working for Raphael now, is that it? You didn't die, you just switched sides?"

Kate's eyes widened, as if she was shocked at the accusation. Tomas had a painful flash of memory. She'd always done this, when they argued. Made him feel bad for even suggesting that she could be in the wrong.

"I didn't leave MI6, they left me."

"Tell me, then. What did happen in Russia, twenty years ago?" He was desperate for an explanation that he could believe.

"I was captured, that much was true. And yes, it was by Raphael, or at least the people he worked for. He was attached to the KGB back then, did you know that?"

Tomas shook his head, but he guessed it made sense. The Russians had run their own equivalent of the Hermetic Division. They'd never had trouble believing in the occult. Living in their unforgiving country, it wasn't hard to believe in an essential darkness at the heart of it all.

"They... questioned me," Kate said. "For weeks. I broke. Everyone does, don't they? Whatever they tell you, the human mind can only take so much. I told them everything I knew and a few things I was only making up, because I thought it was what they wanted to hear. But I didn't turn traitor." There was a long, painful silence, until finally she added, "I didn't do that until they told me what had happened to you." A single tear slipped from her eye to track down her face.

Tomas felt his fingers itching with the need to brush it away. His arms wanted to find their way around her. He folded them instead. "What did they tell you?"

She wiped the tear away herself, a brusque swipe of her thumb against her cheek. "You weren't the only one who was shown photos. They had spies everywhere back then and one of their men was at your funeral. I saw a picture of you being lowered into the grave. And the worst thing, the absolute worst thing was, I could see that your eyes were still open."

"I thought you were gone," Tomas said. He reached out and took her hand. "Without you... I would never have done it if I'd thought you were still alive."

"And that's why they told you I was dead. That's why they showed you the pictures. It wasn't the KGB who faked those photos - it was Nicholson. That's how Raphael's men found out. They'd been hoping to send me back as a double agent, only they discovered that the British had already declared me dead."

"I can't believe... Nicholson tried to talk me out of it. He said -" Tomas laughed harshly. "That it wasn't worth it to him, losing me just to find out if the magics really worked."

Kate gave his hand a final squeeze, then released it. "He knew you too well, Tomas. He always knew how to manipulate you. When I found out what had happened, I swore I'd find him and make him pay. But he was already dead. He must have come straight home from your burial and hung himself. I'd like to think it was guilt, but we both knew Nicholson too well to believe that."

"So you worked for Raphael instead," Tomas said.

"Yes." There was no hint of apology in her voice. "I couldn't reach Nicholson, but I could make those bastards in the Division pay for what they'd done to you. And what they let happen to me, of course. The KGB were tipped off, that's how they found me. I'm damn sure I know who did the tipping."

Tomas reached for her hand again, but she took a step back, out of the shelter of the baker's eaves. Raindrops instantly spattered her head, wriggling down the corkscrews of her hair to trickle into the open neck of her red blouse.

"But Raphael tortured you," Tomas said.

"He was doing his job, and at least he was honest about it. Wouldn't we all rather be shot in the chest than stabbed in the back? And he promised me that he'd do everything he could to find out why Nicholson betrayed us."

"Did he?" Tomas asked. He took another step forward, and she took another one back. Distantly, he registered a commotion further down the street, a group of people he thought might be Gunter's men.

"Yes," Kate said. "He's going to tell me the truth about what happened twenty years ago." She was at the edge of the road now, and Tomas realised for the first time that a car had drawn to a stop beside her. "There's just one more thing I have to do for him first."

Tomas lunged for her as she flung herself inside the car. It was moving before she was seated, the momentum slamming the door shut behind her.

"Kate!" he shouted, but she was already too far away to hear it.

Morgan was in a church of pure white. White walls, white floor, white altar. He recognised it, though he couldn't say why. He thought perhaps he'd been here before.

It should have been beautiful, but for some reason it wasn't. Maybe it was the statues lining each wall, staring back at him with blank white eyes. Though looking at them made him profoundly uneasy, he didn't want to look away. He was afraid that when he did, they'd start moving.

It took him a second to realise he wasn't alone. But when he saw the figures by the altar, he gave a start of recognition, not surprise. Of course. He'd been expecting them to be here. They belonged in this place.

The young man remained frozen, bending low over the little girl. But no, he wasn't a person, was he? He was just another statue, face moulded in white, glints of light sparkling off his narrow nose. Morgan could only see the right sight of his face, and he was very glad of that, though he wasn't quite sure why. He thought maybe the left side was the real side, and the one he could see was only a mask.

Was the girl a statue as well?

No. Her head was turning towards Morgan.

"Taste it," she said.

Morgan drifted closer, puzzled. He studied her lips. "What?"

"Taste it." Her mouth moved in time with the words, though they didn't quite seem to be coming out of it. The sound echoed hollowly from the walls, as if it was the church itself which was speaking.

It seemed absurd to obey, but he dropped to his knees anyway, then forward onto his hands.

"Taste it," the girl said again, only this time the words were muffled, and it sounded as if she was saying "taste
me".

Morgan didn't want to do it, but the girl was so insistent. He sighed, then flicked his tongue out, a quick brush against the white floor of the church. Then he did it again, a longer, wetter swipe this time. Because that couldn't be right, could it? Why would the floor of the church be covered in salt?

He leaned forward to lick for a third time - only to rear back, shocked, as a roar of protest surged through him, so loud the sound felt like a physical force. There were no words in it, just a fierce denial. He looked up, around, searching for the source. In an instant, he'd found it. The altar. The young man. The little girl.

The girl looked calm, almost sad. The young man...

From this angle, Morgan could see his face in its entirety. The perfectly smooth handsome right side. And the left side, scarred and melted, mouth open in a roar of outrage, eyes blazing with malice, and Morgan opened his mouth to scream too -

- only to jerk, sweating and shaking, into the waking world. But even here the sound followed him, the scream of protest. Now it was higher, sharper, and after a second he realised it was Anya. That she was sitting beside him, face turned towards him, terrified.

Morgan couldn't figure out where he was, why she was so frightened. What this thing in his hands was that was trying so hard to twist out of his grip.

"Morgan!" Anya screamed again, and he realised that he was in a car, that the thing in his hand was the steering wheel. The whole vehicle jolted and rattled as it rolled over the narrow strip of gravel at the side of the road and into the deep grass.

Beyond the grass was deep, dense forest. The first tree was only twenty feet from the car's bonnet.

Morgan wrenched the steering wheel round desperately. It fought him, happier to carry on the course he'd already set it. The shadow of the trees fell over them.

"Stop!" Anya yelled, as if Morgan might not have noticed he was about to total the car and them with it. But he knew if he stamped on the brake the wheels would lock and he'd have lost all hope of control. He pumped his foot instead and kept on pulling at the wheel, throwing the whole weight of his body against it.

They missed the first tree by an inch. Morgan heard the screech of wood against metal as a branch buckled Anya's door. She yelled and flung herself away from it, crushing Morgan against his side of the car.

The car jumped and bucked, Anya's weight pushed against him, and for a second Morgan's hands slipped from the wheel. It instantly spun round to the centre, dragging them back towards the trees. Morgan fumbled clumsily to turn it back, but his fingers were sweating and he couldn't get a grip. And now the next tree was looming ahead of them, a massive oak buttressed with thick, knotty roots.

There was no way they were missing it. Morgan gave up on steering, stamping his foot down frantically on the brake instead. The car growled in protest and the wheels locked, and then Morgan didn't have time to do anything except wrap his arms around his head and brace for the impact.

The force of it jarred all the way up his spine. His head thumped against the steering wheel hard enough that he thought he was going to lose consciousness. His vision blacked and then greyed and finally snapped back to a blinding white that jabbed into his brain between his eyes.

Anya let out a pained whimper beside him. Morgan wanted to check that she was okay, but for a long moment all he could do was rest his head against the wheel and wait for the world to stop spinning. When he finally managed to lift his head and turn it to her, he saw that she'd cut her forehead, the blood running down in a sheet towards her eyes. But at least she was still moving. His friendship hadn't killed her yet.

The car was another story. Morgan pulled open his door, stumbling over the wiry, clinging undergrowth as he walked round to inspect the damage. Not good. The tree trunk had sunk a good foot into the crumpled bonnet and steam was hissing out all around it. The chassis might be bent back into shape, but the engine was clearly a write-off. There was no way they'd be driving away from here.

Anya had walked over to the other side of the hood. She looked down at it a moment longer, then up at him. Steam from the car wreathed her blood-streaked face, making her look like a pantomime villain.

"Sorry," Morgan said. "I fell asleep."

She laughed. After a second he joined in, both of them gasping for breath, bent over their knees. He knew it was the shock, but it felt good to let it out.

When it was over he straightened and studied Anya. Her face was still creased in a wide smile as she let out helpless little aftershocks of laughter.

She'd changed, Morgan realised. The dour woman he'd met in Budapest would never have found that funny. Even her body language had been transformed, loose-limbed and relaxed where it had been stiff and careful. "I guess we'll have to hitch-hike," he said.

Anya nodded. "Unless you happen to be a qualified mechanic. With a spare engine in your pocket."

Morgan took one last look at the wreckage of the car, then pulled his bag from the back seat and tramped back towards the road.

He thought they'd have to wait a while, but in the end it was less than an hour before they saw something heading in their direction, a beaten-up brown Lada. Morgan stayed in the undergrowth by the side of the road while Anya stuck out her thumb, a trick she said she'd learned when she was a student.

Sure enough, the car drew to a halt beside her, belching black smoke out of its exhaust. The driver was in his forties, balding and paunchy. He eyed Anya appreciatively, quite blatantly looking at her breasts before he took in her face. Anya smiled sweetly - and beckoned Morgan to join her. The man's face fell, but by then he'd stopped and it was too late to turn them down.

"Thank you," Morgan said as he slid into the backseat, allowing Anya to take the front. It seemed only fair to at least let the man ogle her while he drove. Besides, in the back it was easier to avoid looking in the rear-view mirror.

"You're welcome," the man said grudgingly, in thickly accented English. "So, where is it you are going?"

"A church," Morgan said. Anya turned round to stare at him, but he ignored her. "A church that's made out of salt."

The man nodded. "You mean the cathedral in the salt mines. Yes, a good place to visit - amazing, really. I will drop you in Krakow and you will take a bus from there."

Morgan could sense Anya staring at him incredulously, but he avoided her eyes. Part of him felt relief that his wild guess had been proven right. But a bigger part of him was just scared. Because although he didn't want to believe it, he thought he knew who'd be waiting for him in the church made out of salt.

Anya was fuming when she caught up with Tomas. He'd expected nothing less.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!" she raged.

Tomas didn't reply. He couldn't stop staring at the road, uselessly hoping that he'd see Kate's car turn round and come back to him.

"I'm talking to you!" Anya grabbed his arm and spun him to face her. Three of Gunter's men were behind her, out of breath and equally pissed off. The little crowd of them blocked the pavement.

"She was supposed to be dead," Tomas said.

Anya frowned. "That woman? You knew her?"

"I worked with her." I loved her, he thought, but that was none of Anya's damn business.

"And that was reason enough to fuck up the mission?"

Tomas jerked his arm out of Anya's grasp, but when she turned and stalked down the pavement, he followed. "It was blown anyway. She knew who I was - she must have known it was a set-up. Heinrich sold us down the river."

"Did he?" Anya sounded a little calmer, but no less angry. "Well, you can ask him yourself. That woman might have got away, but they obviously didn't care too much about protecting Heinrich."

A moment later they found the old man, waiting between two beefy agents by the van Gunter's men had parked in a quiet side street. He'd been caught, and he ought to have looked cowed. Instead he smiled victoriously at Tomas.