Cold Warriors (32 page)

"Was that Tomas?" Anya asked.

Morgan shook his head, then laughed.

"What? Is there something I should know?"

There were a lot of things, but now didn't seem like the time to share them. "A contact," he told her instead. "She's spotted Raphael's man outside and she thinks he has the diary."

"Thank god for that!"

"Yeah," Morgan said. "Now all we have to do is catch him."

When Raphael approached, Belle backed away. "Things to do," she said. "People to see."

Raphael ignored her, his eyes only on Tomas. "I've waited a very long time for this," he said. His voice was almost accentless, but now Tomas was listening for it, he could hear the faint traces of Poland in its sibilants. Nicholson had sometimes talked about a Polish priest, the man who'd first opened his eyes to the world behind the world.

"Nothing to say, Tomas?" Raphael asked. "No questions?"

Tomas's shrug scraped the coarse-fibred rope against his body.

"Nicholson always said you weren't much of a conversationalist."

"I won't help you," Tomas said. "I've been a fool, but I'm not a traitor."

"No," Raphael said, "I don't believe you're either. If you were an idiot, this would all have been a lot simpler. And it still so nearly fell apart. The diary was meant to draw you here, did you realise that? It didn't occur to me you'd manage to steal it before I got my hands on it."

Tomas closed his eyes for a moment as another revelation hit him. "Giles sent me on this mission. Is he working with you too?"

"No. Giles we never managed to turn - too much of a bureaucrat to take any big risks."

"But you got him to reopen the Division, didn't you? To bring me back exactly when you needed me."

Raphael's foot tapped a staccato rhythm against the concrete. He was keyed up in some way. Nervous or excited, it was hard to tell, and his face gave nothing away. "All we needed to do was dangle the artefacts in front of him," he said. "They were the only thing your government was ever interested in. The only reason they allowed the Division to continue. It was never the knowledge they were interested in, only the edge it might give them in their long, pointless war."

"The war wasn't pointless," Tomas said. "And it was won."

Raphael laughed, a dry, creaking sound. "Temporarily. There will always be conflict, Tomas, between those who believe human nature can be perfected, and those who know otherwise."

"I never believed we can be better than we are, only that we can choose to behave better."

"How very moral of you. No wonder Nicholson found you so tiresome."

Tomas sagged with weariness, letting the ropes support him. "Well, he's certainly found an elaborate way to get me out of his hair."

"I have bigger plans for you. But -" Raphael tilted his head, listening. After a moment Tomas heard it too, footsteps approaching down the long avenue.

Raphael smiled. "There's someone who can help me with that."

Tomas wasn't very surprised to see Kate. He could tell that she'd expected to find him here too, but her eyes still widened at the sight of him.

"Oh god, Tomas." She barely acknowledged Raphael as she rushed to him, hands fluttering over his chest, and then his face and finally his bound hands, but never quite touching any of them. "What happened to you?"

"I tried to stop you taking Belle."

A part of him enjoyed the way she winced away from his bitter smile. "We had to, to get you here."

"I gathered that."

Her hand rested on his face this time. She stroked a finger over the ridge of his brow. "It was worth it. You'll see."

"Worth what? I can understand you going over to the Russians. I don't know, maybe I would have done the same. But
this
, Kate?"

"Just what is it you think we're doing?" Raphael asked. He'd retreated a few paces, watching Kate and Tomas intently.

"I don't know," Tomas admitted. "But I know who... I know what it is you think you're doing it for."

"Do you," Raphael said flatly.

"Morgan told me what happened in your church inside the salt mine,
Father
Raphael."

Raphael's whole body tensed, wasted muscles bunching underneath parchment skin.

"I know about the bargain you made to save yourself," Tomas said.

Raphael moved faster than Tomas would have imagined, until their faces were inches apart. He could smell the old man's sour breath.

"How do you know that?" Raphael hissed.

Kate looked shocked, and with a visible effort the old man reined himself in. "Who told you?" he asked more calmly.

Tomas read the fear in Raphael's eyes. For the first time, Tomas had a measure of power. He could shake Raphael, and Kate's faith in him. But this was a secret Raphael would kill to keep. If Tomas said any more, it would doom Kate. He just shook his head. "It's funny. All the things I saw, but
this
I never believed."

Raphael eased back on his heels, smiling knowingly. "You only ever saw the surface - Nicholson made sure of that. I serve what lies beneath."

Tomas looked at Kate to see if she understood. Could she work for Raphael, knowing this? But she hardly seemed to be paying attention to the old man, her eyes still fixed on Tomas. "None of it matters," she said. "It's all just a... technique. You know that, you used them yourself."

He felt a surge of relief followed by a spike of panic. If Kate wasn't following the same course as Raphael, then she was just another tool to be used and disposed of.

Her hand hadn't left his face. He could feel her fingertips ghosting over his cheek, tracing the lines of the unhealed cuts. "He can save you," she said. "If you help him, he can reverse what they did to you. What you did for me."

He smiled a little, because it meant that, despite everything, she still cared about him. But he'd already seen the gun in Raphael's hand, and a second later Kate saw it too.

"You promised me," she choked, shielding Tomas with her body. "You said that you could bring him back to life."

The old man smiled. "Did I? How dishonest of me."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It took Anya far too long to realise she was being followed. The young, mousy-haired woman was walking on the other side of the road, a few paces behind. She looked like an office worker window-shopping in her lunch hour, and Anya couldn't spare her any attention. Her eyes were focused solely on Vadim.

It was only when she registered the shivery feeling of hidden eyes on her that she knew something was wrong. The young woman wasn't looking
through
the windows. She was following Anya's reflection in the glass.

Anya's footsteps faltered, sending her stumbling over the raised rim of the next paving stone. She righted herself a second later, resisting the impulse to turn and look directly at her shadow. She was safer while the woman following her didn't think she'd been spotted.

Vadim had drawn ahead as her attention shifted. She almost missed the sudden sharp left turn he took into one of the side streets running off Nevsky Prospect. She had ten paces to decide whether to follow him. If she didn't, there was a chance she could make her own escape. They might lose interest in her if she ceased to be a threat.

But if she didn't, the diary would be lost - probably forever.

When the turning came, she took it. The young man was hurrying, footsteps echoing audibly here, away from the crowds. His new route was taking him north, towards the river. Did he know he was being followed? Her own pursuer had dropped back, trailing her at a distance on this narrower street. The smell of exhaust fumes wafted down from the main road, but no cars followed it. No pedestrians either. The young man didn't turn around. He didn't pause, even though he must have heard her behind him.

She had the phone pressed to her ear before she had time to fully process it. "I've walked into a trap," she said. "Sadovaya Street."

The second she said it the young man was gone, ducked into an alley she'd barely noticed. Two other men appeared out of the shadows to take his place. Anya had never seen them before, but she was sure they were working for Raphael. The taller man on the right smiled, running a hand over his smooth scalp.

Morgan was shouting something into the phone, words she didn't have time to listen to. She spun round. Behind her there was still only the mousey-haired woman. She wasn't carrying a weapon.

Anya knew it was too good to be true. But it looked like a chance and she was desperate enough to take it. "Get the diary," she said into the phone, cutting off Morgan's protest by snapping it shut.

The young woman paused, taking a step back as if she realised what Anya was planning. Then, as Anya sprinted towards her, she raised a whistle to her lips and blew.

"Fuck!" Morgan flung the phone away. It skittered across the pavement to land in the gutter with an audible crack. After a moment, he stooped to pick it up. The screen was broken but it was still working and he supposed that was lucky. It was Anya's only way of getting in touch with him.

Except he'd heard the whistle too. He knew what it meant and he didn't think she'd be calling again any time soon.

The other Anya had gone pale beside him, clawing a hand into his bicep as the high-pitched whistle went on and on, audible even now the phone was off. "We have to get out of here," she said.

He'd never seen that expression on her face before. It made her look vulnerable, far more like her alter ego.

"She needs help," he said.

"It's too late for her. Believe me - I know." Her hand on his arm was holding him back as he pulled against it in the direction of the whistle. But if he'd really wanted to, he could have broken her grip. He knew that. He knew that a big part of him wanted to do as Anya - as both Anyas - had told him.

Tomas was lost, probably dead. Anya would soon be the same. His partners were dying, and he'd almost convinced himself that was over, but it was just like before. The people around him died, and he carried on. But if he had the diary, he might be able to discover why. Raphael knew all the secrets, Morgan was sure of it. He'd sell them for the book, and then Morgan could finally understand.

He hesitated, caught by warring impulses more than by the grip of Anya's hand. Then he saw a figure emerge, blinking in the sudden light as he ran from a side street into the main road. It was Vadim - Raphael's man.

Before Morgan realised he'd made the decision, he set off in pursuit. Anya followed, at first dragged by her grip on his arm and then propelling herself when she saw who his target was.

The young man didn't realise they were following until they were within twenty paces. Morgan saw a brief flash of Vadim's face, sweaty and wide-eyed, and then he ran from the pavement into the centre of the road.

Cars screeched to a halt around him. The drivers screamed at him, lush-sounding Russian swear-words. But one of the cars that had stopped was a taxi, chunky and yellow. Morgan grabbed empty air as he reached for the other man. Another step and Morgan thumped his fist against the closed taxi door. And then the taxi and Vadim were motoring away - and it was Anya and Morgan that everyone was screaming at as they stood impotently in the middle of the road.

"Here!" Anya said. She ran to another of the stationary cars and pulled the door open. Morgan froze a moment, watching her squeeze into the back seat, before he realised that it, too, was a cab. Then he flung himself after, jeans sticky with sweat against the cheap plastic seats.

The cab was moving before he'd shut the door. Anya leant forward, talking to the driver in urgent Russian. He frowned, then pressed down hard on the accelerator, flinging them back in their seats.

"Let her go," Tomas said. "She's no more use to you."

Raphael's thin white hand looked too frail to be holding the semi-automatic, but it didn't shake as he pointed the gun at Kate's heart. "One more use," he said.

The flick-knife must have been hidden in Raphael's back pocket. It was small enough to fit there, but the blade was wickedly sharp. It made a harsh, rasping sound as he slid it over the concrete to Kate's feet.

She looked down at it, then back at Raphael. "I won't kill him."

"He's already dead. He'd want you to save yourself - wouldn't you, Tomas?"

Tomas had been feeling weak and drained, floating somewhere apart from his thoughts. It was the detachment he'd longed for when he'd chosen to die. Now he fought against it. "Do your own dirty work, Raphael. It's not like you have an aversion to killing."

"And you do, I suppose?"

"I never enjoyed it."

"Does that make it better? The outcome is the same. I'm sure the people you murdered cared not a jot for your reasons."

"It wasn't murder." But Tomas knew there was no conviction in his voice. Since he'd come out of the ground, all his certainties had been dissolving like salt in the rain.

"Cut out his heart," Raphael said, turning back to Kate. "Give it to me, and you may go. Don't, you die and I'll do it anyway."

"Why?" Kate's voice was thick with tears. "Why lure him all this way, just to kill him?"

"Because this is what he was
made
for. This is what it's all about!" He was kneeling as he spoke, gun still trained on Kate with one hand while, with the other, he pulled out a chalk and began to draw a complicated pattern of runes and pentagrams on the concrete.

"He needs me for a spell," Tomas said. "Or my heart, I suppose." He suddenly remembered the illustration in the abbot's book, the one he saw in Greenland all those years ago, which showed the ceremony the artefacts were intended for.

Raphael nodded, still drawing. "The beating heart of a dead man. A dark seed crystal."

"For what?" Kate said. She'd got herself under control, and Tomas could see her gaze sweeping Raphael, waiting for an opening. He didn't think the old man would give her one.

"A crystal can only seed itself," Tomas told her. "I'm dead. All I can bring is more death."

Raphael paused a moment in his drawing to smile at Tomas. The expression looked manic. He must have been preparing for this moment almost half his life. What a remarkable feeling, to see his long-gestating plan finally come to fruition. And none of it would have been possible without Tomas - without his fatal stupidity.