The Relic (20 page)

Irina swore in fury. She should have taken precautions against such a mishap. She'd become careless, complaisant. Five years ago she'd have got the woman sacked on some pretext, rendering her harmless if she alleged anything against a reputable doctor in a famous clinic. The grieving widow was rich and powerful enough to hound anyone through the courts.

Irina forced herself to calm down. She lit a cigarette … composed herself. The pulse steadied, the cold sweats stopped. She would go home. She had given years of valuable service. Rakovsky would support her. She hadn't missed the sting in the tail in that curt directive. It was her responsibility to being Dimitri back to Russia with her.

Easy for them to say, she thought bitterly. If it hadn't been for Müller's exposure, he might have been amenable. He might still have loved her and been capable of persuasion. But not now. Now Dimitri hated her. He hated her more in his sobriety than when he was drunk. And he was still sober, much to her surprise. The distance between them widened every day. They saw little or nothing of each other. He lived his separate life and she waited for him to falter and slip back into alcohol. But he didn't.

Irina stubbed out her cigarette. She went to the window and opened it, gazing out at the magnificent view over the vast lake. Five years of exile among strangers would soon be over. Suddenly her heart ached for the sight of her native country, for the sounds and scents and the voices of her own people. Once a Russian, always a Russian. She remembered reading a biography of a Tsarist
emigré
after the Revolution and the phrase came back to her. It was the only thing in the whole book that she related to, ‘
We cherished our language and our culture. We never wanted to lose our Russianness, no matter what country we lived in.
'

She thought. ‘I'll come out of it unscathed. And when I'm home maybe I'll be happy again. No Russian is truly happy outside Russia. And I'll bring Dimitri with me, however I have to do it. Switzerland destroyed us. Russia may give him back to me.'

She took the key out of her bag and opened the locked drawer in her desk. Her passport was in order. His was out of date. She picked up the telephone and asked for a courier service. That afternoon the passport was delivered to the Soviet Embassy for renewal on an emergency application.

When Irina got home that evening Dimitri was not there. She realized suddenly how empty and unlived in the apartment had become. There were no signs of him about the place. No books left lying about, no newspapers scattered or folded untidily on a table, no dirty cups or glasses. He came home to sleep and as soon as he woke after she'd left for the Clinic, he went out.

There were no weekends for them. No days spent together. He left the apartment in the morning. If she enquired, he merely said he was going walking and he didn't know when he'd be back. She wasn't to wait for him if she had anything else to do. It was so cold and self-contained, his eyes were empty when he looked at her. He hated her so much that he refused even to see her as a person.

She had tried to follow him once. She wasn't skilled enough and a tram ride lost him to her. She came home in despair and went back to the clinic to work rather than spend the Sunday alone, or try to pass the time with friends. She went in to their bedroom. He'd made his bed when he left; that was unlike him, but then the sober man was neat and organized.

Irina sat on the bed. He'll never come back of his own free choice, she admitted. There's only one way to get him home and I'll just have to take it. As soon as I have his passport.

Lucy dialled the number. A bright voice answered on the third ring. ‘Good morning, Amtel clinic. Can I help you?'

Lucy's mouth was dry. She said. ‘Doctor Volkova's secretary, please,' and swallowed hard.

‘One moment,' the switchboard said.

She waited; it seemed she waited for an eternity. Less than a few seconds, but it seemed longer than time.

‘Doctor Volkov's office.'

The same honeyed tone, she thought; they must be trained to speak like that, oozing reassurance. She realized that she had betrayed her knowledge of Russian by using the feminine version of the doctor's surname.

‘Good morning,' Lucy forced herself to sound calm. ‘I would like to make an appointment with the doctor.'

‘And have you a letter from your doctor? Normally it's your doctor who makes the appointment.' The voice was a little less friendly now.

‘I'm visiting,' Lucy said. ‘I came specially in the hope of seeing Doctor Volkov.' She was careful not to make the same mistake. ‘I have no letter. My doctor's in England, but he promised to write to her before I arrived. Could you just check for me, please?'

‘May I have the doctor's name, Madame?'

‘Harrison,' Lucy invented. ‘Doctor Philip Harrison, 27 Sloane Square, London. I've been getting attacks of giddiness and I'm not sleeping well. He wanted me to see a specialist in Harley Street, but I'd heard so much about your clinic and Doctor Volkov, I said I wanted to consult her. Are you sure you haven't had a letter?'

‘One moment. Doctor Volkov is off duty today, but I'll see if I can check through the files in case.'

‘Thank you,' Lucy said. She hung up. Today. Her heart gave a frightened leap. She'd planned it differently. She had to do it today. No doubt the secretary would dismiss the call as the work of some crank hoping to bluff her way in without a doctor's recommendation.

She took a deep breath. They'd made their plans for escape. She argued in favour of a direct flight to London and then on to Jersey. Dimitri would be safe there. Nobody would think of looking for him in the Channel Islands. He would meet Mischa and the others in London at the exhibition in the art gallery.

The next step would be to come out in public and call a Press conference. That would guarantee his safety. So long as he was in the limelight, he couldn't be attacked or abducted. The media would be the best bodyguard of all. He was fired with enthusiasm. His spirits were so high he didn't detect the chill of fear in Lucy. She was proud of him. It didn't seem possible for her love to deepen and grow, but it did. If she loved the sad victim of despair and betrayal, even more did she love the brave idealist. Loved him enough to steel herself to lie and excuse herself that afternoon, while she made her way to the Amtel clinic.

‘Don't be long, my darling,' he said. ‘I'll miss you.'

She forced herself to smile, to be lighthearted. ‘No, you won't; you'll be busy.'

He was working on his speech and his Press statements. He said, ‘I could come with you. Why don't I?'

She put him off with a kiss. ‘I can't see you sitting in dress shops all afternoon,' she said. ‘I won't be long. If I buy something nice, I'll wear it home for you.'

She waved at him from the door and went down to the street. She'd hired a car a few days before, with the trip to the clinic in view. No taxis, no chance of being delayed. In and out, and drive like the wind.

She got in, checked that the newly cut key was in her purse and switched on the engine. Clouds were gathering overhead and the windscreen was spotted with rain. At mid-morning the traffic was heavy, slowed down by the showery outbreak. Lucy kept looking at her watch. She had decided to reach the clinic by lunchtime. There was a good chance that the secretary would take time off for lunch while the doctor was absent. It was Lucy's hope of getting into the outer office unchallenged. Once there, she had to gamble on the consulting room being unlocked. Her hands were sticking to the wheel. She sat behind a stream of cars stopped at the traffic intersections till they surged onwards and then stopped again. The rain grew heavier and thunder rumbled over the mountains. At this rate, she thought desperately, the lunch hour will be over before I even get there. Then she remembered how things were here, and calmed down.

The Swiss enjoyed their food. They started early and worked late, but they took an hour and a half for lunch. If the woman she'd spoken to was having a break, she wouldn't be back to her desk before two o'clock.

It was just after one, when Lucy crossed the Pont du Mont Blanc, and the traffic was lighter. She drove as fast as she dared past the Jardin Anglais and at last swung out on to the Quai Gustav Ador. The sky was bright, the distant grumble of thunder died away and the sun shone, striking light off the puddles that had gathered from the downpour.

Driving along the Quay, Lucy thought about that morning when she had gone to the little bistro on the Place de Trainant to find Volkov. She remembered the sinking despair when the smirking waiter had shrugged and said, ‘He's always drunk.' She'd needed all her courage then, to stand over him and introduce herself; to refuse to be sent away, to admit that she had come to Geneva in vain. Perhaps I fell in love with him then, she thought; when I discovered that he was a man and not a shining hero. The first time I looked into his eyes and saw how much he'd suffered.

And I'm taut with fear, she reproached herself, when all that can happen to me is to be thrown out of this damned clinic. If they call the police that would be different. I'd be arrested, Volkov wouldn't know what had happened to me. Panic rose for a moment. She crushed it ruthlessly. I can't afford fear. I've got to succeed. I've got to get his passport and take him away from here. Before our luck runs out. It's been too easy for us; we've led charmed lives till now. There was a Russian saying her father liked to quote: ‘
God doesn't always frown upon the wicked.
'

She put her foot down on the pedal and the car leaped forward. In her agitation she had taken the longer route on to the Quay de Cologny. She slowed and turned right crossing the Chemin de BelleFontaine and down the Route de la Capite, upwards off the main highway and into the Chemin Faguillon. There was a discreet sign pointing higher still to the Amtel clinic.

She turned into the big car park. Expensive cars parked in neat rows that the staff had reserved for them. She spotted the name Dr Volkov on a smart little board above an empty space and her heart jumped. She found a parking space close to the main entrance. She put the key in her pocket and left her purse in the car.

She saw the building that Adolph Brückner had looked at on his arrival that day, the pain in his head threatening like the thunder clouds that were drifting back over the mountain tops. Clean architectural lines, gleaming glass, flower beds so neat and regimented that no weed would dare to seed itself.

Two nurses in crisp white came down the main steps, laughing and talking, hurrying away. Lucy walked up the fight of steps; the plate glass doors slid open electronically as she crossed the beam.

More flowers inside. A small fountain pattered gently in the big reception hall. A desk with ‘Reception' in French, German and Arabic loomed on her left. She absorbed every detail, her senses sharpened by a flood of adrenalin. She went to the reception and a smiling woman in a white blouse and neat grey skirt rose up and asked if she could help her. Lucy smiled back.

‘Doctor Volkov's secretary,' she said.

The receptionist made a quick assessment. Nicely dressed, but not expensively enough to be a client.

‘She may still be at lunch,' she said. ‘I'll ring for you.'

‘Oh, don't bother,' Lucy said quickly. ‘I'm a friend of hers. I've only popped by for five minutes. Second floor, isn't she?'

‘Third,' the receptionist corrected. ‘You can take the lift over there.'

‘Thanks,' Lucy said. Lifts could be on the wrong floor at the wrong moment. ‘I'll take the stairs. Good for the figure.'

‘Round the corner, by the flower shop,' she was directed. The woman looked after her and gave a little shrug. If she wanted to climb all that way, that was her business. She had an English accent; the English weren't normally health conscious, unlike the Americans, and they always took the lift.

Lucy skirted the kiosk overflowing with vases and baskets of flowers; the heady scents were sickening. A man came out with a big bouquet of Regale lilies, festooned with white ribbons. He looked miserable and anxious; he almost bumped into Lucy.

He said, ‘Oh, scusi Signorina,' and walked towards the lift.

She hurried past him to the stairs. It was a longer climb than she expected. Nervousness made her breathless. She paused at the landing leading onto the third floor. Carefully she pushed the door open and looked left and right before stepping into the corridor. There were five consulting rooms, two waiting rooms, the lift doors and another door marked ‘fire exit only'. The floors were carpeted, the lighting soft; flower prints in gilded frames hung between the doors. It reminded Lucy of a luxury hotel.

Then she stopped dead. There was a nurse's cubbyhole with a little desk behind a glass door. Someone was moving in there. She caught a glimpse of uniform and retreated behind the door on to the landing. She watched through a crack and at last a nurse came out of the tiny office and went to the lift.

Lucy could hear her humming as she waited. Then she was gone and the corridor was empty. The name was stencilled inside a brass frame on the fourth door along.
Dr I. Volkov
.

Lucy paused. She raised her hand to knock. If the secretary had come back early, and if she answered, Lucy had decided to go in and bluff it out. ‘
Doctor Volkov asked me to collect something from her office. Would you open the door please? She's in a terrible hurry
. It had sounded convincing when she rehearsed it. Quiet authority was the key. She mustn't hesitate. Just walk in, say the words, demand that the office be opened for her.

At that moment Lucy realized that no responsible employee in an ordinary office, let alone a hospital, would have admitted her without written instructions or a telephone call to confirm. She knocked. She knocked again. Nothing happened. She couldn't hear any movement from inside. She tried the handle. It turned and the door opened. She slipped in and closed it very carefully. A quarter to two. She had lost precious time waiting for the nurse to leave.