The Relic (22 page)

‘We're learning the rules,' Lucy had said, before they set out. But there were some rules he knew better than she ever would. And he hadn't forgotten them.

He might have forgotten about needing a visa because he'd developed the prisoner mentality, so common among people who were never permitted to travel. You didn't know what you would never need to know. But he remembered very clearly what it felt like to be followed. They'd followed him for years when he was politically active.

He looked up at the mirror once more and saw the car behind him, keeping the same distance, the rain spurting fanwise from its front wheels. For a moment the old fear ran through him, the fear associated with that word of infinite menace.
They
.

He'd been allowed to cross the border. Was there another car ahead, waiting to pull out and sandwich them with the Peugeot coming up behind? He knew the technique. A half-empty road, a forced halt. A quick struggle and it was over.

He had to make absolutely sure, but he didn't want to alarm Lucy.

He said, ‘I'm going to pull in at the next layby. I want to check the rear tyre.'

He stopped the car, but left the temperamental engine idling. Lucy had told him about her desperate moment when the car refused to start outside the clinic. There was nothing wrong with any of the tyres. He walked round the back of the car and busied himself with the boot. The Peugeot drove past. He waited, seeing it well out of sight down the straight road. A few more cars sped by. He climbed back in.

Lucy said, ‘Everything all right? Oh, darling, you're soaked. Here, take your jacket off.'

Ten minutes later they passed the Peugeot. Within fifteen minutes he spotted it again in his rearview mirror, lurking behind a large French container lorry. He laid a hand on Lucy's knee and said,

‘We're being followed.'

He heard her gasp. ‘I stopped to make sure. They passed us, waited for us to catch them up and they're behind us again.'

‘Who is it? Oh, Volkov. Is it the police?'

‘Not the police, no. We'd have been stopped long ago. There's a turn-off two miles further on. Sit tight. I'm going to lose them.'

He swung off the main road without signalling. The road ahead was narrow; a signpost flashed past them, too quickly for Lucy to read it. Behind them, the Peugeot veered into view, skidding slightly on the wet road.

A right-hand fork appeared suddenly; Volkov took it, the Renault's tyres screeching. A rapid gear change gave them speed on the corner and he sat bent over the wheel, concentrating fiercely on the road through the sheets of rain.

‘For God's sake,' Lucy muttered.

‘Shut your eyes if you're scared.'

She was clinging to the seat with both hands. A hill loomed ahead of them. They went up and down as if they were on a roller-coaster. An isolated house was on their right, guarded by dark gloomy barns. Without any warning, Volkov braked so hard she was thrown forward against her seatbelt.

‘Sorry, darling,' he said. ‘I only just saw it.'

It was a farm track, little more than a rough pathway across the fields. They bumped over the potholes and stones and then Volkov reversed the car, facing the way they'd come.

‘We'll see them from here,' he said. ‘They won't see us, it's nearly dark.'

She managed a shaky laugh. ‘You didn't tell me you were a racing driver!'

He slipped his arm round her. ‘I used to enjoy playing the fool in a car when I was young,' he said. ‘Country roads like this, no traffic. It was an old car, but I had a friend who worked in an engineering factory and he fiddled with it till it could go quite fast. We saved up for it together. He hit a tree and that was the end of the car. He wasn't hurt, but I was a fully fledged professor before I could afford another. We've lost them. Nothing's passed.'

‘If it wasn't the police, who were they?' Lucy asked.

‘I assumed it was a KGB trap,' Volkov admitted. ‘One following, one ahead. But they didn't know I was leaving. How could they? I don't think I would have got away from the KGB so easily. I don't know who it was, but I know we were being tailed. But now, we get back on the road. Let me look at the map and see where we go to rejoin the main road to the auto-route. Do you mind driving through the night?'

‘I don't mind anything so long as we're safe,' she said. ‘When you're tired, I can take over.'

They reached the auto-route du Soleil and settled down to a steady ninety kilometres an hour. The little car had served them well, despite its temperamental starting mechanism, and he didn't want to stress the engine. Lucy slept after the first few hours, and woke with a start from a nightmare where she was being chased and her feet were weighed down with heavy, heavy shoes.

Volkov stopped at an all-night café. ‘We can stretch our legs and have some coffee and something to eat, but we'd better keep going,' he said. ‘Of course, I haven't any money. I'm so hopeless you should have left me behind!'

‘I needed a driver,' she said, and managed to smile at him. ‘I can change some Swiss francs.'

The coffee was strong and they were both hungry. It was self-service, presided over by a bored cashier. Three other late-night drivers were eating sandwiches and drinking beer. They glanced up without much interest at the couple who came in. Their lorries were parked outside.

Lucy paid for the coffee and the rolls full of ham and cheese. The cashier grumbled about changing Swiss money, but made a calculation that was to his advantage on the rate.

‘I can drive,' she offered. She still looked pale, with deep shadows under her eyes.

Volkov shook his head. ‘You sleep tonight and drive tomorrow. It's auto-route all the way to Paris. Now settle down and go to sleep. But kiss me first.'

She put her arms up and held him close to her. He kissed her slowly, with great tenderness, gently exploring her mouth.

‘You're a wonderful girl, Lucy. You know that was a brand new passport? Issued from the Embassy. You know what you saved me from by that crazy thing you did today? They were going to take me back to Russia.'

She broke away and stared at him. ‘They couldn't. You wouldn't have gone!'

‘I wouldn't have had any choice,' he said slowly. ‘They'd have left it to Irina to arrange that.' He silenced her with another kiss, and gathered her to him.

‘Now put your head back and shut your eyes. No more excitement for tonight. I'll wake you and we'll stop somewhere for breakfast. Now sleep, my darling.'

Slowly Irina reached up and touched her head; the windows were shaded and the room was in semi-darkness. The headache was thunderous. She felt nauseous. There was a dressing over a large lump; when her fingertips made contact she winced. Gradually her eyes became accustomed to the dim light and to her surroundings. She was in bed in a private room in the clinic. In spite of the pounding in her head she tried to concentrate. The day before was a blur; it had been a complete blank. Concussion, she diagnosed. I've been concussed. I still am, that's why there's no light to hurt my eyes. I've had an accident. Hit my head. There should be a bell within reach to summon a nurse. With her other hand she groped and found the switch. She pressed. An accident. A fall. No, not a fall. The sudden movement as she started to remember caused an agonizing throb of pain and she froze. The door opened and a nurse came in to view.

‘Doctor?'

Irina focused on her; her sight was clear now.

‘I need painkillers,' she said. ‘What happened to me?'

‘Do you remember anything? Doctor Rodier said you weren't to try too hard, just let it come by itself.'

‘I know how to treat concussion.' Irina croaked at her. She couldn't raise her voice. ‘Just tell me what happened.'

The nurse hesitated. ‘You were attacked,' she said at last. ‘Someone broke into your office. They struck you on the head and left you locked inside. You don't remember any of it? I'll call Doctor Rodier.'

The nurse hurried out. She didn't want the responsibility. X-rays showed there was no serious damage to the skull, but Dr Volkov had remained unconscious for some time after the door had been finally broken down.

Attacked.
Yes
, Irina whispered inwardly.
Yes, that's what happened. A woman. A woman stealing from my desk
… Unconsciously one hand became a claw reaching for the other's throat.

The image came and went, but it was sharper, the fuzz was clearing round the edges. Blonde hair in the sunlit shaft coming through the blind. That's how she knew it wasn't Vera.

Vera who? Vera her secretary. She was struggling to reach the bell under her desk top. They were grappling, and she'd got her hand on the woman's windpipe, holding her off, squeezing.

Then nothing. Blackness, blankness.

‘Good morning, Irina. How are you feeling?'

She opened her eyes and saw Rodier standing by the bed with the nurse hovering behind him.

‘Terrible, thank you. How bad is it?'

‘Not too bad. How's the memory?'

‘I can remember finding a woman in my office. We struggled, then nothing.'

‘She hit you with the cigarette box,' he explained. ‘Very hard; I was worried about a hairline fracture, but luckily it was just a bad lump. We kept you sedated and put you to bed here. Can you describe the person who did it? We have a vague description, but if you saw her close up and could tell us, it would help the police. But only if it comes easily. You know you mustn't strain to remember.'

‘I know,' she muttered. ‘She was blonde, quite young. Thin, not heavy. She didn't speak. The blinds were partly drawn. It all happened so quickly.' And she had opened my locked drawer where I keep my private papers, but I'm not going to mention that. ‘Was anything stolen?' she asked.

‘Nothing that we know of,' the doctor answered. ‘Your secretary checked and everything was there. Your passport, some money, a diary.'

Passport. The word danced behind her closed eyelids. Her passport. No, that wasn't taken. Why did passport mean something when it hadn't been stolen? The headache seemed to split her skull.

‘You husband telephoned,' she heard the doctor say. ‘He was very concerned. He said he was coming over.'

‘I don't remember,' Irina said.

‘He didn't show up,' the doctor said. ‘We telephoned your apartment, but there was no reply. We thought he'd call in again or come over. I tried myself this morning, in case you were fit enough to go home, but still no answer.'

‘He's drunk,' Irina mumbled. ‘He'll be sleeping it off somewhere.'

‘I'm sorry,' the young man said. ‘I didn't know.'

‘A shock would start him off,' she said, more to herself than to him. ‘I knew it wouldn't be long before he went back to it. If only I could get some relief from this headache …'

‘Nurse has got something for you. Sleep for a couple of hours and then see how you feel. You won't be going home, Irina, especially if your husband's not able to look after you. Just relax, take the tablets and don't worry. I'll come back and see you this afternoon.'

She managed to swallow the pills with sips of water. The nurse smoothed the bedcovers. Irina could have screamed at her to go away and stop fiddling, but it hurt even to whisper. Passport. The word was running through her consciousness like a tune without a title. Her passport. No, not hers. And then the answer came to her. It came as the drug took control and she began to slide away.

Ten minutes later the nurse checked on her. She was in a deep sleep. The hand reaching out for the bell had fallen slackly over the edge of the bed.

It was late afternoon and the nurse had gone off duty. When the bell rang again the new nursing sister hurried to answer it. She found Irina Volkova sitting up in bed, the bell switch gripped hard between her fingers.

‘Have you seen the papers?'

‘No,' Peter Müller said. ‘I came straight from the shop. Why?'

Eloise Brückner handed him the Munich
Zeitung
, open at the second page. It was a small paragraph.

‘That woman was attacked,' she said. ‘Knocked out by someone who broke in to her office.'

‘What woman?' he asked. He wasn't really interested. He was aware only of Eloise sitting next to him, with her legs crossed at the knee, one delicate ankle encircled by a thin gold chain. He couldn't stop glancing at it, and the foot in its black silk court shoe with the very high heel, swinging to and fro, making the erotic little chain glint.

‘That doctor who treated Adolph,' Eloise said impatiently. Müller stopped thinking about the foot, the ankle, the long leg and what lay hidden out of sight under her skirt.

‘Doctor Volkov?'

‘Yes,' she said. There was triumph in her voice. ‘Here, read it.'

He took the evening newspaper and skimmed quickly through the story. A woman intruder. That was unlikely. The doctor was knocked unconscious during a struggle. Even more suspicious.

People like Irina were trained to deal swiftly with a violent patient.

‘Who could have done it?' he wondered.

‘Perhaps one of her patients came back to give her a taste of her own vicious medicine,' Eloise snapped.

She had developed an implacable hatred for Adolph's doctor. Irina was judged and found guilty before she was tried, Müller thought. He was surprised by the depth of Eloise's vindictiveness. And excited by it, too. He titillated himself with thoughts of her applying that cruelty to him. He'd never tried that variation before. He had always dominated in bed, as he intended to dominate her. But a role reversal might be interesting to start off with.

He shrugged and passed the newspaper back. It sounded as if Irina was setting herself up for the planned return to Moscow, ahead of the Brückner lawyers. For medical treatment after the assault. It was an old ruse, but useful.