The Relic (28 page)

Nearly full circle. He drove up to the steps of the imposing building just as his father Alexei had done, to plead with Lepkin.

The Cross of St Vladimir would come back to Russia when Russia needed it most. To unify, not divide, as he had said. He dismissed his car and went inside. He had enough work to keep him in his office until late that evening. A lesser, personal matter came to mind.

Müller. What progress was he making with Brückner's widow about the Fabergé desk set? He dictated a short memo reminding him.

‘No,' Volkov protested. ‘I can't let you do that. It's too dangerous. We'll think of another way.'

‘There isn't one,' Lucy insisted. ‘If we fly you'll be stopped and you know what that means. Immigration is terribly strict with people coming from the Continent. We wouldn't get away with it on the ferry because all foot passengers have to produce their passports. If I had a Jersey-registered car, I'd chance it, but not otherwise. There's nothing to worry about—I've made the crossing dozens of times.'

‘With your father, not on your own,' he said. ‘No, Lucy. What happens if something does go wrong? If there's a storm?'

‘Darling,' she said gently. ‘You don't know the first thing about sailing or the sea. I've been handling a boat since I was a child. I'll make the crossing back in a few hours. All you've got to do is wait for me in St Malo. Daddy and I sailed over once or twice a month. I could do it blindfolded!'

They'd been arguing for most of the morning. She couldn't convince him that she was an experienced sailor and that the trip from St Catherine's Bay to St Malo was not a dangerous crossing which would put her life in jeopardy.

‘You'll see how easy it is when we sail back—I love the sea. There's nothing to be frightened of. Now let's go back to our hotel and have some lunch. This is supposed to be a holiday, so let's not spoil it by arguing.'

In the end he gave way, but he was unhappy and kept referring to it. Supposing the engine failed on the boat? It wouldn't, and anyway it had a sail, she explained patiently. What happened if she hit a rock and started to sink. Then she'd drown, she agreed, except there weren't any rocks in the English Channel, so would he please stop being silly about it.

The next morning, they set off again. Saying goodbye to the
propriétaire
, suddenly Lucy's mood clouded with the old fear so far kept at bay. She'd been too anxious and too busy making plans to feel afraid, but now the plans were made. As they drove the long miles past the lovely city of Chartres, towards Rennes, she felt increasingly uneasy. It was still very hot. Volkov was subdued; he couldn't come to terms with what she was going to do and it depressed him. They didn't talk much on the journey to St Malo.

The charming port was full of boats: sailing yachts, motor cruisers, ferry boats plying across to the Channel Islands. She made him walk along the quayside, pointing out the different types of craft, trying to reassure him.

‘That's like our boat,' she said, showing him a smart little single master. ‘She's lovely, so easy to handle. Now, let's find a
pension
where we can stay the night, and then I'll take you somewhere for a marvellous cheap dinner. The fish soup round here is wonderful.'

‘I'm not hungry,' he said. ‘I can't eat when I'm worried.'

‘You and my father,' she said. ‘You'd have got on so well. You're just as bad as he was. I said to him once, why do Russians cry when they're happy? And he said because we enjoy it more than laughing! Please trust me, darling. I know what I'm doing.'

He cheered up over dinner. He held her hand and admitted that he'd never even learned to swim, so naturally he thought the sea was dangerous. And she was right, the fish soup was delicious. He'd been ungrateful and ungracious, but then he loved her
so
much. They made love that night in the stuffy
pension
bedroom as if they were facing a long separation.

Lucy caught the early morning hydrofoil to St Hélier. She had given Volkov money and told him to buy shorts and a sweatshirt in one of the tourist shops, and to wait for her on the quayside. He could amuse himself walking round the town till about four o'clock. She expected to reach the harbour at about that time, given a smooth crossing. And it would be smooth. There wasn't a ruffle of breeze on the water.

She paid the
pension
before she left and posted the keys of the rented car back to the Geneva hire firm. They had left it in a public car park. He insisted on coming to see her off. At the last moment, when the sailing was announced, he tried again.

‘Why don't I come with you. I'm sure I could slip through.'

‘No,' Lucy said. ‘You promised last night, Dimitri. Go ashore.'

Reluctantly he left her. She saw him watching intently as the hydrofoil began to move out of the harbour.

It was a simple plan. She would go back home, pick up her boat at St Catherine, and sail over to St Malo. Volkov would sail back with her. Anyone seeing them on board together would assume that she'd gone out for a sail with a friend. Fleets of private craft cruised round the island and sailed across to Guernsey or Sark for a day out. Lucy was well known among the yachting enthusiasts. She could come and go without anybody suspecting anything.

At St Hélier she hurried to be among the first off; was waved through on a brief passport inspection and greeted by one customs officer who was a friend.

‘Hi, Lucy. Had a good holiday?'

‘Yes thanks, Bob.' She smiled at him.

‘Sorry to hear about your father,' he said. ‘I'll give you a call—maybe we could have dinner.'

‘That'd be nice,' she said and slipped away.

She took a taxi home. The island looked so welcoming and green, with its abundance of lush flowers and the immense hydrangea bushes that grew everywhere, nodding their pink heads like friends welcoming her back. I've missed it so much, she thought. Dear God, it's so wonderful to feel safe, not to look over my shoulder any more. Just let me get him here and we can shut the door on the outside world at St Catherine's tonight.

The watcher camped on the hill above the house saw movement and focused his binoculars. They honed in on the car arriving and the girl getting out, paying and unlocking her front door. The watcher carried a short-wave transmitter. He signalled across to his contact at Carteret on the French mainland. It was the closest shoreline to the island.

‘Target One has arrived. No sign of Target Two. Will report at 0300 hours.'

Lucy opened the windows to rid the ground floor of a faint musty smell. Dead flowers wilted in a stale vase. She threw them out. She went upstairs to her father's room and opened the shutters and the windows wide to let in the sunshine and the fresh sea air. Volkov would sleep there with her tonight.

She changed into shorts, shirt and a visored yachting cap, slipped rubber-soled plimsoles on her feet. She filled a Thermos with coffee and another with water, and took some food from the deepfreeze for their evening meal, leaving the dishes to defrost. The preparations had a calming influence; it was real to prepare supper, more real than taking a boat out to France and bringing back a fugitive Russian. I'm not afraid, she told herself. The trip is nothing. It's Volkov fussing and fretting over me that's made me nervous for the first time in my life at going out alone.

She packed the two Thermoses in a canvas bag, and looked round once more at the house where she had grown up and been so happy. Then she locked the door behind her and headed for the grassy slope which led to the shingle beach, with its outcrops of massive rocks and the cluster of small boats swinging gently at anchor by the jetty.

The watcher saw her ease the single-mast motor yacht out of its berth. The boat was engine-powered, its sail furled. It left a thin line of white foam as it headed out to sea. He ducked back inside his tent and sent another radio message.

It was a windless, sunny morning, without a ripple on the surface of the sea. A perfect day for motoring, giving her a good chance to reach her rendezvous at the time she had given Dimitri. Lucy had never sailed the sloop alone for any distance, but she knew the waters and, before setting out, she had determined a navigation plan to take account of wind, distances and landfall. She and her father had followed the routine so many times over the years. She felt confident. They were well equipped with IMRAY's folding charts, instruments giving water depth, speed and distance.

At mid-morning, the west and then south-easterly tides would help to carry them round the terrifying Minquier Plateau. At a steady speed and with favourable weather, she would reach St Malo by early evening, and slip in unnoticed, mingling with the flotilla of French and foreign boats returning for the night. No yellow Q flag would fly from the mast on this trip.

Lucy climbed down to the neat little cabin, opened the sea cock under the port quarter berth to pass cooling water through the engine, turned the battery isolator switch, returned to the cockpit, and pressed the starter button.

The engine was not really intended to make passage, but in the flat, calm water there was no choice. It was a tough little engine, and it would cruise at a steady six knots until a breeze picked up.

Lucy had decided to take the Violet Channel to round the south-east tip of Jersey, rock-strewn and hazardous. At last the Conchiere beacon was safely astern and she set her course.

It was a glorious day. She felt safe and confident in her boat, and no thought of danger occurred to her as the landmarks of the island blurred. The engine thumped away, and Lucy detected some catspaws' wind starting to shimmer across the water. An onshore breeze was coming up, drawn to the warming mass of the French mainland.

Lucy drank some coffee. Fortune, like the sun overhead, was shining on her. The hours passed, and she set a new southerly course for the St Malo approaches. She thought of Dimitri waiting. The mental picture made her smile. In so many ways he was an innocent, in spite of his intellectual brilliance. It made her love him even more. One day, she promised herself, I'll teach him to sail.

As she skirted the rocks there was a sudden change in the engine note. It began to cough and stutter.

‘Oh God,' she exclaimed, ‘Don't you dare die on me …'

But there were more coughs, a final wheeze, then nothing. Silence. Just the slip slap of wavelets on the hull. Not a whiff of breeze.

‘Get to know your engine,' her father had always insisted. ‘You can't rely on wind if anything goes wrong.' She cranked the engine on the starter. Nothing. It wasn't overheating; she'd checked the fuel before setting off. There was plenty in hand for the trip. ‘Stay calm,' she told herself. ‘Go down and see if you can find the fault.'

In the engine compartment her worst fear was proved right. Pinkish froth and air bubbles swirled in the glass bowl of the fuel filter.

There was a loose joint in the fuel line. Even if she bled the line and restarted the engine, it would die on her in a few minutes.

She climbed up to the cockpit, and immediately forgot about the engine. The east-flowing tide was dragging her towards the rocks, and on the horizon a low bank of thick sea fog was looming.

Whatever she did, this was no place to linger. Better to keep starting the engine and pray that it lasted long enough to take her near a saving breeze.

She bled the fuel system, started up, and the little sloop began to move. The rocks receded. The engine stopped again. She repeated the routine. A little progress, another half mile or so. Then a westerly wind came up across her starboard quarter.

‘Thank God, thank God,' Lucy prayed aloud.

As the engine spluttered into silence, once more, she managed to raise enough of the mainsail to swing the boat into the wind. She had to heave it to the top of the mast before a freshening gust laid her abeam. Lucy thought of Dimitri, waiting helplessly at St Malo, watching for her. She would find the strength to succeed. She pulled with all her strength, her heart bursting with the effort. But the main sheet had snagged and the boom couldn't run out freely. In desperation, Lucy tried to make fast the halyard round a cleat, but the rope slipped in her grasp and ran free. Her sharp cry was caught by the wind and swept away. The rope-to-wire slice ripped across her palms. Tears blinded her. But she
had
to get the mainsail up. At least high enough to make the halyard fast round a cleat.

Once more Lucy exerted all her strength, willing herself to ignore the agony in her hands. It was done. She swayed, sick with pain and shock.

Then she grabbed the tiller, held the boat head to wind and managed to unfurl the genoa, holding the boat motionless. She stumbled below to find antiseptic ointment and bandages for her hands. They were raw and bleeding. She was shaking as she dressed them awkwardly, wincing as the bandages made contact with the ruptured skin. Her right hand was the worst. She could only use the left with difficulty. Lucy found some pain killers and swallowed two, and then went back on deck.

Volkov had been pacing up and down the quayside since half-past four. He didn't know exactly what to look for; a single mast—a small boat. She'd promised to wave when she sailed in, as close to the rendezvous point as she could manage. Half a dozen times Volkov had started up at the sight of some small craft, thinking it must be hers.

But there was no familiar figure among those who sailed into the harbour and soon there were no boats arriving. She was three hours late. He sat on the damp jetty in his new shorts and the only sweatshirt he could find that didn't shriek St Malo across the chest in fluorescent colours. The smell of oil, sea water and refuse stung his nostrils. A skinny cat with hungry eyes stared hopefully at him from under a seat. He had nothing to give it. He felt sick.

His instincts had been correct. She hadn't made the crossing back. He stared out across the forest of masts, listening to the transistor music blaring across the water and the noise of people on board, laughing in the warm evening, drinking on deck, preparing to go ashore and eat.