The Relic (31 page)

Irina saw them through the french windows. They were slightly open to admit a light breeze; the sun was sinking and it was suddenly cooler.

She heard her husband say, ‘My darling, I want you to rest. I'll go and get us something to eat.'

And, for the first time, Lucy Warren, speaking in Russian. A melodious voice, a little deep. It would find a new pitch very soon, Irina promised.

‘I'll come with you. You don't know where things are kept.'

‘I'll find them. You sit down.'

‘Now!' she hissed at Remus.

He launched himself with the speed and lightness of a great predator. He was through the door and into the room before she could even start to follow. She saw Lucy Warren jump and heard the brief cry, choked at its source as Remus swept her to the ground. She lay dazed, without moving as Irina stepped into the room. Remus put a finger to his lips. They heard Volkov running from the kitchen.

The door was flung open and he shouted, ‘Lucy! What …' when Remus snapped the ridge of his right hand up and across, striking Volkov on the side of the neck. He collapsed, instantly unconscious as the blood supply from the carotid artery was halted by the blow. Remus left him there, while he hauled the girl onto the sofa.

Irina came close. He slipped a luggage strap out of his pocket. He buckled her arms tight to her sides, rolled his handkerchief in to a ball, then forced her mouth open, and thrust it inside.

‘She'll give no trouble,
Matiushka,
' he growled. ‘Now I'll fix him.'

Irina stood looking down at them. He'd used two straps to secure Volkov by the hands and feet and pushed him into an armchair facing the girl. She was lying where he'd thrown her, her eyes wide open, her mouth distorted by the crude gag. Irina turned away from her; one hand instinctively touching her head.

‘He's coming round,' she said.

Volkov was moving, wrestling with the straps. She saw his horrified expression and heard him gasp her name as he saw her.

‘Yes,' she said softly. ‘It's me. Look over there, Dimitri. My friend is going to amuse himself with your whore. Let her scream, Remus. Nobody can hear her.'

They were giving the girl a hard time. The watcher wondered what that old bastard was doing to her.

Volkov was begging. ‘Irina, stop him, stop him. Oh, Holy Christ!'

He writhed and jerked in helpless agony, when the man tore the bandages off Lucy's hands and gouged his fingers into the raw skin. The sobs of pain drove him to a frenzy. He was shouting, pleading with his wife. Irina didn't answer. She just watched. She heard him curse her, beg her, cry out in horror as Lucy's shirt was torn from her and his wife's lighter flickered into flame in the man's hand and hover before her breast.

‘Wait!' Irina commanded. She turned to Volkov. ‘Where's the cross, Dimitri?'

‘Don't … Don't tell them!' Lucy cried out.

She swung round, and snapped. ‘Shut her up! Tell me where you've hidden the cross,' she said. ‘Otherwise he'll burn off the nipple!'

Volkov didn't hesitate. He shouted, hoarse with anguish.

‘I'll get it! I'll give it to you. Tell him to leave her alone. Don't hurt her any more.'

‘You tell me and I'll get it,' Irina said.

He loved her. He loved her more than Irina imagined he could love anyone
. His cries of agony and pleading rang in her ears.

He said now, ‘You can't. You won't be able to work the mechanism. Send him with me.'

Irina shook her head. ‘Oh, no. You'd try something. I know you would. He stays with her and I wait here. Remus, I'm going to untie him. If he tries anything kill her.'

He took his hand away from Lucy's mouth, hooked his forearm under her chin.

‘You do what you're told,' he said to Volkov. ‘Or I'll break her neck.'

Irina unbuckled the belts. For a second she thought Volkov was going to lose control and throw himself at her. She saw him resist the temptation.
How much he must love that girl
.

‘If I give it to you, will you let Lucy go? I'll come back to Russia with you.'

She said coldly, ‘Bring me the cross or I'll tell him to burn her.'

He stumbled out. She took a cigarette from her bag, and snapped her fingers.

‘I'll have my lighter, Remus.' He handed it to her. ‘Don't choke the girl yet,' she said. ‘I want him to see it.'

Lucy closed her eyes. Her hands were on fire. His arm was like a band of iron on her throat. She didn't want to see the woman's face. It was a mask, the eyes glittering, in exultation at her victims' agony. Lucy's death was in those eyes. She shut them out and prayed for unconsciousness.

Volkov threw open the door to Yuri Warienski's study. He heaved the desk out of the way and threw the rug aside. He was trembling, blinded by helpless rage and fear for Lucy. He might plead, he might bargain, but it wouldn't save her. As soon as he handed over the Relic, he knew that they would both be killed. He stamped on the floor and the cavity opened.

Volkov forced himself to kneel, and lift out the wooden box. He had no thought or fear for himself. He looked desperately round the room. There must be something, something he could use. He wrenched open the desk drawers. Nothing. Then he saw it. It had fallen to the ground when he pushed the heavy desk aside.

A silver paper knife. A thin, sharp blade with a chased handle. He picked it up, felt the tip with his finger. With enough force it would penetrate a human body. Volkov stuck it in the waistband of his trousers, out of sight. He carried the box in both hands and walked back down the passage to the sitting room. He couldn't hear anything. Silence. One chance in a million. He was going to take it.

Irina drew on her cigarette. Her hand was steady. She felt calm and drained. There was no dilemma about Volkov now. No doubt, no hope left. He belonged to the other woman. He would die with her.

Remus said, ‘He's taking a long time,
Matiushka
. You want me to look for him?'

‘No,' Irina said. ‘He hasn't run away. He wouldn't leave her.'

As the door opened she turned slowly. She ground out her half-smoked cigarette on the carpet, and held out both hands when she saw the wooden box.

The point of the silver knife pricked Volkov's back.

‘Let her go, Irina,' he begged. ‘Don't punish her for what I've done.'

There was a smile on her lips. ‘The cross,' she said. ‘Give it to me.'

Volkov lifted the lid and plunged his hand inside. He brought the cross out into the light. It flashed red fire. He stepped close and put it into her outstretched hand. As she grasped it, he sprang at her. The cross fell to the ground. He had her arms pinned down and the knife point was aimed at her throat.

‘Tell him to untie her,' he said. He crushed her hard with his left arm. ‘Go on, tell him to let her go! Or by the Holy Christ I'll kill you.'

He was gripping the handle of the knife so hard his knuckles were bone white under the skin; she felt the muscles holding her go taut. He raised the knife to strike. His strength was manic; she could hardly get her breath. She opened her mouth and found strength of her own.

‘Kill her, Remus!'

But the arm had fallen away from Lucy's throat. Remus had left her. He was staring at the cross. Volkov held the knife suspended. The man bent down and picked it up.

‘My cross!' he said. ‘That's my cross!'

‘Remus,' Irina screamed at him. ‘You heard me. Kill her!'

He didn't move. He was staring at the Relic. ‘Gold and fucking jewels,' he said and a grin spread over his face. ‘I'll be rich!'

‘You'll be punished,' Irina hissed at him. ‘You'll go back to the Gulag. Do as you're ordered!'

He glanced at her. The little eyes were bloodshot and gleamed with cunning.

‘You made a dog out of me. You made me lick your feet. Now you want to steal my cross.' His voice rose to an infuriated roar. ‘You don't give me orders any more, you bitch! You're not stealing my cross!'

He lunged at her and Volkov dropped his knife. The man struck with lightning speed at Irina's windpipe. It shattered and she fell.

‘Not Remus!' the man cried. ‘Boris!'

The watcher heard the shouting. It was time for him to act. He came up to the windows at a run, his weapon at the ready.

Volkov rushed over to Lucy. He unfastened the straps and urged her to make a run for it.

But it was useless. She was in a state of shock, unable to move.

Boris stood in the middle of the room, Irina dead at his feet, holding the cross up to the light. He looked a them and smiled. It was a terrifying sight. He looked like a happy child.

‘I gave it to the kid. I gave it to Yuri. I thought they'd shoot me. But there was a bastard of an officer—he said, “Not this one—he's strong! We'll work him till he drops dead in his own shit.” But I fooled them, I didn't die.' He glared round him, and his voice rose in fury. ‘I did their dirty work. They scrambled my brains and I did what
she
told me …' he turned and kicked Irina's body.

‘They sent me to a stinking hole as a reward—no doctor, no medicine, just a stinking dusty hole. I saw my kids die. My woman cried … But now, I've got my cross back. My cross!' The rage died in him; he gurgled with laughter. ‘It's going to make me rich!'

The watcher took in the scene in seconds. The woman dead, the targets still alive, the goon gloating over something red and gold. He moved nearer.

Boris heard the sudden movement, and sensed an attacker.

The burst of close range shots caught him in the chest. He spun and staggered under the impact. The cross slipped out of his hand. He gave a terrible roar of rage and anguish. With a burst of superhuman strength he threw himself on the watcher before he could fire again. His hands found the man's throat and locked around it in his death throes.

The two men crashed to the ground. Boris lay, a dead weight, upon the watcher's body.

He had managed to break his neck before he died.

There was no report of any crime. The network in France had no information for Moscow. Since the last radio message to Carteret, Jersey had gone silent. The Warren house was closed up. Volkov and Lucy had disappeared. So had Irina's team.

Leon Gusev was very nervous. He didn't sleep. His work suffered. He considered himself a ruined man for having agreed to Rakovsky's plan. Now it seemed as insane as it appeared brilliant at the time. He fretted and wondered whether he might help his case by confessing his part in the failure before he was actually arrested. It meant denouncing Viktor, but even so—Viktor understood his feelings.

Viktor sent for him three days before the Makoff Galleries private view. He offered him whisky. Gusev refused it. He didn't have to pander to him now. Besides he hated the taste of the stuff. Viktor had been drinking a lot of it lately.

‘Well, Leon, you'll be out of your misery soon.'

‘How?' Gusev asked him.

‘The reception is on Thursday. If Volkov's going to make an entrance, that's where he'll do it. Our embassy has a man in place there. On the catering staff.'

He actually laughed. Gusev felt his stomach heave.

‘Volkov will come out of hiding,' Viktor went on. ‘He'll appear among the faithful like Jesus, walking through the walls into the upper room—with the Holy Relic to prove he's risen from the dead.'

He finished his drink.

‘With the connivance of the British, of course. They must have been waiting for us in Jersey. My guess is our three are dead. They wouldn't have been taken alive.'

Gusev saw a faint hope.

He said, ‘The British will not want to foment trouble for us. They may be holding him so he can't come out in to the open. They don't want to see bloody revolution here!'

‘We've already sounded them out.' Viktor retorted.

Gusev looked up frowning.

‘I didn't know.'

‘I reported the whole business as soon as it went wrong,' Viktor said calmly. ‘Before you had a chance to make up your mind to do it. We're not living in the old days. We wouldn't be shot or sent to the Arctic circle. Just retired and disgraced for failing in our duty. You can be honest with our President. So whatever happens, we're prepared. No, the British didn't respond. If they wanted to avoid trouble for us, he could have been quietly deported. They said nothing. They knew nothing. Which means they have him. He's in England and by Thursday he'll be in London. Don't worry, Leon. I emphasized your resistance to the plan. You won't get promoted, but you won't be posted to Armenia either.'

He stood up. ‘What worries me is how did the British know? Our security was absolute.'

‘Müller?' Leon Gusev suggested.

‘No,' Viktor dismissed it. ‘He only knew Volkov had left Switzerland. How could he know about Jersey?'

‘He knew about St Vladimir's Cross,' Gusev pointed out. ‘If he tipped off the British, they'd expect Volkov and Warren to end up there to collect it.'

Rakovsky sat down again, and stared at the brightly polished toe cap of his shoe. He was a fastidious dresser.

‘You think he's turned double?'

‘You've run him for years. You know him. Do you think it's possible?'

‘In the beginning he worked for a political ideal,' Viktor said slowly. ‘But for a long time I've felt he was working for money. He's greedy. I think you could be right, Leon. We'll look into it. He has one little job left to do for me. After that …'

He gave Gusev a cold smile. ‘I'll find a way to retire him.'

He had introduced himself as Ian Freemantle. He was representing the Foreign Office. His companion, James Harper, was from the Home Office. The head of the Jersey police force brought them in his car.

Volkov saw them come up the steps of the old manor house, two tall men in lightweight suits, with briefcases in their hands. He recognized officialdom at a high level.