to you—is that it?”
What she saw in his hard, dark face seemed to frighten her.
She put the hack of her hand to her quivering mouth. “But I heard nothing.”
“Stay here,” he snapped.
He snapped off the light in the main room of the dacha . The dark swooped and folded in
around him. There was no sound from the bedroom. He held his breath and
listened. A dim throbbing of engines came from the river, but he heard nothing
more from outside.
He slipped out through the back door, a tall shadow mingling
with the shadows of the birch trees that stood slim and delicate and white
against the darkness of night. He stood fiat against the wall, waiting,
listening, looking.
The river glimmered under the cold moon. A bird rustled and
sounded sleepily in the piney brush. There was no repetition of the snapping
sound he had heard. It could have been an animal in the brush, or the snap of a
limb in the cold night air.
Or the breaking of a twig under a man’s boot.
The narrow road they had driven in upon was empty—what he
could see of it. Nothing stirred in the shadows of the trees and brush around
the wide- eaved house. He circled the place warily,
sliding from one pool of darkness to the next. He found nothing—nobody.
He waited five minutes, ten minutes.
At last he went back inside.
He did not turn on any of the lights as he walked to the
bedroom. Moonlight came through the narrow windows, shining on the huge bed.
Valya sat there, waiting for him. Her face was in the shadows.
“There was no one outside,“ he said. “I am sorry if I
frightened you."
“Yes, you did frighten me,” she said. Her voice was cool and
formal, and she spoke in Russian again. “You were a different man. All in a
moment, you changed. I had forgotten what you were and how you were. I think I
wanted to forget, that’s all. But I do not like you after all, I think.”
“Valya . . .”
“I am going to sleep. Where there is no trust, there can be
no love.”
He stood in the doorway, looking at her for a long moment
before he turned away and went to the couch in the other room. He stretched out
in the darkness with his eyes wide open, the gun on the floor beside him,
ready at hand. His anger persisted, and was a long time ebbing.
He got up once, cat-footed, and felt behind the ivory ikon
in its corner niche. The map Marshall had died for was still there.
He was not sure what hour it was when he finally fell
asleep.
Chapter Nine
DURELL awoke to sudden violence.
He heard the sound of the footfall while he was still almost
asleep, and his eyes were still closed when a hand was clasped hard over his
mouth. The hand smelled of coarse bread and machine oil and onions, and the
palm was horny and rough and strong. He was awake at once then, awake and
moving, at the first contact. All his first moves were pure reflex.
He jerked his head to the left, out from under the smothering hand, and at the
same moment he threw his body also to the left, off the couch where he had been
sleeping. He hit the floor hard, slammed against someone‘s legs, opened
his eyes, and lunged upward. It was gray dawn. The room was dim and shadowed.
Before his eyes he saw the outline of a black Russian boot, uplifted to stamp
down on his face. He rolled again desperately, drove his fist behind the
man’s knee, felt the man‘s legs fold and collapse, and the other’s weight
tumbled down upon him.
Valya screamed, a thin quickly muffled sound that was cut
off at once, as if by another hand over her mouth.
A fist rocked his head, a boot kicked at his stomach.
He came up, throwing the man's weight from him by main strength. There were two
men in the room, and another slighter figure by the open front door. Fog
moved in thin gray tendrils outside. A sharp command, reflecting
irritation, came from the slim figure in the doorway. A gun gleamed.
Durell drove at the first man’s thick, barrel-chested body, smashed at
the broad, startled face in the gloom, felt his
What she saw in his hard, dark face seemed to frighten her.
She put the hack of her hand to her quivering mouth. “But I heard nothing.”
“Stay here,” he snapped.
He snapped off the light in the main room of the dacha . The dark swooped and folded in
around him. There was no sound from the bedroom. He held his breath and
listened. A dim throbbing of engines came from the river, but he heard nothing
more from outside.
He slipped out through the back door, a tall shadow mingling
with the shadows of the birch trees that stood slim and delicate and white
against the darkness of night. He stood fiat against the wall, waiting,
listening, looking.
The river glimmered under the cold moon. A bird rustled and
sounded sleepily in the piney brush. There was no repetition of the snapping
sound he had heard. It could have been an animal in the brush, or the snap of a
limb in the cold night air.
Or the breaking of a twig under a man’s boot.
The narrow road they had driven in upon was empty—what he
could see of it. Nothing stirred in the shadows of the trees and brush around
the wide- eaved house. He circled the place warily,
sliding from one pool of darkness to the next. He found nothing—nobody.
He waited five minutes, ten minutes.
At last he went back inside.
He did not turn on any of the lights as he walked to the
bedroom. Moonlight came through the narrow windows, shining on the huge bed.
Valya sat there, waiting for him. Her face was in the shadows.
“There was no one outside,“ he said. “I am sorry if I
frightened you."
“Yes, you did frighten me,” she said. Her voice was cool and
formal, and she spoke in Russian again. “You were a different man. All in a
moment, you changed. I had forgotten what you were and how you were. I think I
wanted to forget, that’s all. But I do not like you after all, I think.”
“Valya . . .”
“I am going to sleep. Where there is no trust, there can be
no love.”
He stood in the doorway, looking at her for a long moment
before he turned away and went to the couch in the other room. He stretched out
in the darkness with his eyes wide open, the gun on the floor beside him,
ready at hand. His anger persisted, and was a long time ebbing.
He got up once, cat-footed, and felt behind the ivory ikon
in its corner niche. The map Marshall had died for was still there.
He was not sure what hour it was when he finally fell
asleep.
Chapter Nine
DURELL awoke to sudden violence.
He heard the sound of the footfall while he was still almost
asleep, and his eyes were still closed when a hand was clasped hard over his
mouth. The hand smelled of coarse bread and machine oil and onions, and the
palm was horny and rough and strong. He was awake at once then, awake and
moving, at the first contact. All his first moves were pure reflex.
He jerked his head to the left, out from under the smothering hand, and at the
same moment he threw his body also to the left, off the couch where he had been
sleeping. He hit the floor hard, slammed against someone‘s legs, opened
his eyes, and lunged upward. It was gray dawn. The room was dim and shadowed.
Before his eyes he saw the outline of a black Russian boot, uplifted to stamp
down on his face. He rolled again desperately, drove his fist behind the
man’s knee, felt the man‘s legs fold and collapse, and the other’s weight
tumbled down upon him.
Valya screamed, a thin quickly muffled sound that was cut
off at once, as if by another hand over her mouth.
A fist rocked his head, a boot kicked at his stomach.
He came up, throwing the man's weight from him by main strength. There were two
men in the room, and another slighter figure by the open front door. Fog
moved in thin gray tendrils outside. A sharp command, reflecting
irritation, came from the slim figure in the doorway. A gun gleamed.
Durell drove at the first man’s thick, barrel-chested body, smashed at
the broad, startled face in the gloom, felt his
Similar Books
