are your instructions," announced the blind man. "You are to lock up this room and forget about the corpse for another two hours. Then you will note in your call book that the janitor has just informed you of the presence, in his supply room, of a dead man. You will investigate immediately. You will issue a report saying that he was strangled with a length of potter's wire, and you suspect he was part of a ring of smugglers that had a falling-out. Only that."
The local MVD man saluted the blind man and left the room.
The stench was becoming overpowering. The blind man found the door with his baton and ducked through it. The younger Cousin and Oskar followed him out.
Oskar quietly told the Cousins, "The Potter identified the victim as the flaps-and-seals man from the sleeper school. He was apparently booked on the Vienna flight, recognized Turov and became suspicious."
"No matter how meticulously you plan an operation," the younger Cousin said philosophically, "you can't foresee everything."
"It is precisely our business to foresee everything," the blind man snapped in irritation. His baton beat out an angry rhythm against a radiator. One year of planning had almost been ruined by a coincidence.
"Still, this may work for us in the end," he said. He turned toward the younger Cousin. "I want you to make sure word of the crime appears in Pravda. Bury it in the middle of a story on the airport police so it won't be too conspicuous-a passing reference to a body found strangled yesterday in a storage room. Mention the only clue-a length of potter's wire." The blind man turned away and stared off into space with his sightless eyes. Revenge, the peasants said, was a dish that tasted better cold. He had waited long enough, and plotted care-hilly enough, and he would have his meal, "The fact that the Potter murdered a man in order to get out of the country," the blind man mused out loud, "will be useful to us when the time comes to go public."
Under the silver wing, the high Carpathians gradually flattened into rolling bolthills. The plane banked and then levelled out over a vast plain. A meandering river came into view. The Potter pressed his cheek to the inner window; there had been moments right after the takeoff when its coolness against his skin had been the only thing that kept him sane. "That must be the Danube, he muttered.
Svetochka free-associated. "The waltz," she said in an awed voice.
"The river," the Potter corrected her.
The plane banked again, manoeuvring into its landing pattern. Vienna tilted into the frame of the oval window like a lopsided photograph.
Every time the plane banked, it slid back into view, nearer, more distinct: cathedral spires, university towers, Hapsburg palaces, the famous Rathaus; a potpourri of styles (neo-Gothic, Italian Renaissance, modern Gothic, Greek); and one or two prominent buildings that Piotr Borisovich, who always averted his eyes when he passed any of Moscow's seven grotesque Stalin Gothics, would have laughingly referred to as neoridiculous.
Svetochka drank it all in over the Potter's shoulder- the terminal, its roof garden with people waving happily, the planes with exotic markings parked along the tarmac-as they touched down, taxied and then braked to a stop. Her eyes were misty with emotion, and she blew her nose noisily into a handkerchief that she plucked from the Potter's jacket pocket.
"What happens when we get off the plane?" she whispered.
"What happens when you go into the sea?" he replied cryptically. "You get wet."
Svetochka tossed her head in exasperation. "Will we be met is what Svetochka wants to know."
"We will be met," said the Potter, who knew the mechanics of things like this the way a watchmaker knows the inside of a timepiece, "by someone who will invite us to pay for our passage."
Sensing a storm building up in him, Svetochka nestled close and said very softly, "Svetochka is very glad to be here. Soon she will show you how glad she is.
The sun
The local MVD man saluted the blind man and left the room.
The stench was becoming overpowering. The blind man found the door with his baton and ducked through it. The younger Cousin and Oskar followed him out.
Oskar quietly told the Cousins, "The Potter identified the victim as the flaps-and-seals man from the sleeper school. He was apparently booked on the Vienna flight, recognized Turov and became suspicious."
"No matter how meticulously you plan an operation," the younger Cousin said philosophically, "you can't foresee everything."
"It is precisely our business to foresee everything," the blind man snapped in irritation. His baton beat out an angry rhythm against a radiator. One year of planning had almost been ruined by a coincidence.
"Still, this may work for us in the end," he said. He turned toward the younger Cousin. "I want you to make sure word of the crime appears in Pravda. Bury it in the middle of a story on the airport police so it won't be too conspicuous-a passing reference to a body found strangled yesterday in a storage room. Mention the only clue-a length of potter's wire." The blind man turned away and stared off into space with his sightless eyes. Revenge, the peasants said, was a dish that tasted better cold. He had waited long enough, and plotted care-hilly enough, and he would have his meal, "The fact that the Potter murdered a man in order to get out of the country," the blind man mused out loud, "will be useful to us when the time comes to go public."
Under the silver wing, the high Carpathians gradually flattened into rolling bolthills. The plane banked and then levelled out over a vast plain. A meandering river came into view. The Potter pressed his cheek to the inner window; there had been moments right after the takeoff when its coolness against his skin had been the only thing that kept him sane. "That must be the Danube, he muttered.
Svetochka free-associated. "The waltz," she said in an awed voice.
"The river," the Potter corrected her.
The plane banked again, manoeuvring into its landing pattern. Vienna tilted into the frame of the oval window like a lopsided photograph.
Every time the plane banked, it slid back into view, nearer, more distinct: cathedral spires, university towers, Hapsburg palaces, the famous Rathaus; a potpourri of styles (neo-Gothic, Italian Renaissance, modern Gothic, Greek); and one or two prominent buildings that Piotr Borisovich, who always averted his eyes when he passed any of Moscow's seven grotesque Stalin Gothics, would have laughingly referred to as neoridiculous.
Svetochka drank it all in over the Potter's shoulder- the terminal, its roof garden with people waving happily, the planes with exotic markings parked along the tarmac-as they touched down, taxied and then braked to a stop. Her eyes were misty with emotion, and she blew her nose noisily into a handkerchief that she plucked from the Potter's jacket pocket.
"What happens when we get off the plane?" she whispered.
"What happens when you go into the sea?" he replied cryptically. "You get wet."
Svetochka tossed her head in exasperation. "Will we be met is what Svetochka wants to know."
"We will be met," said the Potter, who knew the mechanics of things like this the way a watchmaker knows the inside of a timepiece, "by someone who will invite us to pay for our passage."
Sensing a storm building up in him, Svetochka nestled close and said very softly, "Svetochka is very glad to be here. Soon she will show you how glad she is.
The sun
Similar Books
