bit, then sitting in the kitchen, to where he had moved back the table and hotplate from the veranda.
Unable, finally, to endure it any more, and telling Sonya not to go out, he went and rang the Chief from the public phone.
It was the secretary who answered.
“Can I speak to Igor Lvovich?”
“I’ll take it, Tanya,” intervened the familiar voice. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Viktor. Can I come back yet?”
“Didn’t know you’d gone away,” said the Chief, feigning surprise. “Of course. Everything’s fine. Come and see me as soon as you can. Got something to show you.”
Viktor then rang Sergey asking him to pick them up as soon as possible.
Walking back to the dacha, he was in a happier frame of mind. At last New Year had an aura of holiday about it, albeit of a holiday now past. Again, the crunch of snow, but now it was a cheerful sound. Looking about him, he took in what so far he had not noticed: the sculptural beauty of winter trees, of bullfinches wandering over snow covered with tracks of cat, or dog. And from forgotten depths surfaced a memory of natural history lessons at which, long, long ago, they had learnt to identify animal prints; and of text-book illustrations –
Tracks of the hare … Hopping … Bounding
… And out of the past, the voice of his first lady teacher: “The hare, when fleeing pursuit, bounds!”
39
Leaving the shopping bag with gun and bundle of dollars on top of the wardrobe, and Sonya at home with Misha, Viktor set off for the editorial office.
Smiling smugly, the Chief sat him in an armchair, produced coffee, asked about the New Year festivities, blatantly putting off any mention of business. When, after coffee, a pause ensued which it would clearly have been foolish to fill with idle conversation, he produced a large envelope from his desk drawer.Keeping his eyes fixed on Viktor, he drew out several photographs and passed them over.
“Take a look. You may know them.”
The photos showed two well-dressed corpses. Young men of 25 or so lying on the floor of someone’s flat, tidily and obediently supine – no outflung arms, splayed legs or faces distorted by fear or agony. Their faces were calm, indifferent.
“Don’t recognize them?”
“No,” said Viktor.
“You were their target … Here’s a memento!” He passed over two more photos.
Viktor saw himself at the little table in the café beneath the Kharkov Opera House; and in the street, also in Kharkov.
“Modest lads,” said the Chief, “only one silencer between them … Anyway, they didn’t get to you. But the negatives are still somewhere in Kharkov … I don’t think they’ll send anyone else, but watch it.”
Finally, he handed Viktor a batch of fresh
obelisk
material.
“So, quietly back to work,” he said, patting Viktor on the shoulder and seeing him out.
40
In January winter was lazy to the extent of making do with December’s snow which, thanks to continuing frost, still blanketed the earth. Shop windows still had their New Year decorations, but the festive spirit had waned, leaving folk alone with the old routine and the future. Viktor was processing hisnext batch of files. He now received all documents direct from the Chief, Fyodor having retired before the New Year break.
The
obelisk
index was growing steadily. These latest files were on directors of major factories and chairmen of joint-stock companies. Almost all were charged with the theft of funds and their transfer to Western banks. Some were dealing in banned raw materials, others contriving to barter off plant abroad. Facts were legion, but mercifully not all were underlined in the Chief’s red pencil. Viktor’s task was not easy. He either ran short of philosophy, or lacked inspiration, as each
obelisk
now involved tense hours at the typewriter. And though, in the end, he was pleased with the result, fatigue weighed heavily upon him, leaving little energy to spare for Sonya or the penguin. So it was as well
Unable, finally, to endure it any more, and telling Sonya not to go out, he went and rang the Chief from the public phone.
It was the secretary who answered.
“Can I speak to Igor Lvovich?”
“I’ll take it, Tanya,” intervened the familiar voice. “Yes?”
“It’s me, Viktor. Can I come back yet?”
“Didn’t know you’d gone away,” said the Chief, feigning surprise. “Of course. Everything’s fine. Come and see me as soon as you can. Got something to show you.”
Viktor then rang Sergey asking him to pick them up as soon as possible.
Walking back to the dacha, he was in a happier frame of mind. At last New Year had an aura of holiday about it, albeit of a holiday now past. Again, the crunch of snow, but now it was a cheerful sound. Looking about him, he took in what so far he had not noticed: the sculptural beauty of winter trees, of bullfinches wandering over snow covered with tracks of cat, or dog. And from forgotten depths surfaced a memory of natural history lessons at which, long, long ago, they had learnt to identify animal prints; and of text-book illustrations –
Tracks of the hare … Hopping … Bounding
… And out of the past, the voice of his first lady teacher: “The hare, when fleeing pursuit, bounds!”
39
Leaving the shopping bag with gun and bundle of dollars on top of the wardrobe, and Sonya at home with Misha, Viktor set off for the editorial office.
Smiling smugly, the Chief sat him in an armchair, produced coffee, asked about the New Year festivities, blatantly putting off any mention of business. When, after coffee, a pause ensued which it would clearly have been foolish to fill with idle conversation, he produced a large envelope from his desk drawer.Keeping his eyes fixed on Viktor, he drew out several photographs and passed them over.
“Take a look. You may know them.”
The photos showed two well-dressed corpses. Young men of 25 or so lying on the floor of someone’s flat, tidily and obediently supine – no outflung arms, splayed legs or faces distorted by fear or agony. Their faces were calm, indifferent.
“Don’t recognize them?”
“No,” said Viktor.
“You were their target … Here’s a memento!” He passed over two more photos.
Viktor saw himself at the little table in the café beneath the Kharkov Opera House; and in the street, also in Kharkov.
“Modest lads,” said the Chief, “only one silencer between them … Anyway, they didn’t get to you. But the negatives are still somewhere in Kharkov … I don’t think they’ll send anyone else, but watch it.”
Finally, he handed Viktor a batch of fresh
obelisk
material.
“So, quietly back to work,” he said, patting Viktor on the shoulder and seeing him out.
40
In January winter was lazy to the extent of making do with December’s snow which, thanks to continuing frost, still blanketed the earth. Shop windows still had their New Year decorations, but the festive spirit had waned, leaving folk alone with the old routine and the future. Viktor was processing hisnext batch of files. He now received all documents direct from the Chief, Fyodor having retired before the New Year break.
The
obelisk
index was growing steadily. These latest files were on directors of major factories and chairmen of joint-stock companies. Almost all were charged with the theft of funds and their transfer to Western banks. Some were dealing in banned raw materials, others contriving to barter off plant abroad. Facts were legion, but mercifully not all were underlined in the Chief’s red pencil. Viktor’s task was not easy. He either ran short of philosophy, or lacked inspiration, as each
obelisk
now involved tense hours at the typewriter. And though, in the end, he was pleased with the result, fatigue weighed heavily upon him, leaving little energy to spare for Sonya or the penguin. So it was as well
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