14 : Deadlock

He looked up at me from the driving-seat. 'Oh,' he said, 'it's you.' I'd gone across to his car quite quickly, to stop him driving away. He watched me steadily for a moment, his pale eyes narrowed and his small gnome's head slightly on one side. Even sitting down his body was twisted, with the left shoulder held low and noticeably still. He was trying to think what it would be best to do, and I couldn't have helped him even if I'd wanted to. I'd only just got here in time: I think he'd panicked suddenly while he was waiting for us to arrive, and decided to get out in case Ignatov brought someone with him: an example of the type of intuition we develop in the field as a natural aid to survival. But he couldn't just drive off, now that he'd seen me. There was a question of pride involved. The most he could do would be to pretend he was just popping out for some cigarettes; but he didn't bother. We both knew the position. 'What about a little drinkie?' he said with a sudden lopsided smile. 'All right.' I stepped back to let him get out of the car. He did it clumsily, though he tried not to let anything show, and I looked away in time to save him embarrassment. Perhaps this was why Ignatov had been impressed by my talk of a wheelchair: he'd seen what it looked like to be half crippled. Dr Steinberg hadn't told me his patient was as bad as this: he'd just said he 'tended to hobble'. He slammed the door of his car. 'Is that Ignatov you've got over there?' 'Yes. I'll go and get him.' Schrenk peered across at the humped shape in the Syrena. 'Got him trussed up, have you?' He gave a dry snigger. 'Leave him there, he'll be all right.' Oh no you don't. 'He'll get bored out here,' I said, 'with no one to talk to.' I went back to the Syrena and got out my pocket knife and cut through the scarf: the knots were there for life. I said quietly to Ignatov: 'Don't do anything silly, will you? Remember you want to see the children again, and Galya.' 'Yes. I understand.' He shook the stiffness out of his legs and came with me towards the building. 'Evening, Pyotr,' Schrenk said in Russian. 'Where did you find our friend?' Another dry little laugh, totally without humour. Ignatov said nothing, but stared at the ground as the three of us walked across the rutted snow. Schrenk slipped a couple of times and I remembered I mustn't help him, even if he actually fell. I knew him that well. Other things were coming back to me in flashes of memory: a plastic chess set on the corner table of the Caff, where he used to challenge people, waiting there like a spider; a girl with black hair and smoky eyes and an intimate way of laughing, seaweed draped over one naked shoulder on the beach at Brighton; a black Jensen Interceptor with an anti-radar unit, deafening jazz records, an ashtray made out of a piston and stuffed with butts, and the way his fingers moved over the bomb that time, stroking it like a baby rabbit. Shapiro. Schrenk. Signal Bracken. I have the objective. Not yet. We went slowly over the snow. I could feel Ignatov's concern that Schrenk might slip and lose his balance and break an arm: he kept close to him, his head turned, looking down. I could also feel Ignatov's awareness that he mustn't help him, if he fell: he had tried to help him before, and been told never to do that, never to do it again. I felt these infinitesimal vibrations flowing between us and carrying their intelligence. Things were sensitive tonight. I felt Schrenk's rage. 'How's London?' We always ask that. 'Dockers on strike,' I told him. He laughed again, whinnying softly. Perhaps when people laughed to cover panic or fright or rage the sound was in some way inhibited, leaving nothing to show but a rictus. 'Good old London,' he said, and led us to the heavy metal door in the middle of the building.