18 : Zil

Driving was more difficult than I'd thought. The left arm worked all right with the sling off but I was still feeling the loss of blood and I got into three front-end skids over the snow before I reached the rendezvous because of partial blackouts. Within ten minutes of leaving the safe-house I passed seven militia patrol cars, one of which made a U-turn and followed me for five blocks before it peeled off, presumably in answer to a radio call. The whole environment was strictly a red sector because the number plates of the Pobeda weren't legible and traffic was so thin at this time of night that I was liable to get pulled up by the police just to relieve their boredom. The operation could blow at any given minute and Croder knew that but all he could do now was run the whole thing into the ground if he had to, because of the time factor: we didn't know when Schrenk was going in. The signal had specified a warehouse in Losinoostrovskaja ulica alongside the main rail line between Belokamennaja and Cerkizovo stations and I reached there at 3.21 and slid the Pobeda across the ruts into the shadow of the building and cut the engine and wound the window down and waited, checking for sound and movement. It wasn't likely to be a trap but if Schrenk picked up my trail he'd come for me himself instead of leaving it to Ignatov, I knew that. There was a train rolling somewhere, north and west of the warehouse, and its sound made a blanket for aural cues in the immediate vicinity and that was dangerous: I would have preferred to leave the car and get into more flexible cover but the contact had to show himself first and it was a safe principle so I stayed where I was, listening to the train and trying to pick up closer sounds. Something was changing in the visual pattern on the other side of the car and I watched it: a door along the wall of the warehouse was coming open. Someone was standing there but I did nothing until a torch was flashed on and off three times, one long and two short; then I got out of the car and walked across the snow with a trickle running through the spine because a night rdv is always risky: a signal can be intercepted and you can find yourself walking straight into an ambush. 'Midnight red.' I countersigned and he flashed the light briefly over my face and then his own, and I recognized Shortlidge. He led me into the warehouse and shut the door, then switched on the torch and swung the beam across piles of broken crates and sacking and loose timber until it focused on the black Zil limousine. 'OK?' 'Yes,' I said. 'Fill me in.' 'I was watching Area 1 and saw Ignatov's car come up. Two men got out and went into the apartment block - one of them could have been Ignatov but I'd only got your verbal description. One of them came out in about half an hour - not Ignatov, too young and too thin, a dark chap. We -' 'How was he walking?' 'Walking? Quite normally.' 'He wasn't crippled. Hobbling.' 'No.' 'All right, go on.' 'Two of us tagged him here and he stayed fifteen minutes and then left. Logan's still on the tag and we're reporting by radio. I was told to stay here and show you this lot.' I gazed across at the brilliantly-polished Zil. 'Did you see what he was doing in here?' 'No. He locked the door after him.' 'How did you get in, afterwards?' 'Picked the lock. It's a tumbler.' 'Did he bring anything with him?' 'Nothing too big for his pockets.' 'Take anything away?' 'Not that I saw. He wasn't carrying anything.' He was moving his feet up and down, his hands stuffed into his pockets. There was no heating on in this place and a freezing draught was blowing across the floor. The building was old and looked abandoned; above our heads there was a gap of light where the roof had started caving in under the weight of the snow, and the whole place creaked. Various smells were distinguishable: rotting timber, damp sacking, sour grain, petrol and rubber.