Jack Grimwood - Moskva

‘You’ve got it.’

Keeping to the side where the snow was thinnest, the wind having banked most of it against the garden’s other wall, Alex limped for the doorway, moving so unsteadily that Tom had to fight the urge to go after her to help.

He’d be the target though.

No point in drawing down fire.

She made it and he closed the gap between them in seconds, moving Alex and himself further into the arch to hide them from sight. Kyukov’s Jeep stood a hundred paces away, alone on open ground and visible from all directions.

‘I’ll hotwire it,’ Tom said.

Crouching low, he looped round to its far side, doing his best to stay hidden. His heart sank when he saw footprints. He wanted to drive Alex out of there and keep going. They were 500 miles from Moscow and without papers. The closer he could get to the capital, the greater his chance of getting a message to the commissar. But it wasn’t going to happen. The bonnet of the Jeep was slightly open. He knew without checking that its rotor arm was gone. He checked anyway.

‘What do you mean it won’t work?’

‘They took the rotor arm.’

‘I don’t even know what that is.’

‘It’s part of the electrics. Cars won’t work without them.’

Alex’s bottom lip trembled. ‘You’re meant to be getting me out of here.’

In her voice, Tom could hear petulance, and Alex’s sudden scowl said she knew he could hear it, but she was doing a good job of hiding the fear. He was proud of her for that. Her eyes were wrong, though, dilated. It would help if he knew what they’d given her, because Tom was certain they’d given her something. And if it was nasty, she was going to have trouble going cold turkey later. Assuming he could buy her a later.

‘They were going to kill me.’

Tom froze, feeling suddenly sick.

Alex huddled in the safety of the arch, her expression unreadable as she stared at the Jeep that would now be taking them nowhere. ‘It would have been cold anyway,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t even have a roof.’

‘Alex? They were going to kill you?’

‘That’s what the weird one said.’

‘Kyukov?’

She shrugged. ‘The other one said he’d return me. The weird one said they wouldn’t. His friend was keeping me alive until you arrived. He kept talking about photographs. What photographs?’

‘They’re from the war.’

‘What’s that got to do with me?’

‘I don’t think your being here is about the photographs. You’re their guarantee that Sir Edward will help prevent the release of official papers.’

‘That’s not going to work. He took Mummy from Daddy. Did you know that? He doesn’t care about me. He pretends to. He doesn’t really…’

Tom remembered Sir Edward’s shock when Tom mentioned the dead cat, his restrained despair and quiet fury at being trapped and unable to say by what. ‘Believe me,’ Tom said, ‘he does care.’

Alex turned away and Tom understood the conversation was over.

‘I’m cold,’ she said a few seconds later.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You haven’t got a top. You must be cold too.’

Tom took it as the apology it was and nodded towards the huts.

‘They’ll see us,’ she protested.

‘We keep close to the garden’s outside wall. Find a spot roughly in the middle at the end, head to the huts from there. It’s a blind spot.’

‘And the falling snow will help,’ Alex said.

‘And the falling snow will help.’

They set off, Tom’s arm tight around Alex’s shoulders as he tried to keep her upright and moving. When she stumbled for the second time, he stopped, bit down on his frustration and set off again more slowly.

Patience, he told himself.

If necessary, he was capable of waiting for hours, utterly silent and still. He had done it that night in a Belfast car park. He simply wasn’t patient around children, his own or anyone else’s. And look where that had got him.

They stopped midway along the end wall, looking in both directions to check no one was in sight and they’d reach the right place. The first row of huts was two hundred yards away. ‘What if they do see us?’ Alex demanded.

‘Weave,’ Tom said. ‘And keep weaving.’

‘You think they’ll shoot?’

If what she’d just said was true, Kyukov might.

If Tom had been on his own, it might be different.

He’d be back in the orphanage, bringing the battle to them. He’d fix a trap, find himself a weapon, embrace the darkness and find somewhere to wait them out. Break General Dennisov’s neck – or Kyukov’s, it didn’t matter which – take the gun or whatever he found and kill the other. Alex made that impossible.

Tom considered leaving her at the huts and doubling back.

But she was cold and scared and barely able to walk on her own.

As Tom watched her limp beside him, her bare feet cutting prints in virgin snow, he knew he had to stay with her and keep going. Alone, if he got himself killed, that was his problem. But he was here with Alex, and if he got himself killed, then Alex was on her own.

He couldn’t take the fight to them with Alex in hand.

All he could hope for was to outrun them, find something to keep her warm in one of the huts and keep going. They’d crossed the widest point of the river getting to the island. The river on this side had to be narrower.

Once back on the mainland…

Once back on the mainland what? Find a road, flag down a car, hope there was someone official who’d be prepared to arrest them, get a message to the commissar, to Dennisov or the embassy? It came to something when their least forlorn hope was being arrested. A pop came from behind them and Alex stumbled.

‘ Are you hurt? ’ Tom asked.

She picked herself up, her face white.

‘Are you hit?’

Alex shook her head.

‘Then run,’ Tom ordered.

‘My feet hurt.’ She sounded close to tears.

Wrapping his arm round her, Tom dragged Alex after him, trying to steer her left and right when her instinct was to head straight for the nearest hut. Another shot followed and when Tom glanced back he saw a shadow through the falling snow, and another coming up behind it.

They were maybe seventy-five yards away.

You could kill with an automatic at seventy-five yards but more by luck than anything else. Accuracy wasn’t good at half that distance.

A revolver, on the other hand…

At least they had the falling snow on their side.

‘Keep weaving,’ Tom said.

He picked her up when she fell, took her down with him when he stumbled in turn, and ran, half-blinded by snow, towards the huts that got closer with every step. ‘Keep going,’ he insisted.

‘But the huts –’

‘The next row. No, the one after.’

He led Alex at a slant towards a hut near the end, hoping the rows behind would keep him shielded. Then he doubled back, dragging her with him, and stopped at one hut before going to another.

‘What are we doing?’

‘Muddling the footprints,’ Tom said.

It wasn’t perfect because there wasn’t time for perfect but it would do. At least Tom hoped it would. Pushing open a rotting door, he bundled Alex inside. The wooden floor sank with every step, fallen shutters revealing jagged glass. The only things inside were frames for empty bunks. A shot came from outside.

‘Hush,’ Tom said.

Alex put her hand over her mouth.

‘They’re shooting at shadows,’ he said.

The coast looked clear in both directions.

‘We’ll try that one,’ Tom said. The door to a hut opposite was already open. Better still, they found the window on the far wall missing.