Robert Harris - Archangel
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- Название:Archangel
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- Издательство:Arrow
- Жанр:
- Год:2009
- ISBN:9780099282419
- Рейтинг книги:4 / 5. Голосов: 1
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Archangel: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
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Grey light, snow and frozen slush. The stink of fuel much sharper here. Row upon row of boxy cars, some muffled white, others thinly wrapped in a film of mud and grit. He walked on. The air shook. A big old Tupolev jet swept directly over his head, so low he could see the lines of rust where the plates of the fuselage were welded together. Instinctively, he ducked, just as a sandy-coloured Lada emerged slowly from the end of the line and stopped, its engine running.
SHE didn't make it easy for him, even then. She didn't drive over to where he was; he had to walk to her. She didn't open the door; he had to do it. She didn't speak; it was left to him to break the silence. She didn't even tell him her name - not then, at least, although he discovered it later. She was called Zinaida. Zinaida Rapava.
She knew what had happened, that was obvious by the strain on her face, and he felt guiltily relieved at that, because at least he wouldn't have to break the news. He had always been a coward when it came to breaking bad news - that was one reason he'd been married three times. He sat in the front passenger seat, his suitcase wedged across his knees. The heater was running. The windscreen wiper flicked intermittently across the dirty glass. He knew he would have to say something soon. Delta to New York was the one event of the symposium he had no intention of missing.
'Tell me what I can do to help.'
'Who killed him?'
A man named Vladimir Mamantov. Ex-KGB. He knew of your father from the old time.
'The old time,' she said, bitterly.
Silence - long enough for the wiper to scrape back and forth, back and forth.
'How did you know where to find me?'
'Always, all my life: the old time.'
Another Tupolev rumbled low overhead.
'Listen,' he said, 'I've got to go in a minute. I've got to catch a plane to New York. When I get there, I'm going to write everything down - are you listening? I'll send you a copy. Tell me where to send it. You need anything, I'll help.'
It was hard to move with his case on his lap. He unbuttoned his coat and reached awkwardly into his inside pocket for his pen. She wasn't listening to him. She was staring straight ahead, talking almost to herself
'It'd been years since I saw him. Why would I want to? I hadn't been near that dump in eight years till you asked me to take you.' She turned to him for the first time. She had washed off her makeup. She looked younger, more pretty. Her leather jacket was old, brown, zipped tight to the neck. 'After I left you, I went home. Then I went back to his place again. I had to find out - you know - what was going on. Never saw 50 many cops in my life. You'd been taken away by then. I didn't say who I was. Not to the cops. I had to think things through. I -' She stopped. She seemed baffled, lost.
'What's your name?' he said. 'Where can I reach you?'
'Then, this morning, I went to the Ukraina. I rang you. Went up to your room. When they said you'd checked out I came here and waited.'
'Can't you just tell me your name?' He looked at his watch, hopelessly. 'Only I've got to catch this plane, you see.
'I don't ask favours,' she said fiercely. 'I never ask favours.' 'Listen, don't worry. I want to help. I feel responsible.' 'Then help me. He said you'd help me 'He?'
'The thing is, mister, he's left me something.' Her leather jacket creaked as she unzipped it. She felt around inside and brought out a scrap of paper. 'Something worth a lot? In a toolbox? He says that you can tell me what it is.'
THEY DROVE OUT of the airport perimeter onto the St Petersburg highway and turned south towards the city. A big truck overtook them, its wheels as high as their roof, rocking them in its wake, soaking them in a filthy spray.
Kelso had promised himself he wouldn't look back, but of course he did - looked back and saw the terminal building, like a great grey ocean liner, sink out of sight behind a line of birch trees until only a few watery lights were visible, and then they disappeared.
He winced and nearly asked the girl to take him back. He gave her a sideways glance. In her scuffed flying jacket she looked intrepid: an aviatrix at the controls of her battered plane.
He said, 'Who's Sergo?'
'My brother.' She glanced in the rear-view mirror. 'He's dead.'
He turned the note over and read it again. Rough paper. Pencil scrawl. Written quickly. Stuffed under the door of her apartment, or so she said: she had found it when she got back after dropping Kelso outside her father's block.
My little one, Greetings!
I have been a bad one, you're right. All you said was right. So don't think I don't know it! But here is a chance to do some good. You wouldn't let me tell you yesterday, so listen now. Remember that place I used to have, when Mama was alive? It’s still there! And there's a toolbox with a present for you that’s worth a lot.
Are you listening, Zinaida?
Nothing will happen to me, but if it does - take the box and hide it safe. But it could be dangerous, so mind yourself You'll see what I mean.
Destroy this note. I kiss my little one, Papa.
- There's a Britisher called Kelso, get him through the Ukraina, he knows the story. Remember your papa!
I kiss you again, Zinaida. Remember Sergo!!
'So he came to see you - when was it? The day before yesterday?'
She nodded, without looking round at him, concentrating on the road. 'It was the first time I'd seen him in nearly ten years.
'You didn't get on, then?'
'Oh, you're a smart one.' Her laugh was brief, sarcastic: a short expulsion of breath. 'No, we didn't get on.'
He ignored her aggression. She was entitled to it. 'What was he like, the last time you saw him?'
'Like?'
'His mood.'
A bastard. Same as always.' She frowned at the oncoming traffic. 'He must have been waiting for me all night, outside my place. I got back about six. I'd been at the club, you know, been working. The moment he saw me he started shouting. Saw my clothes. Called me a whore.' She shook her head at the memory.
'Then what happened?'
'He followed me in. Into my place. I said to him, I said:
"You hit me, I'll take your fucking eye out, I'm not your little girl any more." That calmed him down.'
'What did he want?'
'To talk, he said. It was a shock after all that time. I didn't think he knew where I lived. I didn't even know he was still alive. Thought I'd got away from him for good. Oh, but he'd known, he said - known where I was for a long time. Said he used to come and watch me sometimes. He said, "You don't get away from the past that easily." Why did he come to see me?' She looked at Kelso for the first time since they'd left the airport. 'Can you tell me that?'
'What did he want to talk about?'
'I don't know. I wouldn't listen. I didn't want him in my place, looking at my things. I didn't want to hear his stories. He started going on about his time in the camps. I gave him some cigarettes to get rid of him and told him to go. I was tired and I'd got to go to work.'
'Work?'
'I work at GUM in the daytime. I learn law at college in the evenings. Some nights, I screw. Why? Is it a problem?'
'You lead a full life.'
'I have to.
He tried to picture her behind the counter at GUM. 'What do you sell?'
'What?'
At the store. What do you sell?'
'Nothing.' She checked the mirror again. 'I work the switchboard.'
Closer to the city, the road was clogged. They slowed to a crawl. There had been an accident up ahead. A rickety Skoda had run into the back of a big old Zhiguli. Broken glass and bits of metal were scattered across two lanes. The militia were on the scene. It looked as though one of the drivers had punched the other: he had splashes of blood on the front of his shirt. As they passed the policemen, Kelso turned his head away. The road cleared. They picked up speed.
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