Watson, Ian - Novel 11 (24 page)

 
          
“I’ve
had horses up to
here."
Sergey
made a throat-slitting gesture. “A taxi’ll suit me fine . . . What am I
thinking of? We’ve still got the
Volga
.’’ He
pulled out the car keys and stared at them, then bit the ignition key in the
manner of a peasant testing a coin for counterfeit.

 
          
“Remember,’’
said
Felix, “the street names might have changed.’’

 
          
“So what?
I don’t doubt they’ll still be the same streets.
It’ll be the same old world as ever—give or take the odd cherry orchard . . .
Does anything ever really change?’’

 
          
“My
goodness,’’ said Mikhail, “you’ve certainly changed your tune! You sound just
like one of Anton’s people. Poor burnt-out Sergey, all passion spent—and now you’re
exhausted. In fact,’’ and Mikhail began to chuckle, “you sound rather like
Sidorov! Possessed by an event too big for him, which nobody else even noticed
till Anton came along . . . Surely a simple little film script isn’t such a
challenge to a professional writer?’’ Tears ran down Mikhail’s cheeks: tears of
laughter, and the strain brought a tiny, fresh spot of blood to the surface, to
stain his bandage.

 
          
“Aren’t
you the lucky one?’’ cried Sergey bitterly.
“Shall
we tell him, folks?’’

 
          
“Careful!’’
Kirilenko interposed. “Mikhail’s our guide now.
He’s our lifeline—our interpreter, should we need one. He knows where he is. He
belongs.’’

 
          
Mikhail
carried on chortling. “You people are really too much. You’re as crazy as
coots!’’

 
          
Like
the pulse of his blood and the beat of his heart, the faint thumping continued
from outside as Osip hacked away remorselessly at the soil, which was as hard
as iron.

 
          
After
a while the noise stopped. Perhaps Osip had realized that the last place to
hide something was under a freshly chopped-up heap of soil, near the road.