She shivered, and turned into the cabin. Inside, she paced up and down the corridor, baffled.
You have a Harvard law degree.
Sheer popularity swept you into your second term. You won support for the Poverty Bill against the conservatives, and by some miracle you even got the Environment Bill through while keeping the oilmen on board.
Youre handling the Iraqi crisis like a maestro.
Youre a miracle-worker, Seth.
She tossed her coat, hat and gloves on to the bed and marched angrily through to the small kitchen.
So why are you taking your advice on this paramount issue from screwb.a.l.l.s, nuts and hillbillies?
She filled the kettle with icy water.
Is it conceivable that something deeper than Bible Belt fundamentalism is holding you back?
An incredible thought leaped into her head: Is it conceivable, by any stretch of the imagination, that Cardow and Harris are right?
She paced up and down some more, looked at her watch, and picked up a telephone.
29.
Freya "I wonder what it will be like? Shtyrkov wanted to know. The metal grid protecting the bar had proved impenetrable but the men had used an antique stool as a battering ram on the door. Both stool and door now lay in splinters and an impressive array of bottles was spread over the coffee-table in front of them. He was cradling a tumbler of some green liquid.
"What? Gibson, having downed four large J&Bs, spoke the word with exaggerated care. The hands of the big clock were pointing to just before midnight.
"The slaughter. How will they do it? Will they smother us? Shoot us? Slit our throats?
"Cut that out. Think of the ladies. It came out chauvinistic but Gibson was too far gone to care.
Svetlana giggled. From time to time she rubbed her nose, as if the bubbles from her champagne were tickling it.
Hanning said, "I really dont know whats got into you people. Sangster went blue in the face telling you the soldiers are there as a simple precaution. To keep unfriendly people out.
Shtyrkov finished his tumbler of green liquid and reached for the half-empty bottle. "But theyre keeping us in.
Petrie looked round at his drunken companions, sunk in the blue armchairs: Shtyrkov, Gibson, Svetlana, Freya, Hanning and himself. Six of us. "Can we go over it again? The escape possibilities?
"Whats the point? Hanning asked.
"The point is survival. Freyas voice was tense. "There must be some way out of this. Didnt you say the place reminded you of Colditz, Jeremy? Well, people escaped from Colditz, didnt they?
"Youre clutching at straws, Gibson said, pouring his fifth whisky with immense care.
Hanning spoke gently. "Say I go along with this ridiculous fantasy for the sake of argument. Colditz was master forgers, tunnelling engineers, teams of specialists. Colditz was months of planning. Above all, Colditz was before night-vision optics.
Freya waved an arm around. "Look at the brainpower in this room. We can think of something.
Hanning shook his head. "Youre imbeciles in these matters. You have a few hours and were surrounded by a brigade of troops. Theres clear gra.s.s all the way around the castle and no way whatsoever of crossing it undetected. There are no tunnels. You cant disguise yourselves as cleaning staff. You cant hide in the trash cans. And you cant fight your way past a hundred Kalashnikovs with kitchen knives. Im sorry, Freya.
Something wrong. Something about Hanning.
Through his alcoholic haze, Petrie a.n.a.lysed Hannings words. You have a few hours. Youre imbeciles in these matters. Not We have a few hours. Were imbeciles in these matters. Was Hanning excluding himself from the imminent killings? Was it a slip of the tongue, or a case of in vino veritas?
"There is no prospect of escape. Shtyrkov said it with emphasis, almost with a tone of triumph.
Petrie listened to the Russians words and his heart sank. Come on, Vash, youre the sharp one. Think of something! Until now he had hoped, even believed, that Vashislav would find a way out. If there was a way out, some lateral thinking to be done, some trick, Vashislav would have come up with it. A sense of nausea washed over him. He said, "Still, "It is a sweet and seemly thing to die for ones country." Seneca. Right, Jeremy?
Hanning raised a tumbler unsteadily. "Right. To Seneca.
Petrie added, "Oh, G.o.d. n.o.body paid any attention.
"Whats that green slime? Gibson nodded at Shtyrkovs gla.s.s.
"Charlee, it is alcohol. It is called Green Slime and when I have finished this bottle I will start on another one.
"Well, you may have given up, pal, but Im thinking survival...
"To the British! Shtyrkov raised his tumbler ironically.
"... and I cant do it with a spinning head. Im for bed. Gibson stood up, steadying himself on an armchair.
"Me too, said Petrie.
Gibson turned at the door, swaying. "Would any of you ladies care to join me?
Svetlana giggled again. It was that or burst into tears.
A tap on the door. Petrie, his head still groggy with wine, dragged himself into a sitting position. He switched on the bedside lamp.
Freya, carrying an opened bottle of white wine and two gla.s.ses. She put them down on the table and sat on a chair, pushing Petries clothes to the floor. "I cant believe things like this happen. She was wearing her red sweater and long dark skirt, and was bare-footed.
"All the rules are off, Petrie said, pulling his knees up. The headboard was cold on his back.
"We think, when the cleaners come in the morning, well take their van and ram our way out.
"Dont be silly. Anyway the cleaners wont come.
"How can they not? Theres a conference on Monday. But if that doesnt work, well hide until the conference people turn up. The castle is full of hiding places and we only need to hide for a day.
"Theyll sniff us out with dogs.
Freya blew her nose. "I love dogs. Have you given up, then? The great pattern finder, the man who boldly goes where no problem solver has gone before?
"No way have I given up. I just need to sleep on it. So you love dogs?
"And life. I dont want to go at age twenty-three. I want to go when Im ninety, drinking and smoking a cigar and watching the northern lights. So sleep well, Thomas, and waken up with an idea. She moved over to Petries bed, and sat on the edge. He caught a light whiff of eau de cologne, felt a sudden, sharp pang of attraction. b.l.o.o.d.y hormones!
She asked, "Have you seen the aurora?
"Not yet.
"Oy! Oy! Oy! To die before you have lived! When you see them from the roof of the world, in their full glory, then you will believe in Thor and Odin.
"Youre a poetic sort of creature, Freya.
"And youre a miserable, disembodied computer, a pale imitation of a real man. She poured two gla.s.ses. Petrie took a sip; the wine was cold.
"Freya, Im a bundle of inhibitions. I cant sing or dance. But Im in love with your hair.
"I see you have hairs on your chest. She touched his chest; Petrie wondered if she could feel his heart hammering.
"They go all the way down.
"I wonder if the signallers dance? And what they would sound like, singing?
"I didnt see any music in their signal.
"I wonder if they make love? What about you, Thomas, have you ever made love?
"Freya!
"Ha! I thought not. She snorted scornfully and sipped wine. "Do you know where the name Freya comes from?
"Of course not.
She put her gla.s.s on the table and smiled again. "My little inhibited computer, Freya is the G.o.ddess of love and fertility. And we could be dead tomorrow.
We could be dead tomorrow. "What a wonderful chat-up line!
She touched his chest lightly again. "They go all the way down, you say?
At first, Petrie thought they had come for him. He was being shaken roughly by the shoulder. Then he smelled the green slime on Shtyrkovs breath and saw his ma.s.sive bulk in dark outline. "Tom! Tom!
He felt Freyas leg taut over his own. She was stretching. A bedside lamp clicked on and then she was hiding under the sheet, only the crown of her head visible on the pillow.
Petrie sat up. The Russians face wore an intense expression and he had a finger to his mouth. "Get dressed. Come and see this. Be very quiet. No shoes.
Suppressing his embarra.s.sment, Petrie stretched out for underpants and in a moment was dressed in plain T-shirt, jeans and socks.
"Freya. Put the light out.
A slim arm appeared from under the sheet and groped towards the bedside lamp, and then they were back into darkness. Petrie followed the Russian to the door, sensing rather than seeing his frame.
Along the narrow carpeted corridor and down the broad staircase. A faint light was coming from below. Shtyrkovs wheezy breath was loud in the silence and there was an occasional crack! from his arthritic knee.
Into the atrium. The light was here; it was blue, and it was coming from under the door to the administrators office. They crept past the armchairs and settees, and stopped at the oak door. Shtyrkov tapped Petrie on the shoulder. He whispered in his ear. "The keyhole!
On his knees, Petrie had a good view of half the room. He looked, and was appalled.
Hanning was talking quietly. The light was coming from the monitor he sat at. The screen was edge-on to Petrie and he could neither make out the face on it nor hear the words. From Hannings body language the conversation seemed to be coming to an end. Suddenly the civil servant leaned towards the monitor. He switched it off.
In a near panic, Petrie jumped up and collided with Shtyrkov. They set off quietly and as fast as the near-blackness would allow, Shtyrkov gasping for air. They reached the marble stairs but it was too late, the door was opening. Petrie pulled at Shtyrkov and they were down, crouching, behind a chair a few feet past the steps.
The door to the library closed, very quietly. Hanning was padding straight towards them. He was making almost no sound. At the foot of the stairs they heard him stop.
Dead silence.
Hanning no more than six feet away.
Shtyrkov holding his breath.
A distinct crack! Shtyrkovs arthritic knee.
Somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
Shtyrkov still holding his breath.
Petrie wondering if they had been seen: two figures, one of them bulky, trying to hide behind an armchair.
Silence, except for the dog going wolf and the hammer-hammer in Petries chest. And Shtyrkov still holding on, his eyes beginning to pop.
Green slime! Shtyrkov was reeking of alcohol. It had to be a giveaway. Hanning could surely smell their presence.
Then footsteps were padding quietly up the stairs and Petrie was mentally saying, Hold on, Vashislav, dont blow it now, dont breathe, just seconds more.
The footsteps were gone and Petrie was shaking all over and Shtyrkov was taking in air in deep, shuddering gulps. He was trying to do it quietly but without much success.
They made their way slowly up the stairs, following Hannings direction, with the Russian bent double and gripping the bal.u.s.trade. After every few steps he would pause and wheeze. Back to the corridor. Petrie counted the doors on the right. One, two, three, four, five. He turned the handle and the door was unlocked. Good for Freya: shed had the presence of mind to keep the room dark. So far as Hanning knew, the condemned scientists were sound asleep.
Shtyrkov found a switch and they blinked in the sudden light. Freya had pulled on her skirt and sweater but Petrie thought there was no bra underneath it. She was sitting on the broad window ledge, hair tousled and her face showing strain and tiredness. Eau de cologne lingered in the air.
Petrie sat on the edge of the unmade bed, and they waited, wordless, while Shtyrkov leaned against the door, slowly regaining his breath. Finally: "Hanning is a traitor.
"He was on the conference circuit just now, Petrie told Freya.
"What does that prove?