The Apothecary Page 0,69

cigarettes from the Red Cross, but the Russians got nothing, and we used to throw them food, when we got it. But even starving and imprisoned, those Russian chaps were certain, in such a pure, strong way, that their country would be a great power after the war. Again, that passion. I admired them terribly. They were like the ardent young men in Tolstoy. I wanted to be like them, to believe like them, not always to be halfhearted, ambivalent, reticent, English. I didn’t want to be that.”

Mr Shiskin looked at him sadly. “You’ve been taken in,” he said. “Fooled by this Russian passion.”

“Perhaps,” Danby said. “But Moscow wants the apothecary, so that’s where he must go. If England discovers his secret, they’ll hand it over at once to the Americans, who will then have everything—both the power to destroy the world, which they have already, and the power to stop all other countries from protecting themselves. They will become even more monstrous than they already are. We mustn’t let that happen.”

“We,” Shiskin repeated bitterly. “There is no we here.”

“Of course there is,” Mr Danby said. “We’re all on the same side. Now you must be going. Don’t disable the boat until you’re positive you’re in Russian waters. We don’t want to start an international incident. And think of your family.”

Shiskin sighed, pulled his fur hat down over his great head, and got out of the car. He stood waiting for a break in the traffic, then crossed the street towards the port, carrying a small, heavy brown suitcase that bounced against his good leg.

The Scar said something in German.

“He’ll manage all right,” Danby said, flicking the rest of his burning cigarette out the window. I made a small, inadvertent noise as I jumped away from the hot ember, which made Danby look up, but he saw nothing.

Benjamin and I crossed the street, following Shiskin at a distance through the port’s gate and along the docks towards the Kong Olav. It was a long walk in bare feet.

“What do you think’s in his suitcase?” I whispered. “A gun?”

“Maybe a radio transmitter,” Benjamin said. “To signal the Soviets about the boat’s position.”

I thought about Benjamin’s fascination with espionage, and his old disdain for his father’s work. “Do you still want to be a spy?” I asked. “Or do you want to be an apothecary now?”

Benjamin thought about it for a second. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Right now there doesn’t seem like much difference.”

We had almost reached the Kong Olav, picking our way over rusted nails and bits of glass, when we heard the clang of a police car’s bell. We jumped out of the path of the car, and watched it screech to a halt in front of the boat. Mr Shiskin froze.

“Oh, no,” Benjamin said.

The wispy-haired detective who’d arrested us at school jumped out of the police car, ignoring Shiskin, and approached the guard on the dock. “I’m Detective Montclair, Scotland Yard,” he said. “This is Officer O’Nan. We’ve had a truancy report from port officials. Three children were spotted near this vessel, two boys and a girl.”

“They were here,” Ludvik said. “But they left.”

“I’ll search the boat then.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re just casting off.”

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Montclair said.

Count Vili came to the rail and leaned over. “Is there a problem, officer?” he asked, his voice full of courtesy and money.

Mr Shiskin seemed paralysed by indecision about whether to board the boat, which might be searched at any moment, or to stay where he was and risk not getting aboard at all.

“We’re looking for three children,” Detective Montclair said to the count. “They escaped from Turnbull Juvenile Hall yesterday.”

“Oh?” Count Vili said mildly, in his interesting accent. “Then they couldn’t have been the children who were here.”

“Why not?”

“Because I had them out on the boat fishing all day yesterday.”

“In the Thames?” Detective Montclair asked, disgusted.

“Just for perch and pike,” the count said. “The fish are there if you know where to look.”

“Didn’t the children have school?”

“A holiday. They’ve gone back to their studies now.”

Montclair frowned. “May I ask where you’re from, sir?”

“Certainly,” said the count. “I am from Luxembourg.”

The detective didn’t seem to know what to do with that information. He had no opinions about Luxembourg. “I really must search the boat,” he said, striding towards the gangway.

Count Vili’s face lost some of its composure. The descriptions of the apothecary and Jin Lo would have been circulated to the police by now. If Detective Montclair came aboard,