Lom. Kantor is king terrorist. The main man. Bring him down and it all comes down. Bring him down and the Novozhd is safe.’
‘I understand. But… why are you telling me all this? What’s it got to do with me?’
‘I want you to find Kantor, Lom. Find him for me.’
‘But… why me? I know nothing of Mirgorod, I know nobody here. You have the whole police department… the gendarmerie… the third section… the militia…’
‘These disqualifications are what make you the one I need. The only one I must have. Why have I got your file, Lom? What brought you to my notice?’
‘I have no idea.’
Krogh picked up the folder again.
‘There are enough complaints against you in here,’ he said, ‘to have you exiled to Vig yourself tomorrow. Serious charges. I see through all that, of course. Innuendo and fabrication. I see what motivates them. You’re not afraid to make enemies, and they hate that. That’s why I need you, Lom. The Novozhd’s enemies are all around me. I know they are there, but I don’t know who they are. I can trust nobody. Nobody. But you, Investigator. Consider…’ Krogh ticked off the points on his fingers. ‘A good detective. Loyal to the Vlast. Incorrupt. Independent. Courageous. Probably not stupid. You know nobody in the city. Nobody knows you. You see where I’m going?’
‘Well, yes but—’
‘You will probably fail, of course,’ said Krogh. ‘But you might just succeed. You find Kantor, Lom, and you stop him. By any means possible. Any at all. And more – you find out who’s running him. Somebody here is pulling Kantor’s strings. Find out who it is. You find out what the bastards are up to, Lom, and when you do, you tell me. Only me. Got that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll be on your own,’ said Krogh. ‘You’ll have no help. No help at all. This is your chance, Lom, if you can take it.’
10
Josef Kantor was reading at his desk. The window of his room stood open. He liked how night sharpened the sounds and perfumes of the wharf. He liked to let it into his room. There was no need for the lamp: arc lights and glare and spark-showers flickered across the pages of his book. There was no better light to read by. The light of men working. The light of the future.
He heard the quiet footfall on wet paving, the footsteps climbing the iron staircase. One person alone. A woman, probably. He was waiting in the shadow just outside his door when she reached the top, his hand in his jacket pocket nursing his revolver. He made sure she was in the light and he was not.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I meant never to come here, but I had no choice.’
A group of men just off their shift were coming up the alleyway, talking loudly. Curious glances at the woman on the staircase. She wasn’t the kind you saw in the yard at night. They would remember. Kantor didn’t need that sort of attention.
‘Go in,’ said Kantor.
He followed her into the room and lit the lamp. He saw that she was young – early twenties, maybe – and thin. Her hands were rough and red from manual work, her wrists bony against the dark fabric of her sleeves, but her face was filled with life and intelligence. Thick black hair, cut short around her neck, fell across her brow, curled and wet. It had been raining earlier, though now it was not. Her coat was made of thin, poor stuff, little use against the weather, but, fresh and flushed from the cold, she brought an outside air into the room, not the industry and commerce of the shipyards but fresh earth and wet leaves. She met his gaze without hesitation: her eyes looking into his were bright and dark.
There was something about her. It unsettled at him. She was not familiar, exactly, but there was a quality in her that he almost recognised, though he couldn’t place it.
‘You’ve made a mistake,’ he said. ‘Wrong person. Wrong place.’
‘No. You’re Josef Kantor.’
Kantor didn’t like his name spoken by strangers.
‘I’ve told you. You’re mistaken,’ he said. ‘You’re confusing me with someone else.’
‘Please,’ she said. ‘This is important. I’m not going until we’ve talked. You owe me that.’
She took off her coat, draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. Underneath the coat she was wearing a knitted cardigan of dark green wool. Severe simplicity. Her throat was bare and her