being nudged by a shunting engine. Lom didn’t see it move, but suddenly he was lying on his back, breath rasping, mouth gaping, hot shards of pain in his ribs. Safran was standing over him, looking down.
Lom rolled over and rose to his knees, head down, retching sour spittle onto the floor. No blood. That was something. He felt the mudjhik pushing fingers of awareness into his nose, his throat, his chest.
Stop!
Lom repelled the intrusion, slamming back at it hard. He wasn’t sure how he knew what to do, but he did. He felt the mudjhik’s surprise. And Safran’s.
Lom hauled himself unsteadily to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘You’re a crazy man,’ said Safran.
Lom was becoming aware of the link between Safran and the mudjhik. There was a flow between them, a cord of shared awareness.
‘Did you make it do that?’
‘That’s not how it works.’
‘But you could have stopped it.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. I didn’t try.’
‘And if I hit you, what would it do?’
‘Defend me.’
‘I saw your picture in the paper.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Levrovskaya Square. You were getting a handshake from a bank. I wasn’t sure what for.’
‘Protecting the money.’
‘But you didn’t. Thirty million roubles disappeared from under your nose.’
Lom was rubbing his chest and pressing his ribs experimentally. The pain made him wince but nothing felt broken. The mudjhik had judged it just right.
‘It might have been worse,’ said Safran. ‘They didn’t get into the bank.’
‘They weren’t trying to. The strong-car was the target.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. The bank was happy. It wasn’t their money. Hadn’t been delivered.’
‘You were waiting for them. You must have known they were coming.’
‘So?’
‘You could have stopped it. You were meant to let them get away.’
‘You should be careful, making accusations like that.’ The mudjhik took a step forward. ‘People have been killed wandering about in here. Accidents. It’s dangerous around mudjhiks if they don’t know you.’
‘Were you paid off?’
‘What’s your name, Investigator?’
‘Lom. My name is Lom.’
‘And who are you working for, Lom? Who are you with? Does anyone know you’re here?’
‘You could buy a lot of militia for thirty million roubles.’
‘And you should piss off.’
‘So how did you know they were coming?’
‘Detective work.’
‘You had an informant. Someone in the gang, maybe. Who was it?’
‘Don’t they teach you the rules where you come from, Lom? What’s the rule of informants? The first rule?’
Never reveal the name. Not even to your own director. Even you, you yourself, must forget his name for ever. Remember only the cryptonym. One careless word will ruin both your lives for ever.
‘You’re in trouble, Major. Corruptly receiving bribes. Standing aside to let thirty million roubles go missing.’
‘You couldn’t prove that. Even if it was true, which it isn’t.’
‘You were following orders then. Whose? Tell me whose.’
‘Shit. You’re not joking are you.’
‘You want to stay a major for ever?
‘What?’
‘Taking bribes is one thing. But nobody likes the ones that get caught. It’s not competent. It’s not commanding officer material.’
‘I should kill you myself.’
The mudjhik’s feet moved. A sound like millstones grinding.
‘But you won’t. You don’t know who I’m working for. You don’t know who sent me. You think I’m here for the hell of it?’
‘Who?’
‘No.’
Safran shrugged and looked at his watch.
‘There was no informant.’
‘Yes, there was.’
‘No, there really wasn’t. It was just some drunk. I have people who make it their business to be amenable in the bars where the artists go. They keep their ears open. It’s not hard. Artists are always pissed. Neurotic. Boastful. Shutting them up is the hard thing. Anyway, there was this particular one, highly strung even in that company. Mild enough sober, but he likes a brandy and opium mix, and after a few of those he starts abusing anyone in range.’
‘And?’
‘So one evening this idiot starts broadcasting to the world that he’s mixed up with some great nationalist hero, and he’s got a sack full of bombs. You should all be shit scared of me, that was his line. One day soon there’s going to be a rampage. He tells everyone how he and his new friends are going to rob a strong-car when it makes a delivery to a particular bank he mentions. Turned out it was true.’
‘The name?’
‘Curly-haired fellow. A woman’s man. Studio somewhere in the quarter. I broke in to have a look. It stank. Obscene pictures too.’
‘The name.’
‘Petrov. Lakoba Petrov.’
21
Lom wanted to go back into the Registry to see if there was a file on Petrov, but when he got there he found the doors