with tassels. Each took three men to hold the poles and three more to go in front, pulling the tassels down to keep the banner taut and straight against the wind. The banner men wore long coats and bowler hats.
They were going his way, so Lom stepped into the road and walked along beside them. These people weren’t terrorists or even dissidents. They were ordinary people, most of them, ordinary faces filled now with energy and purpose and an unfamiliar sort of joy. Lom felt the warmth of their fellowship. It was a kind of bravery. He almost wished he was part of it. A few people in the crowd looked at him oddly because of his uniform, but they said nothing. The traffic halted to let them pass. People on the pavement watched, curious or indifferent. Some jeered, but others offered words of encouragement and a few stepped off the kerb to join them. Gendarmes in their plywood street-corner kiosks fingered their batons uncertainly and avoided eye contact. They had no instructions.
Lom scanned the faces in the crowd automatically, the way he always did. Looking for nothing in particular, waiting for something to grab his attention. There was a man striding with the crowd, not keeping his place but weaving through them, working his way slowly forward towards the front, handing out leaflets as he went. He was wearing a striking grey fedora. His overcoat flapped open and his pink silk shirt was a splash of colour in the crowd. He came within a few feet of Lom, singing the chorus from Nina in a fine tenor voice.
Lom felt a lurch of recognition. The man’s face meant something to him, though at first he couldn’t make a connection. Then it came to him. Long and narrow and pockmarked, with those wide brown eyes, it could have been Josef Kantor. This man was older – of course he would be – and his face was filled out compared to the lean features in Krogh’s old photograph. But it could have been Kantor. Lom was almost certain it was.
Lom’s heart was pounding. He could hardly go up and seize him. Apart from any doubts about the man’s identity, if he – in his uniform, with few other police around – tried to seize someone by force out of this crowd, things would get nasty. He’d be lucky to get out of it with his life. Certainly, he wouldn’t get out of it with Kantor. Lom walked on, watching the man who might have been Kantor make his way expertly through the crowd.
For a while Lom tried to keep up with him. The man was tall, and in his fedora he was hard to lose sight of. But he was working his way steadily deeper into the crowd. As Lom went after him, his uniform began to attract attention. People jostled him and swore. Twice he was almost tripped. If he fell, he would have been kicked and trampled. He was sure of it.
A strong hand gripped his arm and squeezed, dragging him roughly round. A fat, creased face was shoved close to his.
‘Idiot. Get the fuck out of here. What are you trying to do? Start a fucking riot?’
The man shoved him towards the edge of the crowd. Lom bumped hard against someone’s back. Something sharp hit him on the back of the head, momentarily dizzying him.
‘Hey,’ said another voice behind him. A quiet voice, almost a whisper. ‘Hey. Look at me. Arsehole.’
Lom turned in time to see the glint of a short blade held low, at waist level, in someone’s hand. He lurched sideways, trying to get out of range. He couldn’t even tell, in the crowd, who had the knife. Most of the walkers were still ignoring him, still walking on, ordinary faces wanting to do a good thing. Kantor, if it had been Kantor, had disappeared from view.
Shit. He needed to get out of there. Warily, watchfully, trying not to be jostled again, he edged himself sideways until he could step out of the slow tide of people, back onto the pavement. Lom realised he was sweating. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and tried to find his bearings, looking for a side street or alley that would let him get to the Lodka without getting caught up in the march again.
26
Unaware of Lom’s abortive pursuit of him, Josef Kantor continued to weave his way through the moving crowd. Kantor wasn’t the leader of the