Chazia had sent him to kill Maroussia and her mother.
And I am Chazia’s too.
Except that wasn’t true. Not any more.
Chazia would kill him now for what he knew, and take the file back. She had sent the vyrdalak. It must have been her.
The file.
He saw it tucked away in the bathroom of Vishnik’s apartment. He saw Vishnik beaten by militia night sticks. He saw Vishnik, dead in his room, bleeding from Safran’s bullets.
The file. Shit. The file.
46
Josef Kantor followed Chazia along empty passageways seemingly cut through blocks of solid stone. They clattered down steep iron flights of steps lit by dirty yellow bulbs. The treads were damp and treacherous. She was leading him deep into the oldest, lowest parts of the Lodka, where he had never been before, down into ancient, subterranean levels.
‘No one comes here,’ she said. ‘Only me. You’re privileged, Josef. Remember that.’
When had she become so pompous? She was weaker than he had thought. Failing. Not to be trusted. She had agreed, reluctantly, to show him the Pollandore, but she had made him wait. ‘Come back tomorrow,’ she’d said. ‘Let me prepare.’
Kantor felt suddenly annoyed with this terrible old fox-bitch who pushed him around. He wanted to bring her down a bit.
‘Is Krogh dealt with, Lavrentina?’
She was walking ahead of him and didn’t look round.
‘You were right about him,’ she said. ‘He’s an annoyance. It is in hand.’
‘But not done yet, then. And what about the other matter?’
‘The other matter?’
‘The women,’ said Kantor impatiently. Chazia had not forgotten – she never forgot anything – she was prevaricating. ‘The Shaumian women. You were going to deal with them too. Is it done?’
‘Oh that,’ she said. ‘Yes. Your wife is dead.’ He caught a slight hesitation in Chazia’s reply.
‘And the daughter?’
Chazia said nothing.
‘The daughter, Lavrentina?’ said Kantor again.
‘She is not dead. She escaped. We’ve lost her. Just for the moment. We’ll find her again.’
‘What happened?’
‘She had help, Josef. Krogh’s investigator was there.’
‘Lom?’
‘He interfered,’ said Chazia. ‘Safran let him get in the way. Your daughter shot one of Krogh’s men and disappeared.’
‘Did she, then?’ Despite himself, he was impressed. But it would not do.
‘You must kill them both,’ he said. ‘Krogh’s man and the daughter. Do it now. Do it quickly, Lavrentina. And Krogh too. No more delays. Kill them all.’
Chazia turned to face him.
‘Don’t try to bully me, Josef. I won’t accept that. Remember our respective positions. I have other things to do apart from clearing away your domestic mess. Today we are going into the Lezarye quarters. That will raise the temperature. And you have your part to play too. Remember that. The Novozhd—’
‘You can leave that to me,’ said Kantor. ‘You don’t need the details. Better you don’t…’ He felt that Chazia was going to argue the point, but just then they reached a narrow unmarked door in the passageway, and she stopped.
‘Here,’ she said, reaching in her pocket for a bunch of keys.
The door looked newer than the rest. Shabby institutional paint, but solid and heavy with several good locks. Chazia opened it and Kantor followed her inside.
The first impression was of spacious airy dimness. Grey light filtered down from high – very high – overhead: muted daylight, spilling through a row of square grilles set into the roof. But they must have been far below ground level. The grilles were the floors of light wells, he realised: shafts cut up through the Lodka to draw down some sky. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he saw that they were in a high narrow chamber that stretched away on both sides. He could not see the end of it in either direction. It might have been a tunnel. Parallel rails were set into the floor, for a tram or train.
The floor of the chamber was heaped with boxes and sacks and pallets. Large shapeless lumps of stuff shrouded under sacking and tarpaulins. And there were machines, on benches or on the floor. Some he recognised: lathes and belt saws, pulleys and lifting chains and other such contraptions. Others, the majority, meant nothing to him: complex armatures of metal and rubber and wood and polished stone. The impression was of a workshop, or a warehouse, but its purpose escaped him. There was an oppressive mixture of smells: iron filings, wet stone and machine oil. The atmosphere unsettled him. He felt on edge and slightly disoriented, as if there was a low vibration in the air and the floor, a rhythm and resonance too deep to