The Relic (29 page)

A Brittany ferry loomed to his left, preparing to disembark. Lights gleamed along her sides. It was dusk now. Soon it would be dark. A group of small children scurried towards him, kicking a ball. They saw the cat and clustered round the seat. The animal crouched down, ears flattened. One boy found a pebble and threw it. Volkov leapt up and shouted at them in Russian to leave it alone. They stared at him, pulled faces and ran away. He sat down and resumed his hopeless watch out to sea. In the end he couldn't bear it any longer. He went back to the café where he'd spent the afternoon swallowing cups of coffee.

After five years in Geneva he spoke fluent French; he didn't even think about his accent.

‘Don't talk to people, darling,' Lucy had warned him. ‘You're such an obvious Russian, they'll look for the snow on your boots.' They had to keep a low profile, blend in with all the other holiday-makers and tourists. He forgot about being careful. He caught hold of one of the waiters.

‘Can you tell me,' he said. ‘I'm expecting a friend. She's terribly late—in a boat—do you know if there has been a storm?'

‘Not that I've heard. I've been too busy to ask about the weather.' He pulled away impatiently. He was tired and fed up with serving a bunch of idlers on holiday, and cursed Volkov under his breath.

Volkov walked back to the jetty, and stopped by one of the large cabin cruisers. A man and woman were sitting in deck chairs, sipping champagne. He shouted down to them.

‘Excuse me. Can you help me, please?'

The man looked up with the wariness of the wealthy. The boat was flying a Dutch flag.

‘What do you want?'

‘My friend was coming over in her boat and she's hours late. Something must have happened to her.'

The man heaved himself up from his deckchair and came to the side.

‘Have you notified the coast guard?'

‘No. What is the coast guard? Where do I find it?'

His wife said quickly, ‘The poor man's been walking up and down for ages. I noticed him earlier. He looks quite desperate. Derk, hadn't you better go and help him?'

‘Wait a minute,' Volkov heard him say. ‘I'll come ashore. You'd better report it. I'll show you where to go.'

He put down his glass and clambered onto the jetty.

‘What sort of boat is she in? How long is she overdue?'

‘I don't know,' Volkov said. ‘I know nothing about damned boats. She said she'd be here at four o'clock. It's after eight.'

He wiped his hand across his face.

‘Where are you both from?' the Dutchman asked.

‘Geneva,' Volkov answered.

‘She may have been delayed. You can't tell. Does she have a radio?'

‘I don't know,' Volkov said desperately. ‘It has an engine and a sail. That's all I know.'

‘Come on then, we'd better put in a report and see if anyone's picked her up. It's probably engine failure and she's just drifting with the tide. It's crazy not to have a radio.'

Seeing the look in Volkov's eyes, he clapped him on the shoulder.

‘Don't worry; I'm sure she's all right. Just sitting out there cursing. The sea's like a millpond and the forecast is fine. Don't worry.'

But Volkov wasn't listening. He had turned for one last look. A small boat, its sail bellied out in a light breeze had entered the harbour. There was a woman at the helm.

‘That's a single master,' the Dutchman said. ‘Could be your friend?'

Volkov sprinted down the jetty. The Dutchman followed at a more leisurely pace. Now the figure guiding the craft slowly and skilfully among the anchored yachts was waving, and the crazy fellow was waving back and shouting. He was jumping up and down, both arms in the air.

‘Lucy! Lucy!'

‘All's well, then,' the Dutchman said. He smiled and shook his head. They might come from Geneva, but that lunatic certainly wasn't Swiss. ‘You'd better come and join us for a drink to celebrate,' he said. ‘She's a good sailor, your friend. She's handling that little craft very well with all this traffic round her. I'm glad everything's OK. See you in a few minutes.'

‘Thank you, thank you,' Volkov said.

When the Dutchman climbed back on board his yacht he told his wife that the man had had tears in his eyes.

‘What a drama,' he said. ‘God knows what the coast guard would have made of him. There they are. Hey, come and have a glass of champagne with us!'

He reached up and helped the girl down on to the deck. Her companion was not at all sure-footed.

His wife came forward. ‘I'm Beta, and this is Derk. Come and sit down and tell us all about it. Your poor boyfriend was convinced you'd been drowned! Here, drink this.' She handed Lucy a glass of champagne.

Volkov kept his arm round her. She was trembling with fatigue.

‘My engine conked out,' she explained. ‘I couldn't get the bloody thing to go for more than a few minutes at a time. I tried everything. I just sat there drifting. Then the wind did come up.'

Derk shook his head. ‘Putting up sail is tough enough for a man,' he said. ‘How the hell did you manage on your own?' Noticing that Lucy's hands were heavily bandaged, he added, ‘Beta, I think we need the first aid kit. You'd better let my wife have a look at your hands. What happened?'

‘I let go the halyard,' she explained. ‘I'm all right. Really.'

He didn't think she looked it.

‘Where have you come from?' he asked her.

Lucy decided there was no point in lying. They seemed kind, friendly people. All sailors had danger in common, from the owner of the largest ocean-going yacht to the smallest dinghy.

‘From Jersey,' she said. ‘I haven't been out for a while. I didn't check the engine. I'd plenty of petrol and that's all I looked at. We were supposed to sail back today.' She turned and laid her head on Volkov's shoulder. ‘I'm so sorry, darling.'

‘Come below,' Beta said firmly, ‘and let me take a look at those hands. Rope burn can be very nasty. Our crewman will look at the engine first thing in the morning. We can't offer you a bunk, the boat only sleeps three, but we can feed you. I hope you'll have some dinner with us.' She spoke to Volkov. ‘Please, help yourself to a glass. The bottle's right there.'

‘I don't drink,' he said. ‘But thank you. Thank you for your kindness, but I think we've been enough trouble already.'

‘No trouble,' was the answer. ‘You're staying.'

The Dutch couple walked back to the little boat with them. They were a curious pair, impossible to place. But it was nice, they agreed afterwards, to see people so much in love. They said goodnight promising to send the crewman up to look at the engine. There was no way the girl could sail back, even with help, with her hands in that state.

Volkov and Lucy bunked down in the bottom of the boat. There was a spare tarpaulin in the locker. It wasn't particularly comfortable, but they were oblivious. Volkov held her in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder.

‘I thought I'd lost you,' he said. ‘Your poor hands!'

‘I've gone soft living in Geneva, that's the trouble,' Lucy said. ‘It's just blisters, they'll heal up very quickly.' She closed her eyes; she was numb with exhaustion. ‘I kept thinking you must be going crazy, imagining something's happened. I was terrified you'd start talking to people and give yourself away! That's what gave me the strength to sail her on my own. I held on to those bloody ropes because I had to get back to you. I knelt down in that bloody boat and prayed, my darling. I prayed for a wind. And thank God, it came.'

He heard her sigh and knew she'd fallen asleep. He smoothed a strand of hair back from her face. At last, lulled by the gentle movement of the boat and the slap of little waves against the sides, he fell asleep beside her.

They took their seats on the flight from Warsaw to Paris. It was a long journey. Irina didn't talk to him. There was nothing to say. He soon nodded off, and, even when they hit turbulence and the airliner lost height, he didn't wake.

She let her thoughts roam ahead. They'd hire a car when they landed in Jersey. They'd been booked in to a modest bed and breakfast hotel in St Hélier. She'd been shown the Warren house on a map of the island. It was secluded, on a hilltop overlooking the sea, in four acres of grounds. The woman had been spotted by their watcher. The last report said she'd taken a boat out. That had been the signal for Irina and Remus to set off for Paris. Viktor had been right. The woman was going to smuggle Volkov in from France by sea.

She tried to imagine his reaction when she surprised them. His face wouldn't come into focus. She tried to relish the scene when the man beside her put them out of action, and Volkov watched helplessly while he tortured the woman to make her give up the cross. She could see that in her mind's eye. But not the sequel. Not the moment when she gave the order.
Kill them, Remus
.

Would she be proof against him, even now? Was her love completely dead or paralyzed by hurt and jealousy? She couldn't answer that. She had staked everything on her promise to Viktor and the greater authority he represented.

I won't know if I can do it
, she thought.
I won't be sure until I see him. Till the moment comes
.

They landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at two in the afternoon. By five-thirty the charter flight taxied to a halt on the runway at St Peter's, Jersey. Irina signed for and took possession of the Ford Fiesta.

‘Get in the back,' she directed. He smiled and muttered, ‘Yes,
Matiushka
.'

He smelled acridly of sweat and she didn't want him close to her. She watched him in the driving mirror, as he looked out of the window.

‘It's nice here,' he said. ‘Lots of trees and grass.'

‘It's just a little island where the rich come to escape paying taxes,' she said sharply.

He didn't speak for the rest of the drive. The bed and breakfast hotel was in a side street. There was a sign outside: St Margaret. It was a modern two-storey house with a fine garden. Even Irina couldn't help admiring the profusion of flowers and shrubs.

The air smelt salty from a breeze coming in off the sea. It reminded her of the Crimea, where she and Volkov used to take holidays when they first married. The same warm climate, the lush growth, the tang of the ocean. She registered and they were shown to their rooms.

‘Where's the bathroom?' she asked.

The proprietress pointed down the corridor.

‘Second door on the left, It's marked. Toilet is next to it.'

‘Thank you,' Irina said.

She spoke to him in Russian.

‘Go and bath yourself, Remus. Then wait for me in your room.'

Irina went downstairs.

‘Is it possible to get something to eat for my father?' she asked the proprietress. ‘He's tired after the journey. Just bread and cheese would do.'

The Jersey woman smiled. ‘Of course, dear. I'll find something. Come a long way, have you?'

‘From Poland,' Irina said.

‘On holiday, are you?'

‘We have friends who spent their holiday here. They recommended it. My father wanted to come. He's never travelled abroad before. I thought we'd do it properly and go on to England.'

‘I suppose you weren't allowed to go anywhere, were you, while those Communists were in charge. Don't worry, I'll bring a bite of supper up to him. Would he like a drink? I've got some lager in the fridge.'

Irina managed a chilly smile. ‘I'm sure he would. That's very kind of you. He doesn't speak a word of English, I'm afraid.'

‘We'll manage. But you speak very well.'

‘Languages were compulsory in our State schools,' Irina said. ‘We all learned English and one other European language. Otherwise we weren't considered fit for higher education … I'll be back later.'

She drove into the centre of St Hélier, and stopped at a small fish restaurant just beyond the port, called the Lobster Pot.

The woman's remarks had needled her. Ignorant, prejudiced little bourgeois. It soothed Irina's irritation to imagine her fussing round Remus. Little did she know! She parked the car and went into the restaurant. It was dim and cool, festooned with nets and hideous plastic lobsters dangling from the roof. She couldn't bear the idea of eating with him, sharing a table. Mistress and slave didn't take food together.

She asked for a table and then said, looking round, ‘I was supposed to meet someone here.'

The waitress said, ‘There was a gentleman, but he said he couldn't wait. Are you Mrs Spigo? Sorry, I'm not sure how you pronounce it.'

‘Yes, I am,' Irina said quickly.

‘He left a message for you. If you'd like to have a look at the menu I'll go and get it. The crayfish are very good tonight.'

Irina tore open the envelope, and took out a scrap of grubby paper. The message was scribbled in pencil. ‘Do nothing till I contact you at the hotel. I'll leave a message from Rudi if they're in the house.'

‘Everything all right?' the waitress asked.

Irina crumpled the paper and put it in her bag. ‘Yes, thank you. I'll have the crayfish. And a bottle of Moselle.'

The girl smiled in apology.

‘I don't know if we've got any,' she said. ‘I'll get the list for you. I hope you enjoy your meal.'

‘She goes sweet now,' the Dutch boy said. He wiped the grime and engine oil from his hands with an even dirtier rag. He grinned at Lucy and shook his blond head.

‘Broken fuel line joint. Must have come loose on the way.' he said. ‘No surprise she won't go for you. Next time, don't ask too much of her, eh?'

‘Next time,' Lucy promised. ‘Thank you so much, Jan. I'm sorry it's taken you so long.'

‘Thank you,' Volkov echoed. He wasn't sure what a fuel line joint was but he did know that the engine was working now. It had taken the Dutch couple's crewman most of the morning to fix it.