Part 25 (2/2)

'What sort of country will you build with your terror? A place where anyone who stands in your way is judged to be an enemy of the people?'

'Shut up.' She pulled away so no part of her was touching him, but he shuffled closer again, reaching out for her shoulder.

'We can be our own country.'

'Go!' She pushed at his chest.

'What's more important?'

'I'm going, then.' She began to rise, pulling the bed clothes with her to cover her nakedness. He could see she was lost in an angry mist and quite beyond reason. She did not want to look at him. She would not listen to him.

'Don't be silly. I'll go,' he said.

'Don't patronise me.'

'I'll go,' and he got to his feet and began to dress. She had put on her underwear and was struggling in the corner of the tiny room with her dress, determined to stand as far from him as possible. It was comical, and he fought a mad urge to laugh. Look at us, he thought, just look at us.

'I don't think we should see each other again,' she whispered, her back still to him.

'Is that what you want?'

'It is what I want.'

They finished dressing in cold silence. When he was ready Anna picked up the candle and snuffed it out with her fingers.

'That simple?' he asked.

'You leave first.'

'You know I love you,' he said.

'I'm sorry, Frederick, but this is best for you.'

'Don't tell me what's best for me,' he said bitterly, and he stepped across to the entrance and tugged the curtain aside. He glanced over his shoulder at her. 'You know how to find me, Anna.' And the curtain fell back silently behind him.

Anna walked until her chest ached, faster, faster, stumbling in the dark, sliding, almost falling. She walked in a mist, the city streets opaque and confusing, and yet by five o'clock she had found her way back to Podolskaya Street in time to become Elizaveta the Ukrainian maid once more. Hollow, heavy-footed, she climbed to the second floor and let herself into the apartment. The bedroom she shared with Praskovia was at the end of the hall, but to avoid waking her and the questions that would follow she decided to spend what was left of the night on the couch. Staggering like a drunk with the effort, she removed her boots and shuffled slowly down the hall to the small drawing room. The door was a few inches ajar. She gave it a gentle push and stepped inside. The shutters and drapes were closed, the room as black as a coalhole, and she was obliged to use the wall and furniture to grope her way towards the couch. She was on the point of collapsing exhausted on to it when she heard a light scuffing noise and with a shudder of fear she realised there was someone in the room. She could feel him there at the shuttered windows. She began to edge away, every muscle tense, poised to run. Then a blinding yellow flash. He had struck a match.

'You,' she said, trembling with rage.

Alexander Mikhailov lifted the flame to a candle and, rising from his chair, walked over to the stove to light another, the light playing across his face.

'Did I startle you?'

'You wanted to.'

He stared at her, inscrutable like a cat, a face that kept secrets. The room was cold and he was still in his coat and scarf.

'What are you doing here at this hour?' she asked, dropping on to the couch. 'Did you see the Director?'

He stepped over to the door and closed it quietly: 'Yes.'

'And what did he say to you?'

'Have you been with your Englishman?' he asked, settling into the chair opposite.

'That's none of your business,' she snapped.

'Have you been with him?'

She stared at him defiantly, refusing to answer. 'I'm tired. I need to sleep,' she said at last.

His insolent smile made her blush with embarra.s.sment and anger.

'I want to sleep,' she said again and she began to shuffle round, preparing to lift her legs on to the couch.

'Is he still useful?' Mikhailov asked. 'You said he was useful.'

'Yes, yes, he's useful,' she said angrily.

'Keep your voice down . . .'

'The help he gave Valentin and tonight he told me Grigory had broken and was giving them information. So, yes, he's useful.'

'Goldenberg? How does your doctor know?'

Anna hesitated. 'From the special investigator.'

'Dobrs.h.i.+nsky?'

'Yes.'

'When did he speak to Dobrs.h.i.+nsky?'

'Two weeks ago.'

'And did you know he was speaking to Dobrs.h.i.+nsky?'

'Yes. But I trust him.'

'You trust him?' Mikhailov gave a short laugh: 'You're blind.' He leant forward, his podgy hands together like a judge before a court. 'Your doctor met the special investigator at his home.'

'Why ask if you know? Please, can we talk of this later?'

'What did your doctor tell Dobrs.h.i.+nky?'

'What?' He had pushed her too hard and her fragile temper snapped: 'Everything, everything,' she shouted, jumping to her feet to stand shaking with anger before him. 'Everything. Satisfied?'

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