[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.Above the wall spindly branches poked up like twig brooms.‘How will you get down?’‘I’ll jump.I’ll be fine.It’s the first thing I’ve done for myself in fifteen years.’He kissed her, and as he turned to walk away she took his hand in hers and held it for a moment; at her touch his bravado faded and he fought the urge to stay.‘I’ll be fine,’ he said at last.No one had raked the grass and wet leaves squelched under his feet.In a moment he was on the sloped roof of the shed, and the top of the wall was level with his chest; he pulled himself up and sat, feeling damp seep through the seat of his trousers.Marina was still watching him.He waved to her, let himself down the other side so that he was hanging from his fingertips, and let himself drop.He landed in a bush, scratching a calf in the process and falling backwards onto his back.He raised himself up on his elbows and lay there for a moment in the muddy earth with rain falling on his face.Sweet London rain.He stood up, brushed himself off and in no great hurry walked towards Kensington High Street.He took inventory.He had the clothes he was in, damp around the backside from his fall but otherwise serviceable; his passport; his wallet, with around four hundred pounds in various currencies; the letter from Marina; and three mobile phones, which he should now turn off.He had read that you could be traced through your phone whether or not it was switched on – even listened to.He stopped and took the batteries out of each, keeping the bits separate in his pockets.He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in an empty park at night.It made him feel like a teenager.His overcoat gave little protection and the trees had now lost nearly all their leaves, but he didn’t mind being wet and walked across the huge expanse of grass with his face turned up to the sky.His trousers flapped coldly round his calves in the steady wind.Around the edges of the park lay London like a thin border.As Holland Park narrowed towards the street he began to wonder how he was going to scale the fence at the end.What if it was huge? He couldn’t remember what was there.Through the trees he could see a stretch of wall and a fence behind some thick bushes.It looked high enough to be a struggle, but not worse.As he got closer, though, he saw open arches set into the wall, and in the end he just walked out into Kensington, feeling as light as a cloud.Newly free, Lock was surprised that he seemed to know what to do.It was half past twelve.No flights, no trains to Paris, probably no trains anywhere.Tonight he would hide in London.He walked up Kensington High Street until he found a bank and drew as much money as he could from its cashpoint machine.Then he walked down a side street away from the park, south towards Earls Court.Here he saw no one.There were few lights showing in the mansion blocks that lined the streets; London had gone to bed.Occasionally a car passed and he controlled the urge to turn and look at it.On the Cromwell Road he stood for a minute or two and then hailed a taxi, telling it to take him to Victoria.He asked the driver to stop by the train station, paid him, tipping him well, and set off in search of a hotel.On the main streets he passed large business hotels, bland and anonymous enough, but they weren’t what he wanted.Eventually he turned down a narrow side road where every house was a guest house: en suite bathrooms as standard, TV in every room.Through their glass doors he could see striped wallpaper and dirty brown carpets, beech veneer furniture and bright strip lights, but no guests or staff, no people at all.Signs hanging in front windows told him which had vacancies.He wondered who stayed in these places, and realized he had no idea.Salesmen? Refugees of one kind or another? Money-launderers on the run?He walked back down the row and found one that looked neater than the others.The Hotel Carlisle.There were geraniums, a little tatty, growing in pots on the windowsills and its entrance hall was warmly lit by a standard lamp.At his ring a brisk, unsmiling woman came to the door.It took her under a minute to take his money and tell him where to find room 28.He told her he was Mr Alan Norman, a name that as he said it sounded so strikingly unconvincing that he felt sure that she would question it, but she showed no interest and to his relief didn’t ask to see his passport.No one would find him here.Room 28, at the rear of the house, looked out over the backs of other Georgian houses and a mess of light industrial units and warehouses.It was small: there was enough room for two single beds, a bedside table in between them, and a pine wardrobe so close to a bed that its door only opened a foot.The walls were covered in woodchip paper painted over in a sickly fluorescent green, and in a corner a heavily shaded ceiling light spotlit the navy covers of one of the beds, leaving everything else in gloom.The advertised en suite contained a shower with a worn plastic concertina screen and a tiny basin that overhung the toilet.There was no television after all.Lock took it all in and was pleased.It was clean enough, and it was his.He took off his coat, hung it on the back of the door and lay down on the bed.He was happy with this newly basic existence but there were things he wanted.He would have liked a bottle of whisky, and some pyjamas.Maybe he would ask the woman downstairs if there was anything to drink.Still, it was just one night.Tomorrow he would catch a train to Newhaven and from there a boat to Dieppe.Then he would hire a car, drive to Switzerland, withdraw all his money and disappear somewhere for a good long time.Go and see Onder in Istanbul and see about a new passport.Onder must know someone; he was the sort of man that would.And then on, somewhere unexpected and a little chaotic.Indonesia, perhaps, one of the remoter islands.Or Vanuatu.The end of the earth.What would happen then? Malin would look for him.Maybe the FBI would look for him.Perhaps the Swiss.He had forgotten the Swiss.What had Rast said, so unflappably? ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, Richard, but maybe you can make use of it.The Swiss prosecutor thinks you have an interesting business, and is becoming very curious.’ That was part of it.What if the Swiss detained him at the border? What if they already had enough on him? They could alert the Russians and ship me back home.God.If he had been clever he would have asked Bashaev to find out what the Swiss were doing.There were other problems with his plan.Could you take that much money out of a Swiss bank? Yes, he was sure you could.He had read stories about people leaving Switzerland with far more than the eight or nine million that he had in there.But what was that money, if they stopped him at the border? Where did it come from? How did he explain it? And how was he planning to carry it around: in a suitcase? To Istanbul? And then, and then: let’s say all this worked and he reached Sulawesi, how long would it be before Malin tracked him down? Horkov would know about his disappearance soon – by the morning, he guessed, when Ivan and Arkady finally realized that he wasn’t in Marina’s flat.Even having Horkov on your side was terrifying; Horkov and his people tracking you for all time was paralysing.His head was aching now as the vodka faded.He could feel the muscles in his shoulders tight against his neck and his back hurt.Who was he to escape? In Russia he had grown fat and timid and no longer had instincts he could trust.It was like releasing a pet dog into the wild.And if he made it, what then? A lifetime of the fear he was feeling now.CHAPTER TWELVEWebster came home a little after midnight.He undressed in the bathroom and got into bed as quietly as he could, sliding under the duvet and lying on his front.Elsa was already asleep.He lay there for a moment listening to her breathing, slow and deep
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]