Quiller Balalaika

20: MIDNIGHT

'Marius Antanov?'

'Who, me? No.'

'Do you know anyone calling himself that?'

'Antanov? Not in this hut, no.'

'Yes, that's good, you've got the move down all right. But with all these strikes you've got to use the whole of your body. Try the heel palm again.'

'To the chin?'

'The chin or the nose, I don't mind. The strike to the chin could kill by breaking the spinal vertebrae, given enough power, but with half as much force the one to the nose will drive the bone into the brain, and that's instant death.'

He made the strike, and well enough, but with no strength yet, of course.

'All right, now start it from the ball of the rear foot and build up the momentum through the calf and the thigh and the hip and the shoulder and then the arm and the hand. Swing the whole body into the move. And if the target's the nose, don't aim at that. Aim at the area behind the nose, up into the inside of the skull, bury the strike right through the target into the brain, smash your way through.'

He made three strikes, trebling their power.

'Right. Practise it that way. In every strike, go for the target accurately but imagine going through it. Make yourself a punch bag, stuff a sack full of garbage or rotten potatoes, whatever you can find. Give me three more.'

He swung in fast, driving from the foot. 'That's it. One day you'll be good, Alex.'

'God,' he said, his breath clouding on the air, his young eyes bright, seeing hope. 'This is strong stuff!'

'You bet.'

He bent over with his hands on his knees, getting his breath; at this altitude it was hard to come by. The storm was over, had died before noon, and the camp rang with snow shovels.

'Give me three more,' I said in a minute. 'Half-fist to the larynx this time, and go for it.'

'Marius Antanov?'

'Talking to me?'

'Yes.'

He shook his head, wiping the sweat from his eyes. We were in the mine. 'Babichev, Danata.'

'You know anyone calling himself Marius Antanov?'

'Nope. There's an Antanov in hut fourteen, but his name's Boris.

Seven to go, by the end of the day.

By midnight, six.

The air was still as I stood for a last few minutes outside the hut. The night was clear, with the starfields strewn across the vastness of space in a shower of silver dust, Sirius ablaze in the south-east, Mars a glowing ruby overhead.

Thou shalt elect a thing, and it shall be bestowed upon thee, and light shall shine upon thy ways.

Then let me find him. Let him be here, somewhere. That's all I ask.

Swing the pick, swing it hard, yea, even heartily, see it cleave the rock.

There have been times in my life, in my career – which is my life – when I've known that I've placed myself outside reality, committed myself to achieving the unachievable. It's very dangerous, but on these occasions there is no choice.

Swing, hit, cleave, watch the rock come away, watch for the glint, the vein, the nickel.

'You're working too hard,' Igor said from beside me. 'Save your energy.'

'What for?'

'The rest of your life.'

Swing lustily, feel the muscles play, sustain the morale.

'What are you going to find here, Igor, for the rest of your life?,

'My life.'

At the times of which I was just speaking, you can come very close to despair, and that's the most dangerous thing of all, except panic. You can take your time over despair, but panic is quick acting, deadly. I've never given in to panic, but yes, I've come close to despair.

Five of the apostles left, and the day to get through, the evening to be spent in making my calls on the five remaining huts, continuing the search, keeping the flame burning, shielding it from the likelihood, the extreme likelihood that I would never find the holy grail, would never bring Balalaika home.

Would never reach home at all.

I would know before midnight.

'That's very good,' I told Alex.

'You're not just saying that?'

'I wouldn't be so irresponsible. Over-confidence could get you killed.'

He was out of breath again, and I decided to call it a day. We were working in the gap between the garbage dumps and the wire on the west side, where a degree or two of warmth lingered from the winter sun that had come out in the wake of the blizzard, flushing the snows with a pale roseate light.

'When will I be ready?' Alex asked.

'Two more months. Go off at half cock and God help you.' I threw a sword-hand across his face and he was painfully slow. 'You've got to work on your reaction time too. Drop things and catch them before they hit the ground. Listen to people talking, and the next time you hear the word "Maybe" or "Always" or whatever you choose, squeeze a fist – instantly. It'll take some doing – you don't want to be jumpy, you want to be fast.'

'Is there anything,' he asked me with an appealing diffidence on our way back to the hut, 'I can do to repay you for all this?'

'I'm doing it for my own satisfaction. But if I think of anything, yes, I'll let you know.'

'Is your name Marius Antanov?'

'No. You've got the wrong man.'

Three now.

Three.

The huts full of steaming men, the ringing of the shovels over for the day, the pathways cleared, a feeling of good work done, someone singing in the wash rooms, singing, in this place, My life, Igor had said, I took his point.

The gruel filthy in its tin bowl, but we spooned it up with gusto, blowing on it, searching for the end of a carrot, a lump of potato, a few black beans.

I thought of something that Alex could do for me, yes. Perhaps tomorrow, whatever news midnight would bring.

'Marius Antanov?'

He looked at me, the eyes suddenly wary in the thin, sculpted face.

'And who are you?'

21: KEY

'How is she?'

'Worried about you,' I said, 'of course.'

'I suppose so.' He sat shivering on the coconut matting, hunched in his striped greatcoat. He felt the cold.

We were in the gymnasium, if you want to call it that, a bigger hut than the others with no stove, just a few moth-eaten mats strewn around and a rickety vaulting-horse and some parallel bars made of gnarled pit props, no punch bag – any kind of combat training was strictly prohibited in Gulanka. Place reeked of sweat, as you can imagine.

It was the evening end-of-work hour, what we called free time.

'Natalya didn't send her love,' I told Marius, 'because she didn't know I was coming here.'

He moved his head. 'How much warning did you get?' Justice was summary in the capital these days.

'I came here on my own account, chose my own time.' There was a pause. He listened attentively, Marius, then considered before he spoke. He was the kind of man, I thought, who would have been good at running the Sakkas empire; cool, intelligent, creative. In Gulanka he worked in the commandant's office as a book-keeper, he'd told me, his talents not totally wasted.

'You came here on your own account,' he said. 'And what does that mean?'

'I fiddled my way onto the train, with false papers.'

'To Gulanka.' Listening very hard now.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'To look for you.'

Watching me with his pale attentive eyes. 'For me.'

'I'm taking you back to Moscow. I assume you've no objection.'

He blinked, which he didn't do often. He was a bit like Ferris, a cool cat, raised an eyebrow when he felt moved, instead of the roof.

'Taking me back to Moscow,' he said. 'And how long have you been here?'