He was stopping at the end of the queue for the pumps and I made a half-turn and pulled up with a parked truck for cover and waited. At this angle the mirror gave me a square centimetre of critical reflection: the forward half of the Syrena's driving-window and Ignatov's head and one shoulder. After thirty seconds he opened the door and got out and I shifted my head to keep his reflection in sight: the back of his dark fur coat and the lower half of his head. Then the image disappeared and I had to risk looking round.
He was going across the tarmac area towards the telephone box.
I watched him.
Bodily changes: sweat, blood leaving the skin, awareness of pulse. Panic trying to set in.
It's a trap. He did this before, when -
Shuddup.
Bloody organism.
We've got to get out of here -
Shuddup.
He went into the telephone box and I saw the dark of his shoulder and the pale blur of his face behind the steamy glass. He knew the number: he wasn't using the book.
The nerves were tingling as the adrenalin came into the bloodstream, and the muscles felt alert. Instinct told me to get out while there was a chance of finding cover and going to ground before the patrol cars arrived, and logic supported this. He'd led me a long way, two days ago, before he'd stopped to telephone, and he'd led me a long way now. I'd performed a model tag from Spassky Gate this evening, but I'd done as well two days ago and he'd seen me and set the trap, just as he was doing now.
So I got out of the car and walked the length of the truck and reached the shadows behind the buildings and watched him from there. The box was in full light under one of the tall gooseneck lamps, the snow reflecting it upwards in a wash of radiance; but I could still see only the indistinct image of his face as he stood half-turned towards the buildings. I think he nodded, once, before he put the phone back and came out. He couldn't see me in the shadows and I moved the woollen scarf away from my ears and listened to the sounds of the traffic, trying to be selective, trying to pick out a distant siren or the snow chains of a vehicle moving fast.
Ignatov stood looking towards the river, the way we'd just come. He might be watching the lights over there, or the stream of south-bound traffic, or the tail end of the Pobeda and its number plate: I couldn't see at this distance. When the queue moved up to the pumps he got back into the Syrena and kept his place, and when the queue moved again and he was alongside the end pump he got out again and stood watching the traffic.
I went on listening. The cold air was numbing to the ears after the warmth of the scarf, and the cheek wound was sensitive. It was seven minutes since he'd come out of the telephone box and his tank had been filled and he was paying the attendant. I could still hear nothing unusual in the traffic's sound. It didn't mean they weren't on their way: with the snow on the streets they'd take longer to get here and there'd be no particular hurry because if he'd given them the location they'd dose in from a dozen directions and block my way out.
When he got back into his car I would have to make the decision but the organism was feverish with apprehension the adrenals were releasing epinephrine and constricting the blood vessels and the liver was releasing glucose for the motor energy; the skeletal muscles were firming and strengthening and the pulse was strong and fast. But it might not be enough to save me if I made the wrong decision.
He was getting back into his car.
I went on listening and heard no change in the traffic sound. The last thing I did before going back to the Pobeda was to feel my waistband under my coat to make sure the small rectangular tin was still there.
Ignatov waited for a slot in the traffic stream and found one and sped up and I followed, watching the mirror and the side streets and the reflections in the windows and bodywork of the cars ahead of me, watching for the first sign of a flashing light. The Mercedes came into the mirror twice before Ignatov led me eastwards again, alongside the park; then I lost it for a while. The sweating had stopped but I was chilled with it, and my mouth tasted bitter. The organism was having to deal with the superfluous adrenalin and the muscles were fretting for action. There wasn't going to be any: he'd phoned somebody else.
Who?
His wife or a friend or a woman, anyone, it could be anyone, telling them he was going to be a little late tonight because of the snow. Ignore.
At 5.47 he slowed and took a side street and slowed again and I held back until he turned sharply into the entrance of an underground car park. It was alongside an apartment block and I drove straight past to make a check and then came back and stopped and doused the lights and got out and started walking fast over the snow. Halfway along the street I heard an engine die and a door open as I reached the black mouth of the entrance and went down the ramp, breaking into a run across the dry concrete because it wouldn't matter if he heard me coming.
The place was cavernous, with concrete columns standing at intervals, their pattern merging into the darkness. The slam of a car door came but the echoes bounced the sound from wall to wall and I couldn't locate it. Then a flashlight came on and its beam swung and focused on my eyes, blinding me. I began walking into the beam but it went out and I stopped dead, waiting for the dazzling after-image to clear. I think he was some fifty feet ahead of me, midway between two of the columns; I heard movement but it wasn't distinct enough to get a fix on.
I waited ten seconds, but there was only silence now.
'Ignatov,' I said. 'I need to talk to you.'
He didn't answer. I couldn't tell if he had a gun: it was pitch dark in this area and the click of a safety catch wouldn't necessarily carry this distance. If he had a gun and wanted to hold me off, he would have to put his flashlight on again to take aim. If he decided I was too dangerous then he would simply fire, but he'd have to use the flashlight even to do that, because the entrance was no longer behind me and I wasn't showing a silhouette.
I stood listening, perfectly still except for my head. I was turning my head to the left, until my right ear was facing Ignatov's last estimated position; the right ear feeds aural input to the left hemisphere of the brain where the logical analysis of crude sound is made. I picked up nothing at all. After thirty seconds something drove past the entrance along the street, and the sound came into the cavernous dark and set up diminishing vibrations: the acoustics were strange in here, with the concrete columns breaking up the sound patterns and reflecting their remnants.
I thought some kind of movement had been made, when the sound had come down from the street. I wasn't sure.
'Ignatov. We need to talk.'
My own voice sounded odd, its echoes overlapping. I went forward, using tai-chi steps, long and infinitely slow, keeping my feet slightly tilted to avoid the sound of flat contact, sole to floor. I took ten paces and stopped. I thought he was somewhere between where I stood now and forty feet away: a few minutes ago I'd estimated his distance from me as fifty feet and I'd just moved thirty, allowing for a margin of error of twenty and doubling it. Then he moved and I heard him and span into the fighting-horse stance and waited.
Total silence. I went on waiting. I thought I was close to him now, perhaps very close. In the far distance I could see the rectangular patch of light made by the street lamps above ground, but there was no light here. If I could move to one side and work round him in a half circle I could bring his silhouette in line between me and the entrance; but he might be trying to do that himself, and might be succeeding: at any time now the shot would come, if he were going to shoot.