look toward the main building. This was in four storeys and in a no-frills, prefabricated style that could have been anything - a tax office, a really dull hotel, a leaking hospital doomed never to come fully into service. Only the crest over the entrance door gave it away and that didn't entertain the eye much, either.
"I'll tell you what," one of the two men said. His name was Roger, and he'd made a few stabs at conversation in the course of the night. Pavel knew that he'd not been the best company but then, they hadn't been treating this job as anything particularly special. Some novelty value because he was the first Russian they'd ever had in the car, but that was all. Roger went on, "Why don't we put you in the canteen for a while, and I'll go and look for my boss. He's the one who's going to have to decide what to do with you now."
And Pavel said, "What's a canteen?"
They grinned as if he'd made a joke, and they walked him inside.
Pavel sat alone at a table in the corner of the police cafeteria. He bought nothing, because he'd no English money. Only half of the counter had opened up at this early hour and there were no more than half a dozen people in the place, most of them in uniform. He idly pushed around the salt and pepper to avoid meeting anyone's eyes, and then he took out a sachet from the sugar bowl and looked at it with curiosity. The label read Sweet'n'Low but the sachet appeared to be empty. He tore it open and found that it wasn't empty, just that the fine powder inside took up so little space. He tasted it, and then he put a few of the sachets in his pocket.
A policewoman came to get him. Her uniform shirt was crisp and her red hair had been tied back and she had a hint of an overbite. She said "Are you the Russian officer? I'm sorry, I don't know how to pronounce your name," and Pavel said, "Please don't worry about it," and got to his feet to follow her.
They smiled at each other politely in the lift, but nothing passed between them. Pavel was feeling as loose and unconnected as a bag of spanners, and with about as much energy. He looked at the floor. He'd closed his eyes once in the last forty hours, and that had only been a restless doze in the back of the car on the way to the border. He hadn't been able to sleep on the plane at all. He'd been wound-up and anxious ever since he'd come home from his shift and discovered her missing, an empty space under the bed where her bags had been and her photograph album - probably the most precious single item that she owned - gone. His first reaction had been one of panic. But Pavel was level-headed, and he knew that he had a certain inner strength; nobody could have kept her and cared for her in secret and for so long without it. After he'd found the half-burned counterfoil slips from the railway tickets stuffed down the back of the apartment's disused fireplace, his next move had been to return to his Militia post and report that an anonymous source had given him some information on the whereabouts of Alina Petrovna, escapee from the prison hospital and probable murderer of the psychiatrist Belov.
What else could he have done? It was this, or lose her completely with certainty and forever - a prospect that he couldn't even begin to face. He loved her too much even to be able to imagine such a thing; Pavel's was the love of Judas, a devotion so great that it encompassed even betrayal.
The Chief Superintendent had a corner office with a view down onto the place where tenders took on loads of aviation fuel from huge land-based tanks. The Chief Superintendent was a man in his forties, with thinning hair and pale blue eyes that didn't seem to blink. Pavel sat gazing out at the loading area as the man looked through a small number of memos and facsimile messages. All pipelines and white stones, it had the look of an alien landscape. The Chief Superintendent looked from one sheet to another and then back again, as if there were certain connections that he was
"I'll tell you what," one of the two men said. His name was Roger, and he'd made a few stabs at conversation in the course of the night. Pavel knew that he'd not been the best company but then, they hadn't been treating this job as anything particularly special. Some novelty value because he was the first Russian they'd ever had in the car, but that was all. Roger went on, "Why don't we put you in the canteen for a while, and I'll go and look for my boss. He's the one who's going to have to decide what to do with you now."
And Pavel said, "What's a canteen?"
They grinned as if he'd made a joke, and they walked him inside.
Pavel sat alone at a table in the corner of the police cafeteria. He bought nothing, because he'd no English money. Only half of the counter had opened up at this early hour and there were no more than half a dozen people in the place, most of them in uniform. He idly pushed around the salt and pepper to avoid meeting anyone's eyes, and then he took out a sachet from the sugar bowl and looked at it with curiosity. The label read Sweet'n'Low but the sachet appeared to be empty. He tore it open and found that it wasn't empty, just that the fine powder inside took up so little space. He tasted it, and then he put a few of the sachets in his pocket.
A policewoman came to get him. Her uniform shirt was crisp and her red hair had been tied back and she had a hint of an overbite. She said "Are you the Russian officer? I'm sorry, I don't know how to pronounce your name," and Pavel said, "Please don't worry about it," and got to his feet to follow her.
They smiled at each other politely in the lift, but nothing passed between them. Pavel was feeling as loose and unconnected as a bag of spanners, and with about as much energy. He looked at the floor. He'd closed his eyes once in the last forty hours, and that had only been a restless doze in the back of the car on the way to the border. He hadn't been able to sleep on the plane at all. He'd been wound-up and anxious ever since he'd come home from his shift and discovered her missing, an empty space under the bed where her bags had been and her photograph album - probably the most precious single item that she owned - gone. His first reaction had been one of panic. But Pavel was level-headed, and he knew that he had a certain inner strength; nobody could have kept her and cared for her in secret and for so long without it. After he'd found the half-burned counterfoil slips from the railway tickets stuffed down the back of the apartment's disused fireplace, his next move had been to return to his Militia post and report that an anonymous source had given him some information on the whereabouts of Alina Petrovna, escapee from the prison hospital and probable murderer of the psychiatrist Belov.
What else could he have done? It was this, or lose her completely with certainty and forever - a prospect that he couldn't even begin to face. He loved her too much even to be able to imagine such a thing; Pavel's was the love of Judas, a devotion so great that it encompassed even betrayal.
The Chief Superintendent had a corner office with a view down onto the place where tenders took on loads of aviation fuel from huge land-based tanks. The Chief Superintendent was a man in his forties, with thinning hair and pale blue eyes that didn't seem to blink. Pavel sat gazing out at the loading area as the man looked through a small number of memos and facsimile messages. All pipelines and white stones, it had the look of an alien landscape. The Chief Superintendent looked from one sheet to another and then back again, as if there were certain connections that he was
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