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wasn't just fat;
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he was heavy, too, and very strong. He looked at Newton in disgust. 'Idiot!'
he rumbled. He lit a cigarette, despite the fact that he already had one
going.
'I couldn't have done anything anyway!' Newton protested. 'I'd shot my bolt,
hadn't reloaded yet.'
'Shot your bloody bolt?' Roberts glared. Then he calmed himself. 'I'd like to
say it's not your fault,' he told Newton then. 'And maybe it isn't your fault.
Maybe he was just too damned clever for us.'
'What now?' said Layard. He felt a little sorry for Newton, tried to take
attention away from him.
Roberts looked at Layard. 'Now? Well, when I've calmed down a little you and
me will have to try and find the bastard, that's what now!'
'Find him?' Newton licked dry lips. How?' He was confused, wasn't thinking
clearly.
Roberts at once tapped the side of his head with huge white knuckles. 'With
this!'
he shouted.
'It's what I do. I'm a "scryer", remember?' He glared again at Newton. 'So
what's your fucking talent? Other than screwing things up, I mean.'
Newton found a chair and fell into it. 'I... I saw him, and yet convinced
myself that I hadn't seen him. What the hell's wrong with me? We went there to
trap him - to trap anything coming out of that house - so why didn't I react
more posit -'
Jordan drew air sharply and made a conclusive, snapping sound with his
fingers. He gave a sharp nod, said, 'Of course!'
They all looked at him.
'Of course!'
he said again, spitting the words out. 'He's talented too, remember? Too
bloody talented by a mile!
Harvey, he got to you. Telepathically, I mean. Hell, he got to me too!
Convinced us he wasn't there, that we couldn't see him. And I really didn't
see him, not a hair of him. I was there, too, remember, when Simon was burning
that thing. But I saw nothing. So don't feel too bad about it, Harvey - at
least you actually saw the bastard!'
'You're right,' Roberts nodded after a moment. 'You have to be. So now we know
for sure:
Bodescu is loose, angry and - God, dangerous! Yes, and he's more powerful, far
more powerful, than anyone has yet given him credit for.'
Wednesday, 12.30 A.M. middle-European time, the border crossing-point near
Siret in
Moldavia.
Krakovitch and Gulharov had shared the driving between them, though Carl Quint
would have been only too happy to drive if they had let him. At least that
might have relieved some of his boredom. Quint hadn't found the Romanian
countryside along their route - railway depots standing forlorn and desolate
as scarecrows, dingy industrial sites, fouled rivers and the like - especially
romantic. But even without him, and despite the often dilapidated condition of
the roads, still the
Russians had made fairly good time. Or at least they'd made good time until
they arrived here; but
'here' was the middle of nowhere, and for some as yet unexplained reason
they'd been held up
'here' for the last four hours.
Earlier their route out of Bucharest had taken them through Buzau, Focsani and
Bacau along the banks of the Siretul, and so into Moldavia. In Roman they'd
crossed the river, then continued up
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through Botosani where they'd paused to eat, and so into and through Siret.
Now, on the northern extreme of the town, the border crossing-point blocked
their way, with Chernovtsy and the Prut some twenty miles to the north. By now
Krakovitch had planned on being through Chernovtsy and into Kolomyya under the
old mountains the old Carpathians for the night, but...
'But!' he raged now in the paraffin lamplight glare of the border post. 'But,
but, but!' He slammed his fist down on the counter-top which kept staff a
little apart from travellers; he spoke, or shouted, in Russian so explosive
that Quint and Gulharov winced and gritted their teeth where they sat in the
car outside the wooden chalet-styled building. The border post sat centrally
between the incoming and outgoing lanes, with barrier arms extending on both
sides. Uniformed guards manned sentry boxes, a Romanian for incoming traffic,
a Russian for outgoing. The senior officer was, of course, Russian. And right
now he was under pressure from Felix Krakovitch.
'Four hours!' Krakovitch raved. 'Four bloody hours sitting here at the end of
the world, waiting for you to make up your mind! I've told you who I am and
proved it. Are my documents in order?'
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zanotowane.pldoc.pisz.plpdf.pisz.plkwiatpolny.htw.pl
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Dobre pomysły nie mają przeszłości, mają tylko przyszłość. Robert Mallet
De minimis - o najmniejszych rzeczach.
Dobroć jest ważniejsza niż mądrość, a uznanie tej prawdy to pierwszy krok do mądrości. Theodore Isaac Rubin
Dobro to tylko to, co szlachetne, zło to tylko to, co haniebne.
Dla człowieka nie tylko świat otaczający jest zagadką; jest on nią sam dla siebie. I z obu tajemnic bardziej dręczącą wydaje się ta druga. Antoni Kępiński (1918-1972)
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