Fractions_ The First Half of the Fall Revolution - Ken MacLeod [296]
I stroked a strand of hair away from her face.
‘Are you ready for a cigarette?’ I smiled.
‘God, yes.’
‘I’ve got some in my jacket,’ I said, sitting up and reaching toward the end of the bed.
‘No, no,’ Myra said. She threw back the covers, caught my forearm. ‘You must try some of ours. Really.’
She smiled into my eyes. Had she thought I might be going for my gun? If so, she must think it was still in the jacket. She’d have felt it there when we embraced in the hall, and not checked again before getting in the shower.
She reached over to a bedside cabinet, opened the drawer. I didn’t take my eyes off her for a second, and she didn’t let go of my arm, as she fumbled around inside the drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes. We smoked in thoughtful silence. The strong, rough cigarette made my head buzz. Did she suspect that I suspected?
I stubbed out the cigarette, gave her a broad wink, and said, a little too loud, ‘Myra, would you mind driving me to my hotel?’
She grinned back at me and said, again as if for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, ‘No problem.’
I put on all my clothes except my jacket, stooped to zip up my overnight bag, and said: ‘Ah, I left my cloth in the shower.’
I leaned into the shower stall, recovered the pistol, turned around –
My foot reached the drawer of the bedside cabinet a second before her hand, and slammed it shut. As she jerked back I opened the drawer again, and fished out the pistol that I’d known for sure would be there.
Myra sat rigid, white-faced, clutching the quilt as if for protection.
‘I’m ready,’ I told her. I slipped her big heavy automatic into my jacket pocket, picked up the jacket and draped it across my arm and hand. ‘We can leave as soon as you’re dressed.’
When she was dressed, and we were back in her living-room, she tried a casual reach for her handbag, but I got to it first. I pocketed yet another pistol, this one even smaller and lighter than my own, tossed her the keys and nodded for the door. She pulled on her long fur coat, and descended the stairs in front of me. The black Skoda still stood alone on the street.
Following my silent indications, she opened the passenger door and slid across to the driver’s seat. I got in and closed the door. She turned the key and the engine started immediately, as did the heater. Just as well – I was freezing after going those few steps in the open without my jacket.
She faced me, tears in her eyes.
‘Jon,’ she said, ‘what are you doing? I trusted you. Are you working for Reid?’
‘I see you’re not worried about bugs in your car,’ I remarked. ‘I don’t think you were worried about bugs in your flat, either. Start driving.’
Her shoulders slumped. ‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘Where to?’
‘Karaganda.’
‘What?’ She looked at me, open-mouthed. ‘That’s hundreds of kilometres. Semipalatinsk is closer.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Shut up and drive.’
The border on the Karaganda road was only fifty kilometres distant, and I knew – from my conversation with the KPF cadres the previous night – that the greater Kazakh republic had a border post there, and the ISTWR hadn’t.
Myra engaged the gears, and the vehicle pulled out as the first snow of the day began to fall.
Myra’s story, I’d decided, just didn’t add up. If she and her doings were under surveillance, my visit had to be known. If she was out of favour with the authorities, her contact with me could only be interpreted with suspicion. It must be as obvious to her as it was to me that the first thing I’d do once I was safely home was to give her story all the publicity I could, risks or no risks.
It followed that both she, and the ISTWR’s security apparatus, wanted me to expose it – and that she was still well in favour with that apparatus. This implied that her story of the little republic’s having been completely taken over by some faction linked with Reid’s company was false. Far more likely it was that the core of the state was opposed