20 : Document

I told Voskarev I wanted his keys and his papers. He stared around him as if looking for a street number through the clouded glass, as if lost in a place he'd thought familiar. I said 'I'll get them, otherwise. Don't embarrass yourself.' He opened his astrakhan coat, fumbling like an old man. 'Fast,' I said, 'very fast indeed.' The driver said he'd get them for me and I told him to shut up. The driver wanted to kill him, I knew that. Six, all cylinder-type, two on a separate ring, series numbers in sequence. 'Papers.' The engine was still running. Exhaust gas came through the open door. Yellow light flooded the snow and went out. 'Oh come on,' I said. Sweat was on his white face, glazing it like a toffee-apple. Foster spoke to him quietly in Russian telling him not to worry, he would retrieve the situation. Such a windy phrase, that. N. K. N. Voskarev, Deputy Chief Controller, Co-ordinated Information Services Foreign Division, seals and frankings U.B. liaison, all facilities requested up to ministerial privilege level. Big fish. I kept the passport and gave the identity card to the driver. 'There's a man under escort arriving at the Cracow within the next half an hour. Show this to his guards and tell them you're taking him over, Voskarev's orders. Get him to base.' 'Understood.' A red card had dropped out of the folder and I picked it up and looked at it. 'Where's your insulin?' 'Here.' Voskarev tapped his case. 'Get it.' The air came in, freezing against our legs. The driver stood impatiently, his breath clouding. The escort had shifted behind the wheel in case we had to take off suddenly. 'Look, you want that insulin? Give you five seconds.' Stuff was flashing us, no parking here, only wanted a patrol. Red, very red sector. I looked at the driver. 'Right' The briefcase was still open and Voskarev was trying to zip , it. He clutched the hypodermic kit in one hand. 'The case stays here.' He tried to take it with him and the driver did the wrist thing and papers hit the floor. Then he was pulled out. 'Bloody well calm down will you? He can keep the insulin and use it when he wants to, he's no good to us in a coma. You beat him up and I'll have you kicked into the camps, I can do that, now get moving.' I dragged the door shut. The man at the wheel got into gear and I slapped the division and told him to wait. 'It doesn't,' Foster said, 'look too well organised.’ 'Best you can do with hired labour.' I wound the division down. The handle was loose and took a bit more off the veneered panel. Foster sat with his hand still in the looped strap. His eyes were almost closed, two slits glinting in the baggy flesh. 'You're making it worse for yourself,' he said. Police klaxons were piping a see-saw note somewhere on the far side of the river. Doors slammed much closer, behind us. 'Don't do that.' I had to kick upwards before he could reach the handle. He'd seen it done on the telly or somewhere: this wasn't his type of field at all; he was political-intellectual, the big moves over a glass of bubbly.