Читать книгу Albedo Castle - - Страница 4

Two days earlier, in the morning, at Singapore Changi Airport there was a commotion – and not just because the legendary racing team Rote Stier, Formula One champions, were leaving the country after the Grand Prix at the Marina Bay Street Circuit.

Pilots, engineers, mechanics, managers, and other members of the star-studded team were crossing the bustling hall, heading towards the check-in counter. They drew attention not only of the fans shouting farewell congratulations, but of the other passengers – because the orderly crowd dressed in distinctive brand attire moved like a single organism.

Mechanic Richard Bateman, broad-shouldered and tall – over six feet – walked in step with everyone, his blue eyes were fixed on the floor, a baseball cap on his head, a brand jacket hugging his torso, a bag in his hands. He exchanged sparse conversation with colleagues, the morning flight after a busy weekend – with only one Monday off that everyone usually spent catching up with sleep – was the usual routine. He had shaved the day before and now looked younger, the skin of his cheeks and chin had time to grow unaccustomed to the razor and was now sore.

At the turn, in the passageway between halls, the crowd split – some of the Bulls fell behind, stretching into a column as they passed the rows of waiting chairs. There was another crowd approaching – faces that jumbled into a kaleidoscope from months of travel, Richard was maneuvering through bodies automatically, hardly taking his eyes off the glistening floor, the heels and backs of his colleagues were his navigation cues.

Suddenly, someone from the oncoming crowd moved in his direction, Richard instantly recoiled, his body was faster than his mind – but not only did the stranger not change trajectory, he collided with him, grabbing Richard’s right shoulder with one arm and with the other, pressing against his left side.

Richard extended his left arm, bent at the elbow, to push the stranger – in the same jacket and baseball cap as him – away, but it didn’t save him from the blade hitting his left hypochondrium. Richard instantly felt the knife pierce his flesh – and it was a mix of sudden pain and astonishment – as if he was an air balloon, burst with a needle.

The stranger had fair eyebrows and light brown eyes, he was average height, with an unremarkable face, he smelled of sweat and laundry detergent.

“You’re a dead man, Richard North,” he said, his voice toneless, he spoke English, but with an Eastern European accent.

Only a couple of seconds had passed – but they felt like a free-fall eternity. A moment later, the stranger disappeared into the crowd, Richard was staring after him, his heart pounded loudly in his throat, blood roared in his ears, counterpointing the cacophony of the airport sounds.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” someone called out, the voice was right next to his ear, but Richard didn’t turn.

His left side was pulsating oddly, as if hot water was pouring onto it from a faucet – or as if he himself was a faucet. Richard finally realized what had happened. He tried to press down on the wound, but the hall began to sway before his eyes, he couldn’t move his hand, he didn’t even have the strength to hold it at waist level.

“Richard!”

In the back of his mind, Richard knew he was wounded, but it was as if he, from outside his body, watched his undercover colleague Dario Fisher, a radio engineer in the Rote Stier team, call to him – being kneeled in the hall of the Singapore airport – and how Fisher fails to hold him – keeling over – upright.

Fisher took his jacket off and was pressing down on the wound, trying to stop the gushing blood, a crowd of onlookers gathered around them, filming the incident. Richard didn’t see the managers’ horror or the arrival of the ambulance – he blacked out.

He didn’t remember the Singapore hospital – National University Hospital – well, he came to after the surgery when the anesthesia had worn off. The sensations were comparable to a severe hangover and a simultaneous food poisoning – a throbbing head and a fervorous churning stomach. Richard’s worst hangovers occurred in Berlin, during the Station mission, the worst poisoning of his life was in Indonesia, when he had a task as a paramedic on a medical boat.

Richard saw Fisher sitting in the chair at his bedside, he closed his eyes hoping that it was just a vision, but it didn’t help. Richard regretted not seeing any visions or dreams when he was blacked out … Thoughts, multiplying exponentially, were already beginning to tear his skull apart from the inside.

He needed to know who had wounded him, and what he should do now.

Richard opened his mouth, but only an indistinct rasp came out.

“It’s Wednesday, 4 AM, you’re in Singapore, and you look like crap,” Dario said.

Richard glanced at the wide floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Kent Ridge Park, at the panorama of the pre-dawn city, he looked around the spacious, comfortable hospital room … Rote Stier tried to take good care of him – and he could only wonder how the incident would affect future events, including those of the racing world.

The stranger was wearing brand clothing, it appeared to be an attack on the team, even though Richard knew that the Bulls had nothing to do with it.

It was a warning – not an attempt to kill him. Had the stranger wanted to kill him, he would have aimed for another, more definitively lethal spot … He called him Richard North, only those who took part in the Poets mission knew Richard North – those who knew him as the British theater actor … and those who knew Alexandra.

At that notion, Richard turned cold. He opened his mouth again, he wanted to ask for the phone, he wanted to call right away, to warn her, hear her voice …

“Everyone’s gone to Nagoya, I barely convinced them to let me stay – and I promised to be in Suzuka by Thursday. They’ll fire me if I let them down.”

Richard wanted to say that it’s the punishment of the Circus he should fear – if he lets MI6 down, but his tongue wouldn’t budge.

“The phone,” he managed, finally.

Dario opted not to ask, he instantly got up and handed him the phone that was on the bedside table next to the wallet and documents.

The hand that rose from the bed next to his wooden body felt like it was not his own. Richard stared at the dark screen, thinking.

“And my clothes.”

“Planning an escape?” Fisher chuckled.

He stood next to the hospital bed, smiling – but not long. A few moments later, he was already rummaging through Richard’s bag to retrieve fresh clothes – without Rote Stier logos. Richard, meanwhile, remained still and stared off into space, still clutching the phone in his unsteady hand.

“I need to make a call. Wait for me outside,” Richard said.

Dario didn’t ask, he left, making a face, Richard sank into thought again, hardly noticing Dario leave the room.

If he calls Alexandra and warns her that she’s being watched – or that someone means to hurt her – he’ll make her act on her own. He was sure that she was okay now – but wasn’t sure about the future. His intuition was still handicapped by the anesthesia, Richard couldn’t stay focused for a long time, he couldn’t feel his body and couldn’t tell if he was afraid or nauseous …

If she flees Moscow, she’ll be found instantly – unless she uses a private plane … Richard didn’t want her to turn to her friend McKellen5, the British historian who had, in the past, put up a brilliant play with Circus agents in lead roles – who had both a private plane and a bag of tricks for disappearances.

They would handle this on their own – and the time has come to use his position to, for once, do something for himself.

Richard sat up on the bed, after a few attempts, he managed to put his bare feet on the floor, he dialed the number – on the dedicated line of an encrypted channel – of Falcon, the head of MI6. He was only allowed to make a call like this in an emergency.

He reported the situation and explained what had happened – stating that, to save both missions – of the Bulls and the Poets – he needs to take Alexandra Stern from Moscow to Tokyo, where the Rote Stier team will arrive a week after the Grand Prix at the Suzuka Circuit – that he, obviously, wouldn’t make it to. He needs to do it himself as to not involve other agents or cause suspicion – and he will figure out how to explain the situation to Stern. He was instructed to take Fisher along – and work it out himself how he would arrange the absence of the radio engineer at the paddock as the team prepares for the weekend.

Richard understood that Dario Fisher was assigned to him so he would learn everything faster … The decision to brief Fisher on the Poets mission was left to Richard’s discretion – as he was answerable for the consequences with his own head.

He asserted to the Circus that the injury was minor, that he’s moving around the hospital room freely and there’s no danger; he thanked the team director Christian and assured him that he would not make any comments to the press or anyone else; to the head mechanic, Phil, he texted that he’ll skip the weekend and won’t risk jeopardizing the team with a hole in his flank, even if he escapes the hospital room to see Singapore – not just through the panoramic window; to the other colleagues who asked about his health he replied that he was alive and would be working fit in no time. The explanation as to why Dario Fisher is staying at the hospital came quickly: the team leaves no one behind.

With effort, Richard managed to pull his jeans on, he had even more troubles putting on his shoes … He stood in front of the window and looked at the light-flecked city, at the futuristic jungle, but was seeing something else.

He won’t be able to call her … He spent such a long time hiding from himself the fact that he can’t – build anew, this albedo castle of white marble, for himself, for the two of them. At the beginning of the year he was full of enthusiasm, of hope, he was sure he’ll make it – that nothing can stop them from being together, no intelligence services, no pseudo-alchemists and pseudo-poets, no force – of order, chaos, evil, good.

Now doubts crept in – that he was no Poet, that everything’s coming back on the trodden tracks of him running in circles, like a well-groomed beast, fulfilling orders, jumping through fiery hoops … He’ll be killed – before he has time to do anything; he’ll be killed – and he’ll never even learn what it’s like to be the architect of one’s universe.

He feared that with each day of delay, with each day of separation, they were drifting apart from each other, and he was drifting away from himself. At times, it felt like the opposite – that they were connected like never before and that he could feel her through the distance, even without their calls – sparse, spontaneous, when he had the chance, when she did …

He often imagined that she was next to him and perfectly aware of everything, that he wasn’t alone.

Wasn’t alone. So odd – he only started thinking about loneliness when he suddenly realized how good it is to have a kindred soul. Alexandra wasn’t the only person whom Richard – to his own surprise – missed.

The phone came to life in his hand, the message and its sender could not have come at a better time.

‘You can take whatever you need for the construction of the castle with you. Whatever you don’t need, leave here.’ There it is, the sign from above – even if the sender was a man formally considered dead by MI6, and the coincidence in which Richard only had to think of him to get an instant message seemed incredible.

“Dario!” he called.

Fisher came instantly, as if he had been standing behind the door and waiting until he would be called for.

“We’re flying to Moscow in two hours, distract the staff so I can leave the hospital. I’ll meet you down at the entrance.”

Dario nodded and left the hospital room without a word.

He somewhat reminded Richard of himself – ready to do anything if it was ordered by one of the chiefs. He had to admit – in certain scenarios, it was impossible not to take advantage of that.