There was no pursuit. I raced briskly to Moscow and there, at the intersection with the Ring Road, ran into an enormous unpleasantness. At a traffic police post they waved a baton at me, inviting me to stop. The fourth time in all my driving about Moscow. The three previous encounters with the traffic police had ended in the profoundest apologies for driving a car with non-Russian plates without the corresponding papers. The apologies were offered in the form of a certain quantity of foreign banknotes.
I reckoned the money in my wallet was enough for double and even triple apologies. I steered calmly onto the verge and braked. A gallant OMON man with a machine gun came up to me, saluted and said:
– Your documents, please, Comrade Captain.
I bit my lip.
Damn!
A thousand damns!
A thousandfold idiot!!! I hadn’t taken off the uniform! Forgot, forgot, forgot in the rush! Of course, a police captain in a car with German plates looked idiotic. Behind the OMON man’s broad back there stood two more men with machine guns, looking at me with curiosity. The patrol car, a mighty “Ford Crown”, stood with its headlights off some ten meters behind. By the time they’d run to it, by the time they’d taken their seats, a lot of time would go by. One chance in two.
– One moment, sergeant, – I said.
Fedya’s engine had not been switched off. I stepped on the accelerator and tore away along the Kashirka, away from the police post. My body was pressed into the seat, my cheeks ended up somewhere near my ears, my ears flapped somewhere at the back of my head. Acceleration to a hundred and fifty kilometers an hour in a matter of seconds – that’s no joke to you. The OMON men were left far behind. By the time they were settling into their car there, by the time they were pulling onto the road and setting off in pursuit… One could have got a long way, if it weren’t for the radio-fication of the entire country and of one police detail in particular. The policemen were probably passing the information on down the route by radio. Which meant getting far away wouldn’t come off. All the ways out would be blocked with police posts and patrols, and you can write letters. And it had all begun so well…
The surroundings flew past at a mad speed. Flashing police beacons flared up and died away far behind. I braked sharply. Lena, paralyzed with fear, blinked her eyes.
– Right, girlfriend. Unload yourself along with the briefcase, – I commanded. – You know my telephone, ring tomorrow morning. We’ll meet at my place, you’ll get the money. Everything promised plus a bonus. Agreed?
Lena nodded her head and quickly leapt out of the car. A competent girl. She ran across to the other side of the highway and stood there at a bus stop. As though she’d just been walking past, saw nothing, knew nothing, and anyway, drive on past, you rotten cop uncles…
I, on the other hand, swung sharply right onto some inconspicuous slip road off the highway and raced along it, fitting into the turns with great difficulty, grinding the wheel rims against the curbs. The brakes squealed and screeched too. The engine strained its strength. The body clattered. I turned my head this way and that and… at last. Braked, sprang out of the car and ran into a little courtyard.
Three in the morning. Where to take cover?
In an unfinished building!
I ran into the entrance hall, flew up the steps to the second floor, to the third, to the fourth… Phew. Stop! I got my breath back and went into an empty flat, without doors, without any finishing at all. Went up to the window, glanced down. Fedor stood alone some fifty meters from the building. Through the distant trees red-and-blue flashes were breaking. The police were driving along my trail. If they discovered Fedor, they’d work out at once where I was hiding.
Done for. It’s all done for.
I recoiled from the window, slapped my palms frantically against my thighs, putting my thoughts in order, struggling with the unpleasant thoughts that had seized me.
It’s all done for! It’s all done for! It’s all done for!
Nothing is done for! I crossed the flat and in the other, opposite room saw beyond the window a bright red letter “M”. The metro! Though what use was it at two in the morning? Shoot it out for three hours and then break through to the turnstiles?
I went downstairs, noticing that the policemen were already inspecting Fedya and turning their heads this way and that. For the moment I had no time for them. I decided to get out of the building, which might turn into a trap. And out there something would come into my head. One could try to hijack a metro train and demand asylum in Sweden… I ran into an empty flat on the ground floor, rushed to the window, knocked out the glass and jumped down.
Raced headlong in the direction of the neon letters. What? What is that? What am I hearing?! Beyond the red letters a heavy railway train was rumbling on its overworked wheels. A railway line ran right beside the metro station! That was a lucky place to end up. Run there! Run!!!
A minute later my wind was shot to hell. The air flew into my lungs in cold lumps and, not managing to fly back out, collided with the next portion. I was suffocating, there was an ache in my side, my muscles creaked, my legs tangled, but the goal was very close. Forty meters. Twenty. Ten. Shouts were heard behind me. Far behind, some two hundred meters.
I gathered my last strength and ran up onto the railway embankment. An endless goods train was creeping past, knocking dully with its wheels at the joints, measuring out little by little the hope of salvation. I grabbed with both hands at a handrail going past, scrambled onto the step, slipped, nearly crashed down under the rails, nearly lost my legs, but scrambled up again after all, bruising my knees, my feet, my elbows. Turned entirely into a beaten cutlet.
A crack. Another crack. The resonant, weighty cracks of pistol shots scorched my hearing. What’s this? I turned round. Three policemen close by, down below the embankment, were blazing away into the sky out of every barrel they had and shouting something about “surrender”. For some reason they weren’t pointing the barrels in my direction. They were wary of something. Of what? What strange luck is this?
I turned my head this way and that and understood at once. I was rolling away from the police on the step of a tanker wagon. Luck again. How wildly lucky I was today! I turned round, glanced at the policemen. They had scrambled up onto the embankment and were running along the tracks after the train’s last wagon. Running, shouting, shooting and slowly, gradually falling behind.
Phew.
I got my breath back, gathering my strength.
Seemed I’d recovered a little. Then I reckoned enough time had passed. I’d got two or three kilometers away from the pursuit. No more needed.
I jumped down the slope.
It was painful. Very painful. Catastrophically painful.
I lay with my face buried in the cold mud and moved my limbs. They moved with a strain. It seemed nothing was broken, but everything was battered. Never mind. It’ll heal before the wedding. With difficulty I got up, shook myself off. Stood a while, swaying in the wind. Realized that from the outside I looked like a crook and a vagrant, and that was fraught with unpleasantness. A concussed fellow in a torn, filthy police uniform would certainly attract unfriendly attention. Damn! I hadn’t long left to walk about in such a get-up. The very first police patrol would catch me.
Stepping unsteadily on my aching, numbing legs, I trudged towards the nearby orange lamps. There, beneath them, ran a transport artery. What use it could be given my appearance, I didn’t stop to think. I had no intention of flagging down passing cars. I wanted… What did I want? I don’t remember.
My head was droning. My body ached. Swaying, I trudged along beside the road, turning round every second. As soon as the lights of car headlamps flared up behind or ahead, I took a step aside, crouched down and waited. The cars flew past. I slowly got up and continued walking.
A hundred meters on, gloomy parallelepipeds of industrial buildings appeared on the right-hand side. I turned in their direction. Hobbled along a wide path to a big dark hangar of a block, then went along beside it. Ran up against a high concrete fence stretching further still. Bit by bit, along the fence, I made it to the gatehouse and peered through the wicket gate.
Thoughts of imminent salvation and deliverance, of divine providence and unending luck crept into my head. My weary gaze ran up against a bus, against a second bus, against a third… against a tenth… The whole yard beyond the gates was crammed with big yellow vehicles. Precisely what was needed. I cheered up instantly, climbed over the wicket gate and cautiously glanced in at the window of the watchman’s hut. The watchman was peacefully dozing, his head inclined onto his chest. I stood a while, gathering my strength. Then shamelessly disturbed the gatekeeper’s peace. Knocked the door out with my foot and showed the awakened fellow a pistol. Showed it in detail, thrust it under his nose and moved the barrel up and down. After which I politely inquired on the subject of the availability of rope. The watchman had rope. With it he was bound and tied to the desk. As a last touch I tore out the telephone wire, flesh and all, and pressed the big black button. The gates of the bus depot slowly opened. I went out onto the street, climbed into the nearest “Ikarus”, fiddled about with the ignition and started the vehicle.
Like the simplest of citizens, on a bus of route six hundred and thirty-five, I drove to Nagatino. It seemed it wasn’t far.
It seemed the unpleasant adventures were over. The pleasant ones remained to come.