“That’s quite correct,” remarked one of the policemen. “And we’re here today because we have serious reason to believe that Peter Carter—who was an investigative journalist, as you may know—had been investigating your family for a few months.”
“What do you mean?” broke in Pavel, frowning.
“We found a large number of press articles about your uncle, Leomido Fortensky, at his home,” replied the policeman, “as well as some documents which left no room for doubt as to the subject of his investigation. That file was unfortunately stolen only a few days after we found Carter’s body. We did however have time to examine it. Among other things, it contained an organization chart, photos and highly detailed notes about your friends and family members. About you, Mrs Pollock, and your friend, Abakum Olixone. You ran a renowned herbalist store, didn’t you?”
“Yes, we did,” replied Dragomira candidly with a forced smile.
“These documents also contained some very odd information about a man called Petrus Prokopius, an art thief by trade, who was killed on a job two years ago in the United States. Does that name ring any bells with you?”
“No, I don’t think so,” said Dragomira, who seemed to be searching in the folds of her capacious dress rather than her memory. “But what is his connection with that maths teacher? What was his name? Williams?”
“Lucas Williams, that’s right. Well, we have serious reason to believe that your family—or at least some of its members—had something to do with the murder of those two men, as well as with the disappearance of Miss Heartbreak, a teacher at St Proximus,” stated the policeman coldly, scrutinizing each of them in turn.
“But Miss Heartbreak has reappeared!” exclaimed Oksa indignantly.
“That’s right,” retorted the policeman. “But we’re regarding her reappearance as suspicious. Quite apart from the fact, as you must be aware, that the poor woman is suffering from serious mental injuries. To sum up, your family seems to be the common denominator in all these cases and we’re here to look into this more thoroughly. Lucas Williams was killed just three days after you settled in England and Peter Carter followed you to London, where he suffered the same fate as Williams a month later. What are you doing, Mrs Pollock?” he shouted suddenly, jumping up from his seat. “Please put that—”
The policeman didn’t have time to finish. He and his colleague slumped slowly back on the sofa, eyes open wide in the direction of Dragomira, who’d just blown into her Granok-Shooter.
“Well done, Baba!” exclaimed Oksa anxiously. “That was a close shave. They had worked everything out.”
“Yes,” admitted Baba Pollock. “We’re in a tight corner… we have to hurry, there isn’t a moment to lose!”
“What have you done?” asked Marie in alarm, her hand over her mouth.
“Don’t worry, Marie,” said Pierre reassuringly. “I think Dragomira used a Memory-Swipe Granok.
“That’s right,” confirmed the old lady hurriedly. “And now we must persuade these two men that we have absolutely nothing to do with these events. They must leave here convinced of that.
“Yes, of course,” replied Marie uncertainly.
“How are we going to do that, Baba?” asked Oksa quickly, with great interest.
“Like this.”
Dragomira put her hands on either side of one policeman’s head and, looking him straight in the eye, began frantically muttering some phrases that no one could understand.
“I don’t believe it!” muttered Oksa, taken aback by what she was seeing.
A slender trail of bluish smoke was snaking from Dragomira’s mouth into the ears of the motionless man. Entering one ear, it emerged from the other a few seconds later and then evaporated gently on contact with the air.
“What was that?” stammered Gus.
“Dragomira has the gift of Thought-Adder,” replied her father in a low voice.
“Let me guess,” ventured Oksa. “It’s a form of hypnosis, isn’t it? Baba is persuading those men that we have nothing to do with what happened to Lucas Williams and Peter Carter.”
“You’re forgetting Miss Heartbreak,” pointed out Gus. “The body count is rising.”
While they were talking, Dragomira had given the second policeman the same treatment. As soon as the wisp of blue smoke had emerged from his ears, it vanished in the air.
“Quick!” warned Dragomira. “They’re about to come round. Go back to your seats!”
They all sat back down immediately. On the sofa, the policemen were nodding gently and groaning. Dragomira brought her Granok-Shooter to her mouth and said in a low voice:
By the power of the Granoks
Think outside the box
Particles of wiped memory
Remember the words I told to thee.
Then, aiming the weapon at the policemen, she blew into it twice. The two men immediately continued talking from where they had broken off—or rather, from where Dragomira had wanted them to break off.
“Okay,” said one of them, standing up. “Thank you for taking the time to answer our questions. We’ve intruded upon you long enough.”
“Not at all, gentleman,” replied Dragomira, smiling broadly. “We only wish we could have been of more help.”
“On the contrary, madam. The information you’ve given us will take this investigation in a completely new direction and one we’d never have considered before. We’re deeply grateful.”
Oksa and Gus gazed at each other wide-eyed.
“Your gran is so cool,” remarked Gus as Dragomira showed the policemen to the door.
“I know, I know,” said Oksa in amusement. “It’s a family trait.”
“In the meantime, I really thought you’d lost it when you started giving them chapter and verse.”
“You had us all in a real panic!” added Marie. “I thought our last hour had come.”
“You should trust me a little more,” said Oksa provocatively, and not a little cockily. “Give me some credit!”
“It’s a good thing your gran is a fast thinker, all the same,” commented Pavel seriously.
“We were exactly on the same wavelength,” announced Dragomira, after seeing the two policemen off the premises. “I think the Fairies were on our side.”
“You think they had something to do with it?” asked Oksa inquisitively.
“No, it’s just an Edefian saying, Dushka,” replied the old lady with a laugh.
“Now, mother dear, I’d love you to tell us what wild goose chase you sent those poor policemen on,” said Pavel.
“Oh, it’s very simple. Remember that Gus and Oksa were convinced that Orthon-McGraw was a secret agent? Well, I used that theory and permanently implanted the following explanation in those policemen’s minds. Listen carefully: Peter Carter wasn’t a journalist—that was just a cover. In fact, the man was a secret agent working for the FSB, the Russian Federal Security Service, in other words the former KGB. His job was to locate all Russian dissidents in the West. As you know, my dear husband Vladimir was a great shaman. As soon as they found out about his powers, the Soviet authorities regarded him as a potential danger. He was imprisoned in a gulag for his so-called subversive ideas. A few days later, he was killed while trying to escape. Unfortunately, there was nothing imaginary about that bit…”
Dragomira closed her eyes briefly and shook her head to try and banish this painful memory.
“Anyway, following his murder, Abakum, Pavel and I fled the Soviet Union with Leomido’s help. Since that day, our family has always been regarded as hostile to the regime. I made the policemen believe that Lucas Williams was in fact Luka Wilenkov, a leading Russian biologist who had also fled for political reasons. Once in England, that man assumed the name Lucas Williams and found a job as a maths teacher at St Proximus—another cover. A few months ago, he contacted us to persuade us to join a group of dissidents who were planning a coup to topple the Russian president. His main asset was a substance he’d invented, a lethal bac
teriological weapon developed in the utmost secrecy.”
“The Pulmonis!” Oksa butted in.
“Yes,” confirmed Dragomira. “You can easily imagine the rest… Peter Carter tracked down Lucas Williams, along with us. He killed Williams with his own weapon, before being killed himself by another dissident from Williams’s group—a group to which, of course, none of the Pollocks has even been remotely affiliated. Because the Pollocks, since they were forced to leave the Soviet Union, haven’t wanted to get involved in politics, not on your life, thank you very much! Basically, the police now think this is merely a brutal settling of scores by Russian secret agents and naturally we’re counting on the British authorities to use the utmost discretion and ensure we’re left in peace—after all, we’ve suffered enough, haven’t we?”
Dragomira ended with this question, beaming radiantly at them all.
“So? What do you think?”
“Baba, you are fan-tas-tic!” exclaimed Oksa, flushed with excitement. “Lucas Williams and Peter Carter, Russian secret agents—what an incredible imagination you have! You should write novels.”
“Well done, Dragomira! You haven’t lost your touch,” congratulated Pierre. “You almost managed to convince me.”
“Wow,” muttered Gus in admiration. “That’s top-drawer! It makes me think of all those stories about poisoned Russian spies which caused problems for the British secret service not so long ago.”
“Oh, well, Gus, reality is sometimes stranger than fiction,” added Dragomira mysteriously.
Only Marie and Pavel remained tense and silent. They weren’t finding it that easy to shrug off the feelings of anxiety and panic caused by the policemen’s visit.
“What about Miss Heartbreak?” asked Pavel suddenly, gazing intently at his mother. “Is she a dissident too?”
“Who knows,” replied Dragomira with a smile.
71
MYSTERY AND LONGEVITY
MISS HEARTBREAK, OF COURSE, HAD NO AFFILIATION with any group of Russian dissidents or secret agents. And, what’s more, she wasn’t dead. Although Dragomira had at first been bothered by this surprising news, there was a certain logic to it, which Oksa realized when all the Runaways met once more in the house on Bigtoe Square.
“Of course! If McGraw had killed Miss Heartbreak, he would have run the risk of drawing more attention to us and, indirectly, to him. The theories Baba gave the police about Peter Carter and Lucas Williams hold water. But adding Miss Heartbreak to the mix would’ve made it all sound bit far-fetched.”
“You have a point, Oksa,” agreed Abakum. “Orthon-McGraw has to protect the Outsiders to protect himself. And vice versa. Our fates are bound together.”
“It’s such a hassle,” sighed Oksa.
“Has anyone heard anything more about poor Miss Heartbreak?” asked Naftali, the tall Swede.
Oksa and Gus had found time to learn a few things about their teacher’s condition. By keeping their ears and eyes open and digging around for information, they managed to gather some interesting titbits, which they confided to the Runaways.
“Apparently the investigation is tending towards an act of vandalism gone wrong: the theory is that Miss Heartbreak was in the wrong place at the wrong time and was attacked. That’s what the teachers and the police believe anyway,” explained Oksa. “Other than that, I learnt she’s been committed to an asylum—Mr Bontempi told Dr Bento yesterday. He visits her every day and he said it’s awful because she’s totally unhinged. When he arrives, she thinks he’s a Chinese mandarin, and a few minutes later she’s convinced he’s an Egyptian priest.”
“You can see she’s a history teacher,” said Pavel, with a touch of irony. “Sorry, that was out of order,” he added immediately, trying to stifle a smile.
“Dad!” said Oksa, her reproachful tone tinged with amusement. “You’re in-corr-ig-ible!”
“I was going to get some stuff for Dr Lemaire and I overheard a conversation between McGraw and Bontempi,” continued Gus. “It was sickening… that hypocrite McGraw was saying how deeply sorry he was about Benedicta—he called her by her first name, the bastard!—and how deeply shocked he’d been to see her splashing about in the icy water of the fountain and that the image would stay with him for the rest of his life, and blah-blah-blah… It was revolting.”
“And in class? How has he behaved with you this week?” asked Abakum.
Oksa and Gus looked at each other, then chorused:
“Good!”
“Good?” asked Marie in amazement.
“Yes, in other words, he’s ignored us,” replied Oksa. “Which is sheer heaven. It’s beyond our wildest dreams. No rage, no persecution; we couldn’t be happier. I think we could have danced on our desks and he wouldn’t have said a word.”
“You really think so?” asked Gus with a smile. “I’m not so sure. Maybe you haven’t noticed him glaring daggers at you out of the corner of his eye! You really did a number on him, from the look of his badly scratched face.”
“He really did a number on me too,” retorted Oksa, serious all of a sudden. “He did a number on pretty much everyone, when it comes down to it.”
“What about Mortimer? And Zoe? Have you seen them?” continued Dragomira.
“Zoe came running after me,” replied Gus. “But I turned my back on her, saying I didn’t want her to talk to me again, or come anywhere near me.”
“She tried to speak to me as well, saying she wanted to explain,” sighed Oksa. “She had tears in her eyes and looked so sad that I almost felt sorry for her. But in the end I gave her the coldest glare I could manage and walked off without answering. Other than that, I heard Mortimer boasting about an island he’s going to on holiday.”
“An island?” asked Dragomira, in astonishment.
“Yes, an island which his father has just bought off the coast of Scotland. You should have heard him bragging—‘my father’s island’ this and ‘my father’s island’ that, it was ridiculous. Afterwards he saw me and tried to wind me up, as usual. This time he was making fun of the expression on my face when his father suspended me in mid-air with the help of his Croakettes. He said I was struggling like a worm on the end of a hook and that I looked like a fat leech. I said whatever, and that it was his father who looked ridiculous now, slinking around with his face all scratched up. Then he told me you were nothing but a senile old woman and that you weren’t going to be working miracles for much longer, Baba,” explained Oksa, sounding choked.
“I see,” replied Dragomira, with a knowing look. “Don’t worry, I may not be in the first flush of youth, but I still have more than one trick left up my sleeve!”
“Talking about that,” Oksa continued immediately, her elbows propped on her knees and her face between her hands, “Gus and I have been wondering about something for quite a while; perhaps now would be a good time to give us an answer.”
Dragomira and Abakum looked at each other in resignation, and nodded wearily.
“We know all of you lied to some extent about your identity and your status once you were on the Outside,” continued Oksa, heartened by the silence. “You had no choice. And we also know that officially McGraw was born in 1960 although, in fact, he’s older than you, Baba.”
Gus settled himself comfortably in his armchair, his expression interested and attentive. This matter had been bothering him for quite a while. To everyone’s surprise, it was Leomido who spoke:
“Orthon-McGraw is two years older than me and seven years older than Dragomira. So, if I’m calculating correctly, that makes him seventy-seven.”
“No way,” exclaimed Marie. “Seventy-seven, that’s impossible!”
“I knew you were going to say that,” conceded Leomido.
“But how can he look so young?” continued Marie, intrigued.
“I’m sorry,” added Oksa. “I’m not saying you look old—you’re great for your age, but McGraw looks a damn sight younger than you! Seventy-seven, that’s incredible! And if he really is a
s old as that, he would have retired a long time ago.”
“Perhaps he’s had cosmetic surgery,” suggested Gus. “Or a youth cure.”
These words seemed to trigger something in Dragomira’s and Leomido’s minds. They looked at each other in amazement as they registered what now seemed like a blindingly obvious fact. Abakum, on the other hand, had the unruffled composure of a man who’d already spent a long time thinking about this question. He looked at his friends and then broke the silence:
“Do you think that—”
Dragomira put her head in her hands and said quietly:
“No, I can’t believe it.”
“Don’t tell me that you think—” added Leomido, deepening the mystery.
“Think what?” ventured Oksa, trying hard not to raise her voice.
Gus’s and Oksa’s parents watched this mysterious exchange without a word. But the three Runaways were so lost in thought that they were oblivious to the agitation of their friends and family. A concerned Naftali bent down and murmured something in Marie’s ear. She replied in a low voice:
“I’d say around forty-five, not seventy-seven, no way!”
Naftali repeated Marie’s remark to Brune and Mercedica and the three of them began whispering mysteriously.
“Do they always act like this when someone says ‘youth cure’?” Gus whispered to Oksa.
Oksa narrowed her eyes at him and shrugged doubtfully.
“Whatever the case, it looks like it set them on the right track… Well?” she repeated impetuously. “What do you think?”
Dragomira looked up in surprise and stared at them wide-eyed, as if she’d only just noticed her family and friends—and their impatience.
“We may have an explanation… an explanation which isn’t a million miles away from your suggestion, Gus, because there was a lot of sense in what you said. I never thought I’d say this, but we’re thinking about a rumour which did the rounds in Edefia three or four years before the Great Chaos. There were claims that the Nontemporenta had been discovered.”
Oksa Pollock: The Last Hope Page 42
