Страница 73 из 90
P?ts headed outside to salute the Estonian flag. No sooner had he opened the door than something went craack! past his ear and buried itself in the far wall of the front room. He stood gaping for a split second, then threw himself flat.
No second shot came. He needed two tries to get to his hands and knees; he was shaking in every limb. Adrenaline brought a stronger waking rush than he'd ever dreamed of from caffeine. Not far from the doorway was a stick. P?ts put one end inside his cap, held it high. Only after the silence continued did he climb to his feet.
He heard his son-in-law ru
"Good lad," P?ts said. "I think the skulking son of a whore shot once and fled." He drew himself to attention before the Estonian colors. The salute he made was not the casual gesture of greeting he sometimes made, but one of soldierly precision. "By God, I will have a reckoning for this, Kostantin." He tramped toward the Russian half of Talli
"Where are you going?" Laidoner called after him.
"To see Iosef Mladenov," P?ts answered grimly. "Either we will have a stop to this game or we will have war. One way or the other, you will know when I come back-if I come back. If I am not back in three hours, avenge me."
"I will come with you," Konstantin said.
P?ts shook his head. "You are younger than I am, and your wife is pregnant. We can't afford to lose you. And if the Pamyat maniacs mean fighting, we can't afford to lose two finding out."
When he entered the Russian section, in which he set foot but rarely, P?ts felt he had stepped into another world. The very shape of the houses changed, as did their look: they were brightly painted, and roofed with wood shingles. The thick smell of cooked cabbage huge in the air. The streets were dirtier than in the Estonian part of Talli
The few Russians about stared at him as he tramped grimly along. He ignored them. He had never called on Iosef Mladenov before, but he had no trouble finding the man's home. That imperial ba
He released some of it by pounding on the door. It shook under the weight of his fist. No one answered. He pounded again, harder, leaned his face up to the peep-hole. Another eye was looking back at him. "Mladenov?" he growled.
"He's sleeping," the man on the other side of the door said.
"Get him."
"He's sleeping," the Russian repeated.
"Get him, metyeryebyets, or his house and this whole God-damned town will come down round his ears while he lies there snoring."
"Don't threaten me," the Russian said.
"I do not threaten. I promise. If I walk away without seeing him, we fight. It he tries to hold me, we fight, too. The war starts unless I am back safe with my people in three hours-no, nearer two and a half now. Now get him."
He felt the Russian move back from the door. "Wait," the fellow said.
"I will wait. But remember, the more time you waste, the more likely you waste lives with it."
He stood outside Mladenov's front door, blowing out steam at every long, furious exhalation. In less than five minutes, the door opened. Iosef Mladenov glowered out at him. "What do you want, P?ts?" he said, making his voice rough and deep to show he was not afraid of the taller Estonian.
"A reckoning, Mladenov, and past time." P?ts gave back rudeness for rudeness, disdaining to use the Russian's first name and patronymic. "Someone took a shot at me from hiding. If you aim to fight, we will give you all the fight you want. If you want to play the assassin's game, you will find we can play that, too. But God help Talli
Mladenov did not back up, but some of the fierceness left his face. "You'd better come in," he said grudgingly.
P?ts went in. Mladenov waved him to a chair. He sat. Mladenov sat too, on a couch against the opposite wall. He did not offer the Estonian food or drink. The fellow who had argued with P?ts was not visible. Small shuffling noises from around the corner said he probably lurked in the hallway there. P?ts was willing to bet he'd be armed. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to start fighting here-he hoped.
"It is only from the goodness of my heart that I speak to you," Mladenov said. "After you set on Gleb and Boris Suslov-"
"After I what?" P?ts roared, his good intentions blown away in a blast of fury. "Those two lying bastards thought they'd have some sport with my son-in-law. I saw and heard the whole thing, and stopped them from doing worse than they did." He rapidly told the Russian leader what had happened. "Let them deny it to my face, if they dare."
"That is not the tale they tell," Mladenov said, but he sounded oddly hesitant. He might not like P?ts, but he knew the Estonian was not a man to lie.
"I don't care what tale they tell," P?ts said. "I think, Iosef Trofimovich, that if you Russians listen to tales without checking, and if you go shooting from ambush, we will have war to the knife, and maybe none of us will live through it. Do you want that? You will not find my people such easy meat here as back on Earth."
"We would win that war, Anton Avgustovich." Mladenov's words were still harsh and threatening, but now he addressed P?ts in the polite fashion. "Still, as you say, it might cripple wi
"We were here first, and we were the ones who made those lands into what they are today. If you think we will throw away all the labor we have invested in them, you are the one making the mistake," P?ts said.
"Then war will come," Mladenov said flatly. "One day I will burn that flagpole of yours, Anton Avgustovich, and the flag of what you wrongly reckon to be a nation. Nations are groups of people strong enough to survive. You do not qualify. It is up to you, Estonian. If you want to fight now, we shall fight now. If not, we will fight later. Nichevo."
It can't be helped; there's nothing to be done about it. The Russian word could mean either. Both filled P?ts with fury and despair, for he was pretty sure he held a losing hand. Behind what he hoped was an impassive mask, he calculated furiously. The odds of BuReloc's dumping more Estonians into Talli
Before he could speak, someone pounded furiously on Mladenov's door. The Russian who had stayed discreetly in the hallway leaped into the front room. As P?ts had guessed, he held a Kalashnikov. The change lever was set on full automatic. A burst from less than two meters would turn a man into blood pudding.
But the pounder was no Estonian intent on rescue or revenge. He spoke pure Russian, with a broad peasant accent like Mladenov's own: "Iosef Trofimovich, come quick! Some fucking horsemen just rode in, down from the plains. You'd better come to talk to them."
Mladenov bounced to his feet. "Tatars!" he snarled, as if it were a curse. To a Russian, it was; back on Earth, their wars with the steppe nomads had gone on for centuries. Mladenov turned to the fellow with the Kalashnikov. "You come with me, Yevgeny, and bring the assault rifle. I want them to see we nave it." He suddenly seemed to remember P?ts. "You'd better come too, Anton Avgustovich. The Tatars won't care whether your people are Estonians or Russians-they'll only know you're farmers, and farmers are prey."