Текст книги "Snow Wolf"

Автор книги: Glenn Meade

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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

"Get away from me!"

As she pushed him away, Stanski grabbed her arm angrily and pulled her face up to his. "Listen to me. You're in shock. You think I like this?

This is war, Anna. This is life or– death. He would have killed us both. And just remember he was KGB, the same people who put you in the Gulag. The same people who took your child. Remember that."

His words suddenly jolted her back.

"You'd better help me bury the body. See if there's anything in the car we can dig with. Quickly. I don't want to be here all day."

She watched as he turned over the body and began searching through the pockets. Suddenly she looked up at the sky as she heard a faint chopping sound, but then it faded and was gone.

"WHAT's wrong?" There were beads of sweat on Stanski's face and he was staring at her urgently.

"Nothing. I thought I heard something . and then she started toward the car.

It took them five minutes to bury the body in a shallow grave in the snow, digging with their hands and using a tire iron from the car. When they finished they were soaking wet and their clothes were covered in blood.

Stanski said, "You'd better change. I'll get the suitcases."

She started to strip and Stanski fetched the suitcases from the trunk and undressed himself. He put on the corduroy suit and cap and when Anna had finished dressing he took one last look around the area and said, "Give me your clothes."

She handed them over and Stanski crossed to some bushes and scrabbled in the snow with his bare hands until he had dug a hole deep enough to bury their clothes. He then covered the hole with soil and snow again until the earth looked as if it had not been disturbed.

"Let's go."

When they reached the car, Stanski looked at her face. It was pale and drawn and he could see real fear in her eyes.

"Anna, what I did was necessary, you know that."

"Yes, I know." She shivered.

"What's the matter? Cold?"

"And frightened."

"We can be in Leningrad in less than two hours. With luck, "Anna ... no one's going to know Zinov's missing for some time."

His hand touched her face, then he removed his jacket and pressed it gently around her shoulders. Anna protested. "You'll freeze."

"Take it."

She looked up at him. "Alex .. "What?"

She started to say something, then seemed to change her mind and shook her head. "Nothing."

She turned to look back at their footprints in the snow. "What about those?"

"There's more snow on the way, by the look of it. They'll be covered up quickly enough. Come on, let's go. The quicker we're away from here the better."

He stowed the suitcases in the trunk and they climbed into the car. He turned on the headlights and lit up the track through the woods that led back to the highway.

There was a sudden dull chopping noise that filled the air, high above them, and they saw a powerful beam of light sweep through the forest behind, the sound growing louder until it became a deafening thunder.

Suddenly a helicopter reared above the trees, the light from its dazzling beam caught them in mid-stride.

A shot rang out and the passenger window shattered.

Anna let out a cry as the bullet zinged past her.

"Hold on!" a roar and the Stanski frantically started the Emka. It gave wheels spun wildly before they gripped in the snow, then it shot forward down the, forest track.

Lukin rubbed his eyes and peered down.

They were over forest now, skimming acres of dense birch trees. The searchlight was on, its silver finger probing the foliage below them, swinging left and right as the pilot controlled the yaw of the aircraft. Every now and then the man looked over at Lukin nervously. Lukin still held the gun in his hand. If they dropped too low they might clip the trees or the electric power lines running close to the highway.

They had been sweeping along the road for almost@ ten minutes, crisscrossing to the woods on either side, but had seen nothing. Lukin swore in frustration.

There was sweat on the pilot's brow as he looked over and said nervously, "Major, if we don't turn around now, we're going to be in big trouble. We won't have enough fuel to get back to Tallinn and the weather's going to be against us ..."

Lukin peered out through the dome. The man was right. There was a dirty-looking bank of snow clouds moving toward them from the west. "Keep flying."

"Major ... I must protest!"

"I'll take responsibility for the aircraft. Do as I say!"

The pilot gritted his teeth and turned back to the controls. There was a growing edge of desperation in the man's voice. It happened then. The searchlight passed over a narrow road in the forest and Lukin suddenly picked out the tire tracks of a car.

"Over there!" He pointed and the pilot saw the marks. Up ahead Lukin glimpsed a small rise in the forest and beyond it what looked like the outline of a frozen lake.

"Go lower!"

"Major, if we get too close to those tree tops ... "Do it, man!"

The pilot shook his head in exasperation but obeyed the order, the searchlight picking out the twin snail-like tracks cutting along the woodland road. They led up through a rise to the frozen take. As they came sweeping over the lake shore, suddenly Lukin saw the black Emka and his heart skipped. He saw the two figures fleetingly as they climbed into the car. He screamed at the pilot, "Hold it here! Hold it!"

The noise in the cockpit was almost overwhelming as the MIL suddenly halted in midair, shuddering as it hovered above the Emka, tossing the trees furiously and kicking up flurries of snow.

Lukin saw the couple's surprised faces through the windshield, frozen in the searchlight for an instant, the same couple from the checkpoint.

There was a moment of frantic indecision, then he tore open the small window at the side of the helicopter, aimed his pistol at the car and fired.

He saw glass shatter on the passenger side and then suddenly the car lurched forward and sped through the forest.

"After them!" Lukin roared.

The pilot turned the MIL in an arc and began to clatter over the trees after the car.

Stanski sweated as he gripped the steering wheel hard, the car bumping down the narrow road. Freezing air blasted into the cab from the shattered window but he was hardly aware of the icy chill as he drove, all his senses concentrating on the way ahead. Every now and then the car bumped violently as it hit a rut and Anna held onto the door for her life.

Seconds later the noise of the helicopter roared above as it suddenly overtook them, spun around and hovered in midair, the searchlight cutting into their eyes. Stanski swore as the light blinded him and for an instant he lost control of the car as it lurched and he fought for control.

The Ernka skidded. He put on a burst of speed and then they were ahead of the beam again. There was a narrow track off to the right and he yanked the wheel around and turned into it, the helicopter following until it was ahead of them once more. Then they heard a metallic thump as a bullet flipped through the roof of the car and Anna screamed as the lead embedded itself in the rear seat.

"Hold on tight!"

Stanski gripped the steering wheel with one hand, rolled down the side window and wrenched out his Tokarev. He eased on the brakes and slowed. Seconds later the helicopter came tearing over the trees and floated directly ahead of them, the machine swinging left and right as it tried to settle itself. Slan ski suddenly saw the major's face in the cockpit.

He aimed, fired three quick shots, and saw holes blossom on the glass dome as the pistol cracked.

The helicopter lurched but continued to hover and then Stanski saw the major aim out through the side window. Puffs of white exploded in the snow to the left of the Emka.

Seconds later Stanski saw the main road fifty meters in front. Off to the left, ahead of them, was a towering electric pylon, thick metal cables running high on either side. He yelled at Anna, "Keep your head down!"

He gave a sudden burst of speed and the Emka roared toward The throaty clatter of the blades was deafening as the MIL tore through the air. There was an atmosphere of desperation in the cockpit as the pilot fought to control the machine, turning in sharp banks, following the Emka as it twisted and turned and snaked through the woods.

Lukin's eyes were on the car. He had the Tokarev stuck out through the side window, trying to get a clear shot at the driver, but it was almost impossible. Every time the MIL got ahead of the car it veered off onto another track and the helicopter yawed violently to keep up.

He roared at the pilot, "Try to keep this damned thing steady, can't you!"

"I'm doing my fucking best!"

The Emka suddenly slowed and they overtook it again. As the MILITARY CHOPPER swung around and the pilot tried to settle the searchlight on the car there was the sound of rapid gunfire and three holes cracked in the glass above their heads. The MIL lifted as Lukin ducked his head instinctively, aimed through the window and got off two quick shots, but both went wide. The Emka started to move again, turning right, then back onto the forest road that led down to the highway.

"Keep after them! Don't lose them!"

They were fifty meters from the highway when Lukin suddenly felt a frightening shuddering.

The pilot screamed, "Oh my God ... In horror Lukin saw the towering electricity pylon almost dead ahead. The pilot tried frantically to veer away at the last moment, but a second later the blades clipped the electric cables and there was a powerful blinding flash of blue corona, sparks bursting like fireworks in front of their faces.

There was an almighty harsh metallic crash as the MIL yawed into the massive pylon and then the noise of the blades died abruptly and the helicopter sank in a burst of flame.

Leningrad. February 27th The tram halted on the Nevsky Prospect and Anna and Stanski climbed down.

It was early afternoon and traffic clogged Leningrad's broad main street. He took Anna's hand as they walked along the lengthy crowded avenue. It had started to snow and the entire stretch was a chaos of noise and pedestrians.

The Alexander column in the Winter Palace and the magnificent dome of St. Isaac's Cathedral rose behind them in the distance. The lime-colored Tsarist buildings lining the canals that ran either side of the Nevsky Prospect looked dazzling in the snow, easing the general impression of grayness. But on almost every side street there were still ruins standing from the war, blackened shells of buildings half demolished or supported precariously with struts of heavy timber, testament to a siege that had lasted almost a year, destroyed nearly half the city, and cost the lives of over half a million of its inhabitants.

Strung across Nevsky Prospect was a giant banner of a beaming Joseph Stalin, smiling down at the traffic trundling past: trucks and cars, buses and trolley cars and trams; German BMWS and Volkswagens and Opels, surrendered or abandoned by a defeated Nazi enemy and gratefully confiscated by the city's wrathful population.

Stanski stared up at the banner of Stalin, then turned to Anna as they walked through the crowd. She was tired and pale and there was a look of tension in her eyes.

They had abandoned the Emka on a side street in the suburb of Udeinay, ten kilometers away, taken a bus to the edge of the city and then one of the yellow city trams the rest of the way. Within half an hour they were in the center of Leningrad.

When they reached the corner opposite the main railway station for Moscow, Stanski found a telephone coin box and dialed the number.

The thin-faced man placed three tumblers of vodka on the shabby table, He drank one quickly and looked at the man and woman before wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve and smiling over.

"Drink up. You're going to need it."

The man was middle-aged, and his dark, lean face showed no sign of nervousness.

He was a Ukrainian nationalist, and after the war he had lived in Paris as a refugee, working as a photographer, until the Americans had helped send him into Russia with the identity of a Soviet prisoner-of-war caught up in the advancing Allied lines at G6ttingen. Once he had been handed over with hundreds of other Russian soldiers there had been weeks of brutal interrogation at the hands of the KGB, and even then he had to endure two years in the Gulag for his supposed mistake of being caught by the Germans.

After that it was easy.

He got a job in the photography studio near the Petrograd Embankment and took flattering photographs of senior officers from the Leningrad Naval Academy. They were so pleased they came back to him with their friends and families and now and then he took shots of them and their comrades at naval functions.

Every month he delivered copies and biographies of interest to an immigrant agent in Leningrad, to be passed on down the line to the immigrant office in Paris, and eventually to the Americans.

A dangerous job. But he was getting his own back at the Reds for what they had inflicted on his country.

He had met the couple in the park near the Winter Palace an hour after the phone call to his studio. He took them on several roundabout tram rides back to his home, not testing until they sat in the filthy two-roomed tenement off an alleyway along the Moika Canal near Nevsky Prospect.

"What's the problem?" asked Stanski.

"Everything you've told me suggests a problem. You're both fucked, or my name isn't Vladimir Rykov." He looked ,it Anna and shrugged as he blew out smoke and offered the pack to his guests. "There's really no other way of putting it, I'm afraid, my dear."

As Stanski accepted a cigarette, suddenly across the landing a couple could be heard arguing at the tops of their voices, swearing at each other, doors banging and voices raised. A scream curdled the air; there was the sound of someone being slapped and a voice boomed, "Get your hands off me, you filthy pig!"

Vladimir raised his eyes toward the door and half smiled. "Love. Where would we be without it? Russians like to argue and throw things. What they can't do to authority they do at home." He nodded toward the door. "Don't worry about those two, they're at it night and day. Any moment you'll hear the door banging, the husband will call his wife a bitch, and then he'll be off to get drunk."

At that moment a door slammed, an angry voice shouted, "Bitch!" and footsteps clattered down the stairs.

Vladimir laughed. "See? If only everything in life was as reliable as my neighbors." Stanski said, "You were about to tell us why we're in trouble."

The man looked back and sucked on his cigarette. "For two reasons. Number one, from what you told me the KGB and militia are doubtless going to be looking for you. Number two, whatever route you take is going to be difficult."

"We could leave if you're worried," Stanski offered. "But we've nowhere else to go."

Vladimir shook his head resignedly. "Don't worry about me.

My worry went out the door with the war. I lost my wife and family. There's only me left. What is there to worry about?"

He stood and reached for the vodka. "Let the bastards shoot me if they want."

He refilled his glass as Stanski stood and crossed to the window and looked down. There was a small courtyard below that led in from an archway on the street. At one end of the courtyard wall was a line of padlocked wooden doors belonging to what looked like outside storage rooms for the tiny flats. The yard was littered with refuse and patrolled by scrawny, scavenging cats.

Stanski had explained about the incident with Lukin, the KGB major. Not because he wanted to but because whatever happened from now on would affect their journey and perhaps put Vladimir in danger. But he had been surprisingly unruffled by the information.

Stanski looked back at him. "We have to get to Moscow somehow."

Vladimir stubbed out his cigarette, tore a hunk of bread off the loaf and chewed. Then he washed it down with a mouthful of vodka and wiped his mouth.

"Easier said than done. By rail, there's the Red Star express. It runs overnight between Leningrad and Moscow and takes twelve hours. But given what you've told me the railway station will probably be watched. Flying's the quickest way. Aeroflot flies to Moscow every two hours. But tickets are hard to come by and you'd,probably have to wait a couple of days to get them, and that's if you're lucky. And no doubt the KGB and militia will be watching the airport too, just like the railway stations. Of course, you could always steal a car and drive, but that takes a day and a half allowing for rest stops and you'd be only asking for trouble if you were stopped at a checkpoint in a stolen car."

"What about traveling by bus?"

Vladimir shook his head. "There's bus service, of course, but no direct one to Moscow. You'd have to change every so often and the journey could take days. It's damned awkward if you don't know your way."

Stanski looked over at Anna and sighed in exasperation. She stared back at him, then she said to Vladimir, "There must be some other way?"

Vladimir grinned and spat a fleck of tobacco on the floor. "Maybe." He thought a moment, then looked at them. "I've got an idea, It may work. Come, I'll show you."

He headed toward the door and Stanski and Anna followed.

Estonia.

It was a nightmare.

Lukin woke, shivering, in freezing darkness. His limbs were painfully stiff and it felt as if ice flowed through his veins.

He was numb, soaked in sweat, feverish.

There was frost on his clothes and face and he felt like someone had scaled him in a block of ice. Cold bit into his flesh and bones like fire.

As he lay there in the snow, half in, half out of consciousness, he became aware of a strong smell of kerosene fuel, niiyp-d with an acrid, sugary stench.

He remembered the stench. Anyone who had been near battle never forgot it. Like an animal carcass, but sweeter. Burning human flesh.

He craned his neck to look around and felt a pain shoot down his left arm which made him scream in agony.

He closed his eyes slowly, then opened them again, and looked down at his body, as much as he could in the poor light.

He was lying in the snow and the back of his head was touching something hard. From the way he lay he saw he was propped against a fallen tree trunk. There was a dull ache at the back of his skull and he felt a throbbing pain flow through his body. His clothes had been shredded by the explosion, the material scorched, and he smelled of burned material and fuel.

And something else.

To his horror he saw his false hand had been sheared off, exposing his stump, and the end of the flesh had burned to black.

Lukin stared at the wound in agony and alarm. He tried to move his arm but the stump refused to budge, his whole body frozen stiff, from cold or shock, he couldn't tell which.

Perhaps he was paralyzed and the explosion had shattered his spine?

He couldn't recall, but he must have been doused in fuel when the helicopter's tanks ignited. All he remembered with certainty was the awesome crash as the MIL hit the ground and an eruption of flames moments before. He vaguely recollected the passenger door bursting open from the force of the fall. He had been flung out and his skull had hit something hard.

After that was blank.

He had landed in the snow. It must have damped the flames on his clothes and arm and prevented them from spreading. Still, the pain in his stump was excruciating.

A thought occurred to him; if his back was broken would he still feel pain in his limb?

Somewhere near he could sense light and heat.

There was a tangle of hissing metal, steam rising from the wreckage of the MIL. The forest had not caught fire but there was a small blaze in what remained of the cockpit, lying at the base of a huge electricity pylon. Severed metal cables swung in the wind, a shower of sparks erupting every time they brushed against the pylon.

Flames licked in the center of a tangled heap of metal. He saw the body of the pilot lying half in and half out of the shattered wreckage. His body had been half burned, the man's left arm dangling over a chunk of jagged metal. The bone had cracked cleanly and was only held on by the exposed tendons.

Lukin winced. The man was certainly dead and it was his fault. He had been too intent on capturing Stanski and the woman. Too intent on stopping them from escaping. But they had escaped and he had lost them.

So close ... he had been so close.

He was unaware of how much time had passed but he guessed it hadn't been long because the wreckage was still burning. Flakes of snow began to fall and hiss on the flames.

He was barely conscious but he knew he couldn't remain in this temperature for long. He tried to move but still his body felt numb.

Suddenly he was aware of a flash of light through the trees and heard the rumble of an engine. He remembered the highway. Perhaps someone had come to investigate the explosion or the damaged pylon.

He cried, hoarsely, "Help!"

It was a weak cry, a cry of desperation, and no one answered.

Seconds later the noise and the light vanished beyond the trees.

It was useless. Waves of pain rolled up from his scorched arm. His eyelids fluttered.

. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep, forget about his suffering.

Not sleep, he thought: I'm living.

For a moment, in his feverish mind, he saw Nadia's face, smiling at him.

Leningrad.

The storage room at the end of the courtyard was in pitch darkness when Vladimir unlocked the two heavy padlocks and flicked on the switch. The room flooded with light and he beckoned them inside and closed the door. The large room had obviously once been one of several individual stables belonging to the house during the Tsar's time, entered through the courtyard. Vladimir's storeroom was packed with ancient rotting furniture and on a narrow workshop table were bits of engine parts. There was a dusty sheet in a corner, covered with paint stains.

Vladimir pulled it off to reveal a German Army BMW dispatch rider's motorcycle with twin leather saddle pouches hanging at the back. The bike's gray paintwork had been repainted dark green and the tires were broad, deeply grooved thick rubber made for rough terrain. Vladimir smiled and ran a hand lovingly over the leather saddle.

"I could say a lot against the Germans but the bastards still made the best motorcycles. There are lots of these models still around and they're much better than the Soviet variety. Even the army uses them. I took her for a spin last week. The engine still runs sweetly." He wheeled the BMW out into the center of the room and said to Stanski, "You've ridden a motorcycle before?"

"Never."

"Christ! Now you are fucked, little brother."

"I could learn, quickly."

"On Russian roads? You may as well put a gun to your head and squeeze the trigger. Here, you'd better start it and try it for size. Don't worry about the neighbors, they're used to me riding this thing."

Stanski took the handlebars and climbed onto the machine. It felt rugged and heavy.

"Of course, it'll be damned cold riding it," Vladimir remarked. "You have to be well wrapped up or your balls will freeze hard as rocks."

"I'll try to remember that."

Vladimir smiled at Anna. "Sit on the back, dear. Get a feel for it."

Anna slid onto the machine behind Stanski and put her arms around his waist.

Vladimir said, "Right, start her up. The kick starter's on your right. That's the metal arm that swivels out."

Stanski found the kick starter, flicked it out, gave it a blow with his foot and the machine started first time. A steady, reassuring throbbing filled the storeroom.

Vladimir smiled. "See? She still starts first time. Well, what do you think?"

"Considering we don't have many options, it's worth a try."

Vladimir poured them each another vodka as they sat in the kitchen again and spread out the map.

"Not bad for a first-timer. You did well."

Stanski had ridden around the yard for half an hour to get the feel of the machine. Difficult at first, but with Vladimir's instructions he managed to keep the BMW reasonably well controlled, learning how to change gears, operate the various switches on the handlebars, and what to do if the engine flooded. A group of curious, scrawny children had come down from the tenement flats to beg Vladimir for a ride until he had shooed them away and wheeled the BMW back into the storeroom.

Now Stanski looked at the man and said, "Tell us what you have in mind."

"The KGB and militia are probably going to be checking the railway and bus stations, the airport, and maybe even doing spot checks on the Metro." He pointed to the map, a web of roads leading out of Leningrad to all points on the compass. "They may even set up roadblocks on all the main roads out of the city if they haven't already found that car you abandoned. And when they do find it they'll definitely get to work trying to find you. It's over six hundred kilometers to Moscow. Using the motorcycle you should be able to avoid the main roads out of Leningrad. But the one road they probably won't be checking is the road back to Tallinn." Anna said, "I don't understand."

Vladimir grinned. "Simple. You double back on the Baltic road, past Pushkin, to here." He pointed to a place on the map. "It's a town called Gatchina, approximately eighty kilometers from the city. At this point you take any of the minor roads that fork southeast to Novgorod. That leaves you with just over five hundred kilometers to cover to get to Moscow. But once you get to Gatchina and beyond, there are so many minor roads through hilly, uninhabited forest that it would take half the Red army to find you, and you could make it to Moscow without much difficulty.

"That motorbike out there was designed for rough terrain and can easily travel over dirt tracks, no trouble. The route I'm suggesting is an indirect one, and longer, but probably the safest, considering the circumstances. Don't worry about getting lost; you can keep the map and I'll give you a compass. With luck you could be in Moscow in just over twelve hours. "There are also several trains that run there by an indirect route from smaller towns along the way if you have to abandon the motorcycle. It means changing trains many times, of course, but that can't be helped and this is the best route I can suggest. Don't worry about removing the license plates on the bike if you ditch it. Like most of the German motorcycles still around, mine isn't registered." He grinned as he looked at them. "How does all that sound?"

Stanski smiled. "When do we leave?"

"Who knows how long before the city is ringed with checkpoints'? For your own sake, the sooner you leave the better."

Stanski checked his watch. "Let's say this evening. As soon as the traffic starts to fill the main roads it'll help give us a better chance of not being noticed."

"That would be perfect-"

Estonia.

Lukin heard a sound like an animal cry and came awake with a start. The pain in his stump hadn't gone away and his body shivered with agony. How long had he been lying here?

He moved the fingers of his left hand, slowly. An effort. But there was no pain there and at least he could move something. He tried his wrist next. It budged slightly. Enough so he could read his watch.

A quarter past one. over three hours.

He had been lying in the frozen woods for o Blasts of freezing air raged through the trees in gusts. His limbs still felt like ice and his bones ached through with the intense cold. His teeth chattered. He licked his lips. They felt dry and the chilled air bit into his face like slivers of ice. He inhaled his lungs filling which made him cough He heard the cry again.

He had heard that sound before, in childhood. He and his brother as small boys, playing in a field near their father's house one winter's evening. His father off in the distance by the house, chopping wood, looking up, waving at them.

And then the noise that startled them. When they looked around they saw the two pairs of piercing yellow eyes staring at them from the trees, until the eyes moved out of the woods and became bodies.

Two white wolves.

Snow wolves.

Their white coats so bright they were almost luminous. Lukin had screamed in flight and run back to his father as the man raced toward him. He swept him up in his arms and Lukin still remembered his comforting smells, an odd mixture of disinfectant, soap and sweat.

"Wolves, Papa!" Lukin had screamed.

"Bah! He's afraid of everything," his brother Mischa tested, laughing.

He looked at his brother accusingly. "Then why did you too?"

"Because you ran, little brother. An Mischa smiled. couldn't stop you." His father said, "Wolves don't kill humans. Not unless they're threatened. Remember that. Now, come, Mama has supper ready."

His father carried them into the warm, happy house and there was bread on the table and hot soup their mama had made. A log fire crackled in the hearth and cast shadows about the old room. His mother was hugging them, fussing over them, her belly swollen with a child, warning them not to go into the woods again alone.

And afterwards? What had happened afterwards? He tried to think, but a fog rolled in. It was a long, long time ago. Fog and memories a blur the years had eroded. He remembered little of that time, before Mischa had died.

Maybe he was remembering now because he was close to death; the way they said recollections flashed before dying eyes. He blinked and pushed the fleeting memories from his mind. Now was important, not the past.

He focused on the wreckage and the half-burned corpse the pilot. Maybe the wolves had smelled the cooked flesh.

He tried to push that prospect from his mind. The fire still dying, the hot embers smoldering. If he could get close to the fire for heat, maybe he could thaw out his bones. Slowly he dragged himself over to the fire. It took a long time, trying to block out the pain in his stump, but he finally made it.

The heat from the embers was like a balm as it started to soak through his body.

God, it feels good.

There were two sparking cables dangling beside the debris. Lukin couldn't understand why someone hadn't come to investigate the damaged pylon. Until he noticed there were still half a dozen or more cables intact at the pole. The repairmen would come, eventually. But when?