Free Death and the Penguin by Andrey Kurkov

intently.
    “They’re on to you. They’re pumping people in my office asto who our
obelisk
writer is. It’s good that no one knows, apart from Fyodor and me.”
    “What are they on to me for?” Viktor asked, putting down his champagne half drunk.
    “The fact is,” the Chief said hesitantly, carefully choosing his words, “that you, Viktor, have done us proud … Getting in all my underlinings, I mean. In actual fact, each obituary, apart from mentioning the late lamented’s sins, has hinted where those advantaged by his death are to be looked for. Evidently someone’s guessed what the game is – that they’re simply being set on collision courses. Still, we’ve achieved quite a lot. And we’ll do better. We’ll just have to change tactics.”
    “
We
? The paper, you mean?” asked Viktor, utterly dismayed, trying to remember where he had heard about
collision courses
before.
    “Not just us,” the Chief said gently. “And not so much us as a paper even, but as a body of people endeavouring to clean this country up a bit … Don’t worry, though – our security’s on to whoever’s on to you. But to give time for our boys to cope, you’ll need to lie low for a while.”
    “When?” Viktor asked, flabbergasted.
    “The sooner the better,” came the calm reply.
    Viktor sat at the table, a picture of dejection.
    “Nothing to be afraid of. Fear’s dangerous,” said Igor Lvovich. “Best be thinking where to lie low … And don’t tell me. Just give the odd ring. OK?”
    Viktor nodded mechanically.
    “And now let’s drink to all going well at my end,” said the Chief topping up their glasses. “If it does,
you
won’t be the loser, I promise.”
    Reluctantly Viktor raised his glass.
    “Drink up!” urged the Chief “There’s no escaping fate. Drink while the champagne lasts!”
    Viktor took a gulp, and almost choked as bubbles of gas prickled his nose.
    “I wouldn’t be here now, if I didn’t value you highly,” Igor Lvovich said, preparing to leave and donning his long dark-green overcoat. “Ring in a week or so. No work for the time being, so you find some nice secluded spot and lie low.”
    The door banged. The Chief’s footsteps died away, leaving Viktor to an uneasy silence and musings much inhibited by the champagne he had drunk. He stood staring at the closed door, trying again to solve the riddle of the nocturnal Grandfather Frost who had brought news and presents from Misha-non-penguin.
    “Uncle Vik!” called Sonya from the living room. “Uncle Vik! He knocked me over!”
    Returning to the present, he quickly went to her.
    “What happened?” he asked, looking down at her lying on the floor.
    “Nothing,” she said, with a guilty smile.
    Beside her stood Misha,
regardant
.
    “I was trying to see what your present was, and he knocked me over,” she confessed at last. “I wasn’t looking at mine. Just taking a peep at yours.”
    “Up you get,” said Viktor, giving her his hand.
    Sonya got to her feet.
    “Can I go for a walk?”
    “No,” he snapped.
    “Just a teeny-weeny one.”
    But why not? There were plenty of children around.
    “All right, but not for long, and don’t go away from the block.”
    Having put her into her fur coat and muffled her up to her eyes in her scarf, he let Sonya go, settled himself at the kitchen table, and became lost in thought. With every day bringing far from pleasant surprises, he had plenty to ponder.

32
    He was seized with sudden panic. He was still sitting at the table, the champagne finished, the sausage eaten, the slight feeling of intoxication gone. His head was clear, his legs steady.
    He looked out of the window. The snow had eased enough for him to see, down below, several children from the block busy building a snow castle.
    Standing on the little bedside table, he stuck his head out of the small vent and shouted, “Sonya! Home! Quick!”
    The children looked up from building their castle, but they all stayed standing