Fall Revolution 4: The Sky Road

direct a stabbing glance at the distinguished foreign guests.
‘He is survived by his former wife and loyal friend, Myra
Godwin-Davidova, their children and grandchildren-’
    Too many to read out, and none of them here, get on with it
–
    Messages were, however, read out from all of the absent
offspring, other relatives, old friends. The eulogist laid down
his sheaf of papers at last, and raised his hand. The crematorium
filled with the oddly quiet and modest sound of
Kazakhstan’s national anthem. The coffin rolled silendy
through the unobtrusive hatch. Everyone stood up and sang, or
mimed along to, the Internationale. And that wasthat. Another
good materialist gone to ash.
    Myra turned and walked out of the crematorium, and row by row,
from the front, they fell in and walked out behind her.
    Her hands were shaking as she fumbled with her black fur hat
and tried to light a cigarette in the driveway. Out on the
street, cars were being moved into position to carry the
dignitaries off to the post-funeral luncheon function. Somebody
steadied her hand, helped her with the cigarette. She lit up and
looked up, to see David Reid. Dark brows, dark eyes, white hair
down to the upturned collar of his astrakhan coat. He looked less
than half his age, with only the white hair – itself an
affectation – indicating anything different; none of her
give-away flaws. She was pretty sure his joints didn’t
creak, or his bones ache. They had better fixes in the West. His
minders hung about a few steps away, their gaze grepping the
surroundings. People were milling around, drifting towards the
waiting cars.
    ‘Are you all right?’ Reid asked.
    Tm fine, Dave.’
    He scuffed a foot on the gravel, scratched the back of his
neck.
    ‘We didn’t do it, Myra.’
    ‘Yeah, well…’ She shrugged. ‘I read
the autopsy. I believe it.’
    You’d be dead if I didn% she disdained to add.
She believed the autopsy; she had no choice. She believed Reid,
too. She still had her doubts about the verdict: natural causes
– it might be one of those dark episodes where she could
never be sure of the truth, like Stalin’s hand in the Kirov
affair, or in the death of Robert Harte… But Reid took the
point she wanted him to take. He seemed to relax slightly, and
lit a cigarette himself. His gaze flicked from theburning tip to
the crematorium chimney, then to her.
    ‘Ah, shit. It seems such a waste.’
    Myra nodded. She knew what he meant. Burning dead people,
burying them in a fucking hole in the ground – it
was already beginning to seem barbaric.
    ‘He didn’t even want cryo,’ she said.
‘Let alone that Californian computer-scan scam.’
    ‘Why not?’ Reid asked. ‘He could’ve
afforded it’
    ‘Oh, sure,’ Myra said. ‘Just didn’t
believe in it, is all.’
    Reid smiled thinly. ‘Neither do I.’
    ‘Oh?’
    He spread his hands. ‘I just sell the
policies.’
    ‘Is there any pie you don’t have a finger
in?’
    Reid rubbed the side of his nose with his finger.
‘Diversification, Myra. Name of the game. Spread the risks.
Learned that in insurance, way back when.’ He reached out,
waiting for her unspoken permission to take her arm. ‘We
need to talk business.’
    ‘Car,’ she said, catching his elbow firmly and
turning about on the crunching gravel. They walked side by side
to the armoured limousine. Myra, out of the corner of her eye,
watched people watching. Good: let it be clear that she no longer
suspected Reid. Not publicly, not politically, not even –
at a certain level – privately. Just personally, just in
her jealous old bones. But there was more to it than making a
diplomatic display; there was still a genuine affection between
them, attenuated though it was by the years, exasperated though
it was by their antagonism. Reid had never been a man to let
enmity get in the way of friendship.
    Myra glanced at her watch as the car door shut with a
well-engineered clunk. They had about five minutes to talk in
private as the big black Zhil rolled through Kapitsa’s city
centre to its only posh hotel, the Sheraton. She setded back in
the leather seat and eyed Reid cautiously.
    ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Get on with it.’
    Reid reached for the massive ashtray, stubbed out one
cigarette and lit up another. Myra did the same. Their smoky
sighs met in a front of mutual disruption. Reid scratched his
eyebrow, looked away, looked back.
    ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I