Adventures of the Cosmic Woman

Chapter Nineteen

At the lighthouse Infield opened the handkerchief. An address was scrawled over it. A safehouse near Staraya Derevnya. In St. Petersburg.

2200hrs 1st October St. Petersburg time.

A cold chill ran through Infield as she sat beside her books and listened to the ocean breathe beneath the floor. Outside was pitch darkness.

St. Petersburg time is Melbourne time minus roughly eight hours

Infield knew she could manage around two thousand kilometers per hour. Around one thousand nine hundred kilometers slower than the MiG 2-5, or Mach 1.62. She could make the flight in just over seven hours.

2145hrs Melbourne time

She'd have to leave now. But Mahlia... from here or even Sydney she could get to Mahlia at the first sign of distress. But from seven and a half hours away?

No time to overthink it. Dawber had told her that Mahlia was in danger.

That's enough

Infield walked out into the brine-swept darkness and launched herself into the air. She hurtled into the blackness. Both fists forward. The yellow orb protected her from the lashing of the wind and the crippling boom of the sound barrier. She chased the night across the icy sky.

As India passed beneath her, Infield wished she'd brought some music. Singing to herself had lost some of its charm now that her voice flung back behind her before she could even hear it. Still, she remembered the words to nearly all of Gin Wigmore's songs. And wondered what she was doing now that the world had gone all crazy.

How old would she be now?

Infield slowed down and searched the skyline of Northern St. Petersburg to find a place to drop down. Just behind the station was an alleyway. Flanked by tall buildings. Infield zoomed in and landed on her feet among the damp garbage in the puddle-streaked enclave. She heard some breathing. Human. Scampering. Her eyes shone and gave her night vision. Gaunt forms of discarded life as they scuttled from her and receded into the corners, shadows and behind the garbage bins and piles of trash.

Out of the alleyway. The streets were moderately lit in a soft blue electric light that shimmered in the rippling puddles from recent rainfall. A man stood alone at the corner ahead. Nobody else was around. Infield crossed the road and one car drove past. The address was across the street from the station and just around the corner. A woman was slumped on the stoop. Infield stepped over the ragged body that stank of some acrid chemical she couldn't identify and ascended the steps.

Room 4C. Infield pressed the buzzer. A fuzzy voice answered.

'Yes?'

'Darrian Infield,' she said. It didn't say anything else on the handkerchief but the address. No password. Nothing. But the door clicked open.

Over the cracked tiles and through the warped and peeling hallways to the narrow wooden stairs. Then up the thin wooden steps that creaked loudly with each strain. On the third level, Infield counted the blank doors to number four and then knocked. It opened a crack. The deadbolt snapped taut. A light shone from inside until a face blocked it. The door closed and the deadbolt clicked open and the next moment Infield stood in the dilapidated hallway of the run-down tenement building opposite Major Olga Netunaeva.

'Come inside.'

Infield quickly stepped in. Netunaeva shut the door and slid the deadbolt home again.