‘Sideline?’
‘My own business.’
‘This is very good news.’
‘I’ve got a couple more Agustas in the pipeline, flying them over from Ireland for a strip-down and refurb,’ Tallis said, deciding to get creative.
Orlov nodded vigorously. ‘It is as well to be your own boss. That way nobody tells you what to do,’ he said paternalistically. ‘Should you need any help while you’re here, you only have to ask. I know many, many people. I can get you anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Introductions, contacts, false papers,’ Orlov said, a sly lilt in his voice.
‘False papers?’
‘Nobody gets anywhere these days without, how do you say, cutting corners?’
‘How many corners can you cut?’
‘Why?’ Orlov said. There was a definite note of mischief in his voice. This guy, Tallis thought, loved a challenge, especially if it meant screwing on the other side of the tracks.
‘Can you get me a firearm?’
Tallis glanced across at Orlov to see how his question was received. In spite of the impassive and unperturbed exterior, Orlov’s eyes were alight. Furthermore, there was no shock. ‘There are many illegal weapons in circulation in Moscow alone.’
‘I know, but that wasn’t my question.’
‘I do not have access to such things personally.’ He was heavy on the personally. What Orlov really meant was that he had the necessary contacts. For a brief moment in time, Tallis was reminded of the late Johnny Kennedy, a crime lord he’d come across in the Midlands. Kennedy had had involvement in dirty dealings that he’d kept at arm’s length. Tallis wondered if Orlov was fashioned in the same mould
‘You disappoint me, Grigori,’ Tallis said, tongue in cheek.
‘But I know someone who does. Leave it with me, and I will look into it for you.’ And with that Orlov changed tack and disclosed his plans for the rest of the day. ‘This afternoon we will share a banya and this evening you will stay as my guest for dinner, a private affair.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Tallis began, ‘but you’ve already been so—’
‘Not at all.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I have a very good surprise for you.’
Tallis flicked an enquiring smile. He didn’t like surprises. And he had important work to get on with.
‘We are being honoured by a special guest,’ Orlov said, rolling his eyes.
‘Yeah?’
‘Da,’ Orlov said, a big grin on his face.
The banya rated as one of Tallis’s more painful experiences. It made the Turkish equivalent appear feeble. The heat was too hot, scalding in fact, the obligatory beating with birch branches too severe, the basseyn, or ice-cold pool, too damned chilly. The only positive result was that, by the third time, his hangover disappeared immediately, presumably evaporating in a burst of eucalyptus-infused steam.
Spread out on a bench and covered in sheets, Tallis fell into easy conversation with Orlov. It wasn’t long before Orlov was on the boast again. He had plans, apparently, to buy up a plot of land in St Petersburg and develop it.
‘Timur is from St Petersburg, isn’t he?’ Tallis said, neatly massaging the conversation.
Orlov agreed with a grunt.
‘Interesting guy,’ Tallis said. ‘Gather he works for the FSB.’
‘Is that what he told you?’ Orlov said with a low laugh.
‘Perhaps I made a mistake.’
‘Not really,’ Orlov said, a cunning light in his eye.
Tallis said nothing, waited for Orlov to fill in the gap. He didn’t. The conversation took a completely different turn.
‘Timur mentioned that you were interested in the Chechen situation,’ Orlov said. ‘Is this connected to your desire for a firearm?’
‘What would you say if I said yes?’ Tallis’s manner was light to underplay the immense but calculated risk he was taking.
‘I would say you are a fool. And, Paul, you must understand that in Russia loose talk costs lives.’
Tallis adjusted his position. ‘Are you threatening me, Grigori?’
‘Of course not. I’m offering good advice. Anyway, what does an Englishman want with a group of terrorists?’
If this was the view of the average Russian, God help the British government if word ever got out about Graham Darke. ‘Not every Chechen is a terrorist, Grigori. Even you know that.’
‘What do I care?’ Orlov shrugged. ‘Jews, blacks, Chechens. They are all the same. You cannot trust any of them.’
‘Is that so?’ Tallis said, quietly trying to contain and extinguish a sudden flare of anger.
‘It is,’ Orlov said, ‘and, Paul, whatever your views, you must put them to one side, at least for this evening.’
‘Why, is Timur coming to dinner?’
‘No, his boss is.’
Dinner wasn’t quite the intimate affair Tallis imagined it would be. The State Room, as Orlov referred to it, was like a banqueting hall. Running down the centre was a vast table as shiny as an ice-rink, laid for thirty, chandeliers hanging from the ornately designed ceiling. Whoever the honorary guest was, he or she certainly commanded a high level of security. A Mi-8 helicopter hovered overhead. Supplementing Orlov’s company of heavies were six men with mean-looking faces and even meaner-looking haircuts. They spent several hours talking into their cuffs and checking the estate for intruders and anything untoward. Tallis had heard somewhere that the Spetsnaz recruited from a ready pool of Olympic-grade athletes. Any one of the guys striding round the complex fitted the profile.
Guests started to arrive shortly after seven. A flurry of activity followed as coats were taken, drinks dispensed, champagne the preferred choice. Kumarin, Tallis noticed, was conspicuously absent. He found it odd, filed the information away. A small orchestra of musicians, including a pianist who played with such shivering brilliance Tallis would have happily listened to him all night, played romantic pieces by the composer Edward Elgar.
Abandoning her veneer of listlessness, Svetlana, dressed in a ruched green silk dress with thin shoestring straps that accentuated her long, sloping shoulders, acted the perfect hostess, nodding and smiling, only the slight moving of her blue eyes revealing that she was more concerned with the impending arrival of the guest of honour than in what was being spoken. Indeed, everyone had half their attention focused on the wide double doors. The atmosphere in the room sizzled with intrigue. At last, the orchestra of musicians switched to a stirring piece by Dmitri Shostakovich: ‘The Assault on Beautiful Gorky’. Conversations sputtered into silence. Orlov, dressed in a white tuxedo, virtually tripped over himself in his desire to rush to the other end of the hall before the doors flew open, revealing his mystery guest. Then the man himself strode into the room, his minders at his side, the air encircling him electric. All heads swivelled, Tallis’s included, as Andrei Ivanov, the Prime Minister and most powerful man in Russia, eyes bright with fire, made his entrance.
Tallis watched the obvious warmth between the two men, each patting each other on the back rather than the more formal handshake. Orlov then fell into a cringing eulogy of welcome, Ivanov listening politely before returning the compliment by thanking his host for such a generous invitation. A round of applause followed then, at Ivanov’s signal, the guests resumed their conversations, the lilt and chatter of human voices cranking back into gear. Tallis stood mesmerised. Ivanov was taller than he’d expected, his sober, beautifully cut dark blue suit emphasising his lean, muscled physique. His face was better looking and was remarkably unlined for a man in his forties. He had extraordinary eyes that appeared to miss nothing, a residue, Tallis suspected, from his former life as a spook.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated, Tallis, to his amazement, six place settings away and within perfect earshot of Ivanov. With one ear listening to the droning voice of his next-door neighbour, a fat man from Kursk, he eavesdropped as Ivanov chatted to Orlov about his latest acquisi
tion, a chateau in the Cote D’Azur. From the tenor of the conversation, it became clear that Orlov had been instrumental in its renovation. Nice work, Tallis thought.
‘And that small problem with the indoor pool has been fixed?’ Orlov said.
‘Perfectly. I am hoping to spend more time there in the summer,’ Ivanov said, picking up his knife and fork, a signal for everyone else to start eating, ‘but I fear my influence and therefore my time will be needed in the Caucasus again.’
‘Indeed,’ Orlov said, glancing nervously in Tallis’s direction.
‘Especially with this latest round of murders in Moscow.’
‘An outrage,’ Orlov agreed, flicking Tallis another warning look.
‘More than an outrage. It’s a base attempt to undermine Russia’s stability.’
‘Forgive me,’ Tallis said, addressing Ivanov directly. ‘I was a former police officer in Britain so mine is more of a professional interest, but I presume you have evidence that the murders are linked?’
Orlov, his cheeks drained to the colour of frozen snow, began to noisily protest at the interruption, but was halted in mid-sentence by Ivanov.
‘And you are?’ Ivanov said imperiously.
‘Paul Tallis.’
‘He is the man I was telling you about,’ Orlov said, eyeing Tallis angrily while trying to recover some composure for Ivanov’s benefit. ‘He sold me the helicopter.’ It sounded like an accusation.
Ivanov nodded. Tallis wondered whether Ivanov secretly disapproved. If he did, he certainly concealed it well. ‘A man of many talents,’ Ivanov said, with no hint of condescension in his voice. ‘You sound more like a journalist than a police officer, Mr Tallis. And I have to say I care little for either breed.’ He laughed lightly, turning to Orlov who broke into a nerve-fuelled titter. ‘What were you, a detective?’
‘A firearms officer.’
Orlov turned a paler shade. Ivanov delicately elevated an eyebrow. ‘A highly skilled job. You have my admiration. Your new friend is a very interesting man, Grigori. Where have you been hiding him?’
‘Well, um…’ Orlov mumbled.
‘But to answer your question,’ Ivanov said, returning to Tallis, ‘our police officers are one hundred per cent sure that the murders are linked. Moreover, they have forensic evidence supporting the view that the killings were carried out by a single assassin.’
‘With a varied modus operandi,’ Tallis said.
‘A skilled individual, for sure.’
That was exactly what Tallis was afraid of. ‘But why the Chechen connection?’ Tallis persisted. ‘I thought they were a rather undisciplined lot.’
A pulse in Orlov’s temple twitched. Ivanov, on the contrary, seemed to enjoy the opportunity to educate the Englishman. ‘And you would be right, Mr Tallis.’
‘So?’
‘It comes down to history and motive. In the North Caucasus the people have always been rebellious. There is nothing new about this except we have an additional component: terrorism. And, after the dreadful bombing in London, I’m sure I do not need to lecture you on the consequences of ignoring religious fundamentalism. Terrorists are responsible for every criminal act that takes place in my country. We must not tolerate another Beslan, another Nord-Ost. I’ve spent years of my life working to ensure economic and political stability for Russia. I will not have that undermined by a band of religious savages.’
‘So you’re saying the hits were politically motivated?’ Tallis said evenly.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then the logical conclusion is that your life and that of the President is also in danger.’
Ivanov smiled, snake-eyed. ‘As you can see,’ he said, with a regal wave of his hand, ‘I am very well protected.’
‘I hear Elimkhanova is gathering support in the mountains,’ Orlov said tentatively, darting Tallis a nervous look that said, Keep your mouth shut. Akhmet Elimkhanova, the Chechen warlord Darke had been sent to infiltrate, Tallis thought, holding his expression steady.
‘Yes, and when they strike,’ Ivanov said darkly, ‘we will be ready to crush them.’
After that, the discussion went off on a tangent concerning Gazprom. Tallis got dragged into a conversation on taxation and unemployment in Britain, the influx of migrant workers a particular point of interest. After dinner and a number of toasts, he got stuck with the tubby man from Kursk. ‘Vodka is recession proof in Russia, and even if you can’t afford it, you can make your own,’ he was saying, the half-closed lids indicating that, single-handedly, he’d done his bit to stave off any slump in the economy. But Tallis had eyes and ears only for Ivanov. So engrossed was he in watching the man, he didn’t notice Orlov coming up behind him, gruff and glowering.
‘Fortunately, Ivanov has accepted your bleedingheart attitude. In fact, he was quite taken with you.’
‘A man of taste,’ Tallis grinned.
‘I am not certain I would have been so tolerant,’ Orlov said sternly.
‘As well you’re not the prime minister, then.’
Orlov continued to scowl then flashed a sudden smile and punched Tallis hard on the shoulder. ‘You English,’ he said, weaving his way through assorted guests to where Svetlana was holding court.
Tallis left several hours later, long after Ivanov, amid much glad-handing, had made his exit, and by which time Orlov had recovered his sense of humour.
‘Thank you,’ Tallis said. ‘I’d no idea you had such elevated connections.’
‘And I’d no idea you were a policeman who shot people for a living.’
Tallis winced. A long-ago image, a little faded now, floated into his mind: black girl, midnight eyes. He flicked it away. ‘That’s not how we do things in Britain,’ he said. ‘Our job is to save lives, not take them.’
‘You’d do well to remember that the next time you bring up the Caucasus.’ Orlov laughed.
And with that piece of advice boxing his ears, Tallis made his escape.
But he didn’t go back to the apartment. He asked the driver to drive north and drop him off on one of the main roads out of the city. It was four in the morning and freezing, the weather plummeting to minus eight degrees. The ground, covered in a spectral coating of frost, creaked and crunched underneath his shoes. He was glad he was wearing a thick overcoat to conceal the smart suit he wore beneath. By any measure, he was a mugger’s dream victim. And there were plenty of potential candidates. He’d never seen so many young people off their faces on booze. Even seasoned bingedrinking young Brits would struggle to keep pace. Vagabond throngs punctuated every street corner, the atmosphere thick with threatened violence. Tallis hurried on and away.
He drew close to one of the prisons known as a SIZO, a large pre-trial and remand institution, and even though it was dark and badly illuminated, the hinterland felt different. Dwellings were downtrodden. You couldn’t call them homes. Concrete and lichen grew through the stone. Litter lay piled in the gutters. The air even at that time in the morning smelt of sickness. He remembered that tuberculosis and HIV was rife in Russian prisons, along with extreme brutality dished out by prison staff. Tales of random beatings and broken bones were commonplace in a Russian institution. With such serious overcrowding, prisoners were forced to sleep in shifts with only the most basic of toilet and washing facilities. He also knew that it was possible to be banged up for years without having your case heard. No wonder the place smelt of desperation. Lena’s words echoed in his mind. Go to the worst places, to the ghettoes, the prisons. Look for the people with their pockets sewn up.
At once he heard footsteps behind him. He could tell from the gait that this was no mugger, nobody who had something to hide. On the contrary, this sounded like officialdom in action. Tallis turned. A torch was shone into his eyes, momentarily dazzling him. Tallis put his arm up to his face. The man flashed an ID card in front of his nose, but it was so fast Tallis couldn’t catch the name, let alone the guy’s rank, or to what organisation he belonged. He sensed that this was not the time
to ask.
‘Papers,’ the man said in Russian.
‘I’m English,’ Tallis said, spreading his hands. ‘I don’t speak Russian.’
The officer repeated the order, this time in stilted English.
‘I don’t have them with me.’
‘You have no passport?’ The man’s eyes narrowed.
‘Yes, of course, but, like I said, not with me.’ For which Tallis knew he could be fined.
‘You have committed a crime.’
Act dumb, Tallis thought. ‘I’m sorry, how?’
But the guy was having none of it. ‘Have you registered with the police?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Your name?’
Tallis told him.
‘Where are you staying?’
Tallis told him the truth.
‘What are you doing here?’ Now that Tallis was up close, he could see that the man was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and a holster. Tallis could also smell alcohol on his breath. Time to adopt the cover of hapless Brit abroad. Tallis knew three things about telling a successful lie: keep it plausible, and keep it simple. Most of all, believe it.
He looked the man straight in the eye. ‘I’m lost.’
‘Lost?’
‘Yes, I had a problem sleeping so I thought I’d take the air. Stupidly, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
The guy, quite rightly in Tallis’s opinion, stared at him with open disbelief.
‘Look,’ Tallis said, ‘I’m a tourist who made a silly mistake. I can easily come to Tverskoy police station later and show you my passport.’
The man seemed to consider this for a moment then began to speak of a possible fine.
‘Fair enough,’ Tallis said. Fine, bribe, what the hell did he care? ‘How much do you want?’ he said, taking his wallet from inside his overcoat.
The man looked at it greedily. ‘I think we can come to some arrangement,’ he said.
Josef Petrova, the man who’d encountered Tallis near the prison, felt immensely pleased with his night’s takings. As a former military intelligence officer charged with recruiting spies from the Chechen population, he had recently found a new home and new role with the FSB. His current job was similar in style: it involved trawling prisons to recruit criminals. In return for freedom, they were armed, told to follow their instincts and let loose in Ingushetia and neighbouring Chechnya to shake up the civilian population. Occasionally, they were given specific goals: the abduction, ransom and murder of foreigners, Brits and the Dutch the current favourites. The idea was to smear the warlords’ reputations in addition to making money. The British fool he’d stumbled across on his way home in the early hours of that morning didn’t realise quite how lucky he was.
Land of Ghosts Page 13
