‘There are less dangerous ways to make money,’ Orlov huffed. ‘Anyway, thank God you’ve packed it in.’
Chaikova flashed him a grin and handed the MP5K to Tallis. ‘You like?’ Chaikova said.
‘Very much. Used this a lot. Particularly like the telescope,’ Tallis commented. Not all models had them. Some had adjustable iron sights. ‘Probably my favourite submachine-gun.’
‘It’s versatile, yes?’ Chaikova said. ‘Good for concealment.’
That’s what he was banking on. ‘So why did you pack it in?’ Tallis asked Chaikova. ‘Because of the recent unrest?’
‘Market forces,’ Chaikova said crisply. ‘The price on a Western journalist’s head has recently tripled. They do not wish to go. I have nobody to take. Not even the Russian press wish to take the risk.’
Tallis nodded. So it wasn’t a case of being afraid, he thought. ‘I’ll take these, and can you find me a Glock?’
‘Model?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Good choice, and you can interchange the cartridges with the Makarov.’
Bullshit, Tallis thought, and said so. ‘They might be nominally the same size but they aren’t interchangeable,’ he added.
Chaikova broke into a smile and turned to Orlov. ‘He’s good, your man.’
The range turned out to be a flat piece of land adjoining one of the many vegetable plots. Targets were laid out at different intervals. A broken-down building at the far end was rigged up as a practice area for hostage retrieval. Putting all three guns through their paces, he struck a deal with Chaikova, and to seal it drank several toasts: to business, to Orlov’s personal connections; to Chaikova’s resourcefulness and daring; to Tallis’s ballistic skill. After that, things got interesting.
‘And what are you going to do with all this weaponry?’ Orlov said. ‘Take the guns back to Britain and sell them on?’
‘I’m not that kind of a businessman,’ Tallis said mildly.
‘He’s a soldier.’ Chaikova grinned, the scars on his face joining up and forming an interesting curve.
‘Yes,’ Orlov said, in a knowing way that told Tallis he was putting the pieces together. It seemed the best moment to indulge in a little misinformation.
‘You guessed.’ Tallis smiled, watching as Orlov’s dark eyebrows shot up and met his bleached hairline. ‘I’m on a bit of a mercy mission. You see, back in the UK I met a Chechen lady who has a son here. She asked me to pass on a message for her. Well, more than that. She asked me to see that he was OK. Now, I know what you both think,’ Tallis said, meeting their mystified expressions, ‘but she’s a nice lady and what harm could it do?’
‘You need guns for that?’ Chaikova said, his eyes narrowing.
‘Not exactly,’ Tallis fudged. ‘I had this idea of taking him back to Grozny.’
‘Madness,’ Orlov snorted. Tallis noticed that Chaikova said nothing at all.
‘Trouble is, it turns out this guy was arrested this morning and carted off to Moscow State Prison. Any ideas how I can spring him? I’m willing to pay.’ Tallis looked from Orlov to Chaikova who, in turn, looked at each other for a long moment. A sly smile crept across Orlov’s face. Tallis got the feeling that another business proposal was in the offing. ‘How much?’ Orlov said.
‘Whatever you want.’ Tallis hoped that the SIS had deep pockets.
‘Kumarin mentioned you picked him up in a Robinson 22.’
‘Yes, that’s…Wait a minute,’ Tallis said. ‘You mean you want me to get you one?’
‘Give me one. It is a fair exchange,’ Orlov said, sounding very reasonable about something that was entirely unreasonable.
Tallis let out a sigh.
‘Second-hand,’ Orlov said.
The equivalent of sixty, maybe seventy thousand pounds, Tallis thought. ‘Alright, but can you do it?’
Orlov licked the corner of his mouth, nodded slowly. ‘I have a friend who is Chechen. He could help.’
A friend? Tallis thought. He thought Orlov hated the Chechens. He kept his gaze steady. One thing he was beginning to discover about Orlov was his moral inconsistency.
‘Who gives a fuck about one lousy Chechen?’ Orlov shrugged, rolling his eyes, as if this explained the ambiguity in his thinking. ‘Medved,’ Orlov said with emphasis to Chaikova.
‘You mean Medved, the second-hand car dealer down the road?’ Chaikova grinned.
‘Not sure I follow you,’ Tallis said. ‘If this guy’s a Chechen, how the hell can he help?’
‘His brother-in-law is Russian and he works in Moscow State Prison.’ Orlov winked. What Orlov meant was that, for the right price, he could be persuaded to spring Ruslan.
A short journey in Chaikova’s Land Cruiser led them to Medved’s yard. Broken-down-looking cars with dents in their flanks lined one side of a perimeter fence, vehicles for sale, mainly Ladas, Volvos and Zaz Tavrias the other. Medved was the Russian word for bear. A hefty-looking man with a grizzled beard and thick, fleshy features, he suited the nickname.
‘My brother-in-law, Ilya, is a piece of shit,’ Medved growled, ‘but for the right price he can be organised.’ Tallis was already doing the maths: a helicopter to Orlov, a bung to Medved and a bung to his brother-in-law. Ouch!
‘What about the police, the FSB, the—’ Tallis broke off as three pairs of eyes swivelled and trained on him.
‘This is Russia.’ Orlov grinned. ‘And in Russia all things are possible.’
CHAPTER NINE
ORLOV was right. Twenty-four hours later, Tallis received a call. Ruslan Maisakov was to be released from prison at eleven o’clock sharp. Before he left, Tallis made contact with Asim and gave him edited highlights of events to date.
‘Ivanov seems pretty well protected for someone who’s no longer in the limelight,’ Tallis said.
‘Never underestimate the role of the Prime Minister. He may no longer be President, but he’s generally regarded as the power behind the throne. Our killer needs only to get lucky once. And there are plenty of opportunities to strike. The opening ceremony of the World Newspaper Congress takes place in less than three weeks. Traditionally, the President takes part, but the role could also fall to the Prime Minister.’
‘Can’t you issue a covert warning?’
‘Too risky. This arms dealer, you think he’s your in?’
‘Fairly certain. I thought I’d leave it a day and contact him, see if he’ll play ball.’
‘Don’t leave it too long. Things have gone scarily quiet.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Do you honestly believe that Darke would risk coming all the way down from the mountains, across the Caucasus to Moscow, to carry out the hits?’
‘He’s certainly capable of it.’
‘Then why am I looking for him in the mountains? Why not here?’
‘Because we have no intelligence to suggest he’s actually living in Moscow. His last known address—’
‘If you can call a terrorist training camp an address,’ Tallis chipped in.
‘Is somewhere near Borzoi.’
Not for the first time, Tallis wondered about Asim or rather Fazan’s source of information. ‘Something else,’ Tallis said. ‘I think I might have gone seriously over budget.’
Asim let out a laugh. ‘For once I can honestly say that’s not my problem.’
The prison surroundings were much as Tallis had imagined, daylight giving it, if anything, a more dismal and threatening appearance. The same could be said for Ruslan, Tallis thought, watching as a tall, pale-skinned young man wearing nothing but a threadbare jacket and baggy trousers slowly emerged from the eighteenth-century entrance. In spite of his bruised face, this was still recognisably and without doubt an adult version of the serious youngster in the photograph, but the aspiration and hope evident in the child’s expression had long been extinguished.
As Ruslan shuffled past, Tallis spoke. ‘Ruslan?’
Ruslan turned slowly. He had sad, angry eyes, much like his mother’s. �
��Do I know you?’
‘It’s OK,’ Tallis said softly in Chechen, raising both hands, palms facing. ‘I’m a friend.’
Ruslan’s laugh was dry. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are. Leave me alone.’
‘Your mother sent me.’
Ruslan scowled, his face a picture of suspicion. How many times had he been tricked? Tallis wondered as Ruslan shook his head, turned on his heel and made to go.
‘No, wait,’ Tallis said, catching at Ruslan’s sleeve, the fabric oily in his fingers. ‘Here,’ he said, pressing the battered photograph into the young man’s hand.
Ruslan stopped in his tracks, uncurled his dirtstreaked fingers, ran a grimy nail over the print, staring, it seemed, at another soul, another life. ‘My mother gave you this?’ He looked up, awe-struck.
‘Lena, yes.’
‘And she is alive, she’s well?’
‘She is living in England.’
‘England?’ Ruslan said, bewildered. ‘And my little sister, Asya?’
Tallis saw hope flare in the young man’s face. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer we had this conversation somewhere quiet and warm. I’m staying in an apartment in Tverskaya. We can talk there. It will be safer.’
‘Nowhere is safe,’ Ruslan said. This time the smile was genuine.
‘Well, it’s the best I can do,’ Tallis said, a sudden feeling of elation sweeping over him. Ruslan was a sign, an omen, even the key. Now that he’d found him, he knew, in his bones, Graham Darke would follow.
Ruslan hesitated, briefly looked behind him then back at the prison walls. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘but walk slowly.’
The reason for Ruslan’s sluggish gait soon became apparent. Back at the apartment, while Tallis dug out a set of clean clothes, Ruslan took a bath from which he emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist. His thin body and legs were a mass of bruises the colour of fresh aubergines.
‘Jesus!’ Tallis exclaimed.
‘Prison brutality is normal in Russia. You have no idea what prisoners endure. If you’re like me, well…’ His voice petered out, a lost expression on his face.
‘I’m surprised they didn’t break anything.’
‘One of the lucky ones.’ Ruslan flicked a smile, stiffly pulling on the clothes while Tallis made coffee. ‘Now, tell me about my mother and my sister,’ he said when they were sitting down.
So Tallis did, breaking the news about Asya as best he could. When he finished there was a long, painful silence. Finally, Ruslan spoke. ‘You say my mother will be deported?’
‘Eventually, yes.’ Except what had Rasu said? In reality, you’re only ever in with a chance if you’re a family.
Ruslan thoughtfully stroked the stubble on his chin then turned his full dark-eyed gaze on Tallis. ‘I’m not clear why your paths crossed. You must have some reason.’
‘I do. I need to find someone.’ Tallis got up, retrieved the photograph of Graham Darke from his backpack, handed it to Ruslan. ‘He’s a British guy. He’s gone missing in the mountains.’
Ruslan stared at it, shook his head sadly, handed the print back. ‘He’s probably dead. People disappear all the time. And now, with the new offensive…’ His voice petered out.
‘I have to try.’
‘You’re crazy. You don’t understand.’
No, you don’t understand, Tallis thought. How could you? ‘It’s not negotiable.’
Ruslan leant back in the chair. ‘You’re paid to find him?’
‘Yes.’
Ruslan nodded. Tallis could almost see the word mercenary flashing up on Ruslan’s forehead. ‘Then I hope you were paid a lot of money,’ Ruslan said. ‘Not only are there mines in the mountains but Mafiya, and soldiers, the type of guys who resent being back there again and who would kill simply because they’ve run out of vodka. There’s only one way to do it and that’s to find a fixer.’
Tallis nodded.
‘And you’ll need false papers.’
Tallis nodded again.
Ruslan inclined his head. ‘If you know all this, why are you here?’
‘If you know all this, why are you here?’ Tallis smiled.
Ruslan let out a cold laugh. ‘Where do you think I’d find that kind of money?’
Tallis leant towards him. ‘Would you go back if you could?’
‘Of course. It’s my home. I still have family there.’
‘Really?’ He didn’t remember Lena mentioning anyone.
‘My aunt Katya, my father’s sister. She lives in the suburbs of Grozny. Perhaps, one day, I could find a place for me and my mother there,’ Ruslan said, reflective.
‘Then come with me.’
‘You’re mad,’ Ruslan half laughed, not quite certain whether to take this Englishman seriously.
Tallis flashed a grin. ‘I know.’
Tallis gave Ruslan a bed for the night. First light, while Ruslan was kneeling and saying his prayers, Tallis was up drinking coffee in the kitchen, studying the photograph of Darke, trying to work out whether Chaikova, the arms dealer, would play. He took Chaikova for being a calculated risk-taker. He could read it in that scarred face of his and in his eyes, and although Tallis didn’t particularly relish him at close quarters, he reckoned he’d be a really useful bloke to have on board. Cool and unflappable and used to things getting down and dirty, he’d provide a decent piece of muscle should the need arise. In fact, Chaikova probably enjoyed dispensing damage and, like it or not, Tallis thought it might be necessary. If Chaikova could get him and Ruslan to Grozny, Tallis could make the rest of the journey into the mountains alone.
One phone call to Orlov later, Chaikova was on the line. Tallis explained what he wanted him to do.
‘To Grozny, you say?’ Chaikova said, in a considered manner.
‘Yes.’
‘One way?’
Tallis hoped not in the literal sense. ‘Yes.’
‘After that, you are on your own,’ Chaikova said. ‘And you say there are two of you?’
‘That’s right.’
Tallis hesitated. Chaikova was quick to pick up on it. ‘And?’
‘He’s Chechen.’
‘As long as he doesn’t tell me what to do, so what? Grigori will fix papers for a price.’
‘Fine,’ Tallis said with more confidence now that he’d been given official clearance from Asim.
‘The route,’ Chaikova said, ‘it is probably better I decide. I know the checkpoints.’
‘Fair enough. Vehicle?’
‘Four-by-four is best. There’s a lot of mud this time of year. Where are you staying?’
Tallis told him.
‘I will get things organised then visit and collect the money. I will also bring extra firepower.’
Tallis had an image of Dragunovs, AKs and hand grenades. ‘The papers,’ he said. ‘How quickly do you think Orlov can get hold of them?’
‘Soon as. I will talk to Grigori personally.’
‘That’s very good of you. I appreciate it.’
‘No problem,’ Chaikova said. ‘Life is dull. It is some time since I enjoyed an adventure.’
The next two days were a whirl of activity. Any reservations on Ruslan’s part were swiftly overcome in the light of reports of a heavy-handed clampdown in the ghettoes. The simple truth was that the journey home provided him with a goal that had long been absent from his life.
Tallis bought enough suitable clothing for the boy. A Russian-style Cossak hat, pulled well down over Ruslan’s head, helped take some of the focus off his bruises, which were now fading to a paler shade of green. As for Tallis, he cleaned his weapons, checked and double-checked basic equipment—compass, knife, map, backpack, including a down-filled sleeping bag, all-important water and vacuum-sealed food supplies. He noticed that someone had thoughtfully added field dressings to the kit and several phials of morphine and a syringe.
Knowledge was power, particularly when it came to route planning. Although Tallis thought he could trust Ch
aikova’s judgement, he and Ruslan studied the maps in detail.
‘Most people used to fly from Moscow straight to Grozny. With the flights suspended you could still travel by road. The troops used to come in via Mozdok, a front-line town on the border. The headquarters of the combined forces of the North Caucasus are based there. Failing that, they’d fly by helicopter to Nazran.’
‘And now, which would be the best way?’
‘The best meaning safest? Travel by road to Rostovon-Don.’ Probably what Chaikova had in mind, Tallis thought.
‘How far?’
‘Seven hundred and forty-four miles.’
Depending on mode of transport, it could take the best part of three very uncomfortable days, Tallis estimated.
‘But whichever way…’ Ruslan pointed out on the map ‘…there’s a main checkpoint here beyond Nazran, and beyond that the OMON, or riot police, are stationed at the village of Assinovskaya. ‘This friend of yours,’ he said, looking up. ‘He must be worth a lot to you.’
‘Yes,’ Tallis said simply. ‘He is.’
As it turned out, Ruslan was right about the route, but not the method of travel. Chaikova called round two evenings later bearing false papers. He was wearing khaki-coloured pants and a camouflage-style jacket. He also sported a pair of aviators. Tallis thought he might as well have Come and Arrest me painted on his shaved head.
‘Change of plan,’ Chaikova announced. ‘We’re going by train tonight.’
‘What?’ Tallis said. ‘If we travel by train we can’t take any weapons with us.’
‘No problem,’ Chaikova said, a phrase that Tallis suspected was going to drive him nuts. ‘I know a man in Rostov who will supply.’
‘And how are we going to travel after that?’ Tallis said, trying to tame his growing exasperation.
‘Rostov has a huge car market,’ Ruslan pointed out.
Chaikova nodded. ‘We will easily pick up a set of wheels.’
‘It’s a good plan,’ Ruslan said, studying the papers that told him he was a Russian-born administrative assistant. He showed the papers to Tallis. ‘Administering what?’ Tallis frowned.
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