‘And something else, Mr Tallis,’ Timur said, with a slow look, ‘you and your friend are spies.’
In novels and movies, torture either became a blur or a catalogue of voyeuristic and explicit horror. In real life, Tallis registered every second, every minute, every hour for the simple reason that it wasn’t simply his pain to endure. Within minutes of Sprite’s arrival, Darke was flung into the room. They’d worked him over fairly badly. His hair was matted with sweat and blood and his eyes looked worryingly empty. It was, Tallis realised, quite possible that he’d talked.
They were clever. All the usual—stuffing bags over their heads, half-drowning them, more tamely known as water-boarding, as if it were some brilliant outdoor adventure activity, followed by a series of physically agonising manoeuvres that left no marks on the body but were no less painful and debilitating. Each was subjected to watching the other’s torment. That’s what did Tallis in. There was nothing like the scream of another man in pain.
The questions were all the same. Who are you? Who are you working for? Confess, confess, confess. The answers were also the same: We are Englishmen sympathetic to the Chechen cause. We work for no one. Nobody was buying it, least of all Sprite, who was allowed to watch and satisfy his lust for cruelty. And that suggested to Tallis, even as he was hallucinating and swallowing words that threatened to retch and erupt from his throat, that the FSB had more than a single source of local information. Was it possible someone had blown his cover in the UK?
‘Fuck you,’ he said, as Timur crouched down after choreographing a particularly vicious assault. ‘And fuck you, too,’ Tallis snarled through bloodied teeth, his half-closed eyes glancing in Sprite’s direction.
‘Unfortunately, Aslan has already been fucked, many, many times. It was part of our programme for turning him,’ Timur said. ‘Sometimes it is necessary to break a spirit before you can re-create it.’
‘In your own sick image,’ Tallis muttered, passing out.
Two days later, they were still being dragged in and out of consciousness until, finally, both of them were told that they were being taken to Moscow for more intensive interrogation, whatever the hell that meant, Tallis thought, feeling sick. So far, he was pretty sure he’d sustained two broken ribs and there was blood in his urine. Darke had fared as badly. Sustaining a broken nose in the initial assault, he’d now got a fractured cheekbone, broken fingers on his left hand and God knew what internal injuries. Timur, clearly unhappy with the decision, stepped up his methods, the psycho in him viewing the lack of a confession as confirmation of personal failure. Good, Tallis thought. He hoped it gnawed away at the bastard and limited his chances of promotion.
After a last gruelling stint, sweaty and bloody, they were chucked into a windowless room that they assumed was bugged. The place in which they were held appeared to be a disused canning factory, their present room a storage area. Preparing for their final leg of the journey, they both knew what they were facing. On the up side, a further attempt on the Prime Minister’s life seemed unlikely—security would be as stringent as if he were a nuclear power plant, and Tallis realised they would go to the grave with their secrets intact. They’d be simply executed as Englishmen serving the jihadist cause. It would make news but not plunge the world into war.
‘Can’t say I planned to die like this,’ Tallis said.
‘Me neither.’
‘You alright?’
‘Spot on.’ Darke gave a husky laugh.
‘God, that takes me back,’ Tallis said. ‘You always used to say that when things went tits up.’
‘Particularly useful around your father, as I recall.’
‘And the PE teacher.’
Both of them laughed then lapsed into silence. Perhaps he’d been wrong about Darke, Tallis thought. Perhaps the tough carapace was nothing more than an elaborate disguise.
Tallis fancied he could hear birds singing. He thought of Katya and how much he’d give to see her again, to gaze into those wonderful bright blue eyes and hear the soft lilt of her voice. He wondered how Darke had lasted all this time without a woman in his life. Or maybe he had. Funny, Tallis thought, when life seems limited, affairs of the heart roar to the forefront. ‘Lula,’ Tallis burst out.
‘What about her?’
‘She fancies the pants off you. Well, she did. Might change her mind if she could see you now.’
‘Thanks very much. Anyway, she’d be wasting her time.’
‘Not your type?’ Tallis attempted a smile. Ouch, that hurt. ‘I think she’s quite nicely put together, but I guess with Akhmet breathing down…What?’ Tallis stopped. He knew that Darke was in pain but he was giving him the weirdest look ever.
‘You didn’t suspect?’
‘Didn’t suspect what?’
‘Why I went away?’
‘You left with your dad.’
‘I left with my lover.’
‘Your lover? Which lover?’
‘A bloke called Toby Symes.’
‘What?’
‘I’m gay, Paul.’
Tallis was stunned, not because of Graham’s homosexuality, that didn’t matter a damn to him, but because he hadn’t known. He’d had absolutely no idea at all. It made him feel a complete fool. How could he not have known? They’d done everything together, fought together, mucked about together, talked for hours on end. But it did explain something. Darke was adept at deception. It made him a terrific liar and that made him the perfect spy.
‘You never came back.’ It wasn’t an accusation. It was Tallis saying that he’d missed him, that his best friend could have confided in him, that he would have understood, that it would have been alright.
‘Nothing to come back to.’ Darke smiled, cool with it.
They heard the sound of an armoured vehicle. Bit over the top, Tallis thought. He was hardly going to take to his heels and run. Neither of them was up for another fight. Too much had been beaten out of them, which was probably why Timur and his team had got sloppy with security measures. Having dispensed with blindfolds days ago, they hadn’t even bothered to cuff them. Why bother when you could hold a pistol to a man’s temple?
They were taken out into a yard. Ahead, a set of open sheet-metal gates, beyond which stood a stationary truck, behind this an empty British Land Rover Discovery. Sunshine bathed the earth, the walls, surrounding tree-lined landscape, and there wasn’t a whisper of wind. Perfect weather, Tallis thought, wistful. He glanced across at Darke, who appeared to experience difficulty with walking but failed to catch his eye.
It was quite the farewell party. Timur on the prowl, overseeing the operation, two FSB thugs either side of the prisoners, and Sprite. Soldiers of indeterminate rank looked on with disinterest. All were armed, although they weren’t exactly at the ready. They could afford to be blasé against two beaten, defenceless men.
The doors of the truck opened and soldiers began to alight from the vehicle. Suddenly, everyone stopped. Everyone listened. Tallis heard it, too, the tell-tale whistle of a round coming in. He counted one, two, three, and automatically braced himself for the crump as mortar landed, which it did, totalling the truck and Land Rover in a double strike. Next came a burst of automatic fire, a storm of bullets ripping up the ground around them. Timur began shouting orders for his men to retreat with their prisoners, but it was already too late. Artillery was flying through the air. Akhmet and a phalanx of men had emerged from the woods, from where they’d been lying in wait, and were advancing at speed in a hail of gunfire.
‘Shut the gates,’ Timur yelled, but it was no good. The soldiers, panicked, ran all over the place, letting off rounds in a haphazard way, the sound of small-arms and heavy fire surrounding them. Instinctively, the FSB guys, taken by surprise, released their prisoners, their focus diverted to the incoming attack. Big mistake. As the officer next to Tallis drew his weapon, Tallis felt a surge of life-saving adrenalin pump through his body. He lifted his elbow high and jabbed it straight back into the man’s throat,
felling him. Picking up the man’s weapon, he shot his other captor through the neck then swung round to see Sprite lifting his gun. Oh, God, Tallis thought, too slow, responses blunted, not quick enough. Then, as if by a miracle, Sprite dropped to the ground, dead from a single sniper shot to his head, an expression of surprise and shock on his face.
With a burst of wild energy, Tallis darted forward, ignoring the searing pain in his side; everywhere a clamour of sound as bricks and stone flew off the building behind him under the weight of heavy machine-gun fire and RPGs. Darke, similarly pumped up, was struggling to overpower one of the FSB men. Tallis came in close and dropped the Russian with a single shot. Handing Darke his gun, Tallis turned and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Irina standing just inside the yard, lining up to strike. He yelled for Darke to get out of the way and, suffused with another adrenalin spike, ran to where Sprite’s body lay, grabbed his AK and, spinning round, belted back towards her, spraying gunfire. He’d only ever killed a woman once before, and that had been under orders. It felt terrible then and it did now, but survival was stronger than guilt.
The Chechens were pouring into the yard. Of Timur there was no sign. Picking over a dead soldier’s body with the same intent as a magpie, Darke snatched two grenades then grabbed Tallis. Without uttering a word, they sprinted back to the building, entire strips of wall disintegrating before their eyes, accompanied by a horrendous pounding sound. ‘Dshkes,’ Darke gasped, ‘they mean business this time, and they’ve got Abdul’s men fighting with them.’
They flew inside the building and were immediately pitched into a killing zone of hallways and corridors. Anyone who got in their way they killed either by fire or grenade. Tallis felt like a character in an X-rated video game. None of it felt real, though the blood and noise was real enough.
At last, hugging the walls tight, they made it towards the front of the building. So far, the Chechen attack was focused only on the rear. Presumably the manpower wasn’t organised enough to cut off an escape route, Tallis thought, but that didn’t mean using the door for an exit was a great idea.
‘What do you reckon?’ Tallis said to Darke as they peeped out onto a car park.
‘I’ll go first, you cover,’ Darke said, bursting outside, using the vehicles to hide behind. ‘Right, what do you fancy?’
‘Nice Mercedes over there, tinted windows, the works. Hang about,’ Tallis said, squinting. ‘Isn’t that Timur?’
‘Looks like he’s got the same idea,’ Darke said. ‘Come on, let’s nail him.’ He flicked a grin, crouching low and scurried towards the C-class saloon, Tallis bent double and, cursing, behind him. With the pressure temporarily off, his body was letting him know how much trouble it was in. Physiology was a weird thing. Young men, stabbed in the back and dying, could still manage to walk to the end of a street before collapsing. Tallis wasn’t taking anything for granted.
Creeping up close, they watched as Timur, his back to them, thrust in the keys and went to open the door.
‘Hold it,’ Darke said, pressing the point of his gun to Timur’s left ear.
‘Throw down your weapon,’ Tallis ordered. ‘Slowly.’
Timur complied. ‘You’ll never get away with it.’
‘You disappoint me, Timur,’ Tallis said. ‘I thought an educated man like you could come up with a better cliché.’
‘And here’s another,’ Darke said. ‘Open the boot.’
‘What?’
‘You heard,’ Tallis said, giving Timur a vicious swipe in the ribs that must have cracked at least two. Christ, that felt better. He’d yearned to do that for days.
While Darke frogmarched Timur to the rear of the car, Tallis got inside the driver’s seat, ready to go. Something out of the corner of his eye made him look up. Lula was standing on the roof of the building in an excellent position, sniper rifle in hand, lining up. From that range it was impossible to tell whether her target was Timur or Darke. Tallis wrenched the car door open and shouted a warning, too late. A shot rang out. Both men went down. Shaken, Tallis started and gunned the engine. The passenger door burst open. Tallis looked across as Darke threw himself inside.
‘Drive,’ Darke said.
Tallis did. As he glanced in the rear-view mirror, he saw the strangest sight: Lula, bereft, slowly waving them goodbye.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THEY abandoned the car a couple of kilometres from the M29 and made the rest of the way on foot. Effectively, they were operating behind enemy lines. They kept low, avoided open spaces, moved fast and tried to stay alert. Having holed up in a ditch, they waited until night to travel the relatively short distance to Katya’s house in Grozny, taking a parallel route to the road. It wasn’t ideal. Both of them were suffering from dehydration and exhaustion. By the time they reached Katya’s it was two in the morning. The street was eerily quiet. There was no lamplight. It felt as if the place was under curfew.
Tallis tapped at the door, nervous of making too much noise, hoping to God that Katya slept lightly. At first there was no response. He wondered whether she, too, had fled, and her home was empty.
‘Could break in,’ Darke murmured, his face silhouetted in the moonlight.
Then they heard the light tread of footsteps on a stair, the sound of Katya’s voice, low and clear. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Tallis.’
At once the bolt was shot, the door opened. Rarely had Tallis felt such a rush of emotion. A myriad of images flooded his mind—Katya, blue eyes shining, her feet bare, the nightshirt, open slightly, revealing honeycoloured skin, hinting at the curves of her body, her expression serene and beautiful. He almost fell inside.
‘Dear God,’ she said, staring at both of them. ‘How did you get here? Since the assassination attempt the country’s been in lockdown, checkpoints everywhere, security forces, army and police all called in.’
‘When did this happen?’ Tallis said.
‘Five days ago. The Prime Minister was standing in for the President at a meeting of journalists. They’re blaming a Chechen doctor, but I’m not so sure. Anyway…’ She frowned. ‘Never mind all that. What happened to you? Are you badly hurt?’ she said, putting a cool hand to his face, which was burning. ‘Is this the man you went to find?’ she said, glancing at Darke. Seeing how wretched he looked, she told him to sit down. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I will get you water and something for your wounds.’
‘Somewhere to sleep and I’ll be fine,’ Darke said, gruff, slumping into the nearest chair. Now that they’d reached sanctuary, neither had a trace of energy between them.
‘And Ruslan,’ Katya said, standing on tiptoe, looking beyond as if he might materialise out of the night. ‘Where is he?’
Tallis swallowed. He’d broken this kind of news before, not often but enough to remember how dreadful it felt. But this was different. This was a woman who’d touched his heart, a woman he’d failed. She must have read it in his eyes for her hand slipped from his face and fell to her side. ‘Katya,’ he said, touching her arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What?’ The knuckle of her hand flew to her mouth, her expression wary and confused.
‘He didn’t make it,’ Tallis said.
‘He’s dead?’ Her voice was incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘How?’ Her eyes filled with tears of helplessness and fear. He so much wanted to reach out and comfort her, but that wasn’t what she needed. Instinctively, he understood that Katya wanted information, cold, hard facts, not soothing words or bullshit about how Ruslan hadn’t suffered.
‘He was shot at a checkpoint. I tried to bring him back down the mountains, but…’
She turned away, running her fingers through her hair in distress. ‘I warned him not to go. I told him it was foolish.’
‘Yes, I—’
‘You should have sent him back.’ She whipped round, her eyes flaring with sudden anger. Her small fists balled. He thought she might hit him.
‘I tried.’ Had he? Exhaustion was playin
g tricks on him. He really couldn’t remember. Hadn’t it been more a case of using the boy to aid his cause? And what cause would that be? He felt crushed by guilt.
‘And will you avenge his death?’ The words were spat, not as a challenge but with facetiousness, as though she were alluding to the inevitability and pointlessness of the game that men played the world over. She stood tall, her arms crossed, her blue eyes pale and cold.
‘Katya, believe—’
‘Believe what? That you are innocent? That you have not killed? That your mission here is a peaceful one?’
‘It’s not what you think,’ Darke said, his voice small and tired.
‘I think I’m the mistress of my own thoughts,’ she said with a searing glance, heading upstairs. ‘You may stay here for the night. In the morning I want you out of my home.’
‘That went well,’ Darke said with a twisted smile.
‘I’ll find us some blankets,’ Tallis muttered.
‘Sure she won’t mind?’
‘Graham?’
‘What?’
‘Shut up.’
He was laden with bedding, poised at the top of the stairs, when he heard a noise. Creeping across the landing, he put his ear to her door, listened to her crying. Raw, he dropped his load and tapping gently on the wood, went inside. Katya had his back to her, shoulders shaking, face in her hands. Without a word, he slipped his arms around her, drew her close, felt her body freeze and tense under his touch. He became painfully aware of the state he was in—unwashed, unkempt and dirty. She half turned and pushed him away.
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