Black Pearl

by Peter Tonkin

  History

  The space inside the Zubr Stalingrad was massive, echoing like a hangar. Twenty-five metres wide and fifty metres deep from the bow ramp at the front to the stern ramp at the back. The floor space was twelve hundred and fifty square metres. It stood eight metres high so the cubic capacity was just on ten thousand cubic metres. And it was still only about a third of the width of the whole vessel, because there were bulkheads on either side, behind which were the main power plants, troop compartments, crews’ quarters and a range of battle-orientated life-support systems. Richard strode up and into the huge space as soon as the front ramp was fully open and resting on the concrete of the slipway at his feet. He walked purposefully across the echoing vacancy to the nearest companionway, talking statistics to Patience Aganga as she followed him. The booming of his voice echoed, like his brisk footsteps, as though this were a massive cave.

  Felix trailed along behind the minister, seemingly content to let Richard, motivated by nothing other than his relentlessly boyish enthusiasm, deliver an uncalculated – but clearly effective – sales pitch. None of them was having any trouble keeping up, either physically or mentally. The minister seemed fit and fleet of foot in spite of her dumpy figure and advancing years. Nor had she seemed unduly overcome by the sheer size and power of the huge hovercraft as it had come sailing up the slipway in preparation to take them aboard for a quick tour, in spite of the fact that it was preceded by a gale of dust and spray that battered them until the vessel’s bulging black skirts finished deflating, and the minister could at last let go of her own too dangerously inflated skirts and try, a little pointlessly, to restore some order to her coiffeur. Robin, wise to what was coming and careful of her clothing, dignity and hairstyle, had made her excuses at the end of the meeting and was heading back to the hotel through the bustle of Granville Harbour’s seemingly permanent rush hour.

  Richard ran confidently upwards now, therefore, counting off the deck levels in his head until he had no option but to cross inwards to a stairway and lift shaft midships before climbing more companionways up the centre of the bridge above the weather deck. Finally, he walked forward and found himself in a strange, almost circular command bridge, amid a bustle of officers and crewmen. He turned to Patience Aganga. ‘This is where we really start our tour,’ he announced. ‘The heart and the head of the ship.’

  Captain Caleb Maina was standing beside Captain Zhukov, commander of the huge vessel, and only the fact that he was clean-shaven really made it possible to distinguish him from his cousin, Colonel Laurent Kebila. The captains’ heads, one dark and the other grey, were close together as they went through some kind of manifest on a laptop. Caleb Maina, a captain in Benin La Bas’s navy, was almost fully trained now as a Zubr captain and was as capable as Zhukov of commanding the sister vessel Volgograd sitting on the broad slipway beside this one. He looked up as the little group arrived, threw Richard a companionable smile, then snapped to attention and saluted the minister formally. Zhukov did the same, his white walrus moustache quivering. But it was hard to tell whether his salute was aimed at the minister or at Felix.

  ‘Now, Minister,’ said Felix, taking over from Richard much more calculatedly and pointedly, ‘I expect the two captains are just checking the most vital elements aboard. Especially under the present circumstances, that would be armaments, of course.’

  ‘Hopefully you won’t need them,’ said Patience Aganga. ‘But I’m aware of the basic armaments of the vessel and can expedite the movement of ammunition from our naval stores. As far as I can see, much of what the Zubrs carry is compatible with what we have aboard our corvettes, as I’m sure Captain Maina will confirm if he hasn’t done so already. Beyond that, the president’s plan is simply to expedite the movement of Colonel Kebila’s men and let them sort out the problem of Colonel Odem and his Army of Christ with minimal interference, while you proceed further upriver towards Lac Dudo.’

  The minister showed every sign of wanting to get back to her office, but Felix clearly thought the opportunity of building on Richard’s persuasive introduction to the Zubr was too good to miss. He seemed set on turning what had been proposed as a short fact-finding mission into the full guided tour with the relentlessness of a used-car salesman. Perhaps fortunately for Patience Aganga, her Benincom cell phone began to ring even as the Russian was shepherding her off the bridge towards the high-temperature gas turbine engines, already launching into an explanation of how they powered two sets of fans, one set of which kept the skirts inflated while another provided the propulsion.

  ‘I have to take this,’ the minister said. ‘It’s Colonel Kebila.’ She turned away, talking rapidly. Then she stopped and turned back. ‘I know it’s a long shot,’ she said, ‘but do any of you know a Russian by the name of Yagula?’

  ‘We both do,’ said Richard. ‘He’s the chief prosecutor of the Moscow law enforcement system – of the whole of the Russian Federation, in fact. Lavrenty Mikhailovich Yagula. What does Kebila want to know about him?’

  ‘No,’ said Patience, her dark brow furrowed. ‘This one’s called Ivan. Ivan Yagula. And he’s not in Moscow. Or even in Russia. He’s in detention at the airport for trying to smuggle a sizeable arsenal of weapons into the country.’

  There was a stunned silence. Richard looked at the minister, who was looking at him. They both ended up looking at Felix.

  ‘Ah,’ said Felix, with the closest Richard had ever seen him come to a blush. ‘I think I might know what’s happening …’

  In one of life’s irritating little inevitabilities, Max had just left the airport and was caught in traffic on his way back to the hotel when Felix got through to him. There was no chance that he could get back and sort out matters between Ivan Yagula and the airport authorities. Though, from the tone of what Richard could hear coming out of Felix’s cell phone, Max wasn’t too happy about the situation either.

  ‘I’ll have to go myself,’ the Russian announced to Patience Aganga. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid your tour of the vessel may have to wait, minister.’

  ‘I believe I will survive the disappointment,’ she answered with every evidence of relief. ‘But if Captain Zhukov will supply paper I will write a letter of authority for you to take with you, and I will call the airport formally myself when I get back to my office.’

  Richard, who had never seen Felix wrong-footed, let alone flustered, found his interest piqued. ‘Mind if I ride along, Felix? Robin’s taken my car anyway, and I’d love to know more about this chap.’

  Probably because he was still a little off balance, Felix agreed and did not even seem to regret his decision until their saloon was snaking out on one of President Chaka’s new highways towards the airport. ‘So,’ said Richard in the cheery tone he knew irritated Felix most. A tone he usually reserved for when he thought Felix had stepped over one of the lines that defined their relationship. ‘Another Yagula? Father? Uncle? Cousin? Brother?’

  ‘Son,’ answered Felix grudgingly, the way he tapped the minister’s envelope against his immaculately tailored knee betraying his irritation.

  ‘Really? I never knew. Though I do realize the federal prosecutor has a reputation with the ladies that almost rivals Max’s …’

  ‘Son and heir. Acknowledged and legitimate. Mother dead,’ said Felix.

  ‘I never even knew Yagula had been married,’ said Richard more soberly.

  ‘One marriage, one christening, one funeral. Old story.’

  ‘OK,’ temporized Richard as he watched the inbound A380 from Paris begin to settle on to its short finals, swooping lazily towards their own destination. ‘So why is he here?’

  ‘We asked him to come,’ said Felix. ‘We and Lavrenty Mikhailovich.’

  That gave Richard pause. His mind raced. Whole new vistas of Muscovite mendacity opened before his inner eye. ‘Lavrenty Mikhailovich,’ he said. ‘Don’t tell me. The federal prosecutor has a finger in the Bashnev/Sevmash pie!’

  ‘You were bound to find out eventua
lly. Or work it out, now that Ivan has arrived. I’m surprised you didn’t know – you or your spies at London Centre. But what’s to tell? He was born, what, twenty-seven years ago. Brought up at home until his mother died. Sent to school by his busy father. Came back to Max’s in the vacations, friends with Max’s two …’

  ‘Anastasia and Ivan Asov, yes.’

  ‘Indeed. Anastasia and the two Ivans. Until Ivan Asov died.’

  ‘Drugs overdose at his eighteenth birthday party. Yes. London Centre was on top of that one.’ And more than that, too, thought Richard – who was little short of Anastasia’s godfather.

  ‘In the meantime Ivan Yagula had transferred to the Moscow Military Commanders Training School. Then into special forces. He resigned three years ago and now runs Risk Incorporated, one of Moscow’s most successful security firms. It is a subsection of our business, of course.’

  ‘Risk Incorporated,’ said Richard. ‘Catchy.’

  Felix just gave a curt nod and continued. ‘Anastasia and Ivan Asov had gone to private school in Moscow too – The Hope School, before you ask – so the three of them continued to meet. But the parental trajectories were different. Ivan Yagula was being trained to take on a military career and parallel what his father had done in the law-enforcement world. Ivan Asov was always going to take over Bashnev/Sevmash – especially as I have no children. It was a dynastic – Russian – thing. Passing the keys of the kingdom from father to son. When he wasn’t at school, Ivan Asov was being shown how to run our business and Anastasia just went along for the ride because the two of them were inseparable, as you well know. The three of them, in fact, when young Yagula came home from Commanders Training School.’

  ‘Then Ivan Asov died.’

  ‘And Max blamed Anastasia – she arranged the party, employed the entertainment, a band called Simian Artillery which was briefly notorious back in the early noughties. And they apparently supplied the drugs that killed Ivan. So Max became increasingly isolated from her. Disowned her in the end. Hasn’t spoken to her in years, as far as I know. You probably know as much as I do. And he has been trying to replace his son and heir ever since.’

  Richard thought of the number of nubile – fertile – women Max had slept with during the years of their acquaintance. ‘Drug overdose. Tragic,’ he said. ‘So young Ivan Yagula has, what, replaced the deceased heir-apparent in the scheme of things? Until Max manages to make another baby boy?’

  ‘To a certain extent. His father has always been … Something of a …’

  ‘Sleeping partner?’ suggested Richard innocently. ‘The only kind that Max isn’t trying to get pregnant?’

  Felix gave a grunt of laughter. ‘You could put it like that. What do the French call it? Eminence grise? The man behind the scenes who pulls the strings. Yes, Yagula would approve of that. He is our grey eminence. And his son, in this expedition, given the size and importance of the objective, will be the grey eminence’s eyes.’

  Ivan

  I’d have known you anywhere, Ivan Yagula, thought Richard. And, unless your late mother stood six foot six in her stocking feet, was bald as an egg and built like a Ukranian combined harvester, then you are most definitely your father’s son. After his conversation with Felix, he had half expected camouflage cargo pants, green sleeveless vest, dogtags and a range of military tattoos. But the young man huge in statue standing serenely surrounded by well-armed soldiers and outraged security staff was suited in single-breasted, elegantly tailored, mid-grey gabardine, shirted in white cotton, and boasted a gold silk tie with a Windsor knot between the pearly dots of his button-down collar. The huge black brogues shone like mirrors, and Richard knew from bitter experience that footwear that large just had to be handmade. The gold tie had no regimental crests, but there was the familiar Batman logo of the Spetsnaz special forces honourable discharge pin on the lapel above Ivan’s heart.

  The eyes that glanced up from beneath slightly shaggy, dark sand-coloured eyebrows were mid-blue and twinkling with unexpected good humour. The full, rather sensual lips quivered towards a smile as Ivan saw Felix and the surprisingly fine nostrils flared. ‘Sorry to do this to you, Felix,’ said an unexpectedly light baritone voice with a clear Muscovite accent that did not strain Richard’s basic Russian vocabulary too much. ‘It’s the price of following orders, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Whose orders?’ demanded Felix as he and Richard hurried across the room.

  ‘The federal prosecutor’s,’ answered Ivan easily.

  Not my father’s, thought Richard. The federal prosecutor’s. Interesting.

  ‘Lavrenty Mikhailovich probably doesn’t realize his word isn’t law down here. Yet,’ Felix answered easily.

  ‘Oh, but it is,’ interposed Richard, hoping his Russian accent was as polished as everyone else’s. ‘Show them the letter, Felix.’

  The sandy eyebrows rose. The delicate mouth widened into a ready grin as Felix, who appeared to have forgotten the minister’s letter, went to show it to the officers.

  ‘Captain Mariner, I presume?’ said Ivan in impeccable English stepping forward, as light on his massive feet as a professional boxer, seeming to lead with his large shoulders.

  Richard extended his hand. ‘Your English is perfect,’ he said. ‘Oxford?’

  ‘Sandhurst.’ The handshake was short, carefully gentle but full of latent power. Their eyes were almost on a level, Richard for once in his life looking slightly upwards. ‘A brief secondment many years ago.’

  ‘Of course. I should have guessed.’ Richard stepped back a little, still holding eye contact. ‘How is your father?’

  ‘The federal prosecutor?’ Ivan shrugged. ‘Much as usual. Prosecuting.’

  ‘We have to wait,’ said Felix unhappily. ‘They’re expecting someone else with Ivan’s luggage.’

  ‘Of course,’ soothed Richard, turning away from Ivan just enough to meet Felix’s frustrated gaze. ‘Colonel Kebila is on his way, no doubt.’

  ‘A full colonel?’ said Ivan, reclaiming Richard’s full attention. ‘Either I’ve gone up in the world or they really do have Mickey Mouse armies down here.’

  ‘You’ve gone up in the world, believe me,’ Richard informed him shortly. ‘Mickey Mouse is the last thing these people are.’

  Colonel Kebila arrived a minute later, followed by two porters trundling a sizeable luggage trolley loaded with massive suitcases. Clearly no twenty-kilo limit for young Ivan, thought Richard ironically. Two hundred kilos looked nearer the mark.

  Everyone in the room straightened respectfully as the dapper soldier entered, even Felix and Richard. Ivan came very close to full attention; A fact which Kebila noted, along with everything else. ‘Senior Lieutenant Yagula,’ he began, also in clipped Sandhurst English. ‘I have inspected the contents of your luggage. And find that I am informed by at least one government minister and indeed the president himself, that they contain nothing that presents any risk to my country. Or that contravenes any of our stringent import laws.’

  ‘That is very understanding of all concerned, sir. Please forward my thanks and best wishes as you feel appropriate,’ replied Ivan in the equally clipped tones of the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst, Camberley, England.

  Ye Gods, thought Richard. They’ll be exchanging visiting cards next. Inviting each other round for tea and cucumber sandwiches. Or calling for seconds and duelling sabres …

  ‘However,’ continued Kebila smoothly with the curtest of nods at the pleasantry, ‘you should be aware, Stárshiy Leytenánt, that it is my job to guard the people who have just given me my orders, whether I agree with them or not. And if I find I’m having to guard them against you or any of the weaponry I have recorded as being in these suitcases, you can rest assured I will come looking for you. Personally.’

  Ivan’s smile broadened microscopically, just enough to reveal a flash of pearl-white teeth. ‘And I am sure you will know where to find me, Colonel. That, I am certain, would be true even were we not, as I understand it, ordered to
undertake the same mission, side by side. But it is, in fact, my very real hope that the equipment I have imported – and which you have so carefully catalogued – will help protect you and your men, when the going gets tough. Somewhere upriver. Sometime soon.’

  No doubt there was further family news to swap and more social catching-up to do, but Richard reckoned that if whatever was in Ivan’s luggage had upset Kebila so much, it would probably give the manager of the Granville Lodge Hotel a heart attack. ‘What did you bring in those cases?’ he asked as the limo fought its way through the eternal rush hour south of Granville Harbour International twenty minutes later.

  Ivan reached into the inside pocket of his beautifully cut jacket and passed over a carefully folded piece of paper.

  ‘No wonder Kebila’s jealous,’ said Richard as he finished scanning it. ‘He’s just upgraded his men to Ruger MP nines. As I expect you noticed.’

  ‘It was the first thing that struck me,’ admitted Ivan. ‘But that’s a fine semi-automatic. We’ve kept with HK MP fives, though, as you’ll see from the list.’ Ivan leaned over to slide a perfectly manicured finger down the column of writing. ‘I like Graches, though, I must admit. I carry the four-four-six Viking myself nowadays when I’m at work, but it doesn’t take the hot rounds. It’s civilian spec, of course. I like the fact there’s only seventeen parts. And that the hot nine mil loads will go through body armour like butter. Is body armour a problem? I thought it might be, though I’ve only had real experience in Chechnya. I’ve been in Africa, but only in a support role. No combat. But I reckoned better safe than sorry, you know?’