‘Bye, Angie,’ Jaq said.
There was no response until the door closed. Then came the sobs and the terrible cries. So, her mother had not forgotten. Through her catatonic dementia, there was still no room for forgiveness.
The scent of orange blossom and the sweet song of a thrush brought Jaq back to the present. And the journey ahead. The passport had been fast-tracked by an expert navigator in the choppy waters of Portuguese bureaucracy. Stamped with the visas she would need in her search for Sergei.
She’d lain low long enough. There was nothing to keep her here.
Next week she was flying to Belarus. To a brothel in Minsk. With cigarettes and vodka.
There was a first time for everything.
PART IV: FUGUE UKRAINE
Friday 29 April, somewhere near the Belarus–Ukraine border
The sun sank towards the horizon as Boris approached the complex, a great sphere of red casting its rosy light over the wetlands. A little horse neighed and tossed its mane as Boris passed. The foal continued drinking from the lake, almost hidden in the pale green fronds of willow trees. A beautiful place. Beautiful and deadly.
He’d answered the summons. There was little point hiding from SLYV. Others had tried; it always ended badly.
He lit a cigarette and drew in deeply, savouring the taste, the nicotine hit.
The Spider had agreed to meet with him, to hear his new plan. A good sign; he’d be dead by now if it was up to Mario – the Venezuelan oaf. But The Spider was smart. He’d be impressed. This plan was genius; The Spider couldn’t fail to see that.
The grinding of metal on metal made his hair stand on end. Time to go. He nipped the cigarette halfway down, put it in his pocket for later and waited for admittance.
‘Boris!’ The Spider clapped him on the back. ‘You came.’
Boris stumbled in the direction of the seat indicated. The office was simple and functional: desk, chairs, drinks cabinet. The Spider opened the glass doors and pulled out a bottle.
‘Vodka?’
You didn’t say no to The Spider.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this little chat. A . . . debriefing.’ He chuckled. ‘I’m keen to understand what happened.’ He filled two glasses, pushed one over to Boris and then offered him a cigarette. A black Sobranie. ‘Mario tells me you found evidence of a plot against us. Why don’t you start from the beginning?’
Bože všemohoucí, he was lucky to have a boss like Pauk. Someone smart. Someone who understood the difficulties of fieldwork.
He lit The Spider’s cigarette and then his own.
‘Za vas!’ Pauk raised his glass.
Ukrainian vodka tasted of nothing, but Boris needed the courage. He drained the glass in one gulp and the words began to flow.
It all started with Silver. OK, so Yuri fucked up, but that was easily fixed. If it hadn’t been for Silver. Because when Boris went to clean up, he’d found evidence of a tracker.
He waited for respect in the eyes of The Spider as he explained how he’d broken in. He’d watched Sergei unlock the explosives store often enough to know the sequence, and, after some expert persuasion, the security guard revealed where Sergei hid his keys. After a thorough search he’d found something much worse than samples. He had removed the memory stick and key, put the keys back in Sergei’s hiding place and left a little surprise for Silver. He’d even left the doors and cages wide open to ensure she got the message.
He tried to gloss over the Semtex trap that had snared the wrong person. Boom! Or his second attempt to kill Silver, in the English Lake. Splash! Or his third attempt in Kranjskabel.
But The Spider wouldn’t let him get to the end, to the good part, to the new plan. He seemed fixated on what had gone before, kept asking why. It wasn’t going well; Boris wasn’t explaining himself properly. The words he’d rehearsed kept coming out wrong. Why, why, why, why, why, why, why.
Everything came back to Silver. It was all her fault, which is why the new plan was so satisfying. He just needed to find the right words to explain it.
‘Enough.’ With a groan, The Spider twisted in his chair. He bent and unlocked a desk drawer, pulling out a silver flask.
‘Boss, I—’ Boris’s voice cracked, his mouth suddenly dry.
The Spider opened the flask and poured a generous measure into his glass. He pushed the silver flask towards Boris and nodded at the empty tumbler. Boris took a furtive sniff as he filled his glass. Ethanol. Russian vodka? It had to be better than the Ukrainian muck.
The Spider picked up his glass. ‘Za vas!’
Boris took a sip. Yes, this was definitely better stuff.
Anger contorted The Spider’s face. ‘You didn’t clean up at Snow Science, did you?’
Boris took another sip and tried to swallow.
‘Work . . . in . . . progress.’ Why the fat lips? Why the dry throat?
‘And the tracker is still out there, recording our activities.’
‘I know . . . how . . . to find . . .’ Why the blurred vision? Why the trembling limbs?
‘And you let an engineer from Snow Science go to the police? In England. And in Slovenia. Jeopardise the whole operation?’
Why the racing heartbeat? Why the sudden nausea? Why the dizziness?
‘Silver . . . part of the plan. You see—’
‘I make the plans, not you.’ The Spider poured the contents of his own glass back into the flask, untouched. ‘How do you like my new cocktail? I took inspiration from your Agent Number Fifteen.’
Quinuclidinyl benzilate. Boris slumped in his seat. No!
‘We changed some things to avoid detection. You’re a chemist, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll appreciate the power of substitution. Personally, I’ll stick to vodka.’
The room was spinning. Boris tried to steady himself but his hands no longer obeyed him, his feet were slipping.
Falling, falling, falling.
Friday 6 May, Minsk, Belarus
Poor Minsk, the end of the civilised world, the unluckiest place on the planet. Capital of Belarus – a country ruled by the capricious dictator, Lukashenko – the city had few redeeming features. How could it? Torn apart in the First World War, a quarter of its population killed in the Second World War, the remaining intelligentsia exterminated by Stalin after liberation and then, just when the country was getting its act together, the Chernobyl nuclear reactor exploded. Sixty per cent of the radioactive fallout rained down on Belarus; a quarter of its agricultural land still contaminated.
Jaq took a tram to Minsk Zoo and then walked the last few blocks. And blocks they were – brutalist architecture badly executed. Never had concrete looked so unevenly shabby, so randomly grey. It didn’t even have the virtue of uniformity: concrete of the porridge-and-cardboard variety, crumbling away to reveal the rusting metal rebar.
Ulitsa Shishkina stretched out over several blocks in the Syerabranka district, but the nightclub was hard to miss. A giant red neon arrow pointed to a sign in English announcing the Shiskina Model Agency, a low building on the corner with Slanvyy Prospyect – Glorious Prospect. Not so glorious, if truth be told. The club facade was painted red; the front doors were polished steel. And firmly closed.
Jaq slipped in by the back entrance. The fire escape was wedged open with crates of empty bottles: vodka, Crimean champagne, beer. The sunlight streaming through the open door highlighted the imperfections in both decoration and cleanliness. The nightclub had not been designed with daylight in mind.
The door at the end of the corridor opened on to a saloon bar: two threadbare red velvet sofas with fake fur throws and four scuffed leather armchairs around a low table; six high stools beside a polished wooden counter. The sunlight bounced back from the mirrors of the bar, lighting up row upon row of coloured bottles lining the bar shelves like jars of sweets.
In a small alcove, a woman sat at a table in a red velour dressing gown poring over some figures on a clipboard. A large woman, pretty in a soft way. The room stank of sta
le cigarette smoke. Jaq coughed and held up the duty-free bag with the gold carton of cigarettes and blue vodka box. ‘Elena?’
The woman looked up and scowled. ‘At last,’ she said. ‘I thought you were never coming.’ She patted the chair beside her and inspected the vodka. Then she turned her attention to Jaq.
‘You are Camilla?’
Jaq swallowed. Could she do this? No. Fooling someone by omission was one thing, but she couldn’t tell a direct lie. ‘My name is Jaq. Camilla asked for my help. We both want to find Sergei.’ This was true: Camilla had asked, ordered her, even if Jaq had refused.
Elena wrinkled her forehead. ‘But it was you I speak to on the phone?’
‘Yes.’
Elena pursed her lips. The deep red lipstick matched her dressing gown. ‘How do I know you tell truth now?’
Good question. Diversion required. Jaq pulled out the temporary Snow Science pass Patrice had given her and switched to Russian.
‘I worked here, in Kranjskabel.’ She pointed to the Snow Science logo. ‘Same place Sergei worked.’
Elena narrowed her eyes. ‘Were you lovers?’
Jaq crossed her arms. ‘No, I never met Sergei. I took over after he left.’
Elena shook her head. ‘Then why are you looking for him?’
Why indeed? Keep it simple. ‘Something went wrong with the explosives. I was blamed. But it wasn’t my fault, and I need to set the record straight.’
Elena laughed. ‘By accusing Sergei?’
Jaq shook her head. ‘No. Sergei knew what he was doing. He’d discovered something. Something important. Then he disappeared.’
Elena approached the bar, enormous buttocks and breasts describing their own swaying dance as she moved. She locked the foreign vodka and cigarettes away and returned to the table with a bottle of national spirit and two shot glasses, filling them and pushing one towards Jaq. Breakfast. It was the last thing Jaq wanted right now, but this was a contract. She wasn’t going to get any information unless Elena trusted her.
‘Zdarovye!’ Bottoms up! Elena finished her glass in a gulp and poured another measure before continuing in Russian.
‘Sergei is the luckiest man I know. He should have been dead many times over.’
Jaq kept silent and waited for Elena to continue.
‘You know he flew over Chernobyl?’
Jaq nodded.
‘He should have died from the radiation dose he received there. Most of the young pilots lasted a few months or years at most. They suffered slowly, horribly. Somehow, he thrives. He has never taken a day off sick in his life. He lives each day as if it is his last. He has no money, always gambling it away. He smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish, eats like a pig.’
‘He’s married?’
‘Divorced, I think, but he has a new girl every week. He still comes back to me from time to time. I never can resist the bastard.’ She reached for the bottle. Jaq put a hand over her own glass.
‘Children?’
‘Never. He saw what happened to the families of the other pilots, how the sickness spread, how the children suffered.’
‘How would I recognise Sergei?’
‘A handsome bastard.’ Elena stroked the table with the back of her hand, brushing away invisible crumbs. ‘Medium height, muscly, pilot’s swagger. Plenty of hair, head and body, a bear of a man.’
Elena fanned her face with a beer mat.
‘A genius in the air. He can handle any weather. If someone is in a tight spot, they call Sergei.’
‘A brave man,’ Jaq said.
‘No, not brave.’ Elena shook her head.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Bravery is overcoming fear. Sergei has no fear.’ Elena swigged her vodka and sighed. ‘Sometimes I think he wants to die. He didn’t expect to live so long. Now he has nothing to lose, lives life for the moment with no thought for tomorrow.’
The more she learned about Sergei Koval, the more she understood why Snow Science had hired her. A nice, quiet, married academic – no secrets. If only they knew. ‘Where is he now?’ Jaq asked.
‘No one knows. You’re not the first person to come looking for him.’
‘Who else?’
‘Russians.’ Elena spat. ‘Bad men.’
The kidnappers? ‘What did you tell them?’
‘The same thing I’m telling you. I don’t know where Sergei is.’
‘Why did he leave Snow Science?’
Elena pursed her lips. ‘How should I know?’
‘Elena, you said he left something for Camilla.’
‘Sergei always had a backup plan.’ Elena waddled to the cash register, a modern electronic box with a black dongle plugged into the side that glinted with a lilac light. The authorities must record all transactions. Even a brothel had to pay its taxes. Elena reached behind it and retrieved a silver key on a yellow ribbon. She dangled it in front of Jaq.
So not his warehouse keys. This was one Jaq didn’t recognise.
‘First you give me the money he owes me.’
Jaq shook her head. ‘I can’t pay.’ She held out her hand. ‘But if you give me the key, I will try to find Sergei for you.’ And for me, she thought, as I’ve no idea what to do without him.
Elena grasped Jaq’s hand. ‘If you did know, would you use this key to unlock the secret?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Whatever the risk? Despite personal danger?’
Jaq sighed. ‘I’m looking at a long prison sentence if I can’t find the truth.’
Elena released her hand. ‘Then you are the right person.’ She turned the key over to reveal a number engraved on the side. ‘This is the key to Sergei’s secret locker.’
‘His secret locker? Where?’
‘When you find Sergei, tell him Elena is looking for him.’ She hissed something under her breath; her plans for him did not sound particularly loving. ‘And be careful. Other people are looking for him. Other people are looking for this.’ She handed the key to Jaq.
It was a silver key with a bottle-opener-shaped bow, the shaft cut from a half-cylinder with three-dimensional grooves and a number – 12016834 – engraved on the smooth side, a threaded hole bored sideways through the shoulder, a triangular opening with the word ABLOY engraved diagonally and an embossed red spot.
Jaq held it up to the light. ‘Elena, where is Sergei’s locker?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’ Elena dropped her eyes and turned away. ‘Somewhere in the zone of alienation.’
Chernobyl.
Tuesday 31 May, Kiev, Ukraine
Frank paced up and down the arrivals hall of Kiev International airport and glowered. Where was The Spider, damn him? What was the point of accountants if not to be boringly predictable and completely reliable?
The flight had been delayed. The excuses grew increasingly pathetic: fog, wind, storms, late inbound, no plane, no crew – no fucking idea how to run an airline, more like.
He flung his bag to the floor in front of the meeting point and winced at the pain in his hip. A bumpy flight due to turbulence and incompetence. Business class meant nothing more than curtaining off two rows of economy seats at the front of the plane – cramped and uncomfortable. The service was a disgrace, no refreshment was offered until an hour after take-off. The gurning air hostess had the body of a professional weightlifter; the selection of drinks was dismal and the food inedible. Why the hell had he come here, anyway? Frank scanned the people milling around in arrivals – short, squat, poorly dressed. What a dump. Where was Pauk? It was not as if The Spider was easy to miss. Frank dialled his number. No reply. It went to voicemail and Frank cut the call without leaving a message.
A clutch of uniformed drivers with placards stood near the door, the names unintelligible in Cyrillic script. At least the symbols for the international hotel chains were recognisable. Frank nodded at the man holding a sign with an emblem he recognised.
The driver frowned. ‘Natasha Lominsky?’ he said.
‘Frank Good.’ Idiot. ‘I have a reservation.’
The driver pointed to the taxi rank outside.
Frank grabbed the cardboard sign from the driver and ripped it in two. ‘I don’t travel in public taxis in cities I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Now take me to my hotel.’
The driver muttered something incomprehensible and pulled out his mobile phone. There was a hurried conversation. A young woman with a name badge on the lapel of her blazer marched towards them and the driver backed away, retrieving his torn sign.
‘May I help you?’
This one spoke English at least. ‘Yes, I require an immediate transfer to my hotel,’ Frank said.
‘Did you book a transfer?’
‘Yes.’ Not with the hotel, with Pauk, but since The Spider had failed to materialise, the hotel transfer would have to do. ‘And this delay is unacceptable.’
‘I am so sorry.’ She gave him a long, cool look and then wrinkled her brow. ‘Please come with me.’
By the time the hireling had sorted out a car and it was drawing up outside the hotel, night was falling. Frank checked in and tried Pauk’s mobile again. This time he left a message.
‘Listen, you bastard, when I get hold of you I am going to string you up and flay you alive.’
What the hell was he going to do in Kiev without the accountant?
Wednesday 1 June, Kiev, Ukraine
Jaq parted the curtains and gazed out over the city. A trickle of traffic filtered through the wide street from the medieval St Sophia to the baroque St Michael’s Church, linked by the statue of a Cossack on a rearing horse. The early-morning sunlight glinted on golden domes; Kiev was more beautiful than she’d expected.
An old woman, dressed entirely in black, trundled a wooden cart to the corner of a public park and began to set out a stall. She unpacked a flimsy trestle table and stacked it with huge green spheres until it sagged in the middle. The woman drew a cleaver from her cart and split the nearest fruit, cutting it into slices of red flesh dotted with black seeds. Watermelon. A pang of hunger stabbed at Jaq’s belly.
The Chemical Detective Page 20
