by T. M. Parris
“We’re on the move,” said Larry. Charlie resumed his seat. Through the gap, Rose got a momentary glimpse of swift movement across a window right to left – a bare shoulder and trailing silver satin.
“He’s carrying her,” she said.
“Do we know who he is?” asked Larry.
Rose shook her head. “It would be useful to find out though. Are they heading for the bedroom?”
“Looks like it.”
On a blank screen a dark window lit up with yellow light, illuminating a pair of pale bare breasts. Above that, a dark head lifted and Rose was looking at Kamila’s face, flushed but with the same melancholy she’d seen earlier. Rose took an involuntary step back. It seemed freakishly as though Kamila were staring straight at her through the monitor. Her lover was behind her in the shadow of the room. She turned away and was pulled down onto the bed.
“We can’t see the bed itself?” asked Rose. She suddenly felt voyeuristic. What a filthy job this was. Animal passions, we all have them, but how vulnerable they make us.
“Nope. The window’s too high up. Only above the bed.”
“That’s a pity.”
“The audio’s okay, though,” said Larry. He adjusted a few dials and the sound got louder, two people’s heavy breathing and Kamila moaning in an increasingly regular way. Then there was movement on the screen. Kamila had one hand on the headboard of the bed. The top half of her body was illuminated by the lamp. She looked up, her mouth open and her breasts pert and rounded.
“At times like this I always wonder,” said Larry, “why they don’t close the curtains.”
As they watched, her other hand gripped the headboard and her moans became faster and louder.
“I guess there’s no one else at home,” said Larry.
“Do we have to have it so loud?” said Rose. Her cheeks were starting to burn. Larry gave her an amused glance before turning the sound level down. The two men stared unashamedly at the monitor while Rose stood behind them. She tried to sip her tea but it was too hot. Some kind of thudding was coming through now, and a man’s voice crying out. She felt the hairs on her arms prickle. Kamila rose up slightly, her head back and her neck straining. The man shouted out, briefly, and the noises gave way to heavy panting. Kamila remained motionless for a few seconds, her shoulders back, then she looked down and her face relaxed. A red flush spread down her neck and collar bones, and she was smiling. Rose realised where she had seen that smile before. It was the smile Kamila had when talking to Fairchild.
Kamila reached down with both hands and leaned forward to say something, but it was too quiet for Rose to hear.
“What did she say?” she asked. Larry turned up the sound.
“Spasiba, I think.”
“Spasiba?” Thank you? Is that something you’d say to a regular sexual partner? Could it mean this wasn’t the boyfriend they knew about? It might be someone else. Someone she’d only just met, even. Kamila was pulled down and disappeared out of sight of the camera. A muffled conversation started up.
“Can you make this out?” asked Rose. Larry picked up a pair of headphones and held them to his ear.
“She’s asking him to stay. Says her husband won’t be back. He’s not so sure.”
“Wise man. He’d leave if he had any sense.”
“If he had any sense, he wouldn’t be there in the first place.”
“True.”
“Sounds like she might have persuaded him though,” said Larry. The conversation had stopped. The screen showed movement again. The back of the lover’s head appeared as he half sat up over Kamila.
“He’s tall,” said Larry. “Long-ish hair. Russian.”
“Speaks Russian,” said Rose. “Doesn’t mean he is.”
Larry acquiesced. On screen the lover was looking down at Kamila and reached out to her face. He stroked her cheek gently with his thumb.
“Shit,” said Rose. Hot tea burned her fingers and dripped on the floor. She put the mug down and got a tissue out of her bag. Larry looked round, amused again.
“You all right?”
“Sure. Just spilled my tea, that’s all.” She’d managed to get it on her tights as well. She tried to dab it off and laddered the damn things. It wasn’t the sex that bothered her, it was that gesture, that moment of tenderness. Why did she think it was Fairchild in that bed? Why would it bother her if it were him?
Get a grip, Rose, Forget about your tights, just move on.
“An ID on the lover would give us another handle to twist. But there’s plenty there without. Alexei Morozov might be nobbing a couple of blond pole-dancers as we speak, but he’s not going to tolerate his wife playing away.”
Larry nodded sagely. “Way it goes,” he observed, turning back to the floor show.
That’s for sure, thought Rose, wiping tea off her fingers. In due course, she’d be making that exact same point to Kamila. Female bonding, a powerful tool in the armoury, one she’d used before and would again. The recording was great. All the same, she wished they could be absolutely sure who the lover was. More to the point, who it wasn’t.
5
Revolution Square used to be symbolic of the old ideology, but these days Muscovites used it to cross from the Metro to the shops. And shops were the new ideology; Moscow’s architecture was grim and boxy compared with the courtliness of St Petersburg, but the department stores started to glow like lanterns when the afternoon sky darkened, and in the displays were sets of shining gold jewellery and luxury perfume, designer coats, stylish leather bags, and on a podium outside, a brand new Mercedes, gift-wrapped with an immense red ribbon. Most people never looked at the display cases and the shelves and the racks and the podium, because they couldn’t afford any of it. Sometimes, though, a few would drop in to browse and point and discuss, and every now and then, perhaps, one of them might even buy something.
Fairchild wasn’t interested in shopping; he already had what he needed. He crossed the square to the Metropol Hotel and was already lounging in a wide upholstered chair when Zack approached. Zack moved fast for someone of his size. Not that Zack had any excess baggage. Far from it: he was wide but solid, every square inch primed to resist. Fairchild knew that from experience. In jeans, a college sweatshirt and jacket, Zack’s colour scheme was more muted than usual but he was clearly still keen to display his Americanness. He’d substituted his usual shades for a designer pair, one small concession to the status-conscious world in which he was currently operating. Fairchild himself was sporting the oligarch’s uniform: silk shirt, chinos, expensive leather shoes. With that and his luxury black chauffeur-driven limo, supplied, naturally, through his own firm, he could gain access to pretty much anything he wanted.
“Hey, Fairchild!”
“Hey Zack. Get you something? Budweiser?”
“Christ, you know I hate that stuff. Batlika Number Nine. See you got yours already.”
“I didn’t know if you were coming.” Fairchild was half way through his gin and tonic.
“Yeah, got held up. Had to take a detour. You know how it is.”
Fairchild knew how it was. FSB surveillance of diplomatic and military types had become Moscow’s number one industry over the past few years, outdoing even its Soviet predecessor, the KGB. Long elaborate routes criss-crossing the city were necessary if you wanted to meet someone without bringing a shadow. He’d had to do the same, but he’d left enough time.
Zack looked him up and down. “You kinda look like you’ve been here forever.”
“In Russia, or just in this bar?”
Fairchild ordered the beer while Zack cased the room as he removed his jacket. Fairchild had chosen seats away from other drinkers but near a speaker playing something orchestral – Tchaikovsky? – loud enough to interfere with any mics, as well as being mildly annoying.
“So, how was St Petersburg?” asked Zack, sitting down. “You know, it kills me when I pay you to go to a party. Especially at your rates. Please tell me it was worth it.”<
br />
“You pay me for information, Zack. And it was worth it. To a certain extent. The Morozovs were there, Morozov Junior falling about drunk. Didn’t react well when I mentioned his father.”
“Oh yeah. The Bear! You know him, right?”
“We’ve been known to drink together from time to time.”
“Him being the most notorious gangster in Siberia doesn’t put you off, then? Didn’t think so. It’s amazing he isn’t dead by now.”
“He’s retired. Kind of. Back in Irkutsk while Alexei runs the show from Moscow. They don’t see eye to eye, it seems. Anyway, after this reception Alexei ends up staggering off in the company of two glamorous women to a suite at the Empress Hotel. Leaving his wife behind.”
“Yeah, well you wouldn’t exactly take your wife along to a caper like that, would you? How do you know where they went, anyway?”
“I’m well connected in the limo business, Zack.”
“Ah! Course you are. Okay, so you got a chance to check out the apartment while he was otherwise engaged?”
“Nope. I went, but someone was already in there.”
“In the apartment? Who?”
“I didn’t see. As I was picking the lock at the front, they were making themselves scarce out the back. I caught a glimpse of them in the street, though. A couple of guys, dark clothes, carrying cases.”
“Burglars?”
“Nope.”
“Spooks, then!”
“A tech team, I’d say. Bugging the place. Or searching it.”
“Who do you think it was?” Zack loved all this. Fairchild had known him for more years than he cared to count. With a background in special ops and some never-explained role spanning CIA and military intelligence, Zack partied and womanised to promote his brash Midwest brand, but under all that lurked layers of subtlety. He was also one of Fairchild’s best customers.
“Well, I did notice our friend Peter Craven hanging around the champagne earlier on.”
“The British! Why are they buzzing around Morozov?”
“Because they’ve heard the same rumours you have? Concern that such a large criminal empire with international supply lines appears to be attracting attention from the FSB. You’re right about that, by the way. Morozov’s limo was followed by one of their cars to the hotel. Do people still call them black crows, like the KGB cars?” Fairchild drained his glass. “If the tech crew in the Morozov flat are in the same boat with whoever organised Alexei’s little après-ski, you know what that means.”
Zack frowned. “The British were running an op! So they may have something. Or someone.”
“You should speak to them.” He shifted in his seat. “There was someone else at the party. You might remember her from China. Rose Clarke.” Did his voice sound casual enough?
“Oh, her. Yeah, sure. When we last met, I was throwing her out of a helicopter. Weird she ends up here.”
Zack was probably giving him a meaningful stare, but since he was still wearing his shades, Fairchild couldn’t tell.
“She’s got her MI6 job back. She’s now a bona fide member of the trade delegation, UK Mission to Russia.”
“Huh. You didn’t tell her you were coming to Russia, did you?”
“She’s not interested in me, Zack,” Fairchild said, avoiding the question. “She was sent after me in China by Walter. It was a hoop-jumping exercise to get her job back. It worked. Now she’s back in the Service she’s got other fish to fry. I suspect Alexei Morozov might be one of them.”
“Even so. Heck of a coincidence they post her to exactly the place you were intending to go. I mean, I didn’t even know myself you were coming here.”
“Well, why would you, Zack? I’m not your employee. I just do a bit of work for you every now and then.”
“Yeah, yeah. You and your independence. But if it weren’t for me, you’d still be in a Chinese prison off the grid somewhere, remember? You owe me.”
“Sure, I owe you. But it doesn’t make me answerable to you. I go where I please.”
“You mean you go where your next lead will take you.” Disapproving, as ever, of that particular aspect of Fairchild’s life.
“Well you don’t seem sorry I’m here, Zack. As soon as you tracked me down you offered me work. And I don’t remember you sending me a postcard.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not my favourite place, specially at this time of year.” He had a point. Outside, Revolution Square was being spattered by yet more wind-blown snow. “It’s those rumours. Folks back home jumping up and down about some possible incursion. On top of the incursions that already happened, that is. We’re sensitive about the Black Sea, or at least what’s on the other side of it. Those of us with military special ops backgrounds were ordered into the region. Didn’t have much say about it.”
“Well, crisis or no, I’ll be away the next few days, I’m afraid.”
“Great. What’s the occasion? Vacation? Assignation?”
Fairchild smiled. They both knew he didn’t go in for either of those. Zack’s face showed the penny dropping.
“Oh! A real life example of you going where you please, is it? In other words, someone’s pulled your chain and you’re off to ‘discover the truth’. Like you’ve been doing for how many years now? And yet the truth seems kind of elusive, doesn’t it?”
Fairchild didn’t argue. He’d had plenty of experience batting off this kind of feedback from Zack, who was, to be fair, probably the closest thing he had to a best friend. “I’ll let you know when I’m back,” he said. “But you should speak to the Brits.”
Zack poured himself more beer. “So, are you going to tell me? What this lead is? Where it’s dragging you?”
“Tuva.”
“Tuva? Where the hell’s that?”
“In the south. It’s pretty remote.”
“And what’s in Tuva?”
“A Russian monk called Dimitri.”
“And?”
“He was there, Zack.” Fairchild couldn’t keep the intensity out of his voice. “He was there. In Vienna. The night my parents disappeared.”
“He told you that, did he?”
“He told someone I trust. He wasn’t just there by accident, Zack. He was waiting. Keeping lookout. He was involved. He knows who was behind it.”
“He said that as well, did he?”
“I remember him, Zack! When I came back to the flat that night, when I found it empty, he was in the street outside.”
“And you were how old, then? Ten, eleven?”
“I remember everything about him.”
“Huh.” A non-committal response but he knew Zack believed him. Zack had known for a long time how much that night thirty years ago defined Fairchild’s life, how it sang to him like a siren, taunted him to follow the craziest path, to leap into the gorge without caring whether he’d survive, just to find out what happened. Everything Fairchild did was driven by his need to discover the truth. When he’d realised that asking nicely wasn’t going to work, he equipped himself with the skills he required to demand answers, and defend himself from those who didn’t want him to have them. Those skills also happened to make him a nice living, and he didn’t much care who benefitted. But this was more important; finding Dimitri, finding someone who was there, and remembered it, and was willing to talk, gave him the strongest chance he’d had in all these years of discovering the truth.
“Yeah, well, enjoy the journey. I’m sure the New Cold War will hold off till you’re back.” Zack wasn’t pleased, but he’d get over it.
Fairchild got up. “See you, Zack. Like I said, talk to the British. Talk to Rose Clarke.”
And with that name echoing round his head, he went out into the freezing darkness for another long journey across Moscow.
6
As soon as Rose pushed open the door of her flat, she realised something was wrong. These few months in Moscow had turned her into a taut wire that hummed to every movement of the air. Peter had said it right at the outset; the
y were on a war footing. Russia increasingly saw Europe, Britain, NATO, as an enemy intent on thwarting their ambitions to return to USSR-era world superpower status. Moscow was always going to be a challenge. They don’t want us here: a thought that seeped into every interaction, every glance from a passer-by, every casual conversation in a shopping queue. We are the enemy, even to ordinary Russians sometimes, and besides, how can you tell who’s ordinary and who isn’t? It was permanent now, the hotwire between her brain and the hairs on the back of her neck. It exhausted her sometimes. But she was up to the challenge, so she kept telling herself.
Off the train from St Petersburg, she’d got the Metro home. By mid evening she was standing in her front doorway. What stopped her there was the noise of traffic. Her flat was on the third floor above an overpass four lanes wide on either side. Congestion in Moscow was a serious and growing problem, as was air pollution, which was why she would never have opened a window, let alone before leaving the flat unoccupied for two days. And besides, it was December. So why could she hear traffic? She pushed the door wider and the noise intensified. The hallway was empty. The illuminated stairway behind her threw a rectangle of light onto the dark floor.
She stepped in. Outside the bathroom she pushed the door with a finger: no one in there. The kitchen and bedroom were clear. The lounge door was fully closed; this was where the traffic noise was coming from. She paused behind the door and listened. Her mind formed a map of the room – table, rug, sofa. Softly dropping bags, bracing, focusing on the next three moves she had to make – instinct would kick in after that – she counted down in her head. Her hand twisted the handle, the door crashed back. Two steps in, a glance behind the sofa, and she could stop and wait for her heart to race and recover. There were no cupboards, nowhere anyone could hide. Apart from her the flat was empty.
The far window was wide open. The room was as cold as the street outside and smelled of traffic fumes. She stepped over to shut it and the sound deadened. In Russia they at least knew how to build and insulate properly for cold weather, unlike back in damp, draughty Britain. Glancing out into the black sky she saw a ghost of herself, a reflection, small and frightened. She dropped the blind, remembering that it was closed when she left. She drew all the other blinds then flicked on the light.
