Moscow Honey: A dark suspenseful spy thriller (Clarke and Fairchild Book 2)

by T. M. Parris

  Georgia

  37

  The door opened.

  “Boris! Boris!”

  Boris heard his name echo around the washroom. He didn’t move a muscle. He knew they would find him there. He just needed some time to rest his throbbing, bleeding feet. He stayed perched on the toilet seat, covered in grime, knees bent, bare feet up on the pan.

  The sergeant shoved the first cubicle door open. It crashed against the side. Metal smashed into metal. The noise surrounded and compressed Boris’ head, smothered his skull, pricked the backs of his flickering eyes, a stab of pain with the peak of every echo. Then the next door, and the next, the echoes building, points of pain sharper and sharper. He covered his ears though he knew it wouldn’t make any difference. The sergeant got to his cubicle. The lock rattled.

  “So there you are, you snivelling coward!” He moved right up to the door and spoke through it. “You think you can get out of marching by cowering in here? I’ll send you out without even slippers this time! I’ll have you marching up and down all night, when everyone else is lying in bed!”

  Boris’ army slippers fell apart long ago; they weren’t meant for marching. He’d been barefoot for hours. His feet had been covered in pus and sores for months. He held his arms up and braced. The lock ripped away. The door slammed against the side of the cubicle right in front of him. A tidal wave of noise, suffocating. His throat made a sound like an animal. The sergeant grabbed him and dragged him out. He threw Boris across the floor and kicked him in the ribs. Boris fought to breathe.

  “Stand up!” He kicked again, on the knee. “I said get up, soldier!”

  Boris hauled himself to his feet, trying not to catch the sergeant’s eye. His neck and face started to flush.

  “Blushing again? What kind of a girl are you?”

  His cheeks burned. A movement in the corner of his eye. The sergeant punched him on the nose. He heard it crunch, felt warm blood on his mouth. The sergeant punched again, on the jaw this time. His lip split. The room swayed. Boris staggered. He should be used to this. After months of training, there was no inch of his body which hadn’t been bruised. How did he not know it would be like this? So many people warned him, so many! But it was for Russia, for glory, father and mother, for pride, for Tatiana! That was what he expected.

  The sergeant punched him in the stomach. The blow made him retch and he doubled up. A shove knocked him to the ground. His teeth clashed against the tile floor.

  “Press-ups! Now!” A boot landed on his ribs. “Press-ups, you lazy little girl!” Boris turned face-down and started to lift himself up. “Count!”

  “One!” he shouted. The sergeant kicked him in the mouth. His arms collapsed.

  “Again!”

  “Two!” He raised himself up. The sergeant kicked again. Blood was dripping onto the floor.

  “Come on, little blond Boris! Time you grew some muscle! Faster!”

  “Three!” He raised himself expecting the kick but there was a voice at the door.

  “Stop that! We’ve got to go, now!” Another of the older conscripts.

  The sergeant paused. “Why?”

  “We’re all being called. They’re loading up the trucks now.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re going to war.”

  38

  Rose was already in her hotel room when she heard the news. After landing at Tbilisi, she had a message on her phone from Kamila telling her that Khovansky was in Lali, but only for another day. It was already evening, as she’d had to take a long indirect flight. Lali was a town outside Tbilisi, just over an hour away in a taxi. So she went straight there. She checked in by phone with Tbilisi Station on the way, updated them and got a hotel recommendation. They would work on a plan to support her during the meet, and they’d speak again in the morning. She wouldn’t try and make contact with Khovansky this evening, but if she were already in Lali, things could move more quickly tomorrow.

  A few minutes after she arrived, Peter called.

  “Switch on your TV. Look at the news.”

  “What’s happening?” Rose reached for the remote control.

  “The Russians are coming. Land invasion. From the South Ossetia enclave. They’re going straight for Tbilisi.”

  “A land invasion? Here? That can’t be right.”

  “It is, I’m afraid.”

  Rose realised he was right when she found Russia Today and saw image of tanks rolling along roads. She read the headlines.

  “They’re talking about Georgian encroachment,” she said.

  “They’re always talking about that. It’s just an excuse. That’s how they justified seizing South Ossetia in 2008, last time all this flared up.”

  “How serious is it?”

  “Very. They’ve amassed huge resources and are unleashing it all. The Georgians will mobilise all they’ve got, but it’s not enough.”

  Rose glanced out of the window. It was just an ordinary street down there, just an ordinary town.

  “How long have I got here?” She was still thinking about Grom.

  “Get out as soon as you can. It doesn’t matter how or where to, just leave. There are still flights from Tbilisi but that could stop any time.”

  “I’m not in Tbilisi. I’m in Lali. It’s an hour away.”

  “Lali? Why?”

  “I got a message from Kamila. She said Khovansky was here, but only for another day. It was a taxi journey from the airport, Peter. I checked in with Tbilisi Station. We were going to finalise everything first thing tomorrow.”

  “I’m looking at a map right now. Lali is between South Ossetia and Tbilisi. You’re in the path of the invasion. You’re right in the middle of it, Rose. Every piece of information Kamila gave us is false. This guy isn’t going to be there. It’s a set-up. Time to wake up.”

  Rose’s mouth was dry. “But why? For what purpose?”

  “Let’s hope some day we’ll find out. Just get out, Rose. Any way you can. I’ll see what I can do from here.”

  Rose grabbed what she could easily carry and went downstairs. The lobby was busy with worried faces and people wheeling suitcases. Outside, a long line of people waited at the taxi rank. One flustered concierge was trying to fill taxis as they arrived one by one. Another was on the phone. They were cramming as many people as they could into each car, but Rose counted twenty people in front of her, and minutes went by between each taxi arriving.

  In front of her in the line was a tall westerner with brown hair and gold-rimmed glasses. They caught each other’s eye.

  “Are you a journalist too?” he asked in a European accent, Dutch maybe.

  “No, I work for the British Embassy.”

  “Wow. So the diplomats didn’t know about this either.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if we knew.”

  “Same with us. I’ve been freelancing here for years, they kept this completely secret. I’m going to cover the story from Tbilisi. Too dangerous here, with the barracks and the citadel.”

  “Citadel?”

  “That’s what they call the old town, the river island.” He pointed off into the distance. “The fort at the top is an army barracks. Troops, supplies, ammunition. The Russians will try to take it. And they’ll want the river crossing as well. It’s too close for comfort here!”

  Another taxi arrived and was loaded up beyond its limit with people. It drove off, leaving the queue looking as long as it was before. The concierge did a kind of “calm down” semaphore for everyone’s benefit, but he looked stressed and muttered to his colleague.

  “I’m hoping I don’t need this taxi,” said the journalist. “My interpreter offered me a lift with some people they’re going with. If there’s space you can come too.”

  “Thanks.” Rose’s mind had already started on the alternatives to the taxi. There was still the odd parked car in the street. Most of them were too modern to hot-wire but one or two might be old enough.

  Her phone rang. It was Kamila. She hesita
ted, then picked up.

  “Kamila.”

  “You are in Lali?”

  “You know what’s going on down here, right?”

  “You tell me where you are, please.”

  “Why?”

  “Grom wants to know.”

  “I bet he does.”

  “No, you don’t understand. He didn’t know this would happen.”

  “He didn’t know? How could he possibly not know about this?”

  “I mean, he thought it was in a few days. That was the plan. But it happened early. Tonight, he didn’t think tonight.”

  “Why on earth should I believe a word you say, Kamila?”

  “Grom has a car. Grom is in Lali. He can come and find you. Pick you up. Take you somewhere safe. Just tell me where you are, please.”

  While she was talking, three taxis pulled up at once and were mobbed by the front of the line. With five or six people in each one, it was looking good for her for the very next taxi.

  “Kamila, I just can’t trust you any more.”

  “Please! You have to. You know what will happen to me!” Her voice was cracking.

  “I’ll make my own arrangements.”

  Kamila was pleading for her life, but Rose had to think about her own life. The taxis were just pulling off, leaving the journalist and her at the front of the line.

  “No! Don’t do that! He is on his way. You are in Lali? He can be there soon. Just wait. Wait and tell me where you are. Please, Rose!”

  Rose hung up.

  An overloaded car pulled up in front of them. A man jumped out, greeted the journalist, and pointed into the back where there were already three people. It was clear there wasn’t space for Rose as well.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be in the next taxi,” said Rose.

  “Well, if you end up back in Tbilisi, look me up. We can compare notes.” He gave her his card. Jannes, his name was.

  “Thanks, Jannes. Good luck!”

  “You too!”

  The laden car drove off. Perhaps a dozen people were now waiting for a taxi. The concierge and his colleague talked between themselves. The concierge turned to Rose.

  “Five minutes!” he said. “Five minutes. Wait here, please.”

  Both the front desk staff disappeared inside. The minutes dragged out. The street was becoming more and more busy with people walking, family groups carrying bags and cases, all heading in the same direction. The group behind Rose in the queue sounded like German tourists. The stunned looks on their faces summed up the general atmosphere. They’d trotted the globe assuming their country would always help them if they got into such a fix, but what could anyone do in these kinds of timescales? With her background, Rose at least had more options than they did.

  The five minutes had turned more into fifteen, and no sign of the staff. Rose didn’t blame them for leaving; they had their own affairs to deal with. She abandoned the taxi queue and walked off, taking the same direction as all the others but going into side streets, hoping to get away from prying eyes.

  She passed an elderly couple in the process of pulling the shutters down on a small convenience store. It reminded Rose that she was hungry and had no idea when she might next have something to eat. The couple spoke no English, but Rose tried Russian and they understood. She showed them some cash and persuaded them to let her grab a few items: nuts, dried fruit, semi-stale bread. It would have to do for now.

  “Where are you going?” she asked them. Home, they said. They shrugged. We have no family, no car, no way to leave.

  In the days that came, she wondered from time to time what became of those people – the shopkeepers, the Germans.

  Outside she continued a winding route, peering into the dashboards of cars to see if they might be stealable. Something made her stop, concentrate. Then, a sound which would over the coming weeks define her life and stay with her for years to come: a high whistle, impossible to place in the sky; a silence; a flash; a thud; a crash, splintering tile, smashing glass; shouts carried on the wind.

  They were here.

  39

  Crammed into the back of a truck, Boris could feel the soldiers’ hot breath and smell their unwashed bodies. They were squeezed together, legs, arms, bulky uniforms, all the gear. The gear they didn’t know how to use, the guns they hadn’t been taught how to fire. No one had much to say. They stared down at their feet. The road was bumpy. They were part of a convoy, constantly stopping and starting.

  They pulled in and were ordered off. It was dark. They walked along the road. No one knew for how long or where they were going. Every step Boris took was painful, his feet crammed into hard boots. He wanted to whimper. He could still feel dried blood on his face. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. Tanks thundered past them on the road, towering above, spraying grit. A lightning flash in the distance, a crackling like a firework. Then again and again, getting louder and brighter as they marched, deep thuds with every flash making his heart race.

  They converged on a bridge, a whole mass of them. Men shouted orders but he could hear nothing except the crashing and booming above. A convoy of tanks was ahead, crossing the river towards the town. He had no idea what town this was. When the sky lit up for a second he saw a hill, a wall at the top, rectangular buildings along the river’s edge. They piled onto the bridge. He couldn’t see the water swirling below but imagined how cold and icy it was. They walked towards the thundering and the flashes, with the tanks grinding and the bridge vibrating. More soldiers packed in behind them. They had to go onward, onward.

  A new sound, a juddering rattle, low-level flashes on the hill. Cries from around, then yelps and screams of pain. Oh Christ, they were firing! Someone in front turned and fell, his face a bloody mess. People crouched down, tried to help him but what could they do? Shouts from behind: we can’t help him, we have to keep moving. More cries, more falling bodies in front.

  They slowed down. Then, a kind of pop, and a massive bang which lit up everyone’s faces. Shouts: a tank has been hit! The vast thing was skewed and blackened. Smoke leached out. Soldiers were squeezing themselves out of it and running, running towards them. But they couldn’t make any headway because the bridge was so crammed. The tanks had stopped and were disgorging people like vomiting beasts. But the soldiers were being pushed forward, more and more troops coming onto the bridge.

  Boris was jostled towards the side. Or maybe he was pushing to get there, he wasn’t sure which. The swirl of people had a momentum of its own. Then word went round: Retreat! Retreat? How? We can’t, the space is full of people. But there was a wild desperation in men’s eyes and they started pushing and shoving back the way they came. A man shouldered Boris into the railing of the bridge. Another squeezed past, stepping on the toes of his boots. He felt sick with pain. He leaned out over the water.

  He couldn’t see what was below. Behind, on one side the terrible sounds of destruction, the blackened tank, the smell of burning. On the other, the grabbing, shoving men, desperate to push their way through and back. Back to the barracks and the beatings and the humiliation. Back to Blushing Boris.

  Many ran away in the early days. He didn’t want to bring shame to his family. In his letters home he painted the picture they would have wanted to see. He lost himself in those letters, living a daydream of foolish hope, imagining it was real. But to meet his end during a conflict? They would be sad, his family, but proud also. He’d be remembered as a hero. He grabbed the railing. He said their names out loud: mother, father, sisters. Tatiana. He swung one leg over, expecting someone to shout: “Boris, what are you doing?” To reach out to try and stop him. Or to lambast him with their sarcasm and point him back to the line. But no one cared. They were all too taken up with their own survival.

  He swung the other leg. He didn’t look down. He simply let go, and fell.

  The water slammed into him like a hard object. Oh, so freezing cold! It knocked all the breath out of him. He was flailing, flailing. He kicked up against objects,
maybe other people, bodies, but he couldn’t see. His eyes were squeezed shut. His chest was tight. He couldn’t get back up to the surface. He was fighting but going nowhere. Bit by bit, everything started to go numb.

  40

  Rose needed to know what was going on. The main street was crowded now with people walking. A man in army uniform went past in the opposite direction, giving instructions to anyone who approached, pointing back behind him. Rose tried to stop someone and ask what was going on, but they waved her away. Sirens approached: a fire engine flashed by, its sound distorting in passing. The hill beyond the river lit up over and over again, each flash accompanied by an ominous thudding. Some of the hits were much closer, coming from the opposite side. A long whistle split the air right above, then a boom shook the ground and a plume of dust rose against the night sky. That was no more than one or two blocks away. A young girl stopped to turn and look up at it. Her mother grabbed her by the arm and spoke to her, pulling her along. On the mother’s other side was a wide-eyed boy, older than the girl. Rose caught the mother’s eye.

  “Can you tell me what’s happening?” she asked in English. The woman hesitated and looked to the boy.

  “Citadel,” he said, pointing to the hillock. “Everyone is going to the citadel.”

  Rose looked again at the mother, who shrugged. “Do you speak Russian?” she asked, in Russian.

  “Russian? Yes, yes!” The woman’s face was suddenly animated.

  “Why is everyone going there?” It seemed to Rose that they were heading straight for where the attack was worst.

  “It’s safer. The river goes right round. But we must get across the bridge before the Russians.”

  “People aren’t trying to leave the town?”

  “We can’t leave now, the Russians have blocked the roads.”

  Already? “How do you know that?”

  “They told us.” She pointed to the soldier giving instructions. She was hurrying the children along, one in each hand. Rose kept pace with them.