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

by T. M. Parris

  “You don’t live here?” the woman asked.

  “No, I was staying at the hotel. I’ve only just arrived.”

  “The Russians are trying to take the bridge on the northern side, but our soldiers are stopping them. My husband is up there now. They can’t cross the river, but they’ve crossed at the next road bridge and they’re coming into the town from the south. Our soldiers can’t defend the whole town. We cross the south bridge into the citadel and maybe there…”

  She tailed off. The children didn’t react to their Russian.

  “Where are you from?” asked the woman.

  “I’m British.” They introduced themselves, rather incongruously; the woman was Marta, children Ilya and Katya.

  “What are you going to do in the citadel?” asked Rose.

  “Go to the fort. My husband is there.” That was all. Rose looked around. The crowd was getting thicker all the time. “The bridge is just up there.” Marta pointed beyond them to a mass of heads.

  “So many people!”

  “There was not enough time to leave. Not everyone has a car. Many have nowhere to go. Many didn’t believe the rumours at first. Or they have family here who are fighting. Like us.” Marta pulled the children closer towards her. Crowds were filling the pavement and road now. They had to slow down. “Besides,” she said. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “I didn’t hear the rumours,” said Rose. She could have added, even though it’s my job to hear rumours.

  By the bridge the road was jammed. More people were joining, pushing from behind. Sirens were going off in the streets around them. An explosion a block away prompted gasps and moans of fear all around. In front, cars were trying to get out across the bridge: residents of the citadel in a last-ditch attempt to clear the town, not realising it was already too late, or determined to try it anyway. Horns were beeping like mad. Some drivers stuck their heads out of windows, waving people out of the way, but there was nowhere for them to go. Arguments erupted as the cars tried to edge forward, nudging people out of the way. What would have been easy an hour ago now seemed almost impossible. The artillery fire was much louder now, almost above. At every flash and boom people stared up then tried to hurry even more.

  At the other end of the bridge it became clear what the hold-up was. Most of the width of the road had been blocked by metal barriers. Georgian soldiers were lined up on either side, standing and waiting, heavily armed. Others were corralling civilians in through a small opening in the middle, beckoning and at times pushing people along. The bridge was still full of people.

  As they waited, something changed. The soldiers’ attention was drawn by something on the south shore. Some started to move into position. Others came running down from the streets behind. Rose was almost at the opening. A murmur travelled through the crowd behind them. People started pushing forward more urgently. Rose turned again, and realised why. Across the shore, further upriver, dark shapes crawled along in the street light. A line of tanks was making its way along the riverside towards the bridge. They had no more than a few minutes.

  Someone grabbed her arm. She turned, controlling an instinct to lash out. It was a soldier trying to hurry her through the gap. The pressure from behind was growing. The soldier pushed her forward, barely looking at her. Rose could see Marta and the two children just in front of her. Doing anything else was impossible. She squeezed through the gate after them.

  Once through, the crowd thinned as the road branched in different directions, east and west around the island then up into the old town itself.

  “The fort is this way,” said Marta. Rose went along; she had no other plan. But they never got to the fort. Two streets further up they ran into a waiting queue. Everyone had the same idea, everyone was trying to get to the same place. Marta had some hurried conversations with some of them, many of whom also had family up there. Getting into the fort was impossible. Marta had checked her phone repeatedly too. Either there was no signal or her husband was too caught up in the fighting to respond. Rose was getting no signal either.

  No one seemed to know where to go. People were wandering off in all directions. Katya started crying. They walked upwards into the old town and stopped to sit on some steps wedged between two tall buildings. Now they weren’t packed into a crowd any more, Rose realised how cold it was. It was around midnight. The family huddled together. As if on cue, it started to snow very lightly. Marta checked her phone and put it away again. Rose stood apart and rubbed her arms.

  “The shelling has stopped,” she said. Marta shrugged. The enormity of their situation seemed to be sinking in. “I’m going to have a look around.” Rose got some of her food out of the bag, and a spare scarf and hat. She handed them to Marta.

  “Thanks for your help today.”

  Marta nodded. Both the children had their eyes closed. Rose turned and left. Marta was probably expecting not to see her again.

  Rose embarked on an exploration of what they were calling the citadel. At the top somewhere was the fort, a permanent barracks, so Marta said. This was bearing the brunt of the artillery attack which seemed to have ceased for now. She worked her way through the narrow streets, winding down to riverside level where the ground flattened out and more modern blocks lined the river. In normal times it would be a pretty little place. Everywhere she went she saw people kipping down in doorways and alleyways. A couple of times she heard glass smashing: looters, or the desperate. It was getting quieter and quieter; groups of people hurried past each other without looking. The snow kept falling. She climbed up and found a viewpoint towards the south bridge where they’d entered. There were no cars or people on it now. A line of tanks blocked the far end. The Russians hadn’t tried to cross the bridge, but no one was going in or out that way.

  A similar view over the north bridge revealed a convoy of tanks across the bridge, the one at the very front a burned-out wreck, neatly blocking the road. The victim of a grenade, or an incendiary device launched from some high position overlooking the river. From the fort, the Georgian militia would have excellent vantage points over both these bridges, and the island’s raised position put them above the invaders right round. Clearly they had a stock of weapons. With anti-aircraft fire they could also hold off airborne attacks. They weren’t calling it the citadel for no reason. It was defensible. But the Russians didn’t look like they were going anywhere.

  Her phone still wasn’t getting any signal. She looked up at the windows of the flats above her. Some of these would be empty, their occupants having taken their chances elsewhere. She worked along the streets, trying the entrance doors. One of them gave when she pushed. She looked closer and saw that it had been forced. She glanced around and slid inside. Each floor had two flats. Both the ground floor flats had lights on, she’d noticed from outside. On the next floor up, one door was locked and the other wide open. Rose stepped up to it, heard voices coming from inside, and retreated. On the top floor, both doors were locked. She chose one at random, dug her lock-picking implements out from her toiletries bag and set to work. It took a while but eventually the latch clicked and the door swung open. Rose paused, straining to pick up any sound. Nothing. The interior chain was hanging undrawn: an indication, no more, that the place was empty. She crept in. Moving carefully in the dark, she could see lace table mats, neatly placed embroidered cushions, a clean wooden floor from which all objects had been put away or tidily placed, a large box in the corner full of plastic toys. But in the kitchen, dirty plates lay stacked in the sink, the table hadn’t been wiped, pans sat on the cooker with food still in them. She checked the bedrooms: a double bed in one room was neatly made, in the other room a child’s bed had rumpled blue sheets. In both rooms clothes lay on the floor: clean, folded garments from a drawer or wardrobe, not clothes someone had been wearing. She stood and imagined the last scene that happened here: a phone call or a news report, a hastily-finished meal, essential packing, waking the child from slumber. These people had heard the rumour
s.

  She heard footsteps in the stairway. She ran back to the door of the flat, closed and locked it, and drew the chain across. A couple of young men, dark-haired, in track suits and trainers, appeared through the eye hole. The owners of the voices from the flat downstairs. One of them carried a bag. A couple of chancers after easy pickings. Heart-warming, that there always seemed to be people happy to take advantage in a crisis. They took a door each. The lad on Rose’s door tried shoving it sideways with his shoulder. After a couple of goes he stepped back and landed the sole of his boot directly on the deadbolt lock. A slight crunch suggested it could give way. He booted it several more times. Rose crept to the kitchen and grabbed the sharpest knife she could find. She returned to the front door and stood, knife in hand, in the dark, watching the door judder with each solid kick.

  A splintering sound and a shout. The lad turned. His friend had just got through the neighbouring door. They disappeared into the other flat. Rose waited, watching the open door opposite. Presently they emerged with more bags stuffed full, and made off. Rose waited for all sound to fade, then came out and entered the flat opposite herself, its doorway swinging open. There was plenty still to take: clothes, food, drink, ornaments, DVDs. She touched nothing and returned to the first flat. A cursory search of kitchen drawers revealed a set of keys which she verified were front door keys. She went out and locked up carefully behind her. The other door remained hanging open, a much more attractive target for any more passing looters.

  She didn’t know if they’d still be there, but they were, huddled tightly together, snow gathering in the folds of their coats. She touched Marta’s arm to wake her.

  “How would you like a bed for the night?” Rose asked.

  41

  He thought that would be the end, that he would just fade away in the freezing water. But something, some instinct, made him reach out and struggle. He swam, then his legs felt land and he staggered up a bank and collapsed inside a filthy great pipe. The bridge was a distant line of lights suspended in the dark. It looked harmless, a piece of jewellery decorating the horizon, but his heart thumped when he thought about being on it. No noises now: all he could hear was the chattering of his own teeth.

  If he closed his eyes and relaxed, then eventually everything would stop. Boris would drift away. Boris would be no more. He pictured the scene back in the village when they heard the news: his mother, florid in her grief, his sisters quiet and stoical. His father comforting, saying that he died in action, while on manoeuvre, fighting for Russia. A hero! Knocked down by treacherous Georgian guns while leading the brave assault, although the body was never found. And Tatiana, would tears fill her large brown eyes? Would she come to his funeral dressed in black lace with a pale face and a trembling lip? He relaxed and stilled his shivering, willing himself away. But as he drifted off, some wretched force within him jerked him awake and shouted in his head, I’m so cold, I’m so cold! But he forced it down and tried again and again.

  He jerked awake. It was longer that time. The riverbank was white with a dusting of snow. The sky was velvet blue, no longer black. His hands didn’t exist. He could see his legs trembling. When he moved, flakes of ice fell from his uniform, tinkling like tiny coins.

  He shifted forward and fell out of the pipe. His body no longer worked. He lay on the snow and rubbed his ankles and legs. He sat, then stood, shifting weight from foot to foot. He couldn’t feel his feet or ankles. He walked, stumbling like a clown in oversized boots. The movement eased the stiffness through his body. He saw the bridge now, its railings visible in the dawn light. He wanted to creep away into a corner somewhere, some warm corner where his body would allow sleep to take over. A sleep from which he wouldn’t wake.

  Steps led up away from the riverside, between high brick walls, into a street. He weaved from side to side like a drunk. Shop doorways, tiny alleyways, bodies were huddled away. Dead? He didn’t know. He kept walking. He found a doorway with enough space in front to curl up. But when he sat to lean back, the door opened. He went inside. Two closed doors, stairs up. More stairs up, then two doors, one closed, one open. He went in through the open door, and it was like entering heaven.

  Soft, clean carpet. A chair. A sofa. A clock ticking on the wall. Cups and saucers in the kitchen. A bed made up with soft sheets.

  He stood there in that place, and started to sob.

  42

  From Moscow to Nalchik, Fairchild drove. Or rather, he commandeered a car and driver from his Moscow fleet, and they took turns driving to continue through the night. A high-spec limo was more luxury than the journey required, but in some ways it formed its own passport. A sleek black car meant, to the average passer-by, someone with money, someone I don’t want to argue with.

  It was a thousand miles. At some point during the journey, Zack phoned with news from Peter. Rose was in Lali, the last time anyone had heard from her. This resulted in some rethinking of Fairchild’s plan. Tbilisi he knew; the word summoned up squat Orthodox Christian churches, outdoor cafes sheltering under trailing vines, tumbledown back streets, a casual late-night vibe. Lali drew a blank; he’d be learning as he went.

  On arrival in Nalchik he sent his driver with a generous pocketful of cash back to Moscow, and equipped himself with supplies. Anyone crossing from Russia to Georgia would face scrutiny right now. Even with a false ID Fairchild didn’t rate his chances. But you could get through the mountains if you knew how. Taking a bus from the city to the end of the line, Fairchild walked south, up above a frozen stream to a farm complex, where the woman who came out to greet him nodded and sent him over to the barn. There he waited.

  Passing through hostile territory was something he’d done before. He was young when he realised that to get anywhere he needed to skill up. Walter, in informal loco parentis, shipped him off to summer camps and university, but didn’t check if Fairchild was actually there or not. Once Fairchild graduated he stopped communicating with Walter entirely.

  Fairchild learned how to shoot aged seventeen, spending a summer at a Vietnam veteran’s isolated homestead in Colorado. He learned how to operate covertly in enemy terrain from a former SAS officer who trained him up in exchange for making himself useful in various ways. And for money. Fairchild had always had money thanks to his parents’ trust fund. During his teenage and early adult years he soaked up knowledge, information and physical skills like a sponge, reading widely, accumulating languages and nurturing contacts, including names from the intelligence world that he’d stolen from Walter. How to get his hands on a false identity. How to follow without being seen. How to fight with weapons, and without. How to kill someone if need be. Fairchild had all this at his fingertips, and over time he’d used it all.

  If all this came off, and he wasn’t too late, and he managed to find Rose and she was still alive, would she welcome his presence? Probably not: he couldn’t imagine Rose asking for help from him, unless she absolutely had to. But this wasn’t just about Rose. Some deception had been worked here, and Grom was at the centre of it. Fairchild didn’t yet have a clear idea of why, but Grom had brought Fairchild into this somehow, made him part of some game. Fairchild wasn’t going to let himself be played by the man. Particularly when other people were involved. Particularly when one of them was Rose.

  The knock came after dark. Fairchild was ready. The bearded young man shook him by the hand.

  “Levan would come himself, but he’s on the front line like everybody else.”

  “Where is the front line?” They were speaking Georgian.

  “Changing by the hour. I can get you over the border, but after that…”

  “After that is my business. Just point me in the direction of Lali and go home to your grandmother.”

  “Lali? You’re not going to Tbilisi?”

  “Not any more. You know anything about Lali?”

  “It’s surrounded. We’re holding them back. But no one can get in or out. The Russians have spread beyond it now, but they’re not giving
up on it. They want the bridge and the barracks.”

  Fairchild heard the stress in the man’s voice. “It doesn’t sound good.”

  “Us alone against Russia? Fairchild, without some help on the ground, what does everyone think will happen? Georgia is a small country! We’re not Russia!”

  There was pleading in his voice. People mistook Fairchild for all kinds of things. A fixer, a diplomat, an ambassador even. But he didn’t get caught up in affairs of state. He moved between states, following his own path. Selling his services, yes, but to pursue his own ends. He could offer little comfort to this young man. But he tried.

  “You’ll get help. The international community won’t let this happen. Georgia’s of strategic importance with its routes to the Black Sea.”

  “They let it happen in Ukraine.”

  “Crimea is full of Russians. They had sympathisers on the inside. It’s different here.”

  “Even so. Us against Russia? Alone?” He wasn’t bitter, just desperate. He clasped Fairchild’s arm. “Levan told me you know people. People everywhere. People of influence. Can you help us? Will you try? You will, won’t you?”

  His eyes were wide, pools of hope and fear. “I’ll try,” said Fairchild. It was mere goodwill, feeding the hope, nothing more. “But I can’t promise. Just get me into Georgia. Then look after your own.”

  He nodded up towards the mountains: they had a long walk ahead of them. His guide shrugged, turned, and led the way.

  43

  Boris sat on the sofa. Outside were distant mountains white with snow. But he was looking down at the socks on his feet. The carpet was soft and the socks so thick he could barely feel his sores. His trousers were made of cotton and the bottoms were rolled up because they were too long. He was wearing a shirt and a thick woollen sweater. He was comfortable and warm with a full stomach.