by T. M. Parris
Despite the circumstances, working alongside Rose like this changed him, loosened a part of him that had always been clenched and taut. Around her, he could be different; what he thought was important before, so critical, so all-consuming, he could feel how maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he could do without all that, if he were with her.
They configured the junk into two sufficiently sturdy craft, big enough for three or four small people on each. The others would fit in the boat. They stacked the rafts up against a wall and covered them.
“Shame we can’t test them,” said Rose, checking that the fixing on one of the barrels was tight.
“It’ll take all the hours of darkness we have to get across and away. And we want to go tonight. If there’s a problem we’ll have to work around it.”
Meaning, if there were a problem with one of the rafts they’d have to load up the other craft, or persuade some of them to swim. Or leave some of them behind. They stood in silence, a similar thought process going on in both minds. Getting these children out, he realised, would make this whole episode meaningful for Rose, make up for the deception that landed her here in the first place, make up for the whole miserable, punishing experience.
“Here’s something else I found,” she said, holding out a grimy black plastic canister. He leaned in and sniffed.
“Petrol?”
“Petrol. You said something about a diversion.”
“Good thinking.”
They sent everyone back to the lookout to wait for nightfall and try to sleep. Even if they were too nervous for that, they would be rested at least. Rose stayed by the rafts in case anyone took a fancy to them. Fairchild went back with the gang. In the basement he talked with them for a while. They asked a lot about the plan for that evening and he told them what he could, but they were also curious about him. That apathy, the withdrawal he’d seen before, a defence against this impossibly hostile world they found themselves in, dissipated for a while. He persuaded them all to sleep, or at least to lie down. He’d come back for them as soon as it was dark enough. Doubtless tonight the bombardment would resume.
He followed the route he’d taken before to the shoreline and shuffled down to the water’s edge on his belly. The jagged edge of the lookout building was side on to him. Taking his time, he surveyed the far shore. He could see one or two potential good spots to break through the line. But he needed more height; the angles weren’t clear enough, particularly as it was now dusk. He crawled up the shore to get back onto the lane, coming up slightly as he changed direction.
An explosion of machine gun fire sent him down flat again. The sound broke off but rang in his ears. Stupid! You can’t be off guard for a moment. He lay motionless. Now they’d spotted him, he’d be seen if he moved at all.
A rumble caused him to re-angle his head on the shingle. Something was different. In the fading light it took him a moment to figure it out. The profile of the riverside building was a different shape. A thin remnant of wall jutting up before was gone. As he stared, he realised that the structure was in motion. The back wall was leaning forward. A long groaning sound reached him. He scrambled to his feet, no longer caring about the sniper, and ran flat out, heading straight for the window. A thundering crash made him duck. The upper wall was coming apart. Blocks tumbled down onto the top of the basement ceiling. Rocks landed in the street. A cloud of dust expanded. He didn’t slow down; he had to get to the window.
He was ten metres away when an immense crack split the air, the sound of beams giving way, concrete hitting concrete. The wall bulged towards him, spewing out a weight of dust particles, splinters of mortar and plaster, lumps of brick. He covered his face with his arms as he was forced back. When the assault lessened, he ran into the dust cloud, eyes streaming. In front of him was a massive pile of brick and concrete. The window frame was just visible, its edge poking out, twisted. Lumps were still cascading down, covering every inch of what used to be the basement, where a dozen children were bedded down.
He stood, looking at the window, as if there could still be some way in through that half-buried twist of metal, that the metres-high rubble could somehow be lifted. Then the hammering started up again, a clatter of machine gun fire, flashes now visible from over the river. It forced him to the ground again. He lay, his eyes stinging. Something made him look at his shoulder; he’d been hit, just caught enough to bleed badly. He wanted to climb all over that heap of bricks, pick up every one and toss it aside, dig, dig, dig, in case there were one small body, just one, which could be pulled out. But still the gunfire kept coming, and he lay there shaking with rage.
It was fully dark by the time he had mustered something in him to move. But he couldn’t face her straight away. His feet led him back to the cock-eyed ruin of the apartment building. He stood and stared up at its remnants, an old curtain flapping gently on half a window frame. Opposite yawned the gaping hole of Boris’ bedroom. It was time.
When she heard him coming, she emerged from her corner, expecting him. But when she saw his face, the dust all over him, the blood on his shoulder, her expression changed.
“What happened?”
He had to lean on a wall while he told her. He heard her exhale, saw her hands go up to her face, her skin blanch as she bent. The fortitude, the resolve that had kept her going through the past weeks, through God knows what else in her life, he watched it ripped away from her like skin torn from flesh, by this cruellest, this utterly unbearable mischance. She made a sound, a guttural cry of disbelief, fury, anger, a sound he would never forget. He couldn’t stand it. Finally this siege had broken her, left her shrivelled, gasping, dry of hope. And by breaking her, it had broken him, too. He crouched, wrapped her in himself, rested his chin on her head and cried as he held onto her, feeling her shuddering sobs as the bombardment started overhead.
56
It got so bad they had to move. Rose would have just stayed there. She no longer cared. But Fairchild had come here for a reason and he would fulfil it, or die trying. So he pulled her to her feet and led her through the streets, as the bombs dropped and the shrapnel ripped through what fabric of the citadel was left.
He found a cellar with some space, and they bedded down wordlessly in a corner. She gripped his arm and turned onto her side away from him. Her head found his shoulder. He lay, cocooning her, feeling her hair brush his face, thinking of nothing but the sensation of her hand on his skin.
Later, when the bombardment relented, he shook her awake.
“Time to leave,” he said.
They no longer needed the rafts, but they had to go back there for something else Fairchild had stashed with them. He felt around under the covers and brought it out.
“Russian army uniforms. For you and me.”
She stared, dazed. “Where did you get these?”
“I wore one on the way in. The other belonged to Boris.”
“You stole his uniform?”
“I went back there earlier. I left him his gun.”
He was unrepentant. Boris would get a new uniform, if he lasted that long.
They dressed, then Rose disappeared briefly. She came back with the canister of petrol.
“Come on,” she said, and led the way.
He couldn’t fathom her purpose. He was just glad she had one. But he could have guessed they’d end up back at the lookout. He let her go alone, clambering the rubble, shaking the petrol over every inch of it, tears streaming. She had matches. He thought for one frenzied moment that she was going to just strike and drop, right at her own feet as she stood up there. If she’d done it, there’d be nothing he could do. But she paused, matchbox in hand, and looked up. Not at him, of course not: past him, at something distant behind, or perhaps at nothing at all. A flash of artillery fire lit up her face: thin, cold, hollow. Then she descended and lit a fuel-soaked rag, throwing that out onto the ruins. The heat rushed at them, black smoke belching out from the wall of flame. They stared up at it for a moment, a worthy pyre, but then th
ey had to move. On the shore hauling out the boat, tipping out the weeds and mud, dragging and launching, they were dark shadows cast into shade by this giant furnace, barely visible through the billowing smoke as they drifted low and silent across the river.
They were ready, weapons in hand, coming up to the bank on the other side, but no one was there. The distant bridge seethed with walking figures. The tanks were grinding, the barrage had ended, the gunfire silenced. It was over. The Russians were going in. The enemy was filing into the citadel.
In the end, they just walked away.
57
He couldn’t hide any more. In the night, the bombing deafened and drowned. He shook and cried under the blankets, locked in the bathroom, hiding away, little boy Boris. But then it stopped. Nothing, for hours. He slept. Slept! Then he woke. From the crack under the door he could see that it was light.
He crept out and peered down. The street was empty. But in the distance he saw a tank, crawling through the streets, coming this way. And soldiers! They were going into every building. When they arrived here he needed to be ready. In the bedroom he searched frantically for his uniform. Where was it? No! Not here! It was stolen! But who…? No matter. He still had his gun. He would address them in Russian. He would shout out his name and battalion. He would show them his gun. They would recognise him then.
He hurried to put on a coat and shoes, clothes of the man whose home this was. For a while this place was Boris’ sanctuary, his home, but today he saw what a pitiful mess it was. No more hiding and festering in the dark. His countryfolk had arrived. They were downstairs, already in the street. For days and days he’d feared this moment, but no more. He would explain everything. What will be, will be. He heard the stranger’s voice in his ear: who are you? I am Russian, Russian. I am a Russian soldier.
He left the apartment for the first time since entering it. He clambered down what remained of the stairs, letting himself down onto the heap of rubble at street level. He hesitated, but only for a moment, before stepping out onto the street, at last no longer hiding. The tank rolled towards him, making a terrible roar as it tore up the road surface. Walking alongside were soldiers, infantrymen like him, their eyes on the doorways and windows, guns ready in their hands.
“Hey! Hey!” He ran towards one of them, shouting, waving his gun. “I’m Russian! I’m one of you! I’m in the Fourth Battalion! Second Motor Rifle Division! I’m a soldier like you! I’m a soldier!”
He tried to shout over the noise of the tank which kept grinding, grinding towards him. He shouted till his voice hurt. The soldier stopped. He was looking at Boris. He was readying his weapon.
“No! No!”
Boris sped up. He had to get closer, so the soldier could hear what he was saying, could hear that he was Russian. Boris started running flat out. The tank kept coming. The soldier raised his weapon, aimed, and fired.
Two huge blows in the chest. The force threw him backwards. He fell. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Above him, the soldier appeared, looking down at him. He stepped over Boris, stowed his gun and walked on.
Boris shivered. Everything turned white. The tank ground on and faded away.
Russia
58
Roman turned to Vadim.
“Are you sure this is the place?”
Vadim nodded. It was a warehouse in a commercial zone, outer Moscow, a place for trade. Not for hookers. Roman expected to find her in a nightclub, pouting and preening, looking for her next victim.
They pulled in by an open truck and some wrapped crates on pallets. Whatever was in those crates belonged to him. He got out of the car and looked through the window. After almost a month of searching, there was Kamila Morozova, standing in an office with a scarf on her head, speaking on the phone. She turned when she heard the car doors closing. Her expression changed as they approached. Fear, yes: but a calm resolve that suppressed it. She ended her call and waited for them to come in.
“One of you must be Roman Morozov,” she said.
“And you are the woman who married my son,” said Roman. “Finally, we meet.”
He sat down. Vadim hovered by the door.
“You’re not afraid?” Roman asked Kamila. “You have no bodyguards, no locked doors. Did you not expect me to find you?”
She looked at him, a thin, clever face. Beautiful, yes, but not showy. No bright red lipstick, no big long lashes.
“This place isn’t part of your business. You wouldn’t find it trawling through the Morozov paperwork, or asking any of your people there. Whoever told you I was here, they have more knowledge and influence than that.”
She was right. Roman had been wondering who gave them the information. Whoever it was chose to do it anonymously, a simple phone message.
He looked around. “If this is your place, and you bought it with money stolen from Alexei, then this is really mine.” He picked up a file lying on the desk and flicked through it. She sat still and watched. The paperwork was neat, well-organised, thorough. He could smell a well-run business.
“What are you trading?” he asked.
“I’ll show you.” She stood up.
Vadim put a hand on his weapon. Roman shook his head.
“It’s okay, Vadim, it’s okay.” The man was like a fussy old woman sometimes.
Kamila walked out and across to the open warehouse door. Roman followed, then Vadim, a bad-tempered shadow. Kamila seemed at home in this place. She was not what Roman expected.
A guy was standing outside the warehouse smoking, another inside leaned on a fork lift truck reading a clipboard. Kamila went over to a wrapped crate, got out a knife and cut the packaging. Roman caught a bitter, rancid smell. She pulled out a wooden box with western writing on it and levered open the lid. The smell got stronger. Inside were large cylinders coated with something like chalk. She lifted one out.
“Cheese. French cheese. You know what Muscovites will pay for this? But they can’t get the real thing because of the trade embargo with the EU. Luxury food, delicatessen food. German sausage. Parma ham. Greek olives. Artichoke hearts. There’s plenty more. People will pay ten times more for the genuine item than a similar product made in Russia.”
Roman heard excitement in her voice.
“You set this up already?” he asked.
“This is the first shipment. I’ve found plenty of buyers in Moscow. This is already sold, everything you see here. And they want more.” She was pleased, bragging.
“It’s not possible. Not possible to find product like this in just a few weeks.”
Kamila paused. She called out to the warehouse man and asked him to go. Then she repacked the cheese and turned to Roman.
“These people came to Alexei. He wasn’t interested. Women’s stuff, he said. Handbags and dog treats. Morozov’s not like that any more. We’re in a higher league now. That’s what he said.”
She stepped closer. So did Vadim, his hand ready. She did have a knife, after all.
“Your son had no sense of business. He was an angry man, sometimes cruel, sometimes just like a child. He married me because I made him feel important, special. That’s what he yearned for. But he was destroying the business. I saw that, and I took advantage.”
“You stole,” Roman said.
“Yes. I stole. I stole money, and I stole information, contacts that I knew I could use. I could see their value. Alexei took it all for granted. He thinks a business like Morozov runs itself. And he was blinded by what the government people were offering. They would have taken control of everything. He was giving it away to them, and he didn’t even realise. So yes, I stole. But I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you think. The people who told you where I am, is that what they said?”
“Then who did?” said a quiet voice.
“Vadim!” Roman turned on him. He’d never seen the man look so furious. “You keep out of this.”
Roman turned back to Kamila. “Who is helping you with this? You didn’t do all this yourself.
”
“Why not? Because I was a prostitute?” She spat the ugly word. “Once you’re a whore, that’s everything you’ll ever be, everything you ever were. But I had a life before, in Chechnya, before your countrymen destroyed everything I’d known. I did what I had to do to survive. And I still am.”
She held her arms out high. “You’re right. This is all yours. Have it back. But let me run it. I’m good at this. I’ll show you every transaction, share every margin with you. I’ll keep nothing back. I can help Morozov grow, see new opportunities.”
“You think we’ll do business with a thieving slut like you?” Vadim again, spitting contempt. Roman turned once more.
“I told you to keep quiet. This is not your concern.”
Kamila carried on. “Those fat corrupt blood suckers in the Kremlin. I know how much you hate them too. They killed everyone I loved, and they almost destroyed me. But I fought back. I will keep fighting back. I can help you keep them out. They’re not as invincible as they think. They have their weaknesses, even this Grom, this man who likes to manipulate people. He is a complicated man, a strong man, he likes to think. But maybe not so complicated.”
“You’ve met him? The one who so blinded my son? You know him?”
“Yes, I’ve met him. He realised I was taking money out of Morozov. He spared me in exchange for something. I had to do what he wanted and he promised I would stay hidden. But – I think he has now betrayed me.”
“What did you have to do for him?”
“I had to send the British agent to Georgia.”
