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

by T. M. Parris

  “You should go, quickly. And take care. Spasiba.”

  He left. A few seconds later an engine turned and caught, and the sound faded as he drove off. Fairchild sat on the table opposite Rose. He rubbed his arms. It was light outside, but early.

  “So Roman was locked down,” said Fairchild. “But he managed to get a message out in time.”

  “That saved our lives, probably,” said Rose. “I’m not sure how long we would have lasted in Irkutsk.” She was looking at the paperwork. “Mongolia.”

  “It’s the nearest border from here. I think I might have that beer now.”

  “At this time in the morning?”

  He didn’t care. Now they’d established they were still hidden, he felt almost lightheaded. He opened the fridge. “You?” he called.

  “Go on, then.” He got both beers out and began a search for a bottle opener. The kitchen wasn’t equipped for actual cooking of any form. Rose, at the table, was examining the padded envelope. With a penknife she tore along one of the long seams. Fairchild hit paydirt: a sticky opener in the back of a drawer amid an odd collection of non-culinary tools. He opened both bottles, set them down on the table and sat. Rose was now working her way around all the seams. She pulled the back away, revealing the dark fabric of the padding material inside. Fairchild lifted the beer to take a swig. But before the liquid hit his mouth, he froze.

  From within the padding, Rose’s fingers had isolated an object. She held it up: a flat round disc of circuitry. A tracking device.

  They looked at each other. “How long do you think we’ve got?” she asked.

  “If they were already following that guy, they’ll be here already.”

  A smash of glass was followed by a clatter and a low-pitched whump! They both dropped to the floor. The ceiling flickered. A wave of heat washed over them.

  The kitchen was on fire.

  68

  Rose could feel the heat on her back as she crouched. She could smell petrol or some other accelerant. Flames licked the panelled roof above their heads and smoke leached out of the kitchen. Her throat itched.

  “There’s no way out at the back. They’re trying to flush us out of the front,” she said.

  “There’s nowhere to go down there. It’s just the lake.”

  “There’s a boat. I checked it out earlier while you were asleep.”

  He looked at her. “Can you get it started?”

  “Yes.” She’d already hot-wired it. It was only a simple motor launch. But it seemed prudent to have the option if they needed it. “We just have to get to it,” she said.

  He looked around. “Okay.” He suggested a plan. It wasn’t much of a plan, but good enough if they got the timing right.

  “Let’s do it.”

  She emptied the beer out of the bottles, tore the tablecloth in half and stuffed half into each bottle. Fairchild pulled over the kerosene heater, took out the fuel reservoir and poured it into the bottles. The room was full of thick smoke. Fairchild crawled towards the door with the bottles. Rose bent low and ran to the bedroom. She knew as soon as Fairchild opened the door; an explosion of gunfire started up. He was ready for them, out of shot behind the door. But these people weren’t going to hang around outside.

  The bedroom window wasn’t designed to be fully opened. After a few seconds playing with the casement she closed it and smashed the glass with the handle of her gun She ducked and froze, waiting for a reaction from outside. But by now Fairchild was engaged in a firefight, emerging from behind the door long enough to get several shots off each time. The answering volleys got closer and closer. That and the roaring fire covered the sound of breaking glass. She wrapped a bedsheet around her hand and worked quickly to clear all the glass out of the pane. Fairchild was drawing the shooters further and further in. He’d crawled into the bedroom away from the cabin door and was firing off burst after burst, the responses moving ever nearer. The thin dividing bedroom wall was scorched and smoking. Flames danced above the headboard of the bed. Rose grabbed the mattress and positioned it like a ramp below the window. She spread the remaining bedsheet along the bottom of the pane and folded it over on itself. For this to work, speed was critical.

  Fairchild was fully in the bedroom now. A shadow passed beyond him through the doorway. One of them was in the house. Fairchild picked up a bottle and threw it. It smashed on the opposite wall and ignited in the flames. Someone screamed. This was the moment.

  “Go!” Fairchild shouted. But she was already up on the sill, then out. She landed and ran. She heard another smash as Fairchild threw the other bottle. She stopped by the boundary fence and turned to cover him. Smoke was leaching out of the window. A shout started up from within: they’d realised what was happening, but Fairchild was at the window and down on the ground before the shooting started. Rose aimed several shots over Fairchild’s head into the window, turned, and ran.

  She had to trust he was right behind her: no time to check. She pounded down to the beach, then along to the jetty. Something on the land side caught her eye for a split second, but she didn’t have time to process it. Her steps hammered along the jetty to the boat. She slipped the knot that she’d retied herself earlier, and turned the starter. The rudder was in the water ready to go. Fairchild was sprinting up the jetty now but he had company, a man twenty paces behind and another further back. Rose turned the boat and had her hand on the throttle when Fairchild landed in the boat. She flung the gear forward and they powered away. Fairchild turned in the bottom of the boat and fired relentlessly at the figure now lying prone on the jetty. She kept going full throttle until they were well out of range, then slowed down and looked back. A giant plume of smoke towered over what remained of the cabin, and was drifting over the shore. She couldn’t see any moving figures. Fairchild was sitting up, reloading his gun.

  “You picked up the paperwork?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Rose patted the zipped pockets of her trousers. Then she remembered what she’d seen. She realised what had caught her eye, and a lot more.

  She pulled back the throttle so that they were idling. Fairchild looked up.

  “There was a man sitting on a bench. Just above the jetty.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Nothing. Just sitting there. As if he were – supervising. I’ve seen him before, Fairchild. Near my flat in Moscow. He was watching me. Not trying to hide it. Just sitting. It’s him, isn’t it?”

  She could hear the fear in her own voice. Even immobile, from a distance, the man had something about him, a presence. Fairchild stared back at the shore. They were too far now to make out a person. He turned to her.

  “Take me back,” he said quietly.

  “That’s what he wants you to do.”

  It was peaceful now, out so far on this vast lake, the only sounds the lapping of water and the engine ticking over. The smoke was drifting further out over the lake and gathering over the water. Fairchild scanned the lakeside.

  “Drop me downwind of the smoke. Don’t try and wait. Go east, to the other side. Or back to Irkutsk, up the river. They won’t expect that.”

  It was as if he didn’t hear her last remark. She turned the boat and slowly powered up.

  “You want this passport?” she asked. He shook his head.

  She went as close as she dared but he still had a hell of a swim. The shoreline looked hazy from there. He’d packed his gun and a few other things into a drybag that he tucked into his waist. She put the gear into neutral and he slipped into the water.

  “Goodbye, John.” He looked up at her, then turned and started swimming.

  She didn’t try and dissuade him. It was his life, his decision. He thought he could get a shot off, surprise him somehow, but he could have no realistic hope of getting away himself.

  She understood, she thought, why killing Grom was worth that much to him. But she did feel, as she powered up and steered towards Irkutsk, a certain emptiness at the thought that she would probably never see him
again.

  69

  The coldness of the water made him gasp. He shouldn’t have been shocked, should have remembered that Lake Baikal was still frozen solid three weeks ago. Exactly the kind of geographical fact that his parents crammed into him like they were stuffing a turkey. His limbs seemed to fade away as he swam. His face went numb and his head throbbed. Keep moving, keep moving, even if you can’t feel a thing. He forced himself to do it, moving smoothly without splashing, keeping low in the water.

  He aimed east of the cabin to work back on land towards the jetty. All he had was the element of surprise. But if Rose was right, he didn’t even have that. Grom would be expecting him. This was a man who seemed to sense what people were thinking and keep ahead of them. Combine this with the might of the FSB within a barely accountable global power, and Grom was something very dangerous indeed.

  If Fairchild valued his own survival he wouldn’t be doing this. He was doing this for his parents, for thirty years of his life wasted, for Dimitri, for Roman, maybe even for Kamila. For Rose and what she went through in Lali, for Katya and all the others. Besides, what would there be for him after this? The edifice of his life had crumbled to ruins. He was in love with a woman who could barely look at him. For it to end today, on this shore, as long as he could place one judicious bullet, would be meaning enough. Just one bullet would do.

  The shore was a steep climb. Baikal, shaped like a test tube, plummeted for a mile below its surface: more useless facts. He started shivering as the air cooled his wet clothes. He stripped down to the waist and jettisoned everything except the gun. Barefoot, he weaved further inland and double-backed above the smouldering cabin to the jetty. People were still moving around by the cabin as he skirted above. There, on a bench overlooking the jetty, sat a man facing out to the lake.

  Fairchild slowed. He approached and paused. This was all too easy. But no one was watching, no one was near. He was shaking from the cold; he needed to get closer to be certain of the shot. He had to get this right. There’d be no second chance.

  He took three more paces, four. He raised the gun and aimed.

  The figure on the bench stood, turned, and looked straight at him.

  70

  “So you came back,” said a low-pitched, hearty voice. “You made a promise to the Bear, didn’t you, John? That’s why he helped you. Drinking buddies, are you? They’re the closest buddies of all. Except maybe killing buddies. People you drink with, people you kill with. That’s a special bond. But you don’t have to honour a promise to a dead man.”

  Fairchild lowered the gun. The man’s English was absolutely natural, no hint of an accent except a possible slight Scottish drawl. He was wearing a smart dark woollen coat, suit and tie. Sixties, seventies, maybe, but in good shape. White hair, healthy skin, something very solid and direct about him. Likeable. A decent bloke, that’s what you’d think. He stood with his hands in his pockets, totally relaxed.

  “I’m not armed, don’t worry.” He gave Fairchild a glimpse of his gloved hands before pocketing them again.

  “Did you kill Roman?” asked Fairchild. He kept the gun primed. He could shoot the guy any time. May as well satisfy his curiosity first.

  “Me personally? No. I may have given other people reason to. How do you persuade a young chick to leave the nest? Coax it gently, supervising every tentative step, heaping encouragement on its downy little head? Much quicker just to set fire to the nest. But you know this,” said Grom. “You’re a manipulator too. I’ve been doing my research. You’ve done a lot to be proud of.”

  “I’m not like you,” said Fairchild.

  “Aren’t you? You don’t use people, get them to do what you want?”

  Fairchild didn’t want to talk about himself. “What about Kamila? Someone else did your dirty work there as well?”

  “Ah! So you know it wasn’t Roman. You’re clever, more so than I imagined.” If Grom was expecting some kind of response, he didn’t get one. “Kamila was a slight miscalculation. I was sure Roman would destroy her for what she’d done. But I didn’t reckon that when she and Roman finally met, they would click. He saw her true strengths, beyond the labels she’d been given. They would have worked well together. And we couldn’t have that. Lovely girl, though.”

  “You’re all heart, aren’t you?” Fairchild couldn’t help the sneer. The man took such pride in pushing people around like pieces on a chess board. His tone sparked a flash of anger, resentment, in the older man’s eyes.

  “No, John, that’s you, remember? It was the first thing I noticed about you, when I saw you at that gathering in St Petersburg. The way you looked at her. You were so eager to hide it, and yet, you didn’t quite manage it. It got me interested. And that was before I knew who you were.”

  Fairchild went back to that evening in the Winter Palace, his sense of being observed. Sutherland was there? He must have kept a low profile.

  “And that question she asked you, about the Russian with the missing fingers,” the man continued. “That rang a bell when one of my people reported it back to me. Yes, we had a few people listening. Those networking evenings can be very worthwhile. Once I’d done some digging into your background, I realised what that little comment of hers meant. Until that point I didn’t know where Dimitri had disappeared to, but you led me right to him. You and she.”

  His expression was indulgent, patronising. “You shouldn’t wear your heart on your sleeve, John. It’ll get you into all kinds of trouble. And her. I knew she’d take the bait, trotting off to Georgia, starry-eyed with the notion that she’d bag some mega-agent and bask in the glory. Her boss lapped it all up as well. It’s just too easy sometimes. And you! What an old romantic, inserting yourself into a hopeless siege to rescue the love of your life! I was curious to see what you’d do. Impressive you both got out. Pity she was less than grateful. She doesn’t even seem to like you very much. Climbing the greasy pole, that’s her game, isn’t it? Never mind. That’s the way it goes. I bet you’re wondering about my accent, though. Or lack thereof. You’re right there. We’re both speaking our mother tongue.”

  Fairchild tried not to react, but there must have been something, a blink, a twitch.

  Grom smiled. “How much did Walter tell you? He’s the only one who really got close to the bottom of it all. Pity no one much listens to him these days. Did he tell you my real name?”

  He should shoot the guy right now. But maybe he had a chance first to get to the truth, discover all the things he knew Walter had never told him.

  “Your name is Gregory Sutherland,” he said.

  “Good to meet you. It seems we’ve only recently become aware of each other’s existence. Come, sit for a while. Let’s catch up. You can shoot me afterwards. Plenty of time for that.”

  He turned away from Fairchild and sat on the bench. Fairchild edged round to the side of him, keeping his distance. No way was he going to sit down next to this guy. He was still shivering. The vast lake rippled in front of them. Was Rose still out on it somewhere?

  “It’s pretty impressive, really,” Sutherland was saying. “They were careful, Mum and Dad, keeping you at boarding school, at arm’s length. Then I suppose they got sloppy. Maybe they thought after ten years I was well and truly off the radar, buried somewhere the wrong side of the Iron Curtain. Maybe they even convinced themselves that the car accident was real after all. But you got lucky that night. Of course you realise that. Just a quirk of timing, that you went walkabout just as my rent-a-mob showed up. Dimitri helped, of course. Deciding not to say anything. He gave you a second lease of life. If I’d known about you I’d have been after you from that moment on. What was that, thirty years ago? I’d never forget about the Fairchilds. I liked my life back then, and they took it away from me. No, Dimitri’s silence saved you. He wasn’t silent at the end, I have to say. There are times when one has to carry out these matters oneself. It just seems appropriate.”

  Fairchild stood as if hypnotised. Why didn’t he just rai
se the gun and fire, stop this callous voice? Somehow he couldn’t.

  “You strike me as the hands-on type, John. This set-up you have, all these companies across the world, it’s very discreetly run. As I said, I’ve been doing my research. With the resources of the Russian government, ferreting out information about who owns what isn’t difficult. These people will do anything if you persuade them it’s to tackle an enemy of Mother Russia. But it’s your personal skills as well, John, all those languages, all that knowledge you’ve amassed, the contacts that put you right at home anywhere in the world. Anywhere but your actual home, of course.”

  Fairchild lowered the gun. Sutherland had been busy. He’d got a pretty good understanding of Fairchild’s whole operation and had even figured out Fairchild’s aversion to the UK.

  “They haven’t treated you at all well, have they?” continued Sutherland. “They never told you the truth. They’ve let you tie yourself in knots, more interested in covering their own backsides than doing right by you. The more fools they. They could have brought you inside, made good use of you. What an asset you would have been! But instead they turned you into an enemy.”

  “Is that what you think about yourself?” said Fairchild. “That they didn’t appreciate you? That’s why you had it in for my parents. Maybe it was more that they didn’t appreciate being betrayed by one of their own. Or someone posing as one of their own. Whatever you are.”

  Sutherland ignored Fairchild’s contempt. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Fairchild. You think Walter’s telling you everything, even now? Come on. Wait for them to be honest with you, you’ll be waiting forever. I can put you straight. I’ll give you a fresh perspective. You might find some of it hard to believe. Maybe you’d prefer not to know. Just go around for the rest of your life wondering why you’re banging your head against the same brick wall. You must have a pretty sore head already by now. You kill me now, you’ll never get to the truth.”