‘Perfectly,’ Vuk said.
‘So Mr…’
‘Just Vuk…’
‘So, Mr Vuk. Where do you stand?’
Vuk had had enough of his smooth diplomatic mouthings.
‘I hate all fucking Muslims,’ he said.
Vuk saw Rezi blink, with eyes that turned black as pitch. The businessman and the diplomat seemed suddenly to have disappeared. The blue suit no longer appeared to sit right on him. The security agent, the torturer from Tehran could no longer conceal his true self.
‘Take it easy, Vuk. Please.’ Kravtjov fiddled anxiously with his teaspoon.
Rezi smiled and raised his hands deprecatingly.
‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ he said. ‘He is young. I understand. Perhaps his family has suffered. War is a terrible thing. We know. We fought for eight years against the godless Iraqis. I myself fought in the swamps of Basra. War leaves its mark on a man, although the scars are not always visible.’
Kravtjov smiled, but there was sweat on his brow. He drained the last of his beer and said:
‘Tell him about the plan, Mr Rezi. The beauty of it.’
‘Ah, but it’s your plan. I think…’
Kravtjov laid a hand on Vuk’s arm but removed it again hastily when he caught the look on the young man’s face. Instead he began to talk very fast:
‘Listen, Vuk, Mr Rezi will put the finger on a Bosnian Muslim. And you hate those people, right? A good, dead Bosnian Muslim. He’ll get the blame. He’ll be proclaimed a martyr in Tehran. They can always rustle up a mob down there. All those stupid bleeding hearts in the West will be outraged! And you Serbs could do with a little sympathy. Think about it! What does some woman writer matter to you? Fuck-all. And some dumb Bosnian Muslim and all his kind will get the blame It’s beautiful. Can’t you see that?’
For the first time Vuk smiled. The atmosphere around the table had improved. Yes, he could see that. He saw it better than Kravtjov, because the old KGB bastard didn’t know what Vuk’s actual plan was.
‘Your old organization has trained you well,’ Vuk said. ‘But what do you get out of it? And don’t say “money”. The money’s ours.’
‘That really is none of your business,’ Kravtjov said.
‘It could turn out to be.’
Rezi leaned over the table again. He poured coffee, first for Vuk then for himself, and passed round a pack of Marlboros. The others both took one, and he lit their cigarettes for them before saying:
‘Gentlemen, let’s be businesslike. Mr Vuk! My government will give Mr Kravtjov and his – how shall I put it? – his business associates access to some bank accounts. Legal bank accounts. Clean bank accounts.’
Kravtjov hunched forward:
‘Vuk, listen to me! Nowadays, it’s easy to make money. But it’s not so easy to spend it. We need channels. Legal channels.’
At this Vuk’s face broke in a broad grin.
‘So your government is going to be laundering money for the Russian Mafia?’
Rezi was grinning now too. But his eyes weren’t smiling as he spread his hands in a gesture that said that was about the size of it.
‘It’s perfect,’ Kravtjov said. ‘It’s perfect, Vuk. No one loses out.’
‘Except Sara Santanda,’ Vuk said.
‘Just silence that infidel bitch,’ Rezi snarled. ‘Send her to hell. She deserves to lie there and rot until the end of time.’
‘Okay,’ Vuk said, getting to his feet.
Kravtjov looked up.
‘From now on it’s between you and me,’ Vuk said.
He strode quickly away without shaking Rezi’s hand. Kravtjov rose and went after him. They stopped by the door.
‘Meet me at the Tiergarten tomorrow. At the Goethe Memorial. Twelve o’clock,’ Vuk said.
‘Right,’ said Kravtjov.
‘Watch out for Rezi. The Germans are bound to be keeping an eye on him.’
‘He only got here yesterday.’
‘Even so.’
‘Okay, Vuk. It’s a good deal.’
‘We’ll see.’
Vuk placed his hand on the door handle. Kravtjov whispered in his ear:
‘I heard your friend in Pale had an accident.’
Vuk turned and looked him straight in the eye:
‘It’s a dangerous world we’re living in. Remember that, Kravtjov,’ he said.
Kravtjov nodded. He felt a chill in the pit of his stomach. Vuk was so young, but he had the same effect on other people as a venomous snake. He had a nice smile but teeth of steel, Kravtjov thought to himself.
‘Until tomorrow, Vuk,’ was all he said and left Vuk to vanish into the Berlin night while he returned to Rezi to finalize the details concerning a down payment, the channelling of the money, weapons and other equipment which he wanted the Iranian government to deliver by diplomatic bag. Best to get everything sorted out tonight. Kravtjov was like Vuk in that respect. As an old KGB man he had great respect for the German security service and did not want to be seen in the company of an Iranian agent any more than was absolutely necessary. Besides, you never could tell with the Iranians. He didn’t have many old friends from his halcyon days in Teheran. Moscow had been on the other side in the war between Iran and Iraq, but that hadn’t stopped Kravtjov from keeping up with his contacts there. That was in the days when he was serving a state that commanded respect. He was better off financially now, but given the chance he would happily turn back the clock in order to work once again for a major power whose influence extended to every corner of the globe. There was nothing quite like the feeling of belonging to the nation’s elite. So deep inside him Kravtjov also felt a little thrill of pleasure. This reminded him of the old days when he pulled the strings and sent agents out into hostile territory. Nothing could compare to an undercover operation. Not even sex, he thought.
This same thought struck him again the next morning as he was walking through the Tiergarten. The trees in the park were a dusty-green, and the first yellow leaves lay scattered around his feet as he strolled along the gravel paths, making for the Goethe Memorial. Every now and again a bike would pass him. Mothers pushed babies in prams. He could hear the distant drone of the city traffic. Lovers walked by, closely entwined. A squirrel scampered nimbly up a tree. The whole scene put him in mind of the parks in Moscow and his youth. He wandered on, lost in his own thoughts. A smartly dressed middle-aged man taking a morning stroll. Anyone watching him could have been forgiven for mistaking him for a businessman who had done so well for himself that he had been able to take early retirement.
Kravtjov did not notice the young man in the blue tracksuit stretching out by a tree twenty yards or so behind him. He was just one of many joggers in the park. A cyclist pulled up next to the guy in the tracksuit. He had a camera slung round his neck and a book on the birds in the Tiergarten in the carrier. He stopped, and the jogger gave a faint nod. The birdwatcher lifted his camera and took a series of quick shots of Kravtjov. This done, he climbed back onto his bike and cycled past the strolling Russian. A little further on he stopped, got out his book and looked at it. He propped the bike up on its foot stand and sauntered across to the grassy bank beside the path. He raised his camera and took some pictures of a tree in the distance. Then he whipped it round, aimed it at Kravtjov walking along the path and took two rapid shots of the Russian’s face before consulting his bird book once again.
Kravtjov had in fact noticed the photographer and immediately been on his guard but only for a moment, then he saw the book, the man’s checked baseball cap and the ecstatic look on his face – that of a birdwatcher who has spotted some rare feathered creature – and he lapsed back into his reverie. He was thinking about his youth and his career with the KGB. In the greater scheme of things maybe it had all been in vain, but he had memories of successful operations and good comradeship that no one could take away from him. He thought of Vuk. A strange, young man. Unbelievably intelligent. Charming, when he had a mind to be. With nerv
es of steel and iced water in his veins. And those remarkable blue eyes: so cold looking, but harbouring some terrible hurt. He had come across young men like him in Afghanistan, in Angola and, of course, in Bosnia. They gave nothing away, and yet they gave away everything. They were good to have on one’s side. And they made lethal enemies. If they had any scruples, they did not let them show. Had he not been the same? Once. In the days when he had not baulked at throwing himself out of a plane flying at ten thousand feet and swooping towards the dark earth below, waiting until the very last minute before releasing his parachute. When, instead of inducing paralysis, that fear which all men feel acted like a propellant, sharpening every sense and causing all one’s muscles to work together and do their utmost. He had been in the field himself, so he knew that he had become a good commander. Demanding, hard-headed and tough but always loyal and sympathetic. And all to no avail. Or…? He had all the money he needed now, but he knew in his heart that this was not the only reason why he was now employing his skills in the service of another secret organization. It gave him a buzz that he could not do without. And he knew too much for them simply to let him pack it in now and enjoy his retirement. The organization was his family. That was how it had always been. It went by another name these days; that was all. It did not serve one country, it served Mammon, but like the KGB in the old days, the Mafia also considered itself to be above all laws except its own.
Kravtjov caught sight of Vuk. He was standing next to the statue of Goethe, smoking a cigarette. He was clad in his usual blue jeans and leather jacket. But he had had his hair cut this morning, quite short with a side parting. Kravtjov saw Vuk follow a jogger with his eyes and, moments later, the bird lover, cycling past him on his tall gent’s bike. He was a cautious one, this Vuk. What was his real name, he wondered. What was his story? Perhaps he would tell him one day. These young agents often had need of a father figure. Personal bonds were frequently forged. Doing something for your country was a strangely abstract concept. Doing something difficult and often terrible for a friend, a comrade, was much easier. That was how he had always run his network. Taken time to listen, to have a drink, get them to open up to him. It inspired loyalty. Unfortunately it looked as though Vuk did not need this. It was as if there was a block of ice inside him. But perhaps…when all this was over, he would invite Vuk to Moscow. When the winter had really set in and they could sit by the fire in his new dacha and drink vodka and tell stories.
‘Good morning, Vuk,’ he said.
‘Let’s keep this short, Kravtjov,’ Vuk said.
‘No one knows I’m here. I am retired, you know.’
‘Short, Kravtjov,’ Vuk said. ‘Let’s walk.’
They walked side by side along the gravel path.
‘I want a Danish passport. Clean. Not stolen.’
‘No problem. Two days. When were you born?’
‘Nineteen sixty-nine.’
A Danish passport was the easiest in the world to forge or alter. Kravtjov could not understand why the Danes had produced a passport in which the two most important pages were so easy to remove and the photograph wasn’t even laminated. Mind you, this did make it easier for people like him, so the longer this style of passport was in circulation the better he liked it.
‘Okay. What else?’ he asked.
‘A British passport. Also clean. A driving licence in the same name and a credit card. They have to be good for a week.’
‘No problem.’ This was more difficult but still doable.
Vuk handed him two passport photos. He was wearing a tie in the picture, which had probably been taken in a booth that morning. In the photograph Vuk looked like a high-flying young businessman, candidly and confidently looking the observer in the eye.
‘No more meetings. We’ll keep in touch by post. Poste restante, Købmagergade Post Office, Købmagergade 33, 1000 Copenhagen K.’ He handed Kravtjov a slip of paper containing the Danish address and went on: ‘I’ll write care of the Central Post Office here. To Mr John Smith, if necessary. You will send me the key to a left-luggage locker when the guns have been organized. It’ll be up to you to get them into Denmark.’
‘Okay. What type?’
‘Dragunov rifle with both day and night sights. Beretta 92. Two extra magazines. Ammunition, naturally.’
Just what I would have expected him to choose, Kravtjov thought. The Dragunov sniper rifle was manufactured in Russia, and the Yugoslavian Army had produced a copy of it. The Beretta 92 was a modern, mass-produced pistol holding fifteen cartridges. Not the world’s most sophisticated weapon, perhaps, but solid, reliable and readily come by. A good choice.
‘Right. Anything else?’ he said easily, although he was feeling anything but easy in his mind. Behind that calm exterior, Vuk was on edge. It suddenly struck Kravtjov that underneath the veneer of self-confidence, the kid was cracking up. But his eyes and hands were steady.
Vuk stopped in his tracks, handed him a slip of paper with some figures on it. Kravtjov studied the figures briefly then stuffed the slip into his pocket. Neither of them noticed the birdwatcher. He had parked his bike by the grass verge and was lying behind a tree. He had the telephoto lens trained on Kravtjov’s face. The back of the young man’s head was in the way, but it was the best shot he had had so far. He held down the shutter release button and took several pictures in rapid succession. Then he pulled back the camera and his head. He had been warned that Kravtjov was an old pro, and been told to tread carefully. So that would have to do.
Vuk looked Kravtjov in the eye and said:
‘Have your Iranian friend deposit one million dollars in this account on the Cayman Islands. That’s the first instalment. I’ll be transferring it straight away, so don’t try anything clever!’
‘Vuk! What do you take me for? We’re partners. You can trust me.’
‘Not in a month of Sundays. And I want fifty thousand Danish kroner. In cash.’
‘That’ll take a couple of days. Where do you want it sent?’
‘Put the two passports, the credit card, the driving licence and the money in a locked bag and leave the bag at the left luggage office at the Central Station in West Berlin. Post the receipt and the key to Per Larsen, poste restante, Central Post Office, Berlin. Okay?’
Kravtjov passed him a piece of paper inscribed with an eight-digit number.
‘If there should be anything…call this mobile number. You’ll always get me or someone else…at this number. Just say “Vuk”, give us your number and we’ll call you back. Look upon it as a kind of insurance. And don’t let anyone else get their hands on it.’
Vuk hesitated for a moment, then slipped the paper into his pocket. He would memorize it later.
‘And the rest of the money?’ said Kravtjov.
‘You’ll receive the number of another account in the Caymans.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, you’ll know when. Just read the papers,’ Vuk said, with no trace of sarcasm.
‘Right,’ said Kravtjov. Vuk knew that payment would be forthcoming. This sort of money was peanuts to the Russian Mafia, and Kravtjov certainly had no wish to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for Vuk. Cheating in matters of this nature was bad for business and for customer relations. And besides, they might have need of him again some time. They didn’t know that once this business was dealt with he would never be seen in Europe again.
‘Right,’ said Vuk. ‘That’s all.’
He looked around him. Peace reigned in the park. Some distance away a couple of children were playing while their mothers sat on a bench chatting, and a man was walking his dog. He threw a stick for it to fetch: a peaceable activity which made Vuk long, suddenly, for another time, but he forced himself to banish such thoughts. The commandant had taught him to focus on the job in hand, rid his mind of anything that might distract him and never let himself be consumed by a longing for things he could never have.
Kravtjov extended his hand, and Vuk shook it briefly.
‘Yeah,’ said Vuk.
‘This is just like the old days. When I sent agents into the field. Thrilling and, at the same time, terrifying. They were good times.’
Vuk nodded and turned to leave. Kravtjov called after him:
‘Does it bother you, going back to Denmark?’
Vuk looked back and said, almost dreamily, Kravtjov thought:
‘Not at all. Killing someone in Denmark is very easy.’
Chapter 9
Vuk had to stay another five nights in Berlin. He spent most of the time sleeping and watching CNN or dubbed American movies on German satellite channels: Cary Grant, John Wayne, Tom Cruise and Sean Connery talking in deep voices that didn’t fit. He ran six miles every morning and evening in the Tiergarten and did a stiff half-hour workout on the floor of his hotel room: press-ups, sit-ups and backstretches. The physical activity kept him away from the bottles in the minibar. The TV helped keep his gnawing demons at bay; he had only had the blood-roller dream once, and he had managed to wake up before it appeared over the horizon under the flaming sun.
He bought a medium-size suitcase, a sports holdall and a navy-blue suit, a pale-blue shirt and a tie patterned with tiny red and purple squares. This, he had observed, was what was being worn by most of the businessmen he had seen charging up and down the streets of Berlin, briefcase in one hand and mobile phone in the other.
The hotel staff were quietly solicitous and clearly regarded him as just another harmless tourist taking in the sights of the newly reunified Berlin. Breakfast was the one meal he ate at the hotel; each evening he found a new and anonymous steakhouse close to the crowds on the Kurfürstendamm. The weather was still warm, although the odd shower of rain had fallen on the city, soaking him to the skin on the second morning when he was out running under the Tiergarten’s tall trees. Summer was preparing to pass into autumn, and the bigger leaves on the trees were already yellowing at the edges. It made him feel good to run in the soft rain, with the faint rumble of the traffic on June Seventeenth Street in his ears. These runs reminded him of the happy days with the band of specially selected men at the elite academy, when they ran five miles at the crack of dawn every day, and his body sang for the sheer joy of being used.
The Serbian Dane Page 10
