by Andy McNab
I gave her a smile that let her know I wasn't born yesterday.
"Also remember, do not mention Valentin at all when dealing with them.
There must be no connection between him and any of this. None whatsoever. If they make a connection, the deal will be off, because they will simply kill you."
Her hands went back together. "Also in there is a" she hesitated, trying to find the right word, but didn't come up with one that satisfied her. In the end she shrugged "letter from a friend, the same one that has the contacts in Narva. It will ensure you get what you need from these people, but only use it if you need to, Nick. It was obtained at great personal expense to Valentin and shouldn't be abused."
I asked the obvious. "What's in it?"
"Well, it's a bit like an insurance policy." She smiled rather bleakly. "A Chechen insurance policy. I told you before, he likes you."
I didn't need to ask any more about it. I'd see it for myself soon.
For now there were more important matters. I needed the answer to the bayonet question again. "How many people are there on site?"
She shook her head. "We don't have that information, but it will be more than last time. This is their most important asset, which is why it's in Estonia the geography is the best defense system there is."
Something else needed answering. "How will you know I've been successful?"
"You're worried that Valentin will not pay without proof? Don't. He will know within hours how isnoconcernof yours. You will get your money, Nick."
I leaned closer. "How do you know Tom?"
"I don't, Valentin does. When Tom was caught at Menwith Hill it was Valentin he was working for. You British never discovered that, however, because your threats to him could never compare with the one Valentin was capable of delivering."
"Which was?"
Her expression invited me to use my imagination.
In my mind's eye I saw Tom, curled up in the back of the car after he'd had the facts of life explained to him by the interrogation team.
"Was Tom trying to access Echelon for Valentin at Menwith Hill?"
She nodded. "When he was caught, he told British Intelligence only what they thought they needed to know, then told the courts what they told him to say. It was all very simple, really. Well, for everyone except Tom."
"And how did you know of my connection with Tom?"
"Valentin has access to many secrets. After your encounter in Helsinki, he wanted to know a little more about you. It was easy enough to order that information from the Maliskia, thanks to Moonlight Maze. Even more incentive to get in there and destroy that capability, don't you think?"
Fucking right. I didn't like the sound of any of it.
Liv patted the magazine with her hand. "Read it. Then all we know, you will know. I must go now. There are so many other things to do."
I bet one of them was to report back to Val's go-between and tell him that I was on my way to Narva.
Liv and I smiled at each other like parting friends, kissed on the cheek, and did the farewell routine as she replaced her bag on her shoulder. "I'll check the station every day, Nick, starting Sunday."
I touched her sleeve. "One last question."
She turned to face me.
"You don't seem too concerned about Tom. I mean, I thought you two were, you know, close."
She sat down again slowly. For a second or two she toyed with her coffee cup, and then she looked up. "Meaning I had sex with him?" She smiled. "Tom is not someone I'd seek a relationship with. I had sex with him because he was weakening and very unsure about what was expected of him. Sleeping with him was was" she searched for a good expression, then shrugged "insurance. I had to keep him committed to the task. He's the only one who could do this sort of thing. He is a genius with this technology. He had to go with you. That is also why you must carry out your new task as quickly as you can. His capabilities must not be available to the Maliskia."
She stood and turned with a small wave of the hand, and I slouched down in my chair, wishing I'd had that information a few days ago. My eyes followed her as she headed for the escalator and slowly disappeared.
I took a small white envelope from inside the magazine Liv had left behind. It looked as if it was made for a small greeting card; it certainly didn't look as if there was much inside.
I stayed put for a while, not bothering to touch it, and drank her lukewarm coffee. After about ten minutes I piled the cups, saucers, and plates onto the tray.
Walking away from the escalators, I made my way through the warm clothing department and into the rest rooms. Safely in a stall, I opened the envelope. Inside were three scraps of paper of various sizes and quality. The first was a Post-it, on which was an address in Narva by the look of it I was after a guy called Konstantin plus a long and lat fix. The Post-it was stuck to half a ripped sheet of cheap and very thin Xerox paper, with about ten lines of Cyrillic script written in pen. This had to be the Chechen insurance policy, because the third item was a sheet of wax paper on which was a penciled cross and, toward the bottom left-hand corner of the sheet, a little circle. All I had to do was line up the longs and the lats on the right map and bingo, the circle would be around the location where Tom and the Maliskia were supposed to be.
I listened to the shuffle of feet outside, water splashing into sinks, hand-driers humming, and the odd grunt or fart, and started to laugh to myself as I folded up the bits and pieces of paper and tucked them into my socks, out of the way. I felt like Harry Palmer in one of those Michael Caine films from the sixties. It was ridiculous. I had more stuff around my feet than in my pockets.
I flushed the toilet and opened the door. An overweight Japanese tourist was waiting patiently, his sides bulging with video and camera bags. Leaving him to fight his way into the stall, I headed to the condom machine by the urinals. It was decision time.
Dropping in some coins, I considered the banana- or strawberry flavored ones and those shaped like medieval maces, but in the end went for the old-standard clear ones. All very missionary. Then, with the packet of three in my pocket, I was out of Stockmann with any luck forever.
Checking for surveillance by doing a complete circuit of the store and taking a few turns that meant I'd doubled back on myself, I felt confident I wasn't being followed and headed for the same bookstore where I'd bought my guidebook to Estonia. I soon found the map that Liv had specified.
Back at the hotel, it was time to study it in detail. Tallinn, the capital, was in the west, on the Baltic coast. It faced Finland, which was fifty miles across the sea. Narva was miles away, in the northeastern corner, right next to Russia and just ten miles inland.
There was one main road that went from Tallinn to Narva, linking together other, smaller towns on the 130 miles between the two. I could also see the black line of the railway that Liv had told me to take, roughly paralleling the main road, sometimes near the road but mostly a few miles south of it.
Narva was bisected by a river, and the border with Russia was an imaginary line running down the middle of it. There were two crossing points, a rail bridge and a road bridge. On the Russian side, the main road and train line kept going east, with a sign on the edge of the map saying, "Peterburi 138km." In other words, Narva was closer to St.
Petersburg than it was to Tallinn.
I took out the sheet of wax paper and placed the cross over the corresponding longs and lats, then looked at the circle. It ringed a small cluster of buildings a couple of miles south of a small town called Tudu, which was about twenty-two miles southwestish of Narva.
Basically, the target was in the middle of nowhere, the perfect place for the Maliskia to run their operations. That was where those Finns should have gone to do the job; maybe they didn't because there weren't any to-go pizzas to be had.
There were still a few hours before the five-thirty ferry, so I got out the guidebook and read about this northeastern corner of Estonia. It sounded a nightmare. During Iron Curtain days Narva had been one of
the most polluted towns in Europe. Two huge power stations produced enough kilowatts to keep the massive wheels of the USSR. industrial base turning, while pumping out uncountable tons of sulfur dioxide, magnesium this and aluminum that into the atmosphere. There was a huge lake nearby, and I made a mental note not to eat any fish when I got there.
According to the guidebook, 90 percent of the population in the area were Russian speaking, and, in the eyes of the Estonian government, Russian citizens. They took the line that if you couldn't speak Estonian, you couldn't get Estonian citizenship. The upshot was a big gang of Russians right on the border with Russia, holding old Russian passports, who had to stay in Estonia, a country that didn't acknowledge them.
Five trains a day left Tallinn heading east. Some went straight on to St. Petersburg and Moscow, and some just stopped at Narva, about a five-hour journey. No problem at all; I'd get the ferry tonight, check into a hotel, sort my shit out and get the train in the morning. That would be the easy bit.
I had the Narva contact name and address in my head; an hour of repeating it while reading had sorted that out. I ripped the cross off the wax paper, rolled it in the Post-it and ate it. Everything else on this job was like some spy film, so why not go whole hog? I kept the guidebook and map because I was going to be a tourist. If asked, I was exploring the region's immensely rich culture. Well, that was what it said in the guidebook. I couldn't wait.
As the final preparation for the journey, I went into the bathroom and ran a sink of warm water. Then, unwrapping the complimentary sliver of soap, I proceeded with a little task I never looked forward to.
28
I followed the herd out of the terminal waiting room and up the boarding ramp onto a massive drive-on, drive-off ferry. When I saw that we all had to pass through a metal detector I felt relieved I'd left the P7 with my other stuff in the station's luggage lockers. I was using Nick Davidson's passport. The woman who swiped it at passport control was one of the few immigration officers who'd ever looked at the picture.
Few of my fellow foot passengers appeared anything like as prosperous as the Finns I was used to seeing. I guessed they were Estonians. They all seemed to be wearing fake-fur Cossack-style hats and a lot of leather. Several were in old and shabby full-length quilted coats.
They were toting enormous plastic shopping bags, all stuffed to the brim with everything from blankets to huge cartons of rice. In each case, the whole extended family seemed to have come along for the ride, kids, wives, grannies, everybody going hubbahubba to each other in Estonian.
My plan had been to keep out of the way and curl up somewhere quiet and crash out, but once on board I realized there was no chance of that.
The air was filled with the hinging and whirring of video games and one-armed jacks overlaid with kids screaming up and down the hallways, their parents in hot pursuit.
Sometimes, walking sideways to get out of the way of kids and people with their big bundles of whatever coming from the other direction, I saw where the main crowd was headed-toward the bars and snack bar. If I couldn't sleep I might as well eat.
The crowd thinned as the hallway opened up into a large bar area. Like the hallways, all the walls were covered with mahogany effect veneer, giving it a dark, depressing feel. This area seemed to be full of well-dressed Finns, who had driven their cars aboard before us. They were laughing and joking noisily among themselves, throwing drinks down their throats like condemned men. I guessed they were booze cruisers, going over to Tallinn to stock up on duty free.
These guys didn't have shopping bags and reeked of disposable income.
Their ski jackets were top-of-the-range labels, and their thick overcoats were wool, probably cashmere. Underneath, they all sported big chunky sweaters with crew or turtle necks. The only thing they had in common with the Estonians was a love of tobacco. There was already a layer of smoke covering the ceiling, waiting its turn to be sucked out by the overworked heating system.
The currency desk was just the other end of the bar. I lined up and changed $100 U.S. into whatever the local money was called. I didn't even bother looking at exchange rates to see if I was being ripped off.
What was I going to do, take my business elsewhere?
Eventually, fighting my way to the snack bar, I picked up a tray and joined the line. I wasn't particularly bothered about the wait; it was going to be a long journey, and it wasn't as if I was itching to get back and join the lushes in the bar.
Twenty minutes later I was sitting with a family at a bolted-down plastic table. The father, who looked over fifty-five but was probably under forty, still had his wool hat on. His wife looked about ten years older than him. There were four kids, each attacking a large plate of pale, undercooked fries. Mine looked the same, plus I had a couple of scary-looking red sausages.
The sound of laughter echoed from the bar, along with piped muzak-badly performed cover versions of Michael Jackson and George Michael. Thankfully the ship's safety briefing, which started then carried on forever in about five languages, cut wannabe George off in his prime.
As I tucked into my fries and franks, the husband pulled out a pack of cigarettes and he and his wife lit up. They smoked contentedly in my face, flicking the ash onto their empty plates, finally stubbing out their butts so they sizzled in the ketchup. I decided it was time for a walk. Their kids could finish off my food.
We were now in open sea and the boat rocked from side to side and plunged up and down. Children were having great fun in the hallways being thrown from wall to wall, and their parents were telling them off much more quietly. In fact, many of them looked paler than the fries I'd left on my plate.
I passed the newsstand. The only thing they had in English was another guidebook to Estonia; I decided to go back to the bar and read my own.
The Finns, undeterred by the heavy seas, were swigging back Koff beer, or at least trying to. The swell meant there was as much liquid on the floor as there was going down their throats.
The only seat was at the end of a semicircular booth, where six Finns in their late thirties three men and three women all expensively dressed, were smoking Camels and downing vodka. I gave them a fuck-off smile as I settled down on the red, leather-look plastic and opened the guidebook.
Estonia, I was told, sandwiched between Latvia and Russia, was about the size of Switzerland and only two or three hours' drive from St.
Petersburg. It had a population of 1.5 million, the size of Geneva, and if that was the best they could find to say about it, it must be a pretty mind-numbing place.
Estonians seemed to have suffered all the rigors of life as a former Soviet republic. They'd had food coupons, breadlines, fuel shortages, and inflation higher than the World Trade Center. All in all it sounded a pretty grim place, a bit like a giant Baltic version of a South London housing project.
The pictures of the old city center of Tallinn showed medieval walls, turrets, and needle-pointed towers. I couldn't wait to see the "gabled roots" which the guide extolled. When I read on I discovered that most of the country's investment had been in this one tiny area, and that almost everywhere else they hadn't had gas or water since the Russians left in the early nineties. But then again, tourists wouldn't go that far out of town, would they?
I sat there with my eyes closed, deeply bored. There was no way I was going to socialize with the Finns. I had work to do on the other side, and besides, from what I saw I doubted I could keep up with their drinking, especially the women.
I sank as low as I could in the seat to avoid the rising cigarette smoke, which was now a solid fog above me. The ferry was slewing about big time, and now and again the propellers roared as if they'd come right out of the water, accompanied by a collective amusement park cry of "Whooooa!" from the crowd in the bar. There was nothing but darkness to be seen from the window, but I knew there was plenty of ice out there somewhere.
I crossed my arms over my chest, let my chin drop and tried to sleep.
Not t
hat it was going to happen, but whenever there's a lull, it pays to recharge the batteries.
An announcement over the PA system sort of woke me up, though I wasn't too sure if I'd been sleeping. I guessed it was telling us what fantastic bargains were to be had in the ferry's duty-free shops, but then I heard the word Tallinn. The system carried on with its multilingual address, eventually coming to English. It seemed we had about thirty minutes before docking.
I packed the book in the backpack, along with my new woolen hat and washing kit, and wandered down the corridor. People were walking like drunks due to the swell, and now and again I had to put my hand up on the wall to stop myself falling. Following signs to the rest rooms, I slid aside a dark wood-veneered door and walked down a flight of stairs.
A couple of guys were chatting in the men's room, zipping up and lighting cigarettes as they left. There was as much alcohol on the floor as there was on the ground in the bar; the only difference was it had been through people's kidneys first. The room was boiling hot, making the smell even worse.
I trod carefully toward the urinals. Each one had a pool of dark yellow fluid slowly seeping past the piled-up cigarette butts blocking its path. I found one that wasn't so full it would splash back on me, got my left hand up against the bulkhead to steady myself and unzipped, listening to the relentless throb of the engines.
The toilet door was pushed open and another couple of guys came in. By the look of their GoreTex jackets they were Finns. I was sorting myself out, trying to zip up with one hand while using the other to stop me falling over. The boy in black headed for the vacant toilet stall behind me, and the other lurked by the row of sinks to my left.
His green jacket reflected on the stainless-steel pipes that ran from the water dispenser for the urinals above my head. I couldn't see what he was actually doing because the pipe's shape distorted him like a fairground mirror, but whatever it was, it just looked wrong. At the same time I heard the rustle of GoreTex and saw black in the reflection, too.
I turned just in time to see an arm raised, ready to do my back some serious damage with some kind of knife.
