by Tim Stevens
Their tour of the laboratory reached the wall map. Purkiss had viewed it briefly when he’d accompanied Avner that morning, but now he studied it at leisure. It was difficult to orientate himself, and he had to ask Budian for guidance.
‘Here is Yarkovsky Station,’ she murmured, pointing. ‘And here, three hundred kilometres south by south-east, Yakutsk. The closest city.’
It was then that she spoke of the Road of Bones.
Purkiss peered at an area to the north-west of Yarkovsky Station. ‘What’s that?’
‘Nekropolis.’
‘Yes.’
Unusually, Budian smiled. ‘Ah. A mythological place. It is a graveyard, as its name indicates. But not for human beings, unlike the Road of Bones.’
‘For what, then?’ said Purkiss. ‘Wildlife?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Mammoths. You know them?’
‘Yes. Extinct ancestors of elephants.’
Budian slipped smoothly back into lecturer mode. ‘In 1979, an oil-drilling operation discovered quite by chance a collection of mammoth fossils at this site. Exquisitely preserved specimens dating back to the early Holocene Epoch, approximately nine thousand years. An enormous amount was learned about these creatures in the following decade, from the findings at Nekropolis.’
‘Is it still a research site?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It was closed down in 1988. The Soviet Union had run out of money, and could not afford luxuries such as sustaining a facility to excavate fossils.’
Odd, thought Purkiss. That had been the era of glasnost, when Gorbachev was reaching out to the West. What better way of fostering relations than to embrace scientific cooperation? The US or Europe would have jumped at the opportunity to fund such an endeavour.
‘But why hasn’t it been revived?’ Purkiss asked. ‘Now that Russia’s rich again.’
Budian continued to gaze at the map. ‘I do not know.’
She pointed out further areas of note in the vicinity, geographical features which weren’t immediately obvious. Purkiss was struck once more by how utterly remote Yarkovsky Station was, how far removed from any other centre of human habitation, even small ones.
‘Here are our closest neighbours,’ Budian said, indicating a point due north of the station. ‘Saburov-Kennedy Station. One hundred and thirty-six kilometres of tundra separating us.’
Purkiss sensed their meeting was coming to a natural end. ‘Dr Budian – Oleksandra – you’ve been an excellent interviewee. I greatly appreciate it.’
She shook his hand formally, a nod taking the place of a smile. ‘I hope you leave Yarkovsky Station with what you came for, John.’
*
Purkiss retired to his room half an hour later, finding nobody else about and deciding not to seek them out actively. He locked the door behind him.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he allowed his mind to sort through the facts, and separate them from impressions and speculation.
Keys was a heroin addict, and at least one other person at the station knew about it. Could that be Wyatt? If so, what would his motivation be in not disclosing Keys’s problem to Medievsky? On the other hand, why would he tell anyone? Whatever Wyatt was doing at the station – and Purkiss was no closer to knowing what it was – he wouldn’t be overly concerned with the safety of its staff. He might judge that it was no concern of his if the resident medic was a junkie.
But if that was the case, why was Keys so desperate to pretend to Purkiss that nobody else knew about his addiction? No. Whoever it was that knew about Keys – perhaps Wyatt, perhaps not – they were using it as leverage over the doctor. Purkiss was certain of it.
He allowed his thoughts to range freely. What could a blackmailer want from Dr Keys? Money was the obvious answer. Drugs was another.
The third was: silence. Keys knew something, maybe, and was under pressure to keep his mouth shut.
Assuming the last was correct, Purkiss would have to find a way to loosen Keys’s tongue.
He’d tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling as he mused, and something caught his eye. The ceiling was made up of a pattern of fibreglass tiles, laid onto a metal lattice. Purkiss pulled the chair away from the wall and stood on it and touched one of the tiles. It lifted away freely.
He gripped the metal frame of the ceiling lattice and hauled himself upwards so that his head was through the gap. Between the lattice and the roof, a low crawlspace extended into darkness in every direction. It was wide enough to fit a man of Purkiss’s size, lying prone.
Purkiss climbed back down and replaced the ceiling tile. This was useful knowledge. If he could find out the exact location of Wyatt’s room, he might be able to gain access from above. It would have to wait until tomorrow.
He lay on his back in the darkness, the fragments of what he’d learned shifting around each other as in a kaleidoscope but failing to coalesce into a coherent picture.
Nisselovich’s disappearance.
Keys’s addiction and his terror of naming the other person or person who knew about it, presumably Wyatt.
The sabotage of Purkiss’s snowmobile.
They were all connected with Wyatt’s presence at the station, but there was no clue yet as to how.
Frustration gnawed at Purkiss as he drifted in and out of sleep.
Once, in the night, he woke and raised his head. A far-off noise had alerted him. He waited, holding his breath, straining his ears through the sudden silence. There was nothing more.
*
He was on his way to the dining room at seven thirty the next morning when the yell came echoing through the corridors.
Ahead, he saw Budian emerge from the dining room, followed by Haglund, his hand securely bandaged. They looked perplexed.
Avner’s voice came again, louder, edged with panic and approaching rapidly round the corner.
‘Oh, my God. Oh shit.’
Purkiss broke into a run.
He reached Haglund and Budian and passed them, shouldering past the engineer. Beyond the corner Avner was running in the opposite direction towards him, his eyes wild with fear.
‘What, Avner? What is it?’
Avner stopped, slumped against the wall, clamped a hand across his mouth. He stared at Purkiss.
‘Efraim. Come on. What’s wrong?’ Purkiss reached him and grabbed his shoulder.
Avner lowered his hand. He whispered: ‘It’s the doc, man. Doug Keys. He’s... ah, Christ.’
He leaned into the corridor and retched, his thin empty stomach contents spattering the linoleum floor.
Purkiss barrelled past, reaching the intersection which led to the west wing. Haglund caught up with him. He saw Medievsky ahead, also at a run in the direction of the infirmary.
The station leader reached the infirmary door first and stared in. His profile clenched into an expression of utter horror.
As Purkiss approached, he saw Medievsky cross himself and mutter something, before stepping into the room.
Purkiss took in the harsh, clinical lighting, the sour meaty stench, the abattoir the room had become.
On the bed furthest to the left, Keys lay supine. His pyjama-clad legs were hooked over the sides, his arms stretched into space in a grotesque and clumsy parody of a crucifixion.
His left arm, the one visible from this side, was sleeved up to the elbow in gore. The blood had jetted so far it had stained the wall behind and the adjacent bed. The floor was pooled with a red so deep it was mahogany.
Purkiss stepped past Medievsky’s shoulder and moved into the room, ignoring the man’s warning growl. He walked carefully round so that he could view the bed straight from its foot.
Keys’s pallid, extended right arm was intact. On the floor below it, a surgical scalpel lay in a spattering of rusty stickiness.
Beside Purkiss, Haglund brought a knuckle up to his mouth.
Purkiss felt Medievsky moving in close. He half turned his head.
At his ear, Medievsky hissed: ‘You knew he was going
to do this.’
Eleven
On most working days, Lenilko was accustomed to phoning home at four in the afternoon. He’d ask how the twins’ school day had gone, speak to each of them in turn, listen to their excitement and their various disgruntlements, take nourishment from their unfettered ebullience. And he’d chat with Natalya, tell her in the blandest terms of his own quotidian activities, share his own frustrations and sympathise with hers.
Today was Saturday. The twins weren’t at school, and while an FSB officer of Lenilko’s seniority was never officially off duty, leaving aside vacations, he didn’t as a rule spend the whole day at the office. Today was an exception, because of the Yarkovsky Station project. And since it was exceptional day, Lenilko didn’t think to call home at four o’clock.
At five-ten pm, he remembered that Olga had her ballet exam today. It had been scheduled for ten in the morning. And he hadn’t called.
Lenilko muttered a few words of advice to the staffer over whose shoulder he was looking and strode to his office.
The phone rang three times, four, Lenilko’s guilt growing steadily. He was about to give up and call Natalya’s mobile instead when she said: ‘Hello?’
‘The ballet exam,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. How did it go?’
‘It went very well, Semyon Vladimirovich.’ She never used his patronymic except when she was angry with him, but her tone would have been enough on its own. ‘She wanted to tell you all about it herself, but she’s playing now with friends.’
Lenilko closed his eyes.
‘I’ll make it up,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow I’ll take them to the Park.’ Gorky Park’s centre was transformed into an enormous ice rink during the winter months.
‘Really,’ Natalya said. ‘You can guarantee that?’
No, of course he couldn’t guarantee it. The situation at Yarkovsky Station demanded that he be available round the clock, at the drop of a hat.
‘Is she there at home?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yes. But as I said, she’s playing –’
‘I’m coming round,’ he said, and put the phone down before she could respond.
In the main office he pulled on his overcoat. To his secretary he said, ‘I’m going home for an hour.’
One hour he could definitely afford.
Lenilko headed for the elevators at a brisk pace. As he approached, the doors slid open and two men stepped out. They halted, as though taken aback at seeing him. Lenilko recognised them both.
‘Mr Lenilko,’ said one of them. ‘Mr Rokva wishes to speak with you.’
Lenilko felt his breath catch in his chest. Nikoloz Rokva was the head of the Directorate of Special Activities. He frequently summoned Lenilko, but it was always by telephone call to the office. This was the first time anyone had been sent to collect Lenilko in person.
It wouldn’t do to show unease in front of the two men. Lenilko allowed a flicker of natural frustration to pass across his face before he nodded.
‘Okay.’
The elevator rose in near silence, the men on either side of Lenilko watching the floor numbers tick off. When the doors opened, one man stepped out first while the other ushered Lenilko ahead of him. One in front and one behind. He was being escorted, and he didn’t like it.
The office suite was far quieter than Lenilko’s own, only a handful of secretarial staff working this Saturday afternoon. None of them raised their heads as Lenilko walked with the two men across the floor space to the heavy oak door at the far end.
One of the men knocked. A voice said: ‘Come.’
Lenilko had been in Rokva’s office countless times. He’d been awed on the first few occasions, not because it was particularly grand – it wasn’t – but because it struck him anew each time that he was standing in one of the FSB’s inner sancta.
Never before had he entered the office with such a profound sense of foreboding.
The two men who’d escorted him closed the door behind Lenilko and he was left alone with Rokva. His Georgian boss was a small man, his head bald and smooth except for the tonsure that was as neatly trimmed as his goatee and his moustache. His suit was new but, as ever, modest.
Rokva came out from behind his desk, his smile warm.
‘Semyon Vladimirovich. Sorry about the welcoming committee.’
He didn’t suggest that Lenilko take off his overcoat, but instead nodded at the pair of armchairs over to one side. Lenilko sank into one of them opposite the director. It wasn’t a welcoming committee, he thought. They came to fetch me.
‘I won’t keep you,’ said Rokva. ‘If you’re here at this hour on a weekend you must be busy. Though you look like you were about to go out. How’s it going, by the way?’
Did he mean life, generally? Or the specific project that was the reason for Lenilko’s being at the office today? Lenilko thought he must be referring to the second.
‘Very well, thank you, sir. A couple of surprising developments. I’m still trying to figure out what they mean.’
An FSB officer of Lenilko’s seniority was permitted to carry out his own investigations without formal approval from the director. As a rule, Rokva didn’t interfere, knowing that his officers would apprise him of the details as and when needed.
Rokva watched Lenilko over fingers steepled beneath his chin. After a pause he said, ‘Yarkovsky Station.’
So he knew. Despite himself, Lenilko felt perversely annoyed. ‘Yes, sir.’
Another pause.
Rokva said, ‘What I’m about to tell you, I wouldn’t say it unless it were absolutely necessary. I’ve no desire to interfere in your investigation.’
The apprehension tightened in Lenilko’s gut. He waited.
‘There’s a journalist at the station.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘John Farmer.’
‘Correct.’
Rokva said: ‘He’s not to be harmed.’
The silence hung between the two men.
‘Sir?’ Lenilko didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
‘Your asset there. The Englishman, Wyatt. You need to tell him to hold off on the journalist.’
Lenilko struggled for an appropriate response. ‘Sir, I’ve given Wyatt no instructions to harm –’
‘You know what I mean.’ The director’s voice was patient. ‘If this Farmer was thought to have information relevant to the investigation, Wyatt would use whatever means necessary to make him divulge it. I’m telling you to order him to keep away. There’s to be no coercion of the journalist.’
‘But if the interests of the State –’
‘No coercion.’ The softening in Rokva’s tone was a dangerous sign. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’ The annoyance flared again, and, feeling reckless, Lenilko went on: ‘Might I ask who John Farmer is?’
‘Yes, you well might. And in other circumstances, I’d tell you that was privileged information, need-to-know only, and you’d have to accept that.’ Rokva shrugged. ‘But in this case you’re owed an explanation. Farmer was in Tallinn at the time of the attempt on the President’s life, using the identity Martin Hughes. This you already know.’
How did he know I knew? Before Lenilko had time to reflect on it, Rokva went on.
‘Farmer, or Hughes, is former MI6. His real name is John Purkiss. He’s the man who brought down the Black Hawk. He prevented the assassination of our President.’
Lenilko sat very still. Inwardly, he reeled.
‘Very few people know this. Me, the other directors. The President himself. And now you.’
After a few seconds Rovka gave a short laugh. ‘Your face... An officer of your experience shouldn’t be surprised by anything any longer, Semyon Vladimirovich.’
‘Sir, I –’
Rovka continued as if Lenilko hadn’t spoken. ‘The British leaked Purkiss’s identity to us soon after the attack. Their logic was admirable. They knew we wouldn’t publicly admit that the life of our Presi
dent had been saved by a British agent. The political embarrassment would have been enormous. But they made it clear that we owed them a favour. It’s a favour they have yet to call in. At minimum, though, we can’t allow Purkiss to come to grief at the hands of one of our assets.’
‘Director Rokva. May I speak freely?’
Rokva waved a hand.
‘This man is a foreign agent operating on Russian soil. He cannot simply have carte blanche –’
‘The matter’s not open to negotiation. Purkiss is untouchable. And he will remain so until Britain declares war on us, or until we come up with a bargaining chip to trump theirs. I rather hope the second circumstance will prevail.’
Rokva rose, Lenilko following suit.
‘Something else?’ asked the director.
‘Do you know the nature of the operation I’m conducting at Yarkovsky Station, sir?’
‘Yes. Broadly.’
‘Then you’ll know it involves a great deal of uncertainty. I don’t yet know who the targets are, or what their agenda is. This man Purkiss may possess crucial information.’
Rokva, half a head shorter than Lenilko, seemed to tower over him. His voice barely above a murmur, he said: ‘I have made my orders clear. There is a fine line, Semyon Vladimirovich, between assertiveness and insubordination. I trust I won’t have to repeat myself.’
‘Understood, sir.’
Forcing himself to keep his breathing under control, Lenilko emerged from the office. The two men who’d escorted him upstairs were waiting, and he allowed them to walk him through the lobby and towards the elevators. When the doors opened, he said over his shoulder, his voice as neutral but as authoritative as he could fashion it: ‘I’ll make my own way from here.’
Alone in the elevator, he let his self-control slip, permitted his face to contract in a grimace of fury.
He had to call Wyatt. Had to break the rule, and initiate the contact, thereby potentially putting Wyatt at risk of discovery, because who knew who else would be in the room with him when the phone rang? Lenilko had to call him, right now, because if he didn’t and Wyatt happened to take action against Farmer - Purkiss - Lenilko’s career would be over. As would the future wellbeing of Natalya and the twins.
