Whatever personal reasons Oksana might have for helping him, they were irrelevant to Sam now. All that mattered was that he needed her at this moment, and she was here. He admired her courage. Admired her determination to stick with him. He’d also grown to quite like it when she put her arm through his.
They crossed a small square of trimmed lawns in front of the baroque Opera house, and entered the elegant Prymorsky boulevard whose neo-classical homes had once belonged to the nobility. Set on a sandstone cliff, it overlooked the port and had the feel of a resort. Crowds of proud-breasted young girls in thin T-shirts strolled beneath the planes and chestnuts, some with boyfriends.
‘I think this some public holiday,’ Oksana said, pointing out the stage being set up in front of the white-columned town hall at the end of the boulevard. ‘Maybe some concert tonight.’
She sighed.
‘I love Ode-ssa.’ She lengthened the middle syllable as if caressing the word. ‘When I was child, we come here every summer.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘They say Odessa girls most beautiful girls in Ukraine. Maybe you notice already.’
Sam’s eye, however, had been caught by a group of sailors ambling through the throng, bunched together like geese. Their uniform, he realised suddenly, was extraordinarily familiar. As they drew closer, he read what was written on the bands of their hats.
HMS Devonshire.
He remembered the NATO visit that Figgis had told him about – the British defence attaché was here in Odessa for the occasion. He turned around and realised the promenade was full of foreign sailors eyeing up Odessa’s talent. Black Americans in gleaming white. Olive-skinned faces from some Mediterranean navy or other. And cocky-looking Brits, all ashore on their best behaviour.
‘Look down there in port,’ Oksana exclaimed, pointing through a gap in the laurel hedge that lined the promenade. ‘Navy ships. See American flag? They looking so new. That’s how you can be sure they not Ukrainian,’ she added with irony.
They stopped in the middle of the boulevard at the head of a broad sweep of stone steps leading down to the port.
‘You know these steps? You ever see famous film Battleship Potemkin?’ Oksana asked.
Sam nodded, remembering the massacre scene in Eisenstein’s 1920s classic. ‘The pram . . .’
‘Nearly two hundred steps.’
At the foot of them the port spread like an ugly stain, its cranes mostly motionless and its wharves less than a quarter full. The visiting naval fleet was in the inner harbour. He counted half a dozen warships, among them the familiar profile of a British Duke Class frigate.
‘We’re wasting time,’ he whispered, urging her on. ‘How much further to this vulitsya Artema?’
‘Five minutes. No more.’
She began to feel heavy on his arm, as if trying to hold him back.
His plan for getting through what Taras had described as a heavily guarded entrance to the Voroninskaya fortress was to pose as a British wholesaler in adult videos wanting to purchase tapes. Not much of a scheme, but once inside he hoped that bluff would get him to Viktor Rybkin.
They left the boulevard, passing an old palace undergoing renovation, and crossed a footbridge over a gorge. In a small park at the far end a wedding couple posed for photographs in front of a fountain.
Oksana kept clearing her throat. Her nerve was going.
‘You know about Odessa catacomb?’ she asked, desperate to interest him in something that would delay the moment of truth.
‘No,’ he said flatly, not wanting to know.
‘Yes. When they build Odessa they dig stone from underground. Make tunnels. Some people say one thousand kilometre altogether underneath Odessa. Like honeycomb. During Great Patriotic War partisans hide there from Germans. Taras father – my uncle – he was partisan in Odessa,’ she burbled.
He looked at her and forced a smile. Not easy, because he was as tense as she was.
‘Nearly there, Oksana?’
‘Nearly there.’ Then she stopped dead and turned to confront him. ‘Don’t you think maybe this bad idea?’ she pleaded, her pale cheeks hollow with fear.
‘Probably,’ he said, giving her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. ‘But it’s the only damn idea I’ve got.’
The building Taras had directed them to was a recently restored corner house on four floors with a buttressed roof decorated with rococo mouldings. Its windows were capped by finely arched lintels and hung with blinds to obscure the interior. Parked outside was a large black Mercedes being guarded by two watchful men in black roll-necks and black trousers.
‘Sam . . .’ Oksana whimpered, her throat dust-dry with terror. ‘Gangstery!’
‘Stick close, Ksucha,’ he breathed, trying to exude a confidence he didn’t feel. As they aimed for the entrance, the two heavies scrutinised them with a drill-like gaze.
The outer door was of armoured glass. Oksana spoke into a wall-mounted speakerphone, saying a Mr Molloy from England wanted to buy porn videos.
This’ll never work, thought Sam, feeling the thugs’ eyes scorching his back. Miraculously the door clicked open and they entered a small lobby, the door snapping shut behind them. They were in an airlock of mirrored glass. There’d be a camera watching their every blink, he realised. He turned his face towards the street in the hope of avoiding its scrutiny.
After a minute, a second buzzer clicked and they were admitted to the inner sanctum that resembled the reception area to any small and prosperous business. A young woman in a turquoise silk blouse and pearl necklace eyed them from behind a desk, her face frozen with suspicion.
Oksana filled her lungs and told the woman that Mr Molloy was one of the UK’s most prominent dealers in adult videos, and that he’d been advised it was Viktor Rybkin that he needed to see here.
Sam heard ‘nyet’ in the reply, but understood nothing else.
‘She says is not possible,’ Oksana explained, her face taut with the strain.
‘Well tell her we’ll wait here until it is possible.’ He pointed to the long black leather sofa lining one wall. Oksana shook her head, her eyes pleading with him to let them get out of here while they still had legs to walk on.
As he sat down he noticed the receptionist lean back and slide her knee forward under the desk as if nudging a buzzer. Not long now, he guessed. He felt strangely calm.
Oksana sank onto the sofa beside him, her breathing jerky and spasmodic. She clasped her hands on her lap, their knuckles turning white.
The reception area was a windowless box with reinforced doors at each end that were fitted with coded locks. The place was indeed a fortress. In the corners of the high corniced ceiling two cameras swivelled on their mounts. Sam looked down at his shoes and counted the lace holes.
It was the right-hand door that opened. A short, slim man in his twenties wearing an oversized jacket stood there with a smile that looked as if it had been painted on.
‘Please,’ he said in English.
‘You wait here, Ksucha,’ Sam whispered.
‘No. Both of you,’ the man insisted. He stood to one side to let them pass. Beyond the door was a carpeted hallway and a regal staircase rising upwards, its walls adorned with oil paintings. The door closed behind them.
Suddenly two more men stepped from a side-room, dressed in track-suits, their hair clipped to within millimetres of their scalps. Sam clenched his stomach expecting a punch. Instead, hands like claws seized each arm and frogmarched him towards the stairs. Heart racing, he felt cold metal press into the bone behind his right ear. Behind him Oksana screamed, her muffled shouts revealing that she too was being manhandled.
‘Leave her alone!’
Jesus . . . What had he done, bringing her into this?
He stumbled up the steps, carried forward by the powerful grip of his handlers. Behind him, Oksana’s commotion was silenced by a sharp double slap.
‘Leave her alone, arsehole!’ he barked, craning his neck to see.
A few steps from the top his
eyes locked onto a pair of legs standing on the landing. Shoes in fine, black calf. Grey trousers, well-pressed. He looked up. Blue shirt, gold tie kept neat by a jewel-encrusted clip – and above it the lopsided jaw of Viktor Rybkin.
Clearly shocked to see him here, the former KGB officer spun on his heel. Sam was bundled after him into a small bare-walled room, furnished with a table and two chairs. The men in track-suits frisked Sam for a weapon. When they found none Rybkin waved them out of the room.
‘What the hell are you doing here, stupid cunt,’ he spat. ‘In Cyprus I told you I didn’t want to see you again.’
‘Fuck what you told me! You’re in trouble, Viktor, and I’ve come to help you.’
Rybkin’s eyes registered disbelief.
‘You? Help me?’
‘Yes. And, that woman who was with me, you leave her alone, understand?’
‘You’ve got a damned nerve telling me what to do. Whatever game you think you’re playing with us, just remember we don’t play cricket in Ukraine,’ Rybkin cracked.
He took a pack of Marlboro Lights from his pocket, pulled one out for himself and tossed the pack to Sam.
‘You’re crazy coming here,’ he said. Softening his tone. ‘You know that?’ The American accent seemed to be broadening by the minute, an accent honed on Tarantino movies. ‘Who is she anyway?’
‘Works at the British Embassy in Kiev. A translator. So treat her with respect.’
‘Respect!’ Rybkin laughed. ‘We always treat our women with respect, Sam. You’ve seen the videos . . .’
Sam pushed the cigarette packet back to him.
‘Hell! I should have shot you in Cyprus,’ Rybkin fumed. ‘Now, tell me what the fuck this is all about.’
‘They know about the VR-6, Viktor,’ Sam growled, hunching forward. ‘MI6, the CIA, the whole western intelligence apparatus – they know about your deal with Naif Hamdan.’
Rybkin flinched. Sam knew he’d hit home.
‘And if the Iraqi anthrax attack does take place, then you and your lunatic boss are going to be nailed to the wall. Understand?’
Rybkin blew smoke at him.
‘Even if you’ve got half the Ukrainian government in your pocket, they won’t be able to save you. The pressure from the rest of the world will be so goddamned great, nothing will prevent you from being taken out.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rybkin snapped.
‘No? Your only chance of getting out of this crazy affair still able to walk is to make sure the attack never happens. You understand me?’
Rybkin’s jaw had set solid.
‘As a friend,’ Sam added sarcastically. ‘I’m telling you this as a friend, Viktor.’
Slowly, Rybkin leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. His eyes narrowed, as if trying to work out how much Sam really knew.
‘Hamdan?’ mouthed Rybkin, frowning. ‘I don’t know anybody of that name.’
Sam’s heart flipped. The man was so convincing with his lies that for a second he believed him. Just like he’d believed him in Cyprus when he’d said he still worked for the SBU. And that he didn’t know how Chrissie had died.
‘They also know what a liar you are,’ Sam added.
There was a sharp rap at the door and the young man in the oversized jacket entered. He leaned past Sam and handed Rybkin a wad of papers. Oksana’s ID documents, Sam guessed. Rybkin perused them then gave them back, snapping out an order in Russian.
‘I tell him to be nice to your friend Oksana Ivanovna Koslova,’ Rybkin explained after the younger man had gone. ‘To be respectful.’ He smiled like a cat that had eaten a sparrow. ‘Where is Mister Koslova, by the way? You up to your old tricks with married women?’
‘He’s dead. Chernobyl.’
‘Ah. That is sad for her, of course.’ His eyes flashed with malice. ‘So you and she have both lost people that you loved. I guess that should give you plenty to talk about.’
Sam didn’t react. ‘Where’s the attack to be, Viktor?’
Rybkin feigned mystification. ‘What attack?’
‘The anthrax attack with the VR-6 drone.’ The brown eyes blinked back at him. ‘With luck you can still stop it. It’ll save your skin.’
The Ukrainian fingered the scar on his cheek, as if considering the offer. Then he leaned forward and pointed his finger at him, the thumb cocked like a gun.
‘Go home, Sam. Go home while you’re still breathing.’
Sam glared icily at Rybkin. He’d been wrong. There was no conscience here. The rogue with a soul that Chrissie had liked a year ago had sold out to the devil.
And yet . . . The man was fidgety. Something, some doubt might have taken root inside that lopsided skull.
Rybkin stood up suddenly. He smoothed his trousers.
‘Now, we will say goodbye for the very last time,’ he growled. ‘And I mean the last time.’
‘Not saying goodbye yet, Viktor.’ Sam remained seated. ‘I haven’t finished with you.’ There was one answer he was not going to leave without.
‘You! Finished with me . . .’
‘Why the tattoo, Viktor?’
Rybkin froze on his way towards the door.
‘Why was Chrissie marked with that goddamned Voroninskaya tattoo?’
‘You don’t know?’
Rybkin didn’t move. Then, slowly, he turned back to face Sam, mouth half open as if with the intention of enlightening him. But he changed his mind, opened the door, and beckoned Sam out onto the landing.
‘Why, Viktor?’ Sam snapped.
The thugs in track-suits grabbed hold of him.
‘Why?’
Rybkin turned on him with a supercilious leer.
‘You know something? They taught us poems when I learned English in Moscow,’ he said. ‘One of them I can remember. It ends with the words “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.” Stay ignorant, dummy.’
Sam bunched his fists.
‘Bye bye Sam. My men are going to make sure you leave Odessa today. Both you and your lady friend. Next time I see you, if there is a next time, you’ll be in a box with a lid on it.’
He spun on his heel and walked away along the landing.
Five minutes later Sam and Oksana were being raced through Odessa in a black-windowed Mercedes, wedged between the two men in track-suits. They’d not spoken since being pushed into the car, but he could feel Oksana trembling. The side of her face nearest him glowed from the slaps she’d been given.
The machine wove through the traffic like a police car, eventually pulling up at the station. One of the heavies nudged them to get out, grunting an instruction in Russian.
‘He say we must be on Kiev train which leave in five minute,’ Oksana croaked.
They were pushed towards the ticket hall, then through the swing doors to the platforms. The departure music was playing, but they scrambled on board the train. The gangstery scowled into the carriage from the platform, prompting two other passengers to pick up their bags and move to another compartment.
Sam seethed. He’d achieved nothing in Odessa except to frighten the wits out of Oksana. She was sobbing now, a handkerchief pressed to her face.
The train began to move. He looked at his watch. It was two-fifteen. He waved two fingers at the thug outside. Rybkin was not going to get away with this.
Oksana blew her nose loudly.
‘You all right, Ksucha?’ Her cheek was still glowing.
‘I thought they will kill me,’ she whispered, sniffing.
‘I’m sorry, Ksucha. I should never have—’
‘But you learn something?’ she interrupted, her eyes brightening. ‘It was worthwhile for you?’
What should he tell her? The truth.
‘No. I learned nothing, Ksucha. Except something about myself. Namely that one can still be a trifle naive, even at the ripe old age of thirty-six!’
‘I learned something.’ She gave a little smile of triumph.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes. I learn that I don’t want to die!’
‘Ah. Now that’s something.’
The smile widened and stayed on her lips as the train gathered speed through the bleak concrete landscape of Odessa’s outskirts.
As the town disappeared behind them and the view became steppe, Sam put his mind back to work. If Viktor Rybkin couldn’t be reasoned with, then he must be forced into talking.
‘Oh! Our luggage!’ Oksana gasped. ‘We leave it at Taras house.’
Exactly, thought Sam. And there was something in it that he needed.
‘I have idea. When we arrive Kiev, I telephone my cousin and ask him to bring it to us tomorrow. You will pay his ticket?’
‘To Kiev?’ Sam frowned.
He would be on his own from now on, he decided. It was between him and Rybkin. One on one.
‘Yes of course, Kiev.’
She was puzzled by his tone. Then she saw the stubborn jaw and dogged eyes. He was going back. Back to Odessa. Back to the nightmare they’d just escaped from. Her insides somersaulted. How could he be so foolish – or so brave?
‘Oksana . . .’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I am coming with you.’
36
DARKNESS WAS FALLING by the time they returned to Moldovanka, both of them dead with exhaustion, both driven by compulsions they couldn’t control.
He’d tried to persuade Oksana to continue on the train to Kiev but she’d told him that if he had the courage to go back then so did she. They’d got off at the first halt, a fifty-minute ride north of Odessa, and sat in a smelly shelter for two and a half hours until a train stopped on its journey south to take them back to the Black Sea. The weather had changed for the worse, with clouds scudding in from the north, bringing a drop in temperature. Still in their light clothes, she’d huddled against him for warmth and with a little gentle prompting had told him the story of her life with Sergeyi – a contented partnership cut short by the biggest man-made disaster the world had ever seen. She’d cried a little at the end of her story and he’d held her, happy to let their closeness give her whatever strength she could draw from him.
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