‘Mikhail Gerasimov. The man I was sent here to interview,’ said Berlin.
‘Oh,’ said Magnus.
Berlin was taken aback by this response.
‘How much have you drunk, Magnus?’ she said.
‘A bit,’ came the reply. ‘When are you coming home?’
‘I can’t leave the bloody country,’ said Berlin.
‘Why on earth not?’ said Magnus.
‘They took my sodding passport,’ said Berlin.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Magnus. ‘Who did?’
‘A policeman. A Major Utkin,’ said Berlin. ‘They use military ranks here. But he’s not my only problem. The British Embassy tells me I’m also under investigation by Russian intelligence.’
There was silence at the other end.
‘Magnus?’ she said.
‘I’m still here,’ he said.
His reactions were getting weirder by the minute. She threw something into the mix.
‘I see The Sentinel has been sold,’ said Berlin. ‘And Carmichael’s been murdered.’
‘Yes, there is that,’ said Magnus.
He had to be really sozzled to react like that. He didn’t sound drunk, but then with an old soak like Magnus you couldn’t always tell.
‘He’s not the only one,’ she said. ‘Gerasimov is dead too.’
A tone cut in.
‘Hello?’ she said.
But she was speaking to dead air.
The connection had been broken.
48
Fagan sat in the Audi, watching the house and waiting for his mobile to be routed through a secure connection. ‘Come on, come on,’ he muttered.
Finally his call was answered.
‘Gerasimov’s dead,’ he said.
His boss emitted a sound like wind punched out of a pillow. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, I haven’t seen the body,’ said Fagan.
‘When?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fagan.
‘Our competitors will be working to move into this space. Do you think they were behind it?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Fagan.
‘Are our friends aware of this development?’ said his boss.
‘I don’t know,’ said Fagan.
‘You don’t know much, Fagan,’ said his boss.
‘Just that Berlin told Nkonde he’s dead.’
He could hear his boss tapping a pen on a hard surface: probably a sleek marble desktop.
‘Is that threat contained?’
Fagan glanced at the house. He could see Magnus peering at him from behind the chintz curtain.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Recent events have scared him shitless.’
‘Good,’ said his boss. ‘What about her? She’s a risk of a different order. Do you know where she is?’
‘Moscow,’ said Fagan.
‘I meant a precise location.’
Fagan hesitated. If he said yes, he knew what would follow. If he said no, there would be hell to pay.
‘I can get it,’ he said.
‘You know what to do.’
Fagan hung up and flicked the button on the glovebox. Open, shut. Open, shut. Open.
This is what happened when he tried to do things in a civilised fashion. Unlike others.
Magnus was astonished when he saw the Audi pull away. Green had even left Magnus’s mobile behind. He wanted to cheer. Free at last, free at last. But instead he was seized by a sense of abandonment. He shivered, drew the curtains and turned on all the lights. He daren’t leave the house.
He poured himself another stiff one and switched on the BBC News channel. Bombs were exploding in all the usual places, oppressive governments were turning water cannons on the usual protesters, and electricity prices were set to rise again.
Magnus turned off a couple of lamps.
He drained his glass and poured another. There was no doubt he was in danger; he shuddered, thinking of Carmichael.
He had an absolute cracker of an exposé, but he was the one exposed: no lawyer, no editor, no gun. Not that he would have a clue what to do with a bloody gun.
His mobile rang and he jumped. He picked it up as if it might explode. He’d read about bombs in phones.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Magnus Nkonde?’
The accent was thick, but the pronunciation perfect.
‘Yes,’ said Magnus.
‘Joseph Kalandarishvili here,’ said his caller. ‘Forgive the intrusion at such a late hour.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ spluttered Magnus. He was painfully aware of the obsequious note in his voice. At any other time a call from the new proprietor of The Sentinel would have been more than welcome. But in the current circumstances he didn’t know what it might signify.
‘Your recent enquiries have come to my attention,’ said Kalandarishvili. ‘It’s an interesting story. But there are one or two things I’d like to clarify.’
Magnus hesitated. He gulped his Scotch.
‘I appreciate that you are in a difficult position,’ said Kalandarishvili.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ said Magnus.
‘I’m sure,’ said Kalandarishvili. ‘But we are willing to offer you every protection and will give you whatever undertakings you require in writing.’
‘Carmichael —’ began Magnus.
‘I’m not Carmichael,’ said Kalandarishvili sharply.
That was an understatement. The chap was a billionaire; his security arrangements practically amounted to a private army.
‘Of course,’ said Kalandarishvili, ‘there will be a permanent position on staff. I’m sure you’ll agree that sort of standing in the press confers its own protection. In Great Britain.’
Magnus closed his eyes. He had a vision of himself as a thrusting young reporter, fearless, dashing, a force for good.
‘Naturally, my editor will ask for full disclosure. In return we can offer you every assurance,’ said Kalandarishvili.
Magnus hesitated, suddenly timid. He could see his father, shaking his head in disappointment. Behind him, the choir belted out ‘Jerusalem’.
‘Every protection?’ said Magnus.
‘And your own column.’
Magnus opened his eyes.
49
Berlin lay on the floor near Charlie’s wood stove, racked by stomach cramps, sweating and retching. She had taken her last buprenorphine on Christmas morning. The old year was dying, and she felt as if she might go with it. She’d had no opportunity to taper her withdrawal.
The half-life of bupe was longer than other opiate agonists, which meant it took longer to reduce its concentration in her bloodstream – which meant withdrawal took longer.
There had been no dawn. She had found her way back to Charlie’s through a freezing mist that had obscured the brief, miserable passage of night to day. Then she’d collapsed.
Each time a wave of symptoms swept over her, she thought they were at their most severe. But the next spate of nausea, anxiety and pain was inevitably worse.
She had been here once before, withdrawing in circumstances not of her choosing. On that occasion the final decision, to continue withdrawal or not, had been taken out of her hands. She had been given opiates without asking for them and she had been in no state to refuse.
A burning log crackled and split, sending sparks up the makeshift chimney. Smoke leaked from cracks in the cast iron, coalescing into spectral shapes that loomed over her.
Her imagination was fevered, she had no doubt, but there was no denying she was haunted. Lenny and Zayde danced before her, calling a tune out of her Russian blood.
‘What’s that music?’ she groaned.
Her mother’s face came close to her. ‘Klezmer,’ she said, ‘don’t dance to his tune. He weeps but he wouldn’t fight for his country.’
Berlin felt her sweat-soaked thermals chilling. Her teeth chattered.
‘What time is it?’ said Berlin.
‘Time for you
to go back to sleep,’ said Charlie. ‘Where did you go? Where on earth were you all night?’
The ability to distinguish between friend and foe, predator and prey, had deserted Berlin. Charlie was her lifeline.
‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Get me something.’
‘Can you wait until I take Nikki out for his walk?’
Berlin began to laugh. The illusion of autonomy, to which she had clung for so long despite all evidence to the contrary, was crumbling.
She was marooned on a strange planet, dependent on a bizarre shape-shifter and her mute automaton son.
Lenny and Zayde executed a frenetic jig. The delirious rhythm consumed her.
50
Magnus was woken by the noise of the newspaper dropping onto the doormat. The paper always arrived just after six. He was grateful for this comforting reminder that life went on, despite one’s own struggles.
His heart was in his mouth. Anyone would think he was a cub reporter desperate to see his first byline.
Kalandarishvili had wanted to ensure the story was solid; it had to be, if he was going to ignore a D-Notice. Magnus had explained everything. The new proprietor was left in no doubt as to the veracity of the information.
He picked up The Sentinel and unrolled it. His heart beat a little faster. The headline leapt out at him: Cover-up. The byline was his. He scanned the columns, delighted. Just a few tweaks by a sub. All good.
Then he realised they had added a final paragraph.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Dear God, what had he done?
Fagan was woken by his mobile. He was curled up on the back seat of the Audi and was so stiff he could barely move. He grabbed his phone from the floor.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Get over to Park Royal and make sure the goods are still secure,’ snapped his boss.
Fagan managed to sit up. He massaged his neck. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Where are you, Fagan?’ said his boss. ‘Have you seen the news? Worst-case scenario.’
‘You’re fucking kidding,’ said Fagan.
‘Get over there.’ His boss hung up.
Fagan pulled himself together and scrambled into the front seat. The car started the first time and he accelerated out of the car park, spraying gravel. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. A dark shape was streaming across the gunmetal-grey clouds, a fast-moving phalanx.
Fagan blinked.
He’d frightened the ducks.
Fagan had to exercise every ounce of restraint he possessed not to speed down the North Circular Road. The last thing he wanted was to attract the attention of the constabulary.
He turned off towards Park Royal. The traffic was lighter here and he quickly arrived at the periphery of the site. A lot of places would close between Christmas and New Year.
A cluster of warehouses loomed; he did a circuit, to make sure there were no vehicles parked behind the control room that shouldn’t be there. All clear. He killed the headlights, rolled into the car park and eased to a halt in the shadow of the building.
Reaching under his seat, he found what he wanted buried deep in the springs: a spare ammunition clip. He got out of the car and shut the door carefully, then padded across the concrete apron and up the ramp to the door. He tried the handle. It was unlocked. He stepped inside.
The grey walls of the corridor seemed to contract to an infinite pinpoint. He controlled his breathing as he walked.
The chain of fluorescent lights above him hummed in the silence as he reached the door to the control room, which stood slightly ajar. Somewhere a generator whined. A rat trapped in the ducts above him squealed and scrabbled away from a sudden blast of heat.
Fagan felt the warm air caress the back of his neck. He poked the door open with his toe. A familiar dank, ferrous odour assailed him.
Raj’s shirt glistened, scarlet in the glowing lights. His throat had been slashed by someone standing behind him. No sign of a struggle. Fagan glanced up at the monitor. There was a gap at the bottom of warehouse 5B’s roller door.
He kicked over a chair.
51
Berlin dragged herself up on one elbow and gazed around the room. She groaned. ‘Christ. What time is it?’
‘How are you feeling?’ said Charlie. She was sitting at the table with a pair of scissors and a pile of old newspapers. She appeared to be making strings of paper dollies for Nikki, who sat at her elbow.
‘Never better,’ said Berlin.
‘It will pass,’ said Charlie.
Berlin got up but felt weak, so immediately went and sat down opposite Charlie and Nikki at the massive dining table.
Charlie was trying to make the dollies dance. Berlin reached across the table and took one end of the chain as Charlie held the other. Together they made the dollies bob up and down.
Charlie gave her a shy smile of gratitude.
Nikki was entranced.
After a while Charlie rose and went to the stove. She returned with a large bowl of soup and plonked it in front of Berlin. ‘Dig in,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to keep your strength up.’
Berlin did as she was told. The soup disappeared quickly. It helped. Reasonably clear-headed, but restless, she began to listlessly patrol the apartment. A sensation of exposure seized her, as if she’d been prodded and poked, invaded, used and abused. A specimen abducted by aliens.
She tried to focus, forcing herself to sit down, turn the tablet on and deal with her email.
Buried among the spam was a message from Del. It said baldly, ‘Leave now. Go to the airport and get the first flight out. It doesn’t matter where you go – we’ll arrange another flight on to London.’
That was it. Not a word of explanation or even a friendly salutation.
The next email grabbed her attention immediately – it was from the British embassy. A crisp note from Mrs Muir informed Berlin that her request for an Emergency Travel Document had been expedited and the requisite papers were waiting for her at Domodedovo Airport.
Presumably she was no longer of interest to Russian intelligence. She could leave.
So that was it. Here today, gone tomorrow.
It put her teeth on edge. She had been lied to, shot at, manipulated, pursued. Now she was supposed to go home and forget any of it had ever happened.
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Charlie.
Berlin looked up.
‘You should go home,’ said Charlie.
Del, Mrs Muir. Now Charlie.
It was as if the sun had suddenly appeared from behind a rain cloud. She was dazzled. Bloody, but unbowed.
52
Berlin paid the taxi driver, grabbed her bag and made her way across the concourse to the Departures Hall. It was busy, but there was no queue at the British Airways information desk. The man and woman behind the counter were sitting some feet apart, staring at their computer screens.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
The man, who wore a badge naming him as Barry, Customer Service barely managed to drag his eyes away from the screen.
‘Yes?’ said Barry.
‘Is this where you collect Emergency Travel Documents?’ said Berlin.
‘Are you flying with us?’ said Barry.
‘Yes,’ said Berlin. ‘I was supposed to leave on the 27th.’
Barry raised an eyebrow.
Berlin tried to smile.
‘Name?’ said Barry.
‘Berlin,’ said Berlin. ‘Catherine.’
Barry’s fingers flashed across a keyboard. He peered at it, frowned, then went and consulted with his colleague. She pointed at a drawer. Barry opened it and brought out a file.
Berlin was surprised to see it contained a number of clear plastic pouches. Names were written on the pouches in large black letters.
Barry flipped through the pouches, then returned to his computer. ‘You’re not here,’ he said.
‘I must be,’ said Berlin. ‘I was told by an embassy representative I could collect my documents at the airp
ort.’
Barry adopted a stance that Berlin recognised as one he had been taught when dealing with a difficult customer. He cocked his head, as if he were listening to her, and smiled. It was more of a rictus.
‘I’m sorry, madam,’ said Barry. ‘Your name isn’t in the computer and there are no documents waiting for you in the file. Perhaps you would care to wait while I double-check.’
Barry sauntered off through a door in the wall behind the counter.
Fifteen minutes later he hadn’t reappeared. No doubt Barry was taking the opportunity to make himself a coffee and take a break. The woman glanced at Berlin a couple of times, with a look that said ‘Are you still here?’ but she said nothing.
Charlie wandered about the apartment, feeling a little lost. To her chagrin, she had to admit that she would miss Berlin. It had been nice to have some company from the old country for a while, even if she had been a right royal pain in the bum. Her mobile rang. ‘Yes,’ she said warily. She listened in growing disbelief. ‘But she’s gone,’ she said. ‘To the airport.’
The cursing at the other end of the line was so loud that Charlie was forced to hold the phone away from her ear. Finally it stopped.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I will. But I can’t see why she would come back . . .’
Her caller hung up.
Berlin was about to shout at someone, anyone, when Barry returned. He’d been gone twenty minutes.
‘I’m sorry for the delay, madam,’ he said. ‘I can’t contact the duty officer at the embassy at the moment. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?’
Berlin was in the process of deciding whether Barry had also made himself a sandwich, when he glanced over her shoulder.
Berlin turned to see what he was looking at.
A man and a woman were striding across the terminal, weaving through the passengers and making straight for her. The last time she’d seen them was at the internet café.
Berlin ran.
She had a good fifty-yard start, but it wouldn’t have done her any good had she not remembered Charlie’s sneaky route to the service bay.
The emergency exit was propped open, just as it had been that first morning. She ran towards it, a surge of adrenalin giving her a kick she hadn’t felt in a long time.
A Morbid Habit Page 15
