by Andy McNab
The road was now lined with trees and the potholes were getting more treacherous.
13
AN HOUR AND twenty-seven minutes later we turned off towards a village. I’d spent every second of that time trying not to get bounced around in the foot-well, so the small of my back was now as painful as my neck.
Genghis sparked up his cell again.
This wasn’t Navaho or Chelsea. The buildings were timber-framed and exuded an air of history. Enormous dachas, three storeys high with huge, overhanging roofs, stood behind big walls. These were the weekend retreats of wealthy Muscovites, built in the time of the Tsar. Tyre tracks led in and out of the driveways. There was no foot traffic at all. The rich didn’t need to walk and their snow was pure white.
We turned through a massive set of slowly opening wooden gates. I saw cedar tiles cladding a steeply pitched roof. Condensation billowed from modern heating ducts on the side of the old building. It looked like something out of a spy story. The whole village did.
The Range Rover crunched across the snow, flanking the dacha. Huge trees circled a snow-lined playground, gardens and a swimming-pool. I could just make out the little handles round the edge to help you out of the water. We swooped round to the back of the house and stopped behind another Range Rover with red plates. Genghis jumped out and produced an eight-inch blade from a sheath at his hip. My door opened. The blade flashed in the sunlight and the plasticuffs put up only token resistance. As I straightened, he pointed the tip of his knife towards the wooden veranda.
The cold slapped me in the face as I headed up the three steps. Crows squawked in a field the other side of the trees. I touched the swelling on the back of my head. The skin had broken, but the heat of the Range Rover had dried the wound.
Three doors led off the veranda: a bug screen for the summer, followed by a triple-glazed monster with an aluminium frame and finally the hand-carved wooden original.
I stepped into a big shiny modern kitchen, all white marble and stainless steel. It couldn’t have provided a more dramatic contrast to the exterior. I stood on a polished stone floor with the sweet smell of Russian cleaning fluids, that really intense mixture of rose perfume and bleach, assaulting my nostrils. And it was even hotter in there than it had been in the Range Rover.
A small man in his late forties sat facing me at a white marble table. His hair was brushed back. There was a hint of grey at the temples. He was immersed in a Russian broadsheet, the front page full of the Fukushima meltdown. ‘Coffee?’ Without looking up, he pointed to a cappuccino machine the size of a nuclear reactor. ‘Help yourself and sit down over here with me.’
He was wearing black suit trousers, shiny black leather shoes, a grey shirt and V-neck jumper. A white magnetic board hung on the wall behind him, covered with photos and all the normal family shit. A scaled-down red Ferrari with an electric engine was parked beneath it, next to a Tupperware crate containing every shape and size of game ball. The cappuccino machine stood beside a white marble sink large enough to dismember a body in.
‘Relax, Nick. No one else is going to interrupt us, and you’re in no danger. I just want to talk with you.’ His English was precise, but his accent was surprisingly guttural. He sounded like Hollywood’s idea of a Cold War Soviet agent.
‘Please.’ He nodded again towards the dozen or so matching blue mugs that were lined up on the spotless work surface. ‘Get yourself whatever you fancy. Then come and sit down.’
I wasn’t going to turn down a brew. It could be my last for a while. I piled in the sugar in case I needed an energy boost some time soon. I lifted the shiny glass jug from its hotplate and poured myself a generous shot of its contents.
‘Do you know where you are, Nick?’
I reached for the condensed milk. ‘Not a clue.’
‘Peredelkino. A very nice place, steeped in history. It’s known as the writers’ village. Many famous Russians have lived here, Russians who have changed the world with their words and their wisdom. Do you admire our great Russian writers, Nick?’
I stirred the milk into my coffee. It was so thick with sugar I could stand the spoon up in it. ‘I read when I can.’
‘Tarkovsky? Pasternak? Fadeyev?’
I raised an eyebrow. I knew he was taking the piss. ‘The guy who said Stalin was the greatest humanitarian the world has ever known? Good writer, but I wouldn’t trust his character references, would you?’
I didn’t give a fuck what he thought, but I was quite pleased that he was suddenly sitting up and paying attention.
‘We all need friends in high places, Nick.’ He waved his hand at a huge picture window. ‘Every one of these great writers had a dacha here, you know. They’re buried here too. Peredelkino is featured in a le Carré novel – The Russia House.’
I finished stirring. ‘Is that so?’
‘There’s a lot of history in these dachas. If only they had ears.’ A thought struck him. ‘Well, maybe some of them did have ears during the Soviet era, yes?’
The triple-glazed windows slightly warped the view, but I knew that if I had to leg it, I’d head for the door I’d come through and straight towards the swings and the slide. Then into the tree line, even though I didn’t know what was on the other side of it. I’d go and see what the crows were up to.
The small man flicked through the pages of his newspaper with one hand, as he motioned with the other for me to sit opposite him.
‘What are you reading now, Nick?’
‘Dostoevsky.’ I gave him my best poker face. ‘Crime and Punishment. But I’ve got a feeling I won’t be finishing it any time soon.’
‘When you do, you will find knowledge and enlightenment. I came to books late, but …’ He closed the paper and raised his hands. ‘… as we all know, Nick, knowledge – of whatever kind – is power.’
I sat there with the brew. He was playing with me, enjoying the moment, even though he wasn’t showing it. Not a hint of a smile crossed his face. He was like Arnie in Terminator mode.
‘Thanks for the tip. But isn’t it time you introduced yourself? And told me what you want?’
He waved my questions away. ‘How’s Anna? Is she enjoying North Africa? I watch her every day. It’s a little warmer there, I suspect.’
If he was trying to impress me, he’d succeeded.
I put my mug down on the white marble. ‘She in trouble?’ I kept my voice even. It was pointless getting sparked up. I’d know the answer soon enough.
‘This is not about Anna, Nick. No, this is about another of your women.’
My head pounded. I was starting to get pissed off. If he was going to hurt me or offer me something – I didn’t really care which – I just wanted him to get on with it.
He dragged his seat backwards, turned and pulled one of the photos from the steel board. A well-manicured hand spun it towards me. Then he settled back, putting a bit of distance between himself and the table.
A woman and a young boy cuddled one another on the garden swings.
She’d changed the colour of her hair; it had blonde highlights now, and was a lot longer, well past her shoulders.
‘She’s still beautiful.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. And you knew her husband. Knew him well. What was his name?’
‘Montgomery. We called him Mong.’
He nodded, satisfied.
‘So you’re Frank.’
‘Francis. But until we get to know each other better, you may call me Mr Timis.’
‘Not very Ukrainian.’
‘It puts you Westerners at ease.’
‘What’s happened to Tracy? Is she OK? Or is it the boy?’
‘Stefan.’
‘Your son?’
‘Yes, he’s my son. Look closer – you will see.’
I did. The boy’s eyes were fixed on the camera as if he was interrogating it. The only difference between father and son was the grin on the boy’s face. Frank probably hoped that in a few years’ time the whole smiling thin
g would just run its course, and Stefan would turn into his father’s son.
His eyes suddenly burnt, and I knew playtime was over. ‘I have a problem. I need your help. Someone has stolen them from me. And I want you to get them back.’
14
‘HAVE YOU HEARD from them? Has anyone contacted you?’
He leant forward, keeping my gaze. He was still remarkably cool, even for a machine. Which was probably why he managed to be whatever he was. ‘No. If they had, I wouldn’t need you.’
I gestured at the wound on the back of my head. ‘Is this what passes for a golden handshake round here? I could have been killed. And so could that lad who bled all over your car seat.’
Frank’s face was stone. ‘I had to know if you are … capable. I only know what you used to do, not if you can still do it. What is it you Brits say – to see if you can still cut some mustard?’
He said it without a trace of a smile. The emotion gene had bypassed Mr T.
‘What about the lad I shot? Are his mustard-cutting days over?’
‘He’ll have a fine life. He’ll get drunk and tell stories of how he fought off five assassins. With the money I’m going to pay him, the women will hang on every word. You’ve done him a very big favour.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about him. Worry instead about my son and his mother. You have certain responsibilities towards her. Or did she lie to me? This is not just personal for me, Nick – it is for you, too, would you not say?’
I took a swig of the brew and gave him a nod. ‘What do you know?’
‘Only that they were taken four days ago, along with their bodyguard. The pirates seized the yacht about a hundred kilometres west of the Seychelles. I’ll pay them whatever they want, Nick. Just find them, and broker the deal.’
It was only a couple of days since four Americans had been killed on their yacht during a bungled rescue operation, after being hijacked off the Horn of Africa. In South East Asia this would have been pretty routine. Crew and passengers were killed and thrown overboard; the ships and their contents were seized. But this was a bit of a turn-up for the Somalis. As far as they were concerned, the people were the prize.
I didn’t know if Frank knew about the US deaths, but either way I’d have to start to manage his expectations. Right now they seemed pretty high, considering he knew fuck-all about what had happened.
‘You sure nobody’s contacted you, even indirectly?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Then how do you know the yacht’s been taken?’
‘The crew was dumped. The yacht was taken with the three of them still aboard. The crew arrived back in Moscow this morning. You will go and see them when we’ve finished here.’
‘The BG, the bodyguard – is he good?’
‘He’s British, like you. He will be doing what he can. I know it. But I will have no further need of him once all this is over. Stefan and his mother – I want them back. I don’t care what it costs.’
I looked at the picture again. ‘This isn’t as clear-cut as you might think. If you pay what the pirates ask, you may put them in more danger. If you don’t bargain, they’ll think you’re loaded. They’ll take your money and then they’ll sell them on to another clan and the whole process will start all over again. Or rival clans could go to war over them. Either way, you’ll never get them back.’
‘Money talks, Nick. If—’
‘There is a protocol. As long as you stick to it, there’s a chance of getting them back. You understand that?’
‘Of course. That is why you are here.’
‘You’ve got to start thinking of them as dead. Plan their funerals in your head. Anything else is a bonus. Do you understand that too?’
He nodded.
‘All right. To confirm, no one has contacted you? No one has been given a message to pass on? No contact number was left with the crew?’
He shook his head.
Maybe Frank hadn’t heard anything yet because they were dead. Or maybe the BG was switched on enough not to give him as the point of contact.
‘So why me? Why aren’t you doing this through your insurance company? They have people who do this sort of thing twenty-four/seven. Or why not get the word out some other way? Knowledge, as you say, is power. And the red plates out there tell me you’ve got both. Why have you come to me?’
He shrugged. ‘I have my reasons. I will pay you extremely well. But we can talk about all that later. Tracy respects you, Nick. I think perhaps she loves you. You have been a good friend to her, not just to her husband. You will not let her down now, will you?’
Eyes riveted to mine, he pointed his finger. ‘You will be doing what you do best. And doing it for somebody you care about. What could be better for a man’s soul? Read some of the books that have been written in this village, Nick. Then you will understand what I am talking about.’
I took another mouthful of my brew. The coffee wasn’t hot any longer, but it still tasted good. ‘I’ll have to try and find a contact. Once I’ve done that, I’ll get back to you. It’s pointless talking about anything else until we know they’re alive.’
He nodded again, slowly.
‘Don’t raise your hopes.’
He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. The only thing on it was a mobile number. ‘Call me whenever you want. Do not give this out to anyone else. Please remember the number and then destroy the card.’ His eyes burnt again. ‘I’m a very private man.’
The card went into the pocket of my jeans.
‘I need you to buy me a flat, somewhere on the outskirts of London. No more than a hundred and fifty K. In my full name. You know that, of course.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
I was sure money wasn’t the reason he wanted to know. ‘You’ll find out why if they are still alive. But the only way to get them out safely will be to do exactly what I say.’
An engine rumbled alongside the dacha. The smashed-up Range Rover came into view and Webb climbed out.
Frank leant over the table, eyes boring into me. ‘I want my son and his mother back here. Whatever it costs.’
I took a last mouthful of the brew and swallowed. Finally, I nodded.
If he was pleased at my decision he didn’t show it. He sat back. ‘The crew is waiting for you.’
I gestured towards the sink. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes to clean my head.’
15
I KEPT MY hood up as we stepped into the luxurious lobby of the Ararat Park Hyatt. This was an extraordinarily lavish hotel. The management would have surveillance measures to match.
I didn’t look around much as we headed for the elevators. But the little I saw of the polished steel and marble atrium told me that Frank Timis looked after his people. The cheapest room would be about six hundred dollars a night, and not just because of the architecture. Neglinnaya Street was in the heart of the city, within spitting distance of Red Square, the Kremlin, St Basil’s Cathedral and the Bolshoi Theatre. Property here would cost millions of roubles a square metre. We were on oligarch turf.
The one thing my hood didn’t shield me from was the smell. It was roses and bleach again. Either that scent really was everywhere or it was buried inside my head.
The drive back to the city had been as talkative as the one in. We took the same route. Genghis drove this time. The Nigerian rode shotgun. He was constantly on the phone. He talked in Russian.
This suited me. I hadn’t come to any decision on Frank yet. I didn’t know enough about him to make a judgement, and I didn’t know enough about the situation. All I knew was that it involved Tracy, so here I was.
In the exposed, space-age lift, the Nigerian pressed the button for the fourth floor. We raced upwards while the world below chatted over coffee in plush sofas. The mobile never left his ear. It had to be a woman he was talking to. His tone was far too smooth for it to be anybody else.
He didn’t bother knocking when we got to Room 419. The door was ajar. He sig
ned off his lady friend with a silver-tongued comment or two and walked straight in. More five-star-plus luxury. The walls were cream. The thick-pile carpet was the colour of bleached sand. The furniture was solid walnut. Electric curtains. A wider than widescreen Bang & Olufsen TV. A mini-bar that was even bigger than Mr T’s cappuccino machine.
There were two sofas. Two men sat on each. A fifth, the youngest, was on the unmade king-sized bed. They all wore brand new shell-suits. Their faces were red and blotchy from exposure to the sun. And they all had cigarettes on the go. There was so much smoke you couldn’t even see the No Smoking signs.
They eyed me apprehensively, like I was a cop who suspected them all of murder and the grilling was about to begin. Maybe it was the environment. Not many crew normally got to stay in a twelve-hundred-dollar suite in the Ararat Park Hyatt.
The Nigerian didn’t even bother to greet them. He just redialled and helped himself to one of the armchairs that sat each side of a small coffee-table next to the triple-glazed window.
The oldest of the crew got to his feet. ‘I am Rudy.’ He stretched out his hand. He was in his early fifties, with tight grey hair and a beard. ‘I am the captain.’
He was about to start a round of introductions.
‘No time for that, mate. Let’s crack on.’
I threw my parka onto the armchair opposite Mr Lover Man, then drew back the curtain. I was looking out of the front of the hotel. The rooftops of Moscow were covered with snow. It was like a still from Doctor Zhivago. The onion-shaped domes of the Kremlin were so close we could have watched Putin pumping iron.
Mr Lover Man wasn’t impressed. He was too busy looking inwards, locking eyes with the crew. He might have been whispering sweet nothings into his phone, but he wanted them to know he’d be hanging on their every word.
Below me, the Range Rover was parked at the front of a line of half a dozen vehicles immediately outside the hotel entrance. Genghis did his bit for the Moscow smog by keeping the engine running. An Audi estate about four wagons down was doing the same. A couple of half-moons had been carved out of the dirt on the windscreen. It was two up. I admired the view for longer than I needed to.
