COLONEL FILIP LISAKONOV picked his teeth and stared down with contempt at the smudge of land below. More mud, more filth, more vermin, he thought. As deputy regiment commander of a platoon of conscripted soldiers and about to enter the Ethnic Republic of the North Caucasus, he believed that genocide of the Chechen nation should be a matter of state policy.
With all civilian flights suspended because of the recent upsurge in unrest, Lisakonov was flying in by helicopter for the forty-minute flight from Mozdok to Khankala. He had been drinking vodka for most of the trip, and was feeling foul—foul to be in the company of such a snivelling band of conscripts, srochniki, foul to be back in this godforsaken place. He fully expected to arrive in Grozny by nightfall. Grozny, he thought with disgust, flicking a fragment of fish from a lower molar. The very word meant terrible.
‘You, soldier,’ he said, eyeing a weak-chinned youth with fat lips and skin the colour of fresh Brie. The lad flinched, turned his dejected gaze from the floor to somewhere just over his superior’s shoulder. Everyone knew that if you looked Lisakonov in the eye, you’d receive a severe beating for it later. ‘Know what? I was part of 58 army during the last conflict.’
The soldier swallowed and nodded dumbly. The 58 had a reputation for extreme brutality. It was also well known that weapons were often stolen from the store and sold back to the Chechens, in other words aiding and abetting the enemy.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Lisakonov’s features fell into a grin, revealing a set of crooked teeth. Dark shadows lurked underneath eyes that appeared sleep-deprived. ‘Back then, I could beat a conscripted soldier to death in minutes with a spade. My personal best was twelve and a half, know that?’
The soldier shook his head nervously, clearly wondering if he was going to be the next entry on Lisakonov’s personal scorecard. With no escape, the youth’s skinny body shrank into the interior of the hold. The others also shuffled position. If there was to be a scapegoat, let it be the next man.
‘Mind…’ Lisakonov grinned, taking another swig from a bottle of vodka ‘…sometimes they had their uses.’
Again the soldier nodded stupidly, his Adam’s apple sticking out like he’d swallowed a gobstopper whole. The rest of his fellow comrades, pale-eyed and frightened, nodded in unison.
Lisakonov began to enlighten the lice-ridden lads under his command. ‘Did a little buying and selling, see. Night was when the real trade began. Mainly weapons, nice lucrative sideline for Russian officers. What choice did we have?’ he rolled his eyes, which were like two blue pinheads. ‘Common knowledge we were starving. Lucky to get a tin of fish to last a week.’ He scratched his head, momentarily losing his train of thought, took another gulp of vodka. ‘Comes down to knowing your market. And the market then was for soldiers—rabble like you lot,’ he added with a highpitched peal of laughter. ‘We sold them as slaves and declared them deserters. Christ knows what the Chechens did with them. Probably fucked them and slit their measly throats.’
The soldier to whom Lisakonov had been addressing his speech made a small inarticulate noise.
‘Chechens.’ Lisakonov belched. ‘We should have annihilated them years ago when we had the chance. Every Chechen is a Muslim and every Muslim is a terrorist. The Serbs have got the right idea with their ethnic cleansing.’ He scowled, addressing nobody in particular, leaning back, closing his eyes, a sudden weariness enveloping him. He knew he would not sleep, hadn’t done for years now, not since…
Black dots and squiggles scampered at the edges of his consciousness. Sweat pooled underneath his arms and across his narrow shoulder blades. A sour taste filled his throat. In his imagination, he was back in the mountains, the horrendous sound of men being crucified screaming in his ears. It was during the first conflict. He had been an ordinary private then, not much more than a boy. The older soldiers, even those who’d fought in Afghanistan, had spoken of the exceptional brutality. ‘At least in Afghanistan, you knew who your enemy was,’ one had told him. ‘Here, it’s like fighting ghosts.’
The next day, when the barbarians retreated, they went in to take their boys down. One poor soul was still alive. Christ knows how. The others had all bled out. That’s what happened when your dick was scythed off. Lisakonov was ordered to kill him, to put him out of his misery. He hadn’t wanted to but an order was an order so, with tears streaming, he shot the young soldier at point-blank range. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the expression in the boy’s dying eyes, that terrible look of gratitude.
Seized by a sudden wave of anger, Lisakonov’s eyes popped open. ‘When the fuck are we going to land?’ he slurred. In answer to his question, the rotor suddenly stalled then stopped. ‘What the…?’ Lisakonov began to speak, his words cut off as the helicopter dropped soundlessly from the sky and forty-five seconds later crashed into the Chechen countryside.
‘So never mind all this stuff about health and safety—basically if the rotor stops working we’re fucked.’
‘Just time for a quick hug, darling.’
Tallis was smiling and remembering one of his early conversations with Virginia Dodge. He’d driven straight from Viva’s after lunch to the airfield where Ginny had already been on standby. Turning off into the ten-milesan-hour zone, and keeping well to the left and out of the way of incoming traffic, he also recalled her admonition to hang onto her rather than grab the controls should anything untoward happen.
‘What sort of untoward?’ he said, a cheeky grin on his face, for which he received a cute smile in return. He quite fancied the idea of grabbing hold of Ginny. She had shoulder-length dark hair, twinkly brown eyes and skin freckled from spending a lot of time outdoors. With a surprisingly athletic build for a woman of her age, late forties at a guess, she was definitely desirable and a lot of fun. And there was, according to her, no Mr Dodge.
Tallis parked the Boxster close to the airfield café and got out, relieved that he’d at last got round to replacing his battered old Rover with a car that was as practical as it was dashing. Even now he found the lapis-blue exterior, the upholstery in sand beige leather, the to-die-for six-speed gearbox irresistible. As for the handling, it was a superb example of German engineering. Beneath the glamorous image, the Boxster delivered at every level and, like it or not, image was all with the flying set. He’d never come across a breed like them. The helicopter and light aircraft business attracted people with determined aspirations and serious money—impossible to enter its holy portals without it. Simply learning to fly was synonymous with relinquishing eye-watering amounts of cash. As for the machines themselves, you didn’t get much change out of fifty grand for the most basic two-seater second-hand helicopter. No, he reckoned, he’d got the better deal with his Porsche. And it fitted in with the rest of the cars dotted around the airfield—the Lexus, Audi TT, Ferrari and Jaguar convertibles.
Inhaling the cold clear air, watching as pencils of light fell out of the sky, illuminating the runway, he felt, as he’d done on previous occasions, like he’d passed through a time warp and found himself back in the 1950s. He couldn’t really explain why except to say that the place, once a base for gliders during the Second World War, retained a strange enduring quality, as if whatever happened in the world Shobdon airfield would go on and on, remaining there silent and indestructible. Clicking his tongue for being so bloody fanciful, he walked past Ginny’s handsome Mercedes SLK and over towards the hangars and the offices of Tiger Helicopters, automatically ducking a little as a bright green Agusta 109 Power Elite hovered overhead before landing.
Several police pilots from Kuwait, dressed in black jumpsuits, were hanging out at Reception. Sponsored by the Kuwaiti government, they were on an eighteen-month training programme with Tiger. Tallis exchanged greetings in Arabic with one of the pilots before darting upstairs to Ginny’s office, which lay down a corridor off a main meeting room and kitchen area. Ginny was peering into a computer screen and talking briskly into her mobile. At Tallis’s arrival, she turned, broke into a smile.
‘So,’ she said, cutting the call, ‘mine is not to reason why but I’ve orders to turn you into a first-class salesman.’ He wondered exactly what or how much she’d been told. Knowing Asim, not very much.
‘Shouldn’t be that tricky,’ Tallis said.
Ginny placed a hand on her trim hip and elevated an eyebrow. She was wearing a pair of tailored cream linen trousers, a fitted navy sweater, which went in and out in all the right places, with a red silk scarf at her throat. It gave her a slightly nautical look. ‘Let’s hope not.’ She smiled. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I have.’
‘Well, I’m starving,’ she said, grabbing her handbag.
‘No problem. Being the female of the species, you’ll be able to eat and talk effortlessly at the same time.’
Ginny gave him a playful swipe with her sizable shoulder bag.
‘Ouch, what did you do that for?’ He laughed, putting both hands up in surrender.
‘Didn’t your mother tell you that talking with your mouth full is rude?’
As they got outside Tallis gave an involuntary shiver. The temperature seemed to have plummeted by several degrees in a matter of minutes due to the sudden onset of a bitter easterly wind.
‘God help you in Russia,’ Ginny said, swinging her hips as she walked.
‘Who says I’m going to Russia?’
Ginny stopped walking and turned her stern browneyed gaze on Tallis. At times, she could be incredibly imperious, he thought. ‘Credit me with a little intelligence. I’ve already got a deal in the offing with a businessman from Moscow. If it plays out, and the Russians I have to tell you are notoriously slow when it comes to meetings and negotiations, you, my boy, are going to handle the transaction.’
Not too slow, he hoped. ‘This going to screw up your commission?’
Ginny’s face lit up with a smile. ‘Put it this way, I’ve been offered a very healthy incentive.’
Good, he didn’t like the idea of her losing out.
‘So, like I said,’ Ginny picked up the pace again, ‘you’ll have no choice but to go to Russia. Only way to do business.’
The cafeteria, an old Nissen hut with floral plastic tablecloths on the tables, smelt of fried food and bestquality catering brew. It was already busy with late lunchers, mechanics and aircrew stealing a break, and the odd visitor out for an early afternoon pot of tea and cake. Ginny ordered egg and chips from a large-framed woman and two mugs of tea, which they waited for. It came out steaming and the same colour as well-fertilised soil.
With mugs in hand, they pulled up chairs near the window and sat down opposite each other. Ginny opened up her handbag, one of those large brown satchel affairs, and rummaged through it like a fox pillaging a dustbin. Aspirin, lipstick, tissues and Blackberry all piled out. Curious, Tallis picked up the Blackberry.
‘How do you rate these?’ The weight of it in his hand felt like a small firearm.
‘Brilliant. Does everything.’
‘Everything?’
She flashed him a reproving look. ‘Combined email, computer, phone.’
‘Next you’ll be telling me it brushes your teeth, too.’ Tallis knew it wasn’t cool, but he wasn’t much of a techno person—not unless it was the latest military hardware or satellite equipment. As far as espionage was concerned, in the field technology was simply an add-on. Technology left a trail. Electricity failed. Computers crashed and became prey to viruses. He still believed the human brain the most important component in any investigation. When it came to back-up, a firearm was all he required.
Ginny flashed him a grin then, businesslike, handed him a brochure. ‘Read and digest,’ she said. ‘It will give you a flavour of the technical language so at least you sound as if you know what you’re talking about.’
Tallis flicked through. Not unlike a helicopter version of Top Gear, same fact files, same performance ratings, same glossy photographs. He put it down. ‘Anything I should particularly bear in mind when doing business Moscow style?’
‘I’ll come to that later,’ Ginny said, leaning back as her plate of egg and chips arrived. ‘Oh, bugger. I didn’t ask for ketchup.’
‘Hold on, I’ll get it,’ Tallis said, scraping his chair back and heading for the counter. He returned with one of those sauce holders in the shape of a plastic tomato. In his absence, Ginny had already nicked the brochure back and flipped it open to a page displaying several top-of-the-range helis.
‘Thanks.’ Ginny glanced up. ‘Right,’ she said, liberally dousing her chips. ‘This is where we’re at. See this…’ She pointed with a manicured nail. ‘That’s what we’re selling.’
Tallis took a look, eyes scanning the spec. ‘Bit bloody bright, isn’t it? Where did it come from?’
Ginny rolled her eyes. ‘Limerick.’
‘Is it the same Agusta 109 Elite that landed here this afternoon?’
‘I had a mechanic put it through its paces.’ Ginny speared a chip and put it in her mouth. ‘We put an ad in one of the trade journals and received an enquiry a couple of weeks later from a Russian guy on behalf of an interested party.’
‘You don’t know who the party is?’
‘Not yet but I will.’ She gave a game grin.
Tallis had no doubt. Ginny was one of the most persistent women he’d ever come across. ‘So it was a tentative enquiry, sounding each other out, that right?’
‘Seeing which way the wind’s blowing.’ She jabbed a chip into a dull yellow yolk, causing a minor eruption. ‘They go in for that a lot. I liken it to a form of elaborate courtship.’
‘Can’t wait.’ He grinned.
She flicked him another of her reproving smiles. ‘Several things worth remembering about the Russians,’ Ginny said. ‘They don’t like to be railroaded, they respect pecking orders, preferring to meet people on a similar pay grade to themselves, and most importantly any business negotiation is viewed as win or lose.’
‘With them in the winning seat.’
‘You got it,’ she said, devouring another egg-coated chip. ‘Actually, you have a distinct advantage.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Ever been in sales before?’
Tallis shook his head and tasted the tea. It was a lot better than it looked.
‘Didn’t think so. Means you’re not used to the typically British form of high-pressure sales tactics. That’s good. Russians don’t care for it. Patience is the name of the game.’
Not a commodity he had in abundance, Tallis thought, suddenly feeling glum. He wished he could just get out to Chechnya and be done with it. ‘This call you received. What did you manage to glean?’
‘Which is?’
‘Between three and a half and five million.’
Tallis let out a long slow whistle between his teeth. ‘Think he’s serious?’
‘Don’t see why not.’ She gave a shrug, pushing her plate towards Tallis, offering him a chip.
‘Thanks,’ he said, helping himself.
‘A chip,’ she said, smartly tapping the back of his hand with the knife, meeting his surprised expression with a flirtatious grin.
‘You always had such a lively appetite?’
‘Always.’ She gave a sexy smile.
‘I still don’t really get why a stinkingly rich Russian wants to do business with Tiger—no offence,’ he added, drinking some tea.
Rather than blowing him out, Ginny came up with the best argument he’d heard so far. ‘Image,’ she said. ‘It’s true the Russians have been producing helicopters for decades for both military and domestic use, but a lot of them are quite old and knackered. The point is it’s no longer frowned on to be a capitalist—Ivanov is positively encouraging capitalism—so it’s no longer bad form to buy from the West. In fact, the Agusta is perceived to be a status symbol—it says something about the man who’s either flying or buying. And the Russians are hot on image.’
‘This bloke you dealt with.’
‘Our main man’s engineer.’
‘Kumarin.’
‘Won’t this Mr Kumarin think it odd you’ve dropped out of the negotiations?’
Ginny shook her head and reached for her mug. ‘Goes back to what I was telling you about dealing with someone on the same level.’
‘But I’m no more an engineer than you are.’
‘But you’re a bloke. When it comes down to the heavy-duty side, Kumarin will want to talk man to man and you can use Charlie, one of our engineers, to talk the talk. Look,’ she said, pushing the plate away and leaning towards him, sending a fragrant mist of Dior in his direction. ‘Buying a helicopter is not like viewing a house and putting in an offer. All sorts of things have to be gone through first.’
That was rather what he was afraid of. If the deal took as long as Ginny indicated, whoever had it in for Ivanov could already have assassinated him.
‘So what are the moves?’
‘If our Mr Kumarin bites, we invite him over and let him check the records. Basically, he’s going to be looking at the airworthiness of the machine and, key, whether it’s worth the money. With second-hand, he’ll be looking at when or if it had a rebuild, whether it’s got a proper service record, either every six months or fifty hours,’ she added. ‘Keep in mind he’s looking for a deal.’
A bargain, more like. ‘Which is going to be loselose for us.’
‘’Fraid so, but you can afford to take a loss, or so I understand,’ Ginny said, a curious glint in her eye.
‘Then what?’ Tallis smiled, smoothly sidestepping further enquiry.
‘You get to fly the Agusta over to Moscow, you lucky boy.’
‘Nice,’ Tallis agreed. Then another thought struck him. ‘What if our Mr Kumarin cries off, or his boss doesn’t bite?’
‘We put another tiddler on the line and cast off.’
All very chancy, Tallis thought, briefly looking out of the window and wondering how Viva was getting on with persuading Lena to talk to him.
‘Afternoon, Ginny. Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
A heavy-set man dressed in a dark green fleece and jeans stood grinning like a meerkat at the pair of them. He had short dark hair plastered flat against his skull and blue eyes that bulged from his face as if they might pop out and land on the table at any second. His mouth was working its way round a wad of chewing gum.
Ginny flashed a cold smile. ‘Blaine!’ she exclaimed, the tension in her eyes evident. ‘Blaine Deverill, this is Paul Tallis.’
Blaine stuck out a hand. Tallis rose to his feet, towering over the shorter man, and exchanged greetings.
‘Haven’t I seen you around?’ Blaine said, eyes flicking in search of a free chair so that he could draw it up and join them. Ginny, very deliberately, took out her Blackberry and started checking for emails.
‘Bound to. I took flying lessons here.’
‘With Ginny?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good, isn’t she?’ Blaine smiled, clearly trying to curry favour. Ginny kept her eyes fixed doggedly on her gadget. ‘Got your own bird?’
‘Can’t afford it.’ Tallis gave a snort. He could but he wasn’t up for disclosing his financial profile to a stranger—or anyone, come to think of it.
Ginny glanced up and gave Tallis a funny look then shamelessly clicked her tongue at Deverill, but Deverill was clearly not a guy to pick up a negative vibe, not even if it jabbed him on the arse.
‘Know what you mean,’ he said. ‘Big boy’s toys.’
‘And you, Mr Deverill, enthusiastic amateur or in the game?’ Tallis wished to hell the bloke would go away.
‘Call me Blaine, please.’ Deverill clicked a smile. ‘Been flying since I was this high,’ he said, gesturing with his hand, inferring that he’d become a pilot at the age of four. ‘I’ve got a Squirrel.’
‘Cool,’ Tallis said, resisting the temptation to make a joke.
‘Paul’s our new sales guy,’ Ginny said, without looking up, both thumbs tapping away.
‘Really?’ Deverill said, eyes alert with interest.
‘Hoping to net a Russian deal,’ Tallis said, glancing at Ginny who suddenly seemed to develop some difficulty in keeping a straight face. She was silently mouthing something at him, but he couldn’t make out what.
‘Good business to be had in Russia,’ Deverill opined. ‘Wouldn’t mind a slice of the action myself. Things are so much better under Ivanov’s influence. That man’s managed to bring stability and prosperity to the country in abundance. Wealth is spreading from west of the Urals right across to Siberia. Plenty of money sloshing about and, as we all know, Paul,’ he said in a worldly fashion, ‘money is what makes the world go round.’
‘Sure,’ Tallis said vaguely. Ginny was still hissing like a viper at him, lips drawn back, revealing a perfect set of straight white teeth.
Deverill continued to spout on, clearly liking what he said and saying what he liked. Tallis had met plenty of blokes like him. The problem was, just when you thought they were talking bollocks, they’d say something mind-blowing.
‘You seem to know a lot about Russia,’ Tallis said, trying to stay focused. ‘You lived there?’
Deverill dropped the smile, cast a cautious look around the café, and bent his head so close to Tallis’s mouth Tallis could smell the pomade on his hair. ‘Top secret,’ he whispered. ‘Twenty years ago, I served in the Special Air Service.’
Not The Regiment, Tallis thought, which was how its members usually referred to it. Tallis wasn’t aware that the SAS had been on a mission in the Soviet Union but, then again, if it was Top Secret, why would he? Glancing across at Ginny, he suddenly realised what she’d been on about: SAS.
‘Yes, well, Blaine, sorry to be a bore,’ Ginny said, with emphasis, ‘but Paul and I have got a stack of information to get through. Would you mind?’ she said. ‘Only it’s warmer in here than in the office.’
Deverill broke into an embarrassed smile. ‘Of course, forgive me,’ he said. ‘Nice meeting you, Paul. No doubt I’ll see you again.’
Not if I see you first, Tallis thought.
‘Christ!’ Ginny let out, once Blaine was out of earshot. ‘Should have warned you about Walter Mitty.’
‘Does he tell everyone he was in the SAS?’
‘Among other things, ’fraid so. Right, back to business,’ she said, a schoolmistress look in her eye.
Tallis leant across the table. ‘I love it when you’re being dominant.’
Before he left Shobdon, Tallis contacted an old army mate. Monty or Jack Montague worked for the Mine Action Coordination Centre, an organisation dedicated to mine risk education training, including reconnaissance of mined areas and the collection of mine data.
‘Monty, how are you?’ Tallis began.
‘Bloody hell, Tallis. Long time no hear. What are you up to these days?’
You don’t want to know. ‘Trying to make a living like the rest of us.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Monty laughed. ‘The wife’s just about to have our third. You married yet?’
‘Do me a favour.’ Tallis grinned.
‘Your problem is you’ve never found the right woman.’
Oh, I did, Tallis thought, the shine disappearing from his smile.
‘Anyway, this a social call or what?’
‘Bit of both, really. Don’t suppose we could have a chat, only I want to pick your brains.’
‘I’m down your neck of the woods next week. Got a seminar in Birmingham. Would that be any good?’
‘Perfect. Name a day and time and I’ll be there.’
They agreed to meet up the following Tuesday.
‘You going to give me a clue what this is all about?’
‘Chechnya,’ Tallis said firmly. ‘I need countryspecific information on the type of explosive munitions in the area, locations if you can establish them, in other words a complete rundown.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘I have to go there.’
Monty didn’t say a word—he was probably too surprised.
On his way back, Tallis visited a local gym and pushed some metal for an hour, arriving back home around eight in the evening, tired and sweaty.
The bungalow, his grandmother’s bequest to him, felt derelict. Yes, it had all the modern trappings, the colour high-definition television set, the state-of-the-art computer, the squashy leather sofa and easy chairs, pictures on the wall. But there was something definitely missing—a woman’s touch, perhaps. Occasionally, as an intellectual exercise, he wondered what it would be like to be in a settled relationship, to have someone to share his life with, or simply hang out with. But these were such rare fleeting hankerings he didn’t trouble himself with examining the possibilities too carefully. He certainly didn’t long for a partner on tap to take care of the domestic side of his life. Although the bungalow occasionally descended into abject disorder, he was tidy by nature, probably something to do with an early stint in the army, serving with the Royal Staffordshires. He’d always thought Graham would wind up in the forces. Sometimes it was the saving of a troubled boy; Graham, in his own way, had been as lost as he’d once been.
He showered, changed into clean clothes and, pulling bacon and eggs from the fridge, cooked and ate, the brochure Ginny had given him propped up against a bottle of beer. He was reading through the specifications for the helicopter again: 2005; thirteen hundred hours; sand interior; new green paintwork; price of £3.5 million.
After washing up the dishes, he put on an Amy Winehouse CD, switching straight to ‘Back to Black’, the haunting melody raw to the bone, drank another bottle of beer, and went to bed, his dreams filled with dark woods and mountains, of lunar landscapes and vivid sunsets, and two lads on the run.
The next morning, Tallis rose early, hung around the bungalow for a couple of hours, hoping to hear from Viva. With no word he was soon out in the open, heading down dual carriageways and fast roads, the rear spoiler automatically rising up out of the Boxster’s body like an extra fin, wail and hum of the engine the only music in his ears. It took him a little over an hour to reach his mother’s, a modest dwelling in a rural backwater. Since his father’s death, he felt less threatened by memories there. With time, he hoped he could create new ones, happy ones, untrammelled by fear and conflict. Changing things around and stamping her own identity on the place, his mum had unwittingly gone some way to displace his troubled past.
Her eyes lit up with pleasure at his sudden arrival. That, too, signalled subtle transformation. There had been a time when she hadn’t been able to abide surprises, or shocks as she’d referred to them. But that had been when his father was alive.
‘Paul, I wasn’t expecting you.’ She smiled, wiping the backs of her hands on an apron, leaving a trail of floury marks.
‘I’m not holding you up, am I?’ he said, stepping over the threshold, the smell of newly baked cakes scenting the hallway.
‘Don’t be silly. Of course not. Just doing a bit of baking for the church bring and buy,’ she said, trotting down the corridor, indicating for him to follow her into the kitchen. ‘Put the kettle on while I finish these pies.’
‘Tea or coffee?’ he said, watching as she intently rolled out pastry to a fine, even depth.
‘Second thoughts, coffee.’
Without a word, Tallis reached for a saucepan, filled it with milk. In posh circles this would be called a latte. His mother had been drinking latte for years, only she’d never realised it before.
‘So what brings you out here?’ she said, slicing off excess pastry from a pie lid and expertly crimping the edges.
‘No reason.’
She gave him a short, sharp smile, her eyelids creasing. ‘Paul Tallis, you always have a reason for doing things.’
‘Well, I…’
‘Come on, spit it out,’ she said, elbowing him out of the way and reaching for the kitchen tap to wash her hands.
Tallis grinned and sat down. ‘Graham Darke, remember him?’
‘I’ll say,’ she said. ‘The naughtiest boy in the village, not that you could blame the lad, what with that family of his.’
‘They weren’t that bad,’ Tallis said, getting up to rescue the milk before it boiled over. He poured it out into two cups.
‘I’m surprised they didn’t all go down with tuberculosis or something, living the way they did,’ she said, drying her hands. ‘Much against your father’s wishes, you two were as thick as thieves.’
They had been. There was nothing like it on earth, that kinship, that heady sense of doing anything to protect another, lying, ducking and diving. They’d been like blood brothers.
‘Anyway, what about him?’ his mother said, stretching over for the sugar.
‘Do you know why he left?’ Tallis had heard many stories as to why Graham had been there one minute, gone the next. At the sudden disappearance of his friend, Tallis had felt as if someone had hacked off his arm. In total shock, he hadn’t consciously paid it close attention. To protect his sensibilities, he’d forgotten about Graham, willed him away, blanked him from his memory bank. Until now.
‘Thought that was obvious. His mother was having another baby. Different father again,’ his mother sniffed, disapproving. ‘When Graham’s real dad turned up, a lorry driver, I believe, Graham decided to join him on the road. It was too good an opportunity to miss. Dare say the lad needed an escape.’
Had it really been so simple? Tallis wondered. Had Graham been torn or even given him a second thought? ‘And that’s the last you ever heard?’ Stupid question. It wasn’t as if his mother was in touch with Graham’s mother. She never had been.
‘Yes, why do you ask?’
‘No reason.’ Tallis dipped his head slightly, flushing at his mother’s amused expression.
The sky was a pale wash of blue, clouds tinged silver. It was noon, a bitter wind blowing, and he was sitting outside the primary school where he and Graham first met; his secondary school had been demolished and amalgamated with another as part of the New World Order. He believed the land on which once it stood had been used for a new housing development. Sitting there, engine running, heater on full blow, it was easy to imagine a ten-year-old Graham, scruffy in a tattered uniform handed down from at least three siblings, roaring round the playground, jumping off the walls, the original free-runner. Graham, Tallis remembered, had taken school meals. It had been the only difference between them and Graham had hated it, not because he wasn’t hungry—he was—but because it made him different. And yet Graham was different.
They’d been like brothers-in-arms, setting things to rights, fighting all the small injustices of the world, or their world, to be more specific. And they really didn’t care too much how they went about it. Always getting the blame for crimes they didn’t commit, they didn’t have much to lose. When a particularly aggressive games teacher, a bloke called Sadler, forced Graham to continue a cross-country run after Graham had twisted his ankle, vengeance was sworn. A few weeks later, Tallis and Graham hitched a lift to Sadler’s house and, under the cloak of darkness, poured sugar into the fuel tank of Sadler’s pride and joy, a Morgan motorcar, screwing up the engine. As Graham once quoted, ‘If the cap fits, might as well wear it.’ And was this what Graham was doing now? Running with the wolves, making a stand for freedom, fighting back on behalf of the underdog?
Once, Tallis remembered, Graham had talked about becoming a sniper.
‘What, shooting people?’ Tallis said.
They were about thirteen years old, sitting on the wall in the pub car park.
‘Only bad people,’ Graham said.
‘Yeah, I know but…’
‘Have to join the army, and that. Get myself properly trained.’
Tallis didn’t say anything. It suddenly dawned on him that change was on the horizon, that they’d end up going their separate ways. He didn’t like it.
‘Got to be a good shot, like. Do you think you see their faces?’ Graham frowned quizzically, turning to Tallis.
‘I don’t know.’ What a horrible idea, he thought, not realising that he was destined to become a firearms officer. ‘Can’t you shoot them from a long way away?’ His dad sometimes went out shooting, taking Dan, his elder brother, with him. They mostly shot rabbits and pheasants; taking pot shots they called it.
‘Dunno,’ Graham said, arching a bony shoulder.
‘Bit like being a hunter, I s’pose,’ Tallis said gloomily.
When Tallis’s dad gave him a leathering, it was Graham Tallis fled to. Only with Graham could he let off steam, scream at the sky and plot revenge against his father—which was never taken. Graham was more of a brother to him than Dan. Graham was his mentor and mate. When Graham left, Tallis had his first unpleasant taste of betrayal.
Tallis headed back to the car, his phone feeling like a dead weight in his pocket. If Viva didn’t get back to him soon with favourable news, he’d have no choice but to do Asim’s bidding and travel to London and talk to someone who might speak the language but did not understand the power play, the political dynamics, the nuances of history that only a Chechen would understand. Lena, to his mind, was a far better bet.
Taking a big detour, he crossed over into Worcestershire, the Porsche letting rip, and headed for the small town of Upton-upon-Severn, a casualty of flooding some years before. Parking in the free car park on the periphery, he doubled back down the main street and went to a shop that sold maps. There was a slightly fusty smell, not unpleasant, as he walked inside. A map of Moscow was easy to acquire. Chechyna took a little more locating. The sales assistant spread the map out before him. His eye immediately went to the strange-sounding names, the range of mountains, the highest by 10,000 metres being Mount Elbrus with its twin peaks. Chechnya, he saw, was a thousand miles south of Moscow straddled between the Black and Caspian seas. Reaching for his wallet, he wondered where Darke was exactly.
By the time Tallis returned home, he’d already had two missed calls from Asim on his mobile phone and it was getting dark. Wondering for how long he could keep his phone switched off and Asim at bay, he let himself in, the silence inside swallowing him whole. Unable to settle, he changed and went for a run, the illuminated strip on his sweatshirt glittering under the yellow glare of streetlights. A mile and circuit later, he returned home. More silence and still no word from Viva.
After an evening spent poring over his newly acquired maps, he decided to turn in. The call he’d been waiting all day for eventually came through as he was switching off the light.
‘Lena says she’ll talk to you.’
‘Brilliant. When?’
‘Now.’
Tallis glanced at his watch: 11:40 p.m. He was already getting out of bed. ‘Be there in ten minutes.’
Rasu let Tallis in with a short smile and guided him through to the living room. With an imperious air, Lena Maisakov told Tallis to sit down. She, on the other hand, preferred to stand. Rather than him vetting her, Tallis thought, she was vetting him. He said nothing other than thanking her for seeing him, which she dismissed with a small wave of a bony hand.
Tallis did as he was told and sank into the nearby sofa. It gave him time to view what he was up against. He took some moments to study the razor-sharp cheekbones, dark, sallow skin and eyes like burning flames. Her black hair was tied tightly back from her face, giving her a haggard appearance. Gold hoop earrings dangled from both ears. She was wearing an old olivegreen sweater and a long skirt, worn brown ankle boots on her feet. She was thin, very thin. It was impossible to tell her age. She could have been forty-five or fifty-five. She was, in fact, thirty-nine. He also found out that she’d once been a schoolteacher.
Viva charged the small fire with wood and coal and exchanged a wary glance with Tallis. Rasu had sensibly left them to it, said he’d go to the kitchen to make coffee.
‘Why do you wish to learn my language?’ Lena asked, eyes burning into his.
‘Not learn exactly, more brushing up.’ His Chechen was almost two decades out of date. Any other language would probably have evolved in that time, incorporated modern colloquialisms. With a culture entrenched in the past, Tallis wasn’t sure if it applied.
‘Learn, or brush up, as you say, my question remains the same.’
Tallis gave Lena the same answer he’d given Viva and Rasu: that he was going to help the people there.
Lena briefly smiled, a curt tilt of her lips. ‘Help?’
‘Assist,’ he said, trying to sound vague but realising that she’d probably consider him a mercenary.
‘You’re clearly an idealist, Mr Tallis.’
‘I’m not, actually.’ He was polite but he hadn’t expected philosophical debate, let alone this early in the conversation.
‘Only idealists stay in Chechnya,’ Lena said, unsmiling.
‘I’m a realist.’
‘That I doubt. If you were a realist, you would know that your mission is doomed to failure.’
‘I think I’m the best judge of that.’ Tallis kept his voice neutral, his expression unreadable. It was a trick he’d perfected years ago when questioning a criminal. They could be going off the deep end, cursing him with expletives, and still he retained a mask of cold professionalism.
‘You’re wrong,’ Lena said.
‘Fine, I’m wrong,’ he said evenly.
‘You cannot afford a mistake.’ Her tone was biting.
He met and held Lena’s gaze. He really didn’t warm to this woman even if her English was impeccable. ‘Touched as I am by your concern for my welfare, Mrs Maisakov, are you prepared to help me, or not?’ He ignored Viva’s warning expression.
Like a practised politician, Lena interposed a question of her own. ‘Are you a Muslim?’
‘No.’
‘Are you familiar with the Koran?’
‘No.’
‘So you know nothing of our culture.’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said.
‘What makes you think you can learn?’
‘Because I have a gift with languages and I’m a willing pupil. More than that,’ he said, eyeing her, ‘I’m determined.’
‘You’re very sure of yourself, Mr Tallis.’
And you’re bloody impossible, Tallis thought, calmly standing up, heading for the door. ‘Thanks, Viva. Sorry I’ve wasted your time. Give my warmest regards to Rasu. Goodnight, Mrs Maisakov.’
‘Surely—’ Viva began, spreading her hands.
‘If you run away so easily from a woman,’ Lena cut in, a mocking note in her voice, ‘I rate your chances of survival as zero.’
Tallis whipped round on his heel. In spite of Lena’s sallow skin there were two high spots of colour on her cheeks. His attempt to leave had been a calculated move that had paid off: Lena had called his bluff. Time to play his ace. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s no real difference between Chechens and Russians. No difference at all. You’re all proud, stubborn as mules, all hell bent on knocking the shit out of each other. And for what?’
Viva opened her mouth in protest but Tallis wasn’t done yet.
‘Because you’re both full of pride. You care more about so-called honour than a future for the next generation.’
‘Paul, I…’ Viva began helplessly.
‘You think yours is a unique situation,’ Tallis said, looking straight at Lena who stood rooted, colour bleeding from her cheeks, ‘but it isn’t, and one day, like it or not, you’ll call a truce, sit down at a table and do a deal with the devil, if that’s the way you want to see it, because your children are dying and your young men are being butchered in their beds. And then you’ll live alongside one another in what passes for peace.’
Lena met and held his gaze, her stare incinerating. The atmosphere was electric, like Tallis had thrown a grenade into the room and everyone was waiting for it to stop rolling and explode. Rasu walked in with a tray, caught the vibe, and walked back out again.
‘Do you know our history, Mr Tallis?’ Lena said quietly, the challenge diminished if not exactly absent from her voice.
‘No,’ Tallis said softly. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’
And with that they both sat down.
It was like sitting around a campfire in the woods again, Tallis thought, legs spread out. He was listening to Lena’s strangely hypnotic voice, and watching the last dying embers. A sucker for history, he was transfixed as Lena guided him through two hundred years of conflict, starting with Catherine the Great’s expansion plans for the Russian Empire and the fierce resistance with which her Russian army was met. Later on, in the next century, another spat broke out that lasted thirty years, thirty years of trying to tame the mountain people, thirty years of savagery on both sides. Then came the greatest betrayal of all, Lena told him darkly. During the Nazi invasion, thousands of Chechens fought the Germans. However, a small, independent minority decided to take the opportunity to lay claim to independence. As the war came to a close, Stalin’s revenge knew no bounds. Entire villages were razed to the ground and half a million Chechens were displaced and deported.
‘And a nation of outcasts was created,’ Viva said sombre. She was curled up like a cat on the floor in front of the fire.
‘It is the way with us,’ Lena said sadly. ‘Many are punished for the sins of the few. Most Russians believe that Chechens bear collective responsibility for the actions of individual criminals.’
Tallis leant towards her. The firelight was playing on her hair, colouring it red, catching her face, throwing a ghostly hue over her features and revealing a level of pain.
‘In the early 1990s, there was a move towards national independence,’ Lena said in a way that neither seemed to support nor oppose it. ‘By then the Russian regime was already in some turmoil. A decision was made, some say by the FSB, the newly branded KGB, to return to old values. In order to validate that return, and get the Russian people onside, it was necessary to deliberately inflame the criminal situation in Russia. Chechnya was the first casualty of that decision. By 1994, we were at war.
‘The Russians were unsuccessful. Fighting subsided but by now the warlords, some of them fundamentalist, had taken to the stage. You have to understand, Mr Tallis,’ Lena said, her shoulders bowed with anxiety, ‘most ordinary Chechens couldn’t have cared less about politics, or about gangsters and the warlords of this world—we simply wanted security, to earn a decent wage and be able to put food on the table for our families, to live in peace. It was not to be,’ she said sadly.
‘In September 1999, a series of explosions ripped through Moscow. It was rumoured that the FSB were behind them.’
‘What, they killed their own people?’ Tallis said, aghast.
‘A necessary evil,’ Lena said, a thin smile on thin lips. ‘They blamed Chechen terrorists. It was the excuse to go to war again.’
‘Hold on,’ Tallis cut in, ‘Who would give the order for something like that?’
‘Ivanov,’ Viva said, her voice still and small from the fireside.
Again Tallis remembered Asim’s assertion that the prime minister was top of the hit list. He felt cold fear, bright and metallic.
Lena nodded. ‘The second war was bloodier than the first. I suppose you can say Ivanov won.’
Nobody spoke for some minutes.
‘Would you choose to go back?’ Tallis said.
‘To what? There will never be freedom.’
‘Never?’
‘A generation of young people, sons and daughters who have lost fathers and brothers and families have grown up hating the Russians.’ Her voice tailed off. An eerie silence settled on the room again like a shroud.
‘Tell me what happened at Aldy, Lena,’ Tallis said finally. He could almost hear his breathing, and the sound of blood trickling through his veins. Viva stirred. Lena pinched the bridge of her nose, sat very straight in the chair, shoulders back, gathering herself.
‘They came on the fifth of February, 2000,’ she began, her voice strangely detached. ‘Before the first war I taught at School No. 39. There were many children there. By the end of 2000 there was no school, and no children and our houses had been reduced to rubble. There was nothing to do except collect the dead and prepare them for burial.
‘By now, the fighters had abandoned Grozny and gone up into the mountains so there was nothing left to fight for but still the Russians shelled the village. You couldn’t sleep for the sound of bombs being dropped, missiles being fired, mortars howling like rabid dogs. It got so bad that some of the men of the village decided to take action. Carrying sheets as flags of surrender, they went to plead with the Russian commander leading the attack. They wanted to reassure him that they were not harbouring terrorists, as the Russians claimed. But it was no good,’ she said, her skin parched and drawn, so that she resembled an old woman.
‘Shots were fired from the Russian positions. The first villager killed was an ethnic Russian.’ A bitter smile flashed across her lips at the lunacy of it all. ‘The next day a delegation of troops arrived, youngsters. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They were dirty, hungry and exhausted. Some of them had running sores on their hands and, yes, like us, they were frightened. They told us that if we knew what was good for us we should leave. ‘Don’t hide in your cellars,’ they warned. They said that others were coming, bad men, they said.
‘But where were we to go?’ Lena spread her hands, appealing to Tallis. ‘It was February. It was cold. There was snow on the mountains. We hadn’t eaten, or slept properly for months. So we stayed,’ she said heavily. ‘Seven hundred of us.’
‘The next morning was thick with mist. We crept out of our cellars and basements to pray and were greeted by the strangest thing, something we hadn’t heard in years.’ She paused, raising a hand, pointing an index finger to the ceiling. ‘Silence,’ she whispered.
‘At first, we thought this was a good sign. We thought they had listened to our plea. Some of the men set about making running repairs to homes damaged by the shelling. Myself, I was trying to melt ice to boil water. That’s when they came for us. That’s when the mist proved a friend to me, an enemy to others.
‘I heard them before I saw them,’ Lena said, her voice wavering. ‘I ran back to the house, grabbed Asya, my little girl, and we ran for our lives, and kept on running. Within minutes soldiers and armoured vehicles and trucks surrounded the village. If you hadn’t already got out, you were finished. The place was sealed off. A few managed to escape with me and together we fled to higher ground. Each time we stopped to rest, we…’
Lena stopped, her mouth sagging, eyes bruised and wide with remembered horror, the skin underneath blue in colour. She put the heels of her hands to her eyes. Viva got up to comfort her but Lena shrugged her off. With the same iron will that had aided her survival, she moved her hands away, cleared her throat and battled on.
‘The soldiers, shaven-headed, bare-chested, tattooed, they came with Kalashnikovs and hunting knives. They came for sport,’ she said, with a sudden burst of anger. ‘We threw ourselves to the ground, covered our ears against the sound of shots and screams until we could bear it no longer. You understand,’ she said, eyes perilous and unfathomable, ‘we had to watch, to bear witness so that others would know what was done that day.
‘We saw men we’d grown up with taken out and killed, and they were the lucky ones, believe me. We watched as grenades were hurled into homes, the doors barricaded so that there was no escape. We saw women and children lined up against walls. We saw young girls raped, old men and the simple-minded shot in the face, their passports and papers clutched worthlessly in their hands. Then came fire. At first we saw only flames then vast plumes of smoke until the cold winter air was black and acrid with the stench of heat and burning flesh. It was late afternoon before the soldiers left. And still there were screams, the screams of women who’d lost husbands and children, children who’d lost parents, neighbours who’d lost friends.
‘Afterwards, the government called it a necessary evil, a zachistka.’ Tallis was familiar with the word. It meant clear-up operation, a polite way of saying ethnic cleansing. ‘But it was a lie,’ Lena said, her shadowed eyes filling with tears.
‘And you and your little girl?’ Viva’s voice was soft, hesitant. Tallis realised that even Viva had not heard this story before, in all its vivid, tragic detail.
‘Asya stepped on a mine in the mountains. My little girl died.’