FABULOUS weather, Tallis thought as the helicopter lifted and soared heavenward—bright, crisp sunshine, wind speed light, soft puffy clouds in a watercolour sky. For maximum impact, it had been decided that Tallis would not fly the Agusta to collect Kumarin, but wait and unveil it, ta-da, the other end. Instead, he was in the ditzy two-seater Robinson 22. Everything would have been perfect had it not been for the sour-faced, sour-breathing Russian travelling in the passenger seat close beside him. Apart from his typically Slav appearance—short stature, flat rectangular face, washed denim blue eyes—he seemed to defy everything Tallis was told to expect, notably that Russians were friendly and big on chat as a preliminary to getting down to business. From the moment Tallis met Kumarin, he was virtually expressionless and monosyllabic. At first, Tallis thought this was through sheer disappointment—the R22 was a tiny, fun machine but a little crowded for two men, but on the contrary he was assured that the Robinson was perfectly fine—or that there was some language difficulty, but even a quick burst of Russian elicited a flatline response. For the entire flight back to Shobdon, Tallis was subjected to the silent treatment, his questions answered by either a straight nyet or da.
Desperate measures, Tallis thought, showing Kumarin into the meeting room and whipping out a bottle of vodka. At once the man’s hardened features softened. His mouth actually formed half a smile. Thank Christ for that, Tallis thought, pouring Kumarin a healthy measure, which he tossed back with gusto.
‘You’re not drinking?’ Kumarin said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘Afraid not,’ Tallis said. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’
‘Me, too,’ Kumarin said deadpan, gesturing for Tallis to pour him another. ‘So how long have you worked here?’ Kumarin said, putting his briefcase on the floor and parking his stocky frame on a chair.
Tallis fed him his cover story and handed him a carefully crafted business card, the flip side displaying Tallis’s impressive list of bogus credentials. It had all been carefully scripted in Russian using Cyrillic text. Now that they were on a comfortable footing, largely thanks to Smirnoff, he felt himself relax. A convivial hour later, Kumarin asked to use the tualet. Tallis opened the door from the meeting room and indicated the lavatory down the corridor. When Kumarin returned Tallis escorted him downstairs and into the hangar housing the Agusta. At once, the Russian’s eyes danced with light. He walked around the helicopter, surveying, one hand on his chin, a gleam in his eye suggesting naked admiration, then opened the pilot doors, and climbed inside.
Contrary to Ginny’s advice, Tallis kept his mouth shut, and let the helicopter do the talking. Let Kumarin set the pace. When Kumarin was satisfied, he climbed back out and they returned to the meeting room where the Russian requested the logbook and records. Afterwards, he politely asked to be left in peace. ‘I will be some time.’
Tallis read the sub-text. In Russia certain items were three times more expensive to the tourist than to the Russian. Applying that same logic, Kumarin would try and find reasons to bring the price down. ‘Can I bring you anything to eat or drink?’
‘No, but leave the vodka,’ Kumarin said, a sly smile touching his mouth.
Tallis left, shutting the door behind him, and walked down the corridor to Ginny’s office, which she shared with one of Tiger’s pilots, the man in charge, as she called him.
‘No Ginny?’ Tallis said.
‘Not in today,’ the guy said, stretching in his seat, making the creases in his crisp white shirt rustle. ‘Got a cold, or something.’
Tallis wondered if Ginny’s absence was deliberate, whether it was connected to him giving her the brushoff. No, of course not, he thought. She wasn’t like that. Deciding to catch some fresh air and a sandwich from the tearoom, Tallis bowled down the stairs, slapping straight into Blaine Deverill.
‘Just the man,’ Deverill said, all smiles. Tallis wasn’t sure whether Blaine was a natural fool or one of those exhausting individuals who constantly seek to please—he found the always-happy routine irritating. ‘How’s that Russian deal of yours shaping up?’
‘Still shaping,’ Tallis said, making for the exit, Deverill falling into step beside him.
‘Heading that way myself. Fancy a coffee and a bite to eat?’
With no escape, other than to hang around the mechanics and drive them crazy, Tallis reluctantly agreed.
‘Enjoying it here?’ Deverill said, once they’d ordered, taken their drinks and were settled at a table.
‘How could I not?’ Tallis said, noncommittal.
‘Know what you mean. Flying gets under your skin. If you can turn a hobby into work, bloody marvellous.’
‘So what do you do when you’re not speeding through the skies?’ Tallis said, spooning sugar into his mug.
‘Bit of this, bit of that,’ Deverill said, elliptically. ‘I’m an engineer by profession, first-class degree from Caius, Cambridge, for my sins.’
‘Right,’ Tallis said, feeling seriously cheesed off. This was going to be one hell of a boring coffee break.
‘You a university man, Paul?’
Tallis shook his head.
‘Worked in industry for many years, but that was after I’d done my stint with the Hereford Gun Club.’ A pseudonym for the Special Air Service, Tallis knew.
‘Right,’ Tallis said, barely listening. A practised liar himself—necessary for the job—he could sniff one out at a hundred paces. And Deverill was telling fibs. Probably never set foot in Cambridge let alone been in the SAS.
‘You look like a forces man, if you don’t mind my saying,’ Deverill said in a nudge-nudge fashion.
‘Me? No. Humble plod, that’s all. Well, used to be.’ That was the other thing about telling convincing lies—it always paid to mix in a pinch of truth.
‘That so?’ Deverill said. ‘Where was your patch?’
‘Nowhere very exciting—West Mercia,’ Tallis lied. ‘Decided to escape after I was left a bit of money.’
‘Got you,’ Deverill said.
Mercifully, their food arrived, sausage and chips for Deverill, BLT for Tallis. He fell on it, hoping that Deverill would shut up and follow suit. He didn’t.
‘How do you rate the lovely Miss Dodge?’
‘Rate?’ Tallis frowned.
Deverill began to laugh, shoulders pumping. ‘I didn’t mean like that,’ Deverill said, wheezing slightly.
‘Like what?’
‘You know,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
‘No, I don’t,’ Tallis said, drinking his coffee.
‘She’s quite a sharp one, isn’t she?’
‘If you say so,’ Tallis said, noncommittal.
‘Not without guile.’
‘Razor-sharp brain. Got her wings years ago before women really got into flying.’
Two words to that, Tallis thought: Amy Johnson.
‘Asked me out a couple of times,’ Deverill continued, droning on.
Here we go, porkie time again. If Ginny Dodge had asked Blaine Deverill out, Tallis reckoned he’d run round the airfield naked. ‘We had quite a thing going.’ Yeah, yeah, Tallis thought. ‘’Course we had to cool things, what with her old man showing back up on the scene.’
Tallis made a pantomime of looking at his watch. ‘Hell, is that the time? Sorry, I promised my Russian client I’d be back in twenty minutes. See you around, Blaine,’ Tallis said, standing up. ‘Thanks for the chat. Been interesting.’
For the next two hours, Tallis went to ground, Kumarin finally emerging half an hour before they were due to fly back to White Waltham. Tallis wondered if it was a tactical move. On the other hand, it would be Kumarin who missed his flight, not him.
‘I am generally pleased with what I’ve seen, but there are a number of shortcomings.’
‘Oh?’ Tallis said, sounding casual.
‘My client is a distinguished businessman.’ That’s not what Ginny thinks, Tallis thought. ‘He trades in international circles. He has a reputation to maintain. Do I make myself clear?’
No, not really, Tallis thought.
‘The leather seats, for instance, they are sandcoloured. My client likes tan, and there are no gold fittings, no drinks cabinet.’
No problem. ‘I’m sure we can arrange to meet your client’s specific requirements. Naturally, it will cost.’ He did the maths: another fifty thousand, at least.
‘Cost you, yes.’ Kumarin shrugged.
‘I’m not sure I can authorise that.’ As soon as the words had left his mouth Tallis knew he’d messed up.
‘Then I would like to speak to someone who can,’ Kumarin said, grit in his voice.
‘What I mean,’ Tallis said, trying to recover some ground, ‘is that I’m unwilling to authorise such a deal.’
‘Then we have no deal.’ Kumarin tipped his short frame forwards, bending down and picking up his briefcase.
‘That will be a pity,’ Tallis said, bullish.
‘Indeed,’ Kumarin said, equally bullish, straightening up.
‘Naturally, in the interests of international relations, I’d like to come to a mutually favourable arrangement.’
The glint in Kumarin’s blue eyes, the slight twitch of his wide nose, suggested he’d scented weakness.
‘Which is why I’m prepared to compromise,’ Tallis said.
‘Not a word I like.’
‘Concession, then.’ Tallis arranged a warm smile on his cool lips.
Kumarin sat back down and gave a silent nod for him to continue.
‘We will cover half the cost. I will also personally fly the Agusta to Moscow to an airfield of your client’s choosing.’
‘Half, you say?’ Kumarin said, rubbing his smooth chin.
‘Half,’ Tallis said, pointedly looking at his watch.
Silence. It seemed that Kumarin was hell-bent on playing hardball. Finally, he spoke. ‘We pay twenty-five per cent. You pay the rest.’
‘I’ll send the contract,’ Tallis said, knowing the Russian would further modify it to his advantage. ‘And you’d like me to deliver?’ Tallis said, pressing home the point.
‘But of course,’ Kumarin said, getting to his feet, his final words on the subject.
The journey back was a lot more fun. Kumarin seemed genuinely interested in Tallis, and Tallis was surprised to learn that Kumarin was a keen collector of Russian artefacts. He briefly wondered whether it was legitimate, or part of a mean trade in stolen art.
‘I am also a keen painter,’ Kumarin announced proudly. ‘I have supplied one of your galleries here.’
‘What, in the UK?’
‘Moreton-in-Marsh, you’ve heard of it?’
‘The Cotswolds, yes,’ Tallis said, expressing genuine surprise. ‘What sort of work?’
‘Women.’ Kumarin glanced across at Tallis, a lusty note in his voice.
After dropping Kumarin back to his taxi to Heathrow, Tallis returned to Shobdon. By the time he’d wheeled the Robinson 22 into the hangar, it was already dark, which probably explained why he noticed the lights on in Ginny’s office. Naturally curious, he decided to investigate.
Moving silently, he went up the stairs, crossed the meeting room, softly opened the door into the corridor and heard the sound of a lavatory flushing. Tallis paused. The door swung open and Blaine Deverill came out.
‘Caught short,’ he said, with obvious embarrassment.
‘Right,’ Tallis said, moving along, listening as Deverill’s footsteps receded down the stairs.
When he went into the office, the lights were off, nobody there.
The contract was returned four days later with predictable edits, namely that Tiger would cover the entire cost of the refit. In fact, the SIS was picking up the tab. A subsequent phone call to Kumarin confirmed that the Russian position was immutable. Tallis decided to play the good loser. Kumarin revealed that his client was a man called Orlov.
‘How soon can you deliver, Paul?’
‘I’ll need to file a flight plan…’
‘Not necessary. Mr Orlov can ease any permissions you will need. He has connections.’
In Tallis’s mind, Orlov was bear-like, grey-haired, urbane and sober-suited, with a taste for the finer things in life. ‘Yes, but I’ll also need to apply for a visa.’
‘This can also be taken care of.’
Friends in high places, Tallis thought. He called Asim straight away and delivered the good news.
‘So you could be out there in a few days?’
The reality of the situation suddenly hit him. Truth be told, he’d got used to having Lena around. He’d taken her shopping for clothes. A pair of jeans, new shirt and a sweater knocked a decade off her. At last she was starting to look like a product of the twenty-first century instead of several before.
‘Don’t see why not. Method of contact?’ He had visions of dead-letter drops or being asked to stand at a certain time on a particular street with a particular newspaper, an SIS operative waiting and watching in the shadows, ready to pass on information.
‘Phones in Moscow. You’ll be on your own in the mountains.’
If only it were true, Tallis thought. From warlords to FSB officers and soldiers, the mountains would be crowded, and everyone in them a potential enemy.
‘Something you should know,’ Asim said.
‘Uh-huh?’ Tallis picked up on the warning tone.
‘A professor at Moscow State University is feared to be the latest victim.’
‘Feared? Don’t you know?’
‘Different modus operandi. The man was killed with poison, maybe ricin, although that hasn’t been confirmed. Before he collapsed he was in collision with a jogger in the grounds of the university. It’s believed the runner was the assassin.’
‘No description?’
‘None that’s filtered through.’
Tallis felt relief. He didn’t want to know that it was Darke. ‘And don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Our professor was a bad boy in the Caucasus.’
‘A prison guard with deviant sexual tastes.’
Lena seemed restless. Tallis had not yet told her that the following morning he was leaving. He believed that, by some sixth sense, she already knew.
‘Tell me about the music of your people,’ he said, in a bid to divert her.
A sad smile touched her lips. ‘Every Chechen knows how to sing and dance. It is in our blood,’ she said, pointing to her heart. ‘Laments, wedding anthems and religious chants, music celebrating human endeavour and redemption.’ Suddenly, her voice broke into low tremulous song, tribal, raw and defiant. It was a song of the mountains, a poem of respect for the dead and those who had trodden there before. Tallis imagined a ring of men and women, beating time to the music with shouts and drums, silhouettes dancing slowly around a campfire. As Lena’s voice rose in strength and pitch, Tallis felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise and stand erect. Long after she’d finished he sat mesmerised, watching the early evening shadows at play.
‘When I think of my country,’ Lena told him, ‘I think of a symphony in black.’
Much later, with the last pieces of wood burning from red to white, Lena asked a favour of him.
He thought it might be money to tide her over while he was away. ‘Sure.’
‘Will you find my son?’
‘Your son?’ Lena had never mentioned a son or even a husband before. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, bewildered.
Lena disappeared to her bedroom, returning with a battered-looking photograph. She pushed it into Tallis’s hands. The lad looked to be around twelve, maybe thirteen years of age. He had the same dark, edgy features as his mother, same slightly pinched nose and chin—a bleak version of a young Graham Darke. ‘This is Ruslan. It was taken ten years ago.’
Tallis refrained from immediately saying that it was out of the question. On top of what he already had orders to do, he didn’t have the time, didn’t have the energy. It would mean being seriously sidetracked. He should simply say no.
‘For our survival we decided to split the family up,’ Lena was speaking quickly, rushing along, railroading him. ‘It was Sahab’s idea.’
‘Sahab?’
‘My husband. You see, all males from the age of ten to seventy were considered potential terrorists so he thought that it would be safer if I stayed with Asya in the village while he and Ruslan, my son, went to the mountains. At first, we could get word to each other, but after I fled, I lost contact. You have to understand I had no documents, they were destroyed in the shelling, and without documents you are lost. You cannot register. You cannot get food aid. If you have money, you can survive. I had no money,’ she said simply.
Tallis looked up, saw the wildness in her eyes, saw the exhaustion in her face, saw the incredible decision she’d been forced to take: her possible survival and that of her daughter weighed against the questionable survival of her husband and son. What kind of choices were those?
‘I heard through someone recently that Ruslan was living in Moscow.’
‘And Sahab?’ Tallis said.
She shook her head, two snatched movements. He’d known Lena long enough to know when to ask and when not to push a question. The angularity of her limbs, the way she was holding herself said Don’t go there.
‘Where in Moscow?’
‘I do not know.’
Dear God, this was all he needed.
Seeing his reluctance, Lena grasped the sleeve of his sweater. ‘Go to the worst places, to the ghettoes, the prisons. Look for the people with their pockets sewn up.’
‘What?’ he said baffled. There was a frightening, unchecked expression in her eyes.
‘So that the police cannot plant drugs or detonators on them.’
‘Lena, I don’t—’
‘Please, Mr Tallis, please.’