THE Agusta was a dream to fly. From Shobdon, Tallis had flown to Groningen Airport and then on to Szymany in Poland. On coming into land, he felt as if he’d entered a novel by John le Carré. The airport, cloistered at the end of a potholed country lane that ran through dense forest, trees dripping with rain, had a shabby control tower that looked out over a long runway.
After refuelling and sleeping the night in a nearby hostel that stank of badly aired laundry, he flew on to Zelenograd, a town forty kilometres north of Moscow, to the Sheremetyevo international airport, where he was to meet Grigori Orlov, Kumarin’s client. The trip had taken him three days.
Following Orlov’s specific instructions, Tallis stowed the helicopter safely in the hangar and made his way through a less than congenial arrivals hall. The place looked as if it could do with a lick of paint. Passport control was light on welcome, bordering on indifference, but with no interference he headed into an open area where a stringy, pock-faced twentysomething was holding a piece of cardboard with his name on it, spelt incorrectly. Tallis approached the bloke and smiled.
‘Zdrastvuyte.’ Hello, he said in greeting.
Immediately, two other men who’d been idly smoking nearby jumped to join the welcoming party. One had a squat frame, the other was the same height as Tallis but blond, with green lazy-looking eyes. All three men bulged with weaponry.
‘I was hoping to meet Mr Orlov.’ Or Kumarin, he thought, surveying the arrivals hall. He addressed the remark to the Blond, who viewed him with slow eyes.
‘We are to drive you to his house.’ His expression and the too casual way he studied his nails suggested that he had delivered far more important people than this miserable Englishman standing in front of him. Tallis lightly commented on Kumarin’s absence. The Blond shrugged, waved his hand dismissively. ‘He has an important meeting.’ More important than you, he inferred. ‘You will come,’ he added with emphasis.
Not much choice, Tallis bristled, puzzled that Orlov, a man who’d just shelled out a ton of money, should not be present to view the goods.
Outside, snow was falling, making the surrounding scenery bleak rather than enchanting. This was certainly no Winter Wonderland, Tallis thought.
The waiting car was a Saab. There was a blue light on the car roof and Tallis wondered whether the guys playing escort were actually moonlighting police officers.
The blond-haired guy climbed in the front, exchanged an OK with the driver, Tallis in the rear with the other two heavies on either side. It was pretty clear they were trying to do a number on him. Fuck them, he thought.
Conversation was non-existent and Tallis didn’t bother trying. He looked out at a grey and forbidding urban landscape with buildings and warehouses that looked as if they should have been pulled down a long time ago. The guy’s driving style resembled that of taxi-drivers he’d come across in the Middle East: pedestrians deemed as sport and to be accelerated towards at all times.
As they reached Moscow, the traffic became dense, the roads clogged. Tallis saw block after block of drab housing complexes that he imagined would be cramped inside. He saw no evidence of city gardens. At the blond-haired guy’s command, their driver switched on the blue light. The effect was magical: vehicles swerved out of the way and pulled over, and the route opened up in front of them. Within a kilometre, Tallis was cruising down wide poplar-lined boulevards, granite avenues with historic and stately-looking architecture. He was given an impression of wealth, of commerce; it really didn’t tally with any ideas he already had. On they drove, past small parks and embassies, the road snaking west, leaving the city. He could see birch trees and parkland, great five-storey houses with gates and guards and fortifications. The scenery changed again: pine trees and forest. They were heading down a road flanked by tall fences, CCTV strategically placed. The road became a lane then a track. Tallis had a sudden image of his body in a ditch, a single bullet to the head.
At last, they pulled up outside a set of gates. A guy with a crew-cut hairstyle and an AK47 slung over his shoulder popped out of something resembling a sentry box, exchanged a greeting with the driver then opened the gates and waved them on. Had the drive been paved with gold, Tallis couldn’t have been more surprised. He’d seen English stately homes before, been a guest at one on a couple of occasions, but nothing had quite prepared him for this. Set in magnificent grounds with sweeping lawns and several lakes surrounded by trees, here was an example of the cottedgi Lena spoke about.
Tallis stared up at an almost too perfect example of Regency architecture: verandas and balconies with ornate decorative cast-iron work, elegant Ionic-style columns and terraces. He could have been in the middle of Cheltenham, he thought, except this particular pile had a few additions: bronze lion heads on either side of the marble entrance, statues to Greek gods in the gardens; chandeliers visibly hanging from upstairs ceilings.
The doors of the Saab flew open. Everyone got out, Tallis included, then the minders wordlessly dumped his luggage and climbed back into the car and drove away down the drive, gravel spitting. Tallis briefly turned to watch them depart, his attention caught by the man he presumed to be Orlov bounding down the steps to greet him, his hand extended, a silver-grey-coated Weimaraner at his side. What was it with wealthy men and their dogs? Tallis thought.
In build, Orlov was exactly as Tallis had imagined, a bear of a man, reminiscent of the former President Boris Yeltsin except without the height. He had a shock of white hair that curiously looked dyed, and laughing brown eyes. His suit was also white, Tallis suspected to better display the tan and the profusion of gold jewellery slung around his neck. Tallis also caught sight of an eyewateringly expensive Breitling SuperOcean watch on the man’s wrist. On his feet, Orlov wore a pair of flat black leather slippers. His thick-knuckled fingers were festooned in gold, something Tallis discovered when Orlov held him in a bone-crunching handshake.
‘Mr Tallis, dobri dyen. Your journey was good?’ He patted Tallis lightly on the back, gesturing with his free hand for Tallis to go inside.
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘And my merchandise is in perfect condition?’
‘Of course.’ Again, he wondered why the big man hadn’t come to see for himself. Then it dawned on him. The drop-off instructions, the collection by Orlov’s heavies, the silent drive, was part of the power play.
They were standing in a hall the size of a swimming pool, one side flanked by a vast marble fireplace surrounded by a cluster of leather sofas, the same tan colour Orlov had insisted on for the helicopter. There were three doors off, all closed. At each, a young man in liveried uniform stood to attention. Tallis was starting to wonder if he was dreaming. At a click of Orlov’s thumb and finger, the nearest moved forward, taking Tallis’s bag and jacket and handing him a pair of buckskin slippers.
Tallis stared at them, mystified.
‘Your shoes,’ Orlov said, pointing at Tallis’s feet. Penny dropping, Tallis duly changed his footwear. Oddly, the slippers fitted his feet perfectly. Picking up the conversation again, Tallis said, ‘I’m a little surprised neither you nor Mr Kumarin came to view the helicopter. I might have flown in a different machine.’
Orlov wagged a finger as if he were addressing a naughty child. ‘That would have been most unwise.’ His expression hadn’t altered but there was a hint of menace behind the smile. Tallis now had the definite impression Orlov was making plain who was calling the shots. ‘As for Boris, most unfortunate. He had some pressing family business to attend to. Please accept my sincere apologies on his behalf.
‘You must be tired after your journey,’ he said, clicking his fingers again. As in a carefully choreographed ballet, one of the doormen disappeared, reappearing with a tray bearing a bottle of chilled Flagman vodka and glasses. Another plumped up the cushions on the sofa and charged the fire, which was already burning half a forest’s worth of wood by the look of it.
‘Kumarin tells me that you are a reformed alcoholic,’ Orlov said, a shrewd gleam in his eye, ‘or is this the English way of keeping a clear head when doing business?’
‘You’re very astute,’ Tallis said, genuinely impressed. ‘No offence was intended on my part.’
‘And none taken.’ Orlov flashed a grin.
Tallis sat down and accepted a drink from Orlov, toasting their success. The vodka tasted strong and delicious. He imagined it creeping into his bloodstream, primed for attack later. Pleasantries over, Orlov offered Tallis a fine Havana cigar from a box, which he refused. Orlov selected, prepared and lit one then launched into a graphic history of the construction of the house, which, he informed Tallis, had been built only five years before.
‘I am also working on a construction in Voronezh, my home town. It is not a good place, full of pollution, very poor, dirty, stuck in the Soviet era,’ Orlov said, with what Tallis thought was surprising candour. ‘And dangerous,’ he added. ‘Many of the city’s youth are out of work. But,’ Orlov said, brown eyes twinkling amid a cloud of blue-grey smoke, ‘construction is, how do you say, the name of the game. There is much scope for the developer.’
‘You certainly seem to know what you’re doing,’ Tallis said, looking around him, polite.
‘I love the English architecture,’ Orlov said with fervour. ‘My next project here will be in the Georgian style. After that, Queen Anne, I think.’
Orlov gave a signal and one of the liveried men hurried forward, removing the vodka and replacing it with a bottle of opened red wine from Georgia and fresh glasses. ‘Everyone thinks we Russians drink nothing but vodka,’ Orlov said, pouring out two generous glasses and handing one to Tallis. ‘In truth,’ he continued, in a slightly professorial tone, ‘the more elevated among us drink it only for toasts.’
Before Orlov strayed onto quizzing him about his own taste in architecture—how would he rate bungalowchic?—Tallis asked Orlov whether he’d been involved in any projects during the rebuilding of Chechnya.
‘Good money to be had in the early days after the second conflict, but now, with the latest unrest…’ Orlov shrugged ‘…it is not a safe place to travel, too many factions. You know they call it the FSB’s workshop?’
Tallis cast Orlov an enquiring smile.
‘It is well known that the FSB has been infiltrated by various criminal groups. No better place for them to cut their teeth than in Chechnya. Not that I am a defender of the Chechens,’ Orlov stated.
‘No?’ Tallis said.
‘Barbarians,’ Orlov said, chucking out another great gust of smoke. ‘The place has turned into a no-go area for ordinary, law-abiding Russians.’
‘Are there any no-go areas in Moscow?’
‘There are certain places where it is unwise to travel, but that is the same the world over. Where are you staying?’ Orlov asked him, taking a gulp of wine.
‘An apartment in Tverskaya district.’ Asim had handed him a key several days before.
Orlov shrugged. ‘Expensive, soulless but safe. This is OK. Now finish your drink and I will show you my collection of art.’
The art, according to Orlov, mainly consisted of works seized by the Red Army as part of Stalin’s ‘cultural reparation’ against the Germans. Tallis didn’t like to point out that Stalin’s ‘trophy brigades’ acted in revenge and that the art in question originally belonged to victims of the Holocaust. He doubted Orlov could care less about either the politics or the provenance. He probably viewed them as justifiable spoils of war.
‘The Pushkin Museum in Moscow and the State Hermitage in St Petersburg house the finest pieces,’ Orlov said, with a knowledgeable air as they gazed at paintings by Titian, Matisse and Botticelli.
Several glasses later, events moved at a staggering pace. Orlov announced that he was throwing a party that evening and invited Tallis to stay as his guest. Protest would not only have been rude, it could possibly be dangerous to his health, Tallis thought so he beamed and smiled, and thanked Orlov as he was shown by yet another young man in breeches to a lavish guest suite.
An hour later, refreshed, suited and booted, he was introduced to Orlov’s squeeze, a stunning leggy blonde from Siberia, called Svetlana. In her mid-twenties and possibly twenty years younger than Orlov, she wore a shade of killer-blue eye shadow that matched the dress she was wearing. A cigarette drooped louchely from her fingers. She wore a perpetual expression of disdain. Like Orlov, she had a thing for jewellery.
‘I like your English friend,’ she drawled, ruffling Tallis’s hair, her accent thick and tarry.
‘Not too much, I hope,’ Orlov said, slipping his hand around her waist and giving it a proprietorial squeeze.
She bent her tall frame slightly and deposited a kiss on his forehead. ‘Never as much as I like you, Grigori.’
Orlov cast Tallis a knowing grin. ‘Svetlana is being nice because she wishes to spend more of my money in Petrovka Street.’
Tallis moved away and mingled. Since Ivanov had come on the scene, it was no longer standard practice for Russians to speak English in polite society. A kaleidoscope of sounds sizzled Tallis’s ears.
By now the place was filling up with Orlov’s pals—men in shades and suits, women in furs and stilettos—the atmosphere vibrant and dramatic. Kumarin, wearing a black tuxedo, strode towards him and greeted him effusively. Tallis felt the heat of alcohol coming off Kumarin’s breath in waves.
‘Paul, so sorry to miss you this morning. Fyodor is not such an agreeable companion, no?’ he grinned.
Too right, Tallis thought, smiling politely.
‘But I understand from Mr Orlov all is well.’
‘Fine,’ Tallis said.
‘This is good. I believe you will be asked to test-fly the Agusta tomorrow.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. Depends on Mr Orlov’s wishes.’ Kumarin’s eyes fell to the glass of champagne in Tallis’s hand. ‘A word of advice, Paul.’ He winked. ‘Next time you’d do better to—how do you say—“oil the wheels”. You might pull off a more successful deal.’ And, laughing loudly, he headed off to refill his glass.
The heavies Tallis had met earlier at the airport, including the blond-haired Fyodor, were circulating, wordless, among the guests. Several more were posted outside, talking into radios, watching out for signs of trouble.
They ate in a vast banqueting hall, the epitome of architectural showbiz, plates piled high with caviar, shchuka pike, beef topped with cheese (a Siberian dish, Svetlana later informed him) Russian-style ravioli stuffed with pork, and shashlyk, meat kebabs. There was also a rich array of Georgian cuisine, food influenced by the Middle East and Mediterranean. Tallis found himself sitting next to a big-boned Russian woman called Marina. Her rich chestnut hair was piled in a mass of curls on top of her head and she wore a low-cut white chiffon dress edged in claret-coloured satin. She also had an impressive décolleté. It was like having dinner with a woman from the Napoleonic era.
Marina was one of the new kids on the block, apparently. Ambitious and dedicated, she did a mean trade in importing clothes and carpets from Turkey. She was already planning on buying property in the form of a number of retail outlets.
‘It is a good time for women,’ she said, tasting the wine, Saperavi, a rich full-on red produced from grapes of the same name. ‘We have freedom,’ she said, rolling her r’s. ‘We have stability, at last, after years of economic chaos. We are divorcing our husbands and getting into business, something unthinkable a decade ago. Yes,’ she said, a pragmatic gleam in her eye. ‘Life is sweet. And you, Paul? You like doing business here?’
‘I do,’ Tallis said. ‘I thought it might become tricky.’
‘Tricky?’ Marina frowned at him with big green eyes.
‘Difficult—with the disintegrating political situation.’
‘Oh, that.’ She beamed. ‘Most of us are not very interested. You go into a nightclub in Moscow, the talk, my English friend, is not of politics, international or national, but of the best places to eat, to buy clothes, to make money.’
‘So Ivanov has been good to Russia?’
‘I love the man,’ Marina said. ‘Without Ivanov we would be fucked,’ she said, clipped, ‘and it is good that we have someone strong to lead our great nation, to stand up to the rest of the world, even your country,’ she said with a sudden impish smile. ‘A tip for you, Paul. Art and business thrive even when our leaders do not like each other very much.’
Later, Tallis drifted onto one of the many balconies to clear his head. After the formal dinner, there had been a number of toasts—to wealth, to health, to life, to love, to business, even to Orlov’s dog. Timur, a thin-faced, urbane-looking man from St Petersburg, was also taking the air. He introduced himself and offered Tallis a cigarette, which Tallis declined.
‘You are the British helicopter man.’
‘Paul Tallis, that’s right.’
Timur nodded slowly and lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply and blowing out a perfect smoke ring. King of Cool, Tallis thought, identifying something very contained about the man. Without knowing anything about him, he recognised the type: this guy was a loner. Tallis also wondered whether he was a loser. ‘So another little bit of Western democracy exported to the East,’ Timur said.
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ Tallis said affably.
Timur, pensive, fell silent.
‘So what’s wrong with Western democracy?’ Tallis decided to rattle Timur’s cage for no better reason than he’d had more to drink than was good for him. They were both leaning over the balcony. From there, a fine view of the grounds, lit by flaming torches, Olympic style, gave the numerous statues and bronzes a ghostly sheen.
‘What’s wrong?’ Timur laughed, deep-throated. ‘The United States and the West, that’s what’s wrong. You want nothing more than political overthrow. Look what you’ve done in Iraq, Afghanistan, how you oppose the Serbs, how you expand and position NATO members to further threaten our great nation. And the hypocrisy,’ Timur sneered. ‘You tell us to behave one way and then you act another. You British: warmongers every one of you. How you love to patronise us, to tell us in what way to behave. I tell you, if you don’t stop lecturing us, we will become your enemy.’
That’s rich, Tallis thought. Russia had not that long ago invaded South Ossetia and recently taken a number of liberties with foreign air space. He suspected it was simply because they wanted to try their luck, test the reaction, and see whether they could get away with it. Now he thought it was a way of flexing their military muscle. ‘Sounds like a threat,’ Tallis said mildly.
Timur let out a snort and took another drag of his cigarette.
‘So what do you do when not engaged in political debate?’ Tallis said.
‘I work for the State,’ Timur said flatly.
Tallis glanced across at him. Timur’s face shone green and chiselled in the moonlight. The State, meaning the FSB? Tallis wondered. He didn’t push it. There were plenty of people who worked for the State, some professional killers.
‘Does your work take you to Chechnya?’
‘Sometimes,’ Timur said, taking another drag, his thin cheeks hollow. ‘Why do you ask?’ he said, suspicion in his eyes.
‘Interest.’
‘You think the situation there is cruel?’
‘All conflict is cruel.’
Timur agreed. ‘But sometimes a necessary evil.’
‘In Chechnya,’ Tallis said, ‘I’m not clear what the goals are.’
‘To subdue the enemy, to bring them to heel,’ Timur said, as if it were blindingly obvious. ‘We cannot have a united Russia with these religious madmen waging a guerrilla campaign in our own backyard. It is the same as you British have in Northern Ireland.’
Actually, Tallis thought, it was quite different but refrained from saying so.
‘I will tell you something,’ Timur said darkly. ‘Men love to war. It is an addiction more powerful than sex or love. And the Chechens, my friend, are junkies. But war is not their only addiction: they are also hooked on religion. To feed their habit, they must convert the rest of us to their perversions. You know what the Chechens do to captured Russian soldiers?’ Timur did not wait for a reply. ‘They gut men as easily as a fisherman guts a pike. They even use their own intestines to strangle them.’
‘You mean the fundamentalists, the warlords,’ Tallis said, struggling to restrain the images of epic cruelty taking shape in his mind. He hoped to God Graham Darke was not involved in such practices. But, Tallis also recognised, it would be hard for Darke to separate himself from the barbarism around him. His was a straight choice: go along to complete the mission or blow his cover and be killed. A question of ends justifying means, Tallis thought, and sadly something he had experience of.
‘I am talking about every one of them,’ Timur said, eyes reptilian.
‘You can’t believe ordinary people share those beliefs. They simply want to live in peace.’
Timur shrugged. ‘They are guilty by default. They shelter terrorists. They hate the motherland.’
‘They do now,’ Tallis said, aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. ‘The wanton destruction of towns and villages, the killing of hundreds of innocent people, has produced the next generation of malcontents. For that, your government has to take some responsibility, surely?’
‘You do not know what you’re talking about,’ Timur said, cool. ‘They must never be allowed to triumph.’
‘You can’t kill them all,’ Tallis said with an easy laugh.
Timur said nothing. Dropping his cigarette on the floor, he ground it with the heel of his boot. ‘It is important to maintain stability,’ he said softly. ‘It is what the Russian people need and want.’
‘At any price?’
‘Whatever the cost,’ Timur said, walking back inside.