TALLIS awoke with a monumental hangover. Timidly, he opened one eye, trying desperately to focus on his surroundings. Gone the thick carpet, the heavy damask drapes at the windows, the works of art and marble, and extravagantly expensive bedroom furniture. Instead he was met with plain white walls, oatmeal-coloured curtains and newly renovated furnishings, Western style. For a brief, terrifying moment he wondered if he’d wound up with Marina, but a quick recce told him that he was entirely alone and that there was no evidence of another.
He went into the bathroom and took a leak. Events of the previous twenty-four hours cut into his consciousness with all the precision of a scalpel. So maybe he hadn’t been as drunk or relaxed as his body now seemed to suggest. Nevertheless, as he trawled his memory, his recollections appeared to be laced by a particular brand of alcohol.
Each nuance of every conversation, in particular with Orlov and Timur, sliced through his brain: Orlov affable and generous; Timur cold and mean-spirited. He remembered eating a meat-heavy dinner followed by tooth-shatteringly sweet pastries, all washed down with sugary Georgian wine. He recalled the vodka toasts and, Christ, the konyac. ‘Brandy from the Caucasus,’ Orlov had told him, and no doubt the reason for the concentrated level of pain behind his left eye. Somewhere, in a temporarily misplaced part of his mind, he pulled out the idea that Orlov had promised to take him to his banya—a bit like a sauna only more extreme—that very same day. Lastly, he had a fairly strong image of getting into a taxi and having one of those strange conversations that you had with taxi drivers all over the world. This conversation had not been exceptional, typified as it had been by the long-suffering gloom and doom displayed by most ordinary Russians.
After a hot and cold shower in a weak effort to flush some of the alcohol from his vital organs, he dressed in the clothes he’d already packed and brought with him. A more detailed inspection of the four-roomed apartment yielded more clothes to fit his muscular physique, including mountain trekking gear, a healthy stash of roubles—money to bribe by—and a false passport and press pass stating that he was a freelance Russian journalist by the name of Nikolai Redko. The kitchen was large and well equipped, although Tallis had no intention of spending any time in it other than for a quick refuel. From the apartment, which was in Spiridonovka Ulitsa Street, he had a fine view of Pushkin Square and the high walls enclosing the Kremlin.
After forcing down a mug of coffee with painkillers, he left the apartment and went out onto the street. It wasn’t as cold as he’d expected, which was a pity. A lot of the snow had begun to melt, replaced by dirtycoloured slush. Avoiding the smart and expensive shopping avenue, Tverskaya, the equivalent of New York’s Fifth Avenue, Tallis soon found himself among a gathering of hawkers and babushkas selling all manner of goods in the open air. Business appeared brisk; the capital’s desire for commerce and trade reminded Tallis of a recent mission in Turkey.
Walking along, his gaze flittered and came to rest on a number of disparate people. He observed a lone middle-aged man giving away a free newspaper under the watchful and intimidating eye of a couple of police officers. Teenagers gathered on street corners, smoking, mucking about, as in any other international city, and there were kids zooming about on rollerblades like he’d seen in Berlin. All signs, he noticed, were in Cyrillic so the average tourist was entirely stuffed because they wouldn’t be able to read them. Moscow, he reminded himself, was home to over ten million people. Roads, which were vast, flowed with cars, trucks and trolleybuses, the noise of traffic deafening. He decided to go with the flow, to keep on walking. He had an intuitive feeling that if he could find Lena’s son Ruslan, he would find Darke. Or perhaps it was simply the line he’d sold himself. In truth, Ruslan was a side issue. Finding Darke was his main objective.
Walking towards the Kremlin, the seat of power, he skirted east past Red Square and headed out towards Lubyanka, stopping briefly to gaze upwards at the greywalled former prison and currently new home and headquarters of the FSB. An involuntary shiver travelled up his spine at the thought of the innocent victims who’d been incarcerated within its forbidding exterior.
Many streets on, past an amazing amount of construction work, eventually negotiating a dimly lit underpass near Komsomolskaya, he came across two young Russians sitting on a threadbare blanket, drinking vodka, begging. He threw some coins into their bowl and squatted down on his haunches in an effort to talk to them, but their piss-off expressions told him that he’d come to the wrong place for conversation. Taking out a thousand-rouble note from his wallet, he waved it in front of the two lads. Both sets of eyes shifted his way.
‘There is more,’ Tallis said, in Russian.
The lad who looked to be the eldest spoke, ‘I’m Vladimir. This is Viktor.’ Vladimir had straight brown hair that fell over his face, thick eyebrows and a prominent chin. He’d made an unsuccessful attempt to grow a beard. ‘What do you want?’
‘Information.’
‘You a spy?’ Viktor let out a laugh. He had several missing teeth in an otherwise fine-featured face. His hair was spun gold and he had penetrating blue eyes. Tallis didn’t like to apply the phrase pretty to a youth, but Viktor definitely fitted that description.
‘No. I’m looking for a Chechen by the name of Ruslan.’
Viktor’s mouth dropped open. His face turned grey and a sheen of sweat suddenly coated his brow, in an instant turning his fringe of gold to brown. It was as if he’d aged forty years in a second. Tallis recognised that look, the apathy of the brutalised. Vladimir cast his friend an anxious look. ‘Why?’ Vladimir said sharply. Tallis looked from Viktor to Vladimir, knowing that the wrong answer would finish further conversation no matter how much money he offered. He wondered what their story was.
‘To kill him,’ he said, keeping his voice low.
Viktor stirred, vital signs returning. He licked the corner of his mouth. Some of the colour was reappearing in his cheeks. At that exact moment Tallis’s mobile rang. Cursing, he sprang to his feet, walked away a little and answered the call. It was Orlov.
‘Good morning, Paul. I trust you are well.’
‘Perfect,’ Tallis winced. The painkillers were starting to wear off and the collective pain had dimmed to a dull agonising throb.
‘Top-notch,’ Orlov said, much to Tallis’s amusement. Along with architecture, out-of-date vernacular was another example of Orlov’s obsession with all things English. ‘I am calling to firm up arrangements. I shall collect you from your apartment shortly after two.’
‘Fine. I’ll be there.’
‘Make sure you have your papers with you,’ Orlov added, cutting the call.
When he turned round Vladimir and Viktor had gone, and so had his money. Tallis cursed, unable to believe his own crass stupidity, especially at such an early stage in the game. Fucked over by a couple of vagabonds, he was going to have to seriously sharpen up his act, he told himself grimly.
At ten minutes past two, a red Maserati Spider pulled up outside the apartment block, Orlov in the driving seat. Tallis went downstairs and slid in next to him.
Orlov issued a wide smile. ‘You like?’
‘What’s not to?’ As the 4.2 litre V8 engine kicked into action, the thrust sent him flying back into his seat. He imagined the considerable amount of oomph piling out of the quartet of exhaust pipes.
Orlov zipped up the gears, six-speed F1 shift. ‘What do you drive at home, Paul?’
‘A Porsche Boxster.’
‘Good car. I have a 911 Turbo,’ Orlov said. You would, Tallis thought. Everything Orlov did was turbocharged. For a bloke of his age he had a terrific fund of energy. ‘But my favourite is the Bentley.’
‘Really? Which one?’
‘The Arnage. For me, it is so English.’
‘I thought Bentley was owned by the Germans.’
‘It is still essentially English craftsmanship. You must ride in it some time.’
Tallis wasn’t sure whether Orlov simply enjoyed showing off or whether he had a genuinely weird obsession with all things Anglo-Saxon. Whatever the truth of the matter, Tallis had the obscure feeling it might play to his advantage.
Orlov drove to Zelenograd. Fyodor, the blond-haired heavy, was there to meet them. No sign of Kumarin. Perhaps he was surveying another machine for Orlov’s empire, Tallis thought.
‘Take the car back to the estate, and don’t scratch it,’ Orlov warned.
Their papers scarcely looked at, they went to the hangar where the Agusta was stowed.
‘Very nice,’ Orlov said, running his fingers smoothly over the paintwork in the same way a man stroked the flanks of the woman he was sleeping with. It was Orlov’s intention for Tallis to fly them back, no more than a short fifteen-minute hop.
It was starting to spit with sleety rain when Tallis climbed in, Orlov next to him. Tallis pressed one of two buttons in the roof panel to the left, just above his ear, in order to start the engine, followed by a second button for the second engine. After checking the controls and fuel gauge, and maintaining visual contact, they took off, flying west and high to make the most of the tail wind.
In the air, Orlov resumed his favourite topic of conversation: himself.
‘Who’d have thought it? Me, a poor boy from Voronezh and now I’m being flown in my own helicopter.’
‘Don’t get too used to it.’ Tallis laughed. ‘I can’t stay in Russia for ever. I have to go back to the UK. You should take some lessons, learn to fly.’
‘It is not my way. I prefer others to do the hard work. You know, Paul, I’d like to do more business with you. Kumarin said that you have a very nice outfit back at Shobdon.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly my outfit,’ Tallis said. ‘That’s why I’ve decided to start up my own sideline.’
‘Sideline?’
‘My own business.’
‘This is very good news.’
‘I’ve got a couple more Agustas in the pipeline, flying them over from Ireland for a strip-down and refurb,’ Tallis said, deciding to get creative.
Orlov nodded vigorously. ‘It is as well to be your own boss. That way nobody tells you what to do,’ he said paternalistically. ‘Should you need any help while you’re here, you only have to ask. I know many, many people. I can get you anything.’
‘Anything?’
‘Introductions, contacts, false papers,’ Orlov said, a sly lilt in his voice.
‘False papers?’
‘Nobody gets anywhere these days without, how do you say, cutting corners?’
‘How many corners can you cut?’
‘Why?’ Orlov said. There was a definite note of mischief in his voice. This guy, Tallis thought, loved a challenge, especially if it meant screwing on the other side of the tracks.
‘Can you get me a firearm?’
Tallis glanced across at Orlov to see how his question was received. In spite of the impassive and unperturbed exterior, Orlov’s eyes were alight. Furthermore, there was no shock. ‘There are many illegal weapons in circulation in Moscow alone.’
‘I know, but that wasn’t my question.’
‘I do not have access to such things personally.’ He was heavy on the personally. What Orlov really meant was that he had the necessary contacts. For a brief moment in time, Tallis was reminded of the late Johnny Kennedy, a crime lord he’d come across in the Midlands. Kennedy had had involvement in dirty dealings that he’d kept at arm’s length. Tallis wondered if Orlov was fashioned in the same mould
‘You disappoint me, Grigori,’ Tallis said, tongue in cheek.
‘But I know someone who does. Leave it with me, and I will look into it for you.’ And with that Orlov changed tack and disclosed his plans for the rest of the day. ‘This afternoon we will share a banya and this evening you will stay as my guest for dinner, a private affair.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Tallis began, ‘but you’ve already been so—’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I have a very good surprise for you.’
Tallis flicked an enquiring smile. He didn’t like surprises. And he had important work to get on with.
‘We are being honoured by a special guest,’ Orlov said, rolling his eyes.
‘Yeah?’
‘Da,’ Orlov said, a big grin on his face.
The banya rated as one of Tallis’s more painful experiences. It made the Turkish equivalent appear feeble. The heat was too hot, scalding in fact, the obligatory beating with birch branches too severe, the basseyn, or ice-cold pool, too damned chilly. The only positive result was that, by the third time, his hangover disappeared immediately, presumably evaporating in a burst of eucalyptus-infused steam.
Spread out on a bench and covered in sheets, Tallis fell into easy conversation with Orlov. It wasn’t long before Orlov was on the boast again. He had plans, apparently, to buy up a plot of land in St Petersburg and develop it.
‘Timur is from St Petersburg, isn’t he?’ Tallis said, neatly massaging the conversation.
Orlov agreed with a grunt.
‘Interesting guy,’ Tallis said. ‘Gather he works for the FSB.’
‘Is that what he told you?’ Orlov said with a low laugh.
‘Not really,’ Orlov said, a cunning light in his eye.
Tallis said nothing, waited for Orlov to fill in the gap. He didn’t. The conversation took a completely different turn.
‘Timur mentioned that you were interested in the Chechen situation,’ Orlov said. ‘Is this connected to your desire for a firearm?’
‘What would you say if I said yes?’ Tallis’s manner was light to underplay the immense but calculated risk he was taking.
‘I would say you are a fool. And, Paul, you must understand that in Russia loose talk costs lives.’
Tallis adjusted his position. ‘Are you threatening me, Grigori?’
‘Of course not. I’m offering good advice. Anyway, what does an Englishman want with a group of terrorists?’
If this was the view of the average Russian, God help the British government if word ever got out about Graham Darke. ‘Not every Chechen is a terrorist, Grigori. Even you know that.’
‘What do I care?’ Orlov shrugged. ‘Jews, blacks, Chechens. They are all the same. You cannot trust any of them.’
‘Is that so?’ Tallis said, quietly trying to contain and extinguish a sudden flare of anger.
‘It is,’ Orlov said, ‘and, Paul, whatever your views, you must put them to one side, at least for this evening.’
‘Why, is Timur coming to dinner?’
‘No, his boss is.’
Dinner wasn’t quite the intimate affair Tallis imagined it would be. The State Room, as Orlov referred to it, was like a banqueting hall. Running down the centre was a vast table as shiny as an ice-rink, laid for thirty, chandeliers hanging from the ornately designed ceiling. Whoever the honorary guest was, he or she certainly commanded a high level of security. A Mi-8 helicopter hovered overhead. Supplementing Orlov’s company of heavies were six men with mean-looking faces and even meaner-looking haircuts. They spent several hours talking into their cuffs and checking the estate for intruders and anything untoward. Tallis had heard somewhere that the Spetsnaz recruited from a ready pool of Olympic-grade athletes. Any one of the guys striding round the complex fitted the profile.
Guests started to arrive shortly after seven. A flurry of activity followed as coats were taken, drinks dispensed, champagne the preferred choice. Kumarin, Tallis noticed, was conspicuously absent. He found it odd, filed the information away. A small orchestra of musicians, including a pianist who played with such shivering brilliance Tallis would have happily listened to him all night, played romantic pieces by the composer Edward Elgar.
Abandoning her veneer of listlessness, Svetlana, dressed in a ruched green silk dress with thin shoestring straps that accentuated her long, sloping shoulders, acted the perfect hostess, nodding and smiling, only the slight moving of her blue eyes revealing that she was more concerned with the impending arrival of the guest of honour than in what was being spoken. Indeed, everyone had half their attention focused on the wide double doors. The atmosphere in the room sizzled with intrigue. At last, the orchestra of musicians switched to a stirring piece by Dmitri Shostakovich: ‘The Assault on Beautiful Gorky’. Conversations sputtered into silence. Orlov, dressed in a white tuxedo, virtually tripped over himself in his desire to rush to the other end of the hall before the doors flew open, revealing his mystery guest. Then the man himself strode into the room, his minders at his side, the air encircling him electric. All heads swivelled, Tallis’s included, as Andrei Ivanov, the Prime Minister and most powerful man in Russia, eyes bright with fire, made his entrance.
Tallis watched the obvious warmth between the two men, each patting each other on the back rather than the more formal handshake. Orlov then fell into a cringing eulogy of welcome, Ivanov listening politely before returning the compliment by thanking his host for such a generous invitation. A round of applause followed then, at Ivanov’s signal, the guests resumed their conversations, the lilt and chatter of human voices cranking back into gear. Tallis stood mesmerised. Ivanov was taller than he’d expected, his sober, beautifully cut dark blue suit emphasising his lean, muscled physique. His face was better looking and was remarkably unlined for a man in his forties. He had extraordinary eyes that appeared to miss nothing, a residue, Tallis suspected, from his former life as a spook.
Twenty minutes later, they were seated, Tallis, to his amazement, six place settings away and within perfect earshot of Ivanov. With one ear listening to the droning voice of his next-door neighbour, a fat man from Kursk, he eavesdropped as Ivanov chatted to Orlov about his latest acquisition, a chateau in the Cote D’Azur. From the tenor of the conversation, it became clear that Orlov had been instrumental in its renovation. Nice work, Tallis thought.
‘And that small problem with the indoor pool has been fixed?’ Orlov said.
‘Perfectly. I am hoping to spend more time there in the summer,’ Ivanov said, picking up his knife and fork, a signal for everyone else to start eating, ‘but I fear my influence and therefore my time will be needed in the Caucasus again.’
‘Indeed,’ Orlov said, glancing nervously in Tallis’s direction.
‘Especially with this latest round of murders in Moscow.’
‘An outrage,’ Orlov agreed, flicking Tallis another warning look.
‘More than an outrage. It’s a base attempt to undermine Russia’s stability.’
‘Forgive me,’ Tallis said, addressing Ivanov directly. ‘I was a former police officer in Britain so mine is more of a professional interest, but I presume you have evidence that the murders are linked?’
Orlov, his cheeks drained to the colour of frozen snow, began to noisily protest at the interruption, but was halted in mid-sentence by Ivanov.
‘And you are?’ Ivanov said imperiously.
‘Paul Tallis.’
‘He is the man I was telling you about,’ Orlov said, eyeing Tallis angrily while trying to recover some composure for Ivanov’s benefit. ‘He sold me the helicopter.’ It sounded like an accusation.
Ivanov nodded. Tallis wondered whether Ivanov secretly disapproved. If he did, he certainly concealed it well. ‘A man of many talents,’ Ivanov said, with no hint of condescension in his voice. ‘You sound more like a journalist than a police officer, Mr Tallis. And I have to say I care little for either breed.’ He laughed lightly, turning to Orlov who broke into a nerve-fuelled titter. ‘What were you, a detective?’
‘A firearms officer.’
Orlov turned a paler shade. Ivanov delicately elevated an eyebrow. ‘A highly skilled job. You have my admiration. Your new friend is a very interesting man, Grigori. Where have you been hiding him?’
‘Well, um…’ Orlov mumbled.
‘But to answer your question,’ Ivanov said, returning to Tallis, ‘our police officers are one hundred per cent sure that the murders are linked. Moreover, they have forensic evidence supporting the view that the killings were carried out by a single assassin.’
‘With a varied modus operandi,’ Tallis said.
‘A skilled individual, for sure.’
That was exactly what Tallis was afraid of. ‘But why the Chechen connection?’ Tallis persisted. ‘I thought they were a rather undisciplined lot.’
A pulse in Orlov’s temple twitched. Ivanov, on the contrary, seemed to enjoy the opportunity to educate the Englishman. ‘And you would be right, Mr Tallis.’
‘So?’
‘It comes down to history and motive. In the North Caucasus the people have always been rebellious. There is nothing new about this except we have an additional component: terrorism. And, after the dreadful bombing in London, I’m sure I do not need to lecture you on the consequences of ignoring religious fundamentalism. Terrorists are responsible for every criminal act that takes place in my country. We must not tolerate another Beslan, another Nord-Ost. I’ve spent years of my life working to ensure economic and political stability for Russia. I will not have that undermined by a band of religious savages.’
‘So you’re saying the hits were politically motivated?’ Tallis said evenly.
‘Absolutely.’
‘Then the logical conclusion is that your life and that of the President is also in danger.’
Ivanov smiled, snake-eyed. ‘As you can see,’ he said, with a regal wave of his hand, ‘I am very well protected.’
‘I hear Elimkhanova is gathering support in the mountains,’ Orlov said tentatively, darting Tallis a nervous look that said, Keep your mouth shut. Akhmet Elimkhanova, the Chechen warlord Darke had been sent to infiltrate, Tallis thought, holding his expression steady.
‘Yes, and when they strike,’ Ivanov said darkly, ‘we will be ready to crush them.’
After that, the discussion went off on a tangent concerning Gazprom. Tallis got dragged into a conversation on taxation and unemployment in Britain, the influx of migrant workers a particular point of interest. After dinner and a number of toasts, he got stuck with the tubby man from Kursk. ‘Vodka is recession proof in Russia, and even if you can’t afford it, you can make your own,’ he was saying, the half-closed lids indicating that, single-handedly, he’d done his bit to stave off any slump in the economy. But Tallis had eyes and ears only for Ivanov. So engrossed was he in watching the man, he didn’t notice Orlov coming up behind him, gruff and glowering.
‘Fortunately, Ivanov has accepted your bleedingheart attitude. In fact, he was quite taken with you.’
‘A man of taste,’ Tallis grinned.
‘I am not certain I would have been so tolerant,’ Orlov said sternly.
‘As well you’re not the prime minister, then.’
Orlov continued to scowl then flashed a sudden smile and punched Tallis hard on the shoulder. ‘You English,’ he said, weaving his way through assorted guests to where Svetlana was holding court.
Tallis left several hours later, long after Ivanov, amid much glad-handing, had made his exit, and by which time Orlov had recovered his sense of humour.
‘Thank you,’ Tallis said. ‘I’d no idea you had such elevated connections.’
‘And I’d no idea you were a policeman who shot people for a living.’
Tallis winced. A long-ago image, a little faded now, floated into his mind: black girl, midnight eyes. He flicked it away. ‘That’s not how we do things in Britain,’ he said. ‘Our job is to save lives, not take them.’
‘You’d do well to remember that the next time you bring up the Caucasus.’ Orlov laughed.
And with that piece of advice boxing his ears, Tallis made his escape.
But he didn’t go back to the apartment. He asked the driver to drive north and drop him off on one of the main roads out of the city. It was four in the morning and freezing, the weather plummeting to minus eight degrees. The ground, covered in a spectral coating of frost, creaked and crunched underneath his shoes. He was glad he was wearing a thick overcoat to conceal the smart suit he wore beneath. By any measure, he was a mugger’s dream victim. And there were plenty of potential candidates. He’d never seen so many young people off their faces on booze. Even seasoned bingedrinking young Brits would struggle to keep pace. Vagabond throngs punctuated every street corner, the atmosphere thick with threatened violence. Tallis hurried on and away.
He drew close to one of the prisons known as a SIZO, a large pre-trial and remand institution, and even though it was dark and badly illuminated, the hinterland felt different. Dwellings were downtrodden. You couldn’t call them homes. Concrete and lichen grew through the stone. Litter lay piled in the gutters. The air even at that time in the morning smelt of sickness. He remembered that tuberculosis and HIV was rife in Russian prisons, along with extreme brutality dished out by prison staff. Tales of random beatings and broken bones were commonplace in a Russian institution. With such serious overcrowding, prisoners were forced to sleep in shifts with only the most basic of toilet and washing facilities. He also knew that it was possible to be banged up for years without having your case heard. No wonder the place smelt of desperation. Lena’s words echoed in his mind. Go to the worst places, to the ghettoes, the prisons. Look for the people with their pockets sewn up.
At once he heard footsteps behind him. He could tell from the gait that this was no mugger, nobody who had something to hide. On the contrary, this sounded like officialdom in action. Tallis turned. A torch was shone into his eyes, momentarily dazzling him. Tallis put his arm up to his face. The man flashed an ID card in front of his nose, but it was so fast Tallis couldn’t catch the name, let alone the guy’s rank, or to what organisation he belonged. He sensed that this was not the time to ask.
‘Papers,’ the man said in Russian.
‘I’m English,’ Tallis said, spreading his hands. ‘I don’t speak Russian.’
The officer repeated the order, this time in stilted English.
‘I don’t have them with me.’
‘You have no passport?’ The man’s eyes narrowed.
‘Yes, of course, but, like I said, not with me.’ For which Tallis knew he could be fined.
‘You have committed a crime.’
Act dumb, Tallis thought. ‘I’m sorry, how?’
But the guy was having none of it. ‘Have you registered with the police?’
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Your name?’
Tallis told him.
‘Where are you staying?’
Tallis told him the truth.
‘What are you doing here?’ Now that Tallis was up close, he could see that the man was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and a holster. Tallis could also smell alcohol on his breath. Time to adopt the cover of hapless Brit abroad. Tallis knew three things about telling a successful lie: keep it plausible, and keep it simple. Most of all, believe it.
He looked the man straight in the eye. ‘I’m lost.’
‘Lost?’
‘Yes, I had a problem sleeping so I thought I’d take the air. Stupidly, I wasn’t looking where I was going.’
The guy, quite rightly in Tallis’s opinion, stared at him with open disbelief.
‘Look,’ Tallis said, ‘I’m a tourist who made a silly mistake. I can easily come to Tverskoy police station later and show you my passport.’
The man seemed to consider this for a moment then began to speak of a possible fine.
‘Fair enough,’ Tallis said. Fine, bribe, what the hell did he care? ‘How much do you want?’ he said, taking his wallet from inside his overcoat.
The man looked at it greedily. ‘I think we can come to some arrangement,’ he said.
Josef Petrova, the man who’d encountered Tallis near the prison, felt immensely pleased with his night’s takings. As a former military intelligence officer charged with recruiting spies from the Chechen population, he had recently found a new home and new role with the FSB. His current job was similar in style: it involved trawling prisons to recruit criminals. In return for freedom, they were armed, told to follow their instincts and let loose in Ingushetia and neighbouring Chechnya to shake up the civilian population. Occasionally, they were given specific goals: the abduction, ransom and murder of foreigners, Brits and the Dutch the current favourites. The idea was to smear the warlords’ reputations in addition to making money. The British fool he’d stumbled across on his way home in the early hours of that morning didn’t realise quite how lucky he was.
Petrova walked on through charmless streets made drab in the morning light, his destination Butyrka. Conditions there were brutal, a perfect breeding ground for the specific type of man he was looking for: someone who wouldn’t wince at putting a bag over a youth’s head, or choking and beating him to death, or think twice about cutting a man’s throat. Slicing through a windpipe was not as easy as it seemed. There was skill attached. Men could be surprisingly resistant to dying.
A chill wind lifted the hair on his head and Petrova instinctively rolled the collar of his jacket up. He enjoyed this part of the day when people were stirring, pottering about their business but without the shake and clatter.
Taking a short cut through an alley, he paused to extract a packet of cigarettes, and felt the comforting weight of fresh money in his wallet. So pleased with the world he didn’t notice the silent tread of an assassin behind him. So surprised he didn’t react as his head was wrenched backwards.
‘What the…?’
A flash like quicksilver cut off his speech. Collapsing to the ground, blood pumping from a severed jugular vein, Petrova had no time to consider the level of expertise required for his own murder, or that his death was just another in a series of politically motivated killings.
After a few hours’ sleep, Tallis attempted to return to the area around the prison. It was a risk, foolhardy even, but Lena’s advice to search the ghettoes for her son was like a nagging refrain in his ears. Tallis was also aware that time was running out. He was concerned that the assassin responsible for the Moscow murders might strike again, and further destabilise the political situation in Chechnya. Tallis knew that he needed to get out there quickly. It was essential to find Darke. Hard though it was, Tallis had one opportunity to find Lena’s son Ruslan, and if he failed he’d simply cut his losses and move on.
On his way, he swore he was being followed, the dying echo of someone else’s footsteps a constant in his ears, but however often he turned to look for a tail, the alleys yielded nothing.
A few streets away from his destination, his passage was stopped by a crowd of angry protesters, their rage contained by a phalanx of stone-faced riot police with shields held close to their torsos, batons in their hands. In among the crowd, people with give-away faces were trying to escape. Tallis noted the dark looks, women with hawk-like features and gold hoops in their ears. He asked the nearest person to him, an elderly Russian guy in a tattered coat, what had happened there.
‘An FSB officer had his throat cut early this morning. Every day, another murder,’ the old man complained, balling his fist and shaking it at the sky. ‘Filthy Chechens,’ he added, spitting into the gutter.
Tallis decided to retreat. After buying a bottle of Stoli, a cheap brand of vodka, he returned to the underpass near Komsomolskaya. A busker was playing an accordion and singing a heartfelt Russian ballad, the kind of music to slit your wrists to, Tallis thought. Vladimir and Viktor, the lads he’d encountered the previous day, were in the same spot, sharing smokes, looking belligerent. Neither appeared alarmed nor surprised by his arrival. Wordlessly, Tallis handed the bottle to Vladimir. Vladimir’s hand shot out. ‘Killed any dukh, Englishman?’
‘Not today.’
‘Pity,’ Viktor said, his eyes red-rimmed already from drinking. He was wearing clothes that looked too big for him. With his helmet of golden hair he looked half street urchin, half angel.
Tallis squatted down. Vladimir unscrewed the cap and offered the bottle to Tallis, urging him to drink.
‘Thanks,’ Tallis said, taking a swig, feeling the heat and sweetness on his tongue. Christ, any longer in Moscow and he’d turn into an alcoholic.
‘You said dukh—that’s a military phrase, isn’t it?’ Tallis said, handing the bottle back.
‘I was a soldier,’ Vladimir said.
Tallis expressed surprise. Vladimir didn’t look old enough. He told him so.
‘That’s what war does.’ Vladimir laughed without mirth. ‘Either it makes you old or arrests your development. I was nineteen when I was sent to the front line in 2000.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Novye Aldy. Shit place. Shit people. And I’m not just talking about the dukh. You know what a Russian soldier’s life is worth? Nothing. And the military for all their fucking badges and medals are nothing more than a bunch of drunken sadists. To be honest, I was more scared of my commanding officer than the Chechens.’
‘That bad?’
‘That bad,’ Vladimir said, sullen. He took another snatch of vodka, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and passed the bottle to Viktor. ‘They call it dedovschina.’
Punishment, Tallis remembered.
‘It’s meted out for the most minor violations, lack of respect mainly. There was one guy, a real hard-faced bastard. He liked nothing more than to beat us with spades. He’d fuck you if he had the chance. Some of the guys couldn’t take it. They’d wind up hanging themselves. You’d see the bodies carried out night after night.’
Christ, made the tit-for-tat shootings in London suburbs seem like child’s play, Tallis thought.
‘Tell him about the zindan,’ Viktor said, eyes glittering and strangely alive.
‘Zindan?’ Tallis said, not understanding the phrase.
‘A hollow torture pit faced with brick,’ Vladimir explained. ‘It had an earthen floor. You could be kept there for days. No food, no water, nowhere to piss or shit. That kind of stuff does weird things to you,’ he said, his voice momentarily trailing away. ‘And most of us were ill, dysentery, TB, foot-rot from the rubber boots we were forced to wear. As for food, there wasn’t any. Hunger is as much a soldier’s enemy as brutality if you’re Russian,’ he said, taking another swig of vodka. ‘That and the fact nobody actually trained us to shoot, let alone protect ourselves from machine-gun fire. In the summer, the temperature could soar to fifty degrees centigrade. In the winter, you’d be freezing your nuts off. Could even drop to minus ten. As for the dukh, they’d often leave little goodbye presents.’ Vladimir smiled thinly. ‘Mines and boobytraps in abandoned apartments, the type that blow your balls off. Oh, yes, Englishman, if you kill a Chechen, think of me.’
‘And you, Viktor?’ Tallis said quietly. ‘Were you a soldier, too?’
Viktor froze. Vladimir looked at him, searched for and met his gaze, seeking some sort of permission, it seemed. After a few seconds, Viktor nodded, a quick flick of his head, and took a snatch of vodka.
‘Viktor was taken hostage when he was twelve,’ Vladimir began. ‘His parents were quite rich, you see. They owned a house near Grozny.’
‘They were Chechens?’
‘Russians,’ Vladimir said with emphasis. ‘It was there, during a holiday, that he was taken.’
‘Chechen gangsters. He was tortured,’ Vladimir swallowed, glancing away. ‘His parents were desperate and went to everyone they could think of for help. They offered everything they had in an effort to get him back. Lots of promises were made. Time passed. Nothing happened.’
‘And these gangsters were kidnappers? They kept in touch?’
Vladimir nodded. ‘They used intermediaries to demand eight hundred thousand dollars.’
Tallis glanced at Viktor, who was sitting motionless, tuned out, still as statuary.
‘They sold everything they had and gave it to anyone who said they’d help, including the police, a gangster said to have close ties with the kidnappers and the republic’s branch of the FSB. They lost everything to find their son.
‘What they didn’t know was that the very people said to be looking for him were in conspiracy with the kidnappers. You see, it’s hard to tell who is working for whom in Chechnya. Fortunately for Viktor, having been bought and sold several times by certain Chechen faces, he managed to escape one night when his captors had more to drink than was good for them.’
But Viktor’s torment had only begun, Tallis thought, looking at the boy, feeling hollow.
‘Last month, he was briefly detained for punching a young Chechen’s lights out.’ Vladmir smiled, putting an arm around Viktor’s shoulders, giving him a hug, Viktor’s response to reach for the vodka.
‘Where was that?’ Tallis said, casual.
‘Ryazan Prospekt.’
‘Slums,’ Viktor muttered.
Tallis stayed another half an hour with the boys. When he left he gave them money, told them not to spend it all on booze.
Viktor was right, Tallis thought, looking about him. After taking an age to travel across the city, even on the Metro, he was standing on a street in the middle of an industrial zone populated by crumbling five-storey dwellings and derelict workshops. The entire area looked as if it had been subject to looting, the grinding atmosphere one of depression punctuated by paranoia. You could see it in the faces, in the body language. Here, it seemed people lived a vagrant-style existence, constantly suspicious, always looking over their shoulders.
And there was something else, Tallis thought. Where were all the young men? It seemed to him then that Chechens had become the new Jews. They had effectively been ghettoised. As such, they got the blame for everything.
He walked on down a raddled-looking street where great lumps of masonry had fallen off the buildings. A woman dressed in a long coat and scarf, her face parallel with the ground, scurried past. Tallis took out the photograph of Lena’s son from his jacket and, speaking to the hurrying woman in Chechen, explained that it was an old photograph but did she know of a Ruslan Maisakov? At first the woman shrugged without looking.
‘Please,’ Tallis said, pushing the photograph into her hand. He watched her face, the pinched, tired features that were so similar to Lena’s, the hollows in her cheeks, saw the light of recognition in her eyes. Then the woman’s expression turned to one of suspicion. ‘Who are you?’
‘A friend. His mother sent me.’
She stared at him for several moments.
Come on, Tallis thought, sparking. He knew that she knew, but would she talk? Could she be persuaded somehow? He returned her stare, intense.
‘I know of Ruslan,’ she said at last. ‘He was taken this morning.’
‘Taken where?’
‘Vykhino police station on Sormovskaya Street.’
‘Why?’
The woman briefly smiled. ‘Don’t you know that all Chechens have been redefined as criminals?’ And then she went away.
A wad of cash to a police officer at Vykhino police station confirmed that Ruslan Maisakov, along with two others, had been taken, following interrogation, to Moscow State Prison. Tallis’s heart sank. There was no way he was about to knock on doors and draw further attention to himself. Defeated, he headed back to the apartment block. He was standing outside when his phone rang. It was Orlov. ‘That matter we discussed,’ he said elliptically. ‘I know someone who may be able to help.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Tallis said, glancing at his watch: one o’clock.
‘I will get one of my men to pick you up. Be ready in half an hour.’
Orlov was as good as his word. Fyodor collected him in silence and drove in silence. Tallis couldn’t have cared less. He had nothing to say to him.
It soon became clear from the direction in which they were travelling that they were heading for the estate. As soon as they arrived, Fyodor dropped Tallis off at the helipad where Orlov was already waiting.
‘What sort of space do you need to land one of these things?’ Orlov said, pointing at the 109 and brandishing a map.
‘A clear one,’ Tallis said. ‘No power lines, not too many trees, about the size of a tennis court.’ He’d landed in tighter areas but he wasn’t going to admit that to Orlov. Knowing him, he’d have him land on a roof somewhere.
‘Good,’ he said, showing Tallis where they were heading, a dacha between Kaluga and Tula and on the river Oka. Tallis knew better than to ask Orlov whether he’d filed a flight plan. In reality, Russia was quite different from the UK. As long as you’d initially filed a large enough plan covering a big enough radius, stating the reason as training in the area, you were pretty clear to fly when you wanted.
This time it was Tallis’s turn to show off, flying low, tracking the river at about six hundred feet. Orlov was in his element. ‘We travel fast, no?’
‘It’s only perceptual,’ Tallis said. ‘The lower you fly, the quicker it seems.’
Orlov’s enthusiasm was undiminished. ‘This is like in the film, Apocalypse Now,’ he cried excitedly.
Wagner’s ‘Flight of the Valkyries’ immediately flashed through Tallis’s brain. ‘This contact we’re going to meet,’ Tallis said. ‘Who is he?’
‘Yuri Chaikova, a former soldier and good friend of mine. Yuri will get you anything you need. During the Chechen conflict, he was charged several times for selling arms.’
‘What, to the other side?’
‘A man has to make a living.’ Orlov gave a lugubrious sigh. ‘He has many, many contacts.’
Tallis smiled. That’s exactly what he’d hoped for. It wasn’t the weapons he was interested in but the fixer supplying them.
After a minor hiccough on landing—bracken was not ideal for a tail rotor—Tallis climbed out and was greeted by the extraordinary sight of beautifully landscaped gardens with flowering fruit trees and vegetable patches, all carefully cultivated and nurtured, unlike the actual house, which, although big, wasn’t particularly attractive. It reminded him of a broken-down German schloss.
A bloke with a shaved head and massive features resembling a banned breed of dog sauntered towards them. Tallis imagined this was Chaikova’s heavy. He bet underneath the clothes the guy was covered in tattoos.
‘Grigori,’ the man said, clapping Orlov on the back.
‘Yuri,’ Orlov exclaimed in return. Tallis stood back, feeling faintly embarrassed. When they were done, he was introduced. Up close, Tallis saw that Chaikova’s face bore a number of scars.
‘Look forward to doing business with you,’ Chaikova said in a nasal voice, his cool blue eyes fastening onto Tallis. ‘Grigori tells me you were a firearms officer in the UK.’
Grigori would, Tallis thought. ‘A long time ago,’ he said, thinking on the next occasion he’d keep his mouth shut.
‘But one never forgets,’ Chaikova said shrewdly. ‘Tell me, when you went in for the kill, did you do it the Russian way?’
Tallis hiked an eyebrow. ‘Going in for the kill’ sounded more akin to illegal fox hunting.
‘The kontrolnyi vystrel. It means several shots followed up by the control shot,’ Chaikova said, eyes gleaming.
‘You mean a double tap,’ Tallis said.
‘Ah, that is what you call it,’ Chaikova said, making apistol shape with his hand. ‘Bang, bang!’ He laughed. ‘I think you will appreciate what I have to offer you,’ he continued, as if he were about to host a wine tasting.
Tallis was shown to the house, an impression of large rooms and doors off, modestly furnished. The arms were kept in a wood-panelled room off a main living area. ‘This is my study,’ Chaikova said with a laugh. Except there were no books on show, only guns. Tallis stared at racks and racks of them. The shelves included Bren guns, Minimis—250 rounds, fired in bursts of twenty—Magnums and Armalites. Orlov, meanwhile, had made himself comfortable in the only easy chair in the room.
‘What was it you were after?’ Chaikova said, taking out a bunch of keys, presumably to open one of the glass-fronted cabinets that housed pistols and revolvers. Tallis spotted a couple of hefty Desert Eagles. The only time he’d seen this much gear had been in the armoury at the National Firearms School. Not even Johnny Kennedy, the former Mr Big he’d come across in Birmingham on his last mission, had had weaponry on this scale. Tallis reckoned half the Russian haul was stolen; the other half spoils of war. ‘How about a Makarov for starters?’
Chaikova nodded, went to one of the cabinets, opened it, took out the gun and handed it to Tallis. ‘Modelled on the Walther PP,’ Chaikova said. ‘Perfect for a hit.’
Tallis felt the weight of it in his hand. ‘Anywhere I can test it?’
‘Later,’ Chaikova said. ‘You choose what you want then we take the firearms to the range.’
Tallis put the gun down and walked towards the rack nearest him, reached out and touched a Heckler and Koch SA80. ‘This takes me back,’ he said affably.
‘You were a soldier in the British army?’ Chaikova said.
‘Before joining the police.’
‘See any action?’
‘First Gulf War.’
Chaikova grinned, seemingly impressed.
‘Tallis here is interested in our own little war,’ Orlov said, stretching his legs out expansively. ‘Chaikova could tell you a few tales.’
‘Yeah?’ Tallis said, indicating to Chaikova that he’d like to check out the H&K MP5K.
‘I used to run a business taking people to places they were not supposed to be,’ Chaikova said.
‘What sort of people?’
‘Journalists, mostly, the ones who could not get the necessary permissions from the Kremlin to travel. At the time, flights were temporarily suspended to Grozny so there was plenty of work for people like myself.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘Sounds stupid and dangerous,’ Orlov said bluntly, his voice reverberating from the bowels of the soft leather armchair.
Chaikova inclined his head towards Orlov and, looking at Tallis, laughed. ‘As if he would know.’
‘There are less dangerous ways to make money,’ Orlov huffed. ‘Anyway, thank God you’ve packed it in.’
Chaikova flashed him a grin and handed the MP5K to Tallis. ‘You like?’ Chaikova said.
‘Very much. Used this a lot. Particularly like the telescope,’ Tallis commented. Not all models had them. Some had adjustable iron sights. ‘Probably my favourite submachine-gun.’
‘It’s versatile, yes?’ Chaikova said. ‘Good for concealment.’
That’s what he was banking on. ‘So why did you pack it in?’ Tallis asked Chaikova. ‘Because of the recent unrest?’
‘Market forces,’ Chaikova said crisply. ‘The price on a Western journalist’s head has recently tripled. They do not wish to go. I have nobody to take. Not even the Russian press wish to take the risk.’
Tallis nodded. So it wasn’t a case of being afraid, he thought. ‘I’ll take these, and can you find me a Glock?’
‘Model?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Good choice, and you can interchange the cartridges with the Makarov.’
Bullshit, Tallis thought, and said so. ‘They might be nominally the same size but they aren’t interchangeable,’ he added.
Chaikova broke into a smile and turned to Orlov. ‘He’s good, your man.’
The range turned out to be a flat piece of land adjoining one of the many vegetable plots. Targets were laid out at different intervals. A broken-down building at the far end was rigged up as a practice area for hostage retrieval. Putting all three guns through their paces, he struck a deal with Chaikova, and to seal it drank several toasts: to business, to Orlov’s personal connections; to Chaikova’s resourcefulness and daring; to Tallis’s ballistic skill. After that, things got interesting.
‘And what are you going to do with all this weaponry?’ Orlov said. ‘Take the guns back to Britain and sell them on?’
‘I’m not that kind of a businessman,’ Tallis said mildly.
‘He’s a soldier.’ Chaikova grinned, the scars on his face joining up and forming an interesting curve.
‘Yes,’ Orlov said, in a knowing way that told Tallis he was putting the pieces together. It seemed the best moment to indulge in a little misinformation.
‘You guessed.’ Tallis smiled, watching as Orlov’s dark eyebrows shot up and met his bleached hairline. ‘I’m on a bit of a mercy mission. You see, back in the UK I met a Chechen lady who has a son here. She asked me to pass on a message for her. Well, more than that. She asked me to see that he was OK. Now, I know what you both think,’ Tallis said, meeting their mystified expressions, ‘but she’s a nice lady and what harm could it do?’
‘You need guns for that?’ Chaikova said, his eyes narrowing.
‘Not exactly,’ Tallis fudged. ‘I had this idea of taking him back to Grozny.’
‘Madness,’ Orlov snorted. Tallis noticed that Chaikova said nothing at all.
‘Trouble is, it turns out this guy was arrested this morning and carted off to Moscow State Prison. Any ideas how I can spring him? I’m willing to pay.’ Tallis looked from Orlov to Chaikova who, in turn, looked at each other for a long moment. A sly smile crept across Orlov’s face. Tallis got the feeling that another business proposal was in the offing. ‘How much?’ Orlov said.
‘Whatever you want.’ Tallis hoped that the SIS had deep pockets.
‘Kumarin mentioned you picked him up in a Robinson 22.’
‘Yes, that’s…Wait a minute,’ Tallis said. ‘You mean you want me to get you one?’
‘Give me one. It is a fair exchange,’ Orlov said, sounding very reasonable about something that was entirely unreasonable.
Tallis let out a sigh.
‘Second-hand,’ Orlov said.
The equivalent of sixty, maybe seventy thousand pounds, Tallis thought. ‘Alright, but can you do it?’
Orlov licked the corner of his mouth, nodded slowly. ‘I have a friend who is Chechen. He could help.’
A friend? Tallis thought. He thought Orlov hated the Chechens. He kept his gaze steady. One thing he was beginning to discover about Orlov was his moral inconsistency.
‘Who gives a fuck about one lousy Chechen?’ Orlov shrugged, rolling his eyes, as if this explained the ambiguity in his thinking. ‘Medved,’ Orlov said with emphasis to Chaikova.
‘You mean Medved, the second-hand car dealer down the road?’ Chaikova grinned.
‘Not sure I follow you,’ Tallis said. ‘If this guy’s a Chechen, how the hell can he help?’
‘His brother-in-law is Russian and he works in Moscow State Prison.’ Orlov winked. What Orlov meant was that, for the right price, he could be persuaded to spring Ruslan.
A short journey in Chaikova’s Land Cruiser led them to Medved’s yard. Broken-down-looking cars with dents in their flanks lined one side of a perimeter fence, vehicles for sale, mainly Ladas, Volvos and Zaz Tavrias the other. Medved was the Russian word for bear. A hefty-looking man with a grizzled beard and thick, fleshy features, he suited the nickname.
‘My brother-in-law, Ilya, is a piece of shit,’ Medved growled, ‘but for the right price he can be organised.’ Tallis was already doing the maths: a helicopter to Orlov, a bung to Medved and a bung to his brother-in-law. Ouch!
‘What about the police, the FSB, the—’ Tallis broke off as three pairs of eyes swivelled and trained on him.
‘This is Russia.’ Orlov grinned. ‘And in Russia all things are possible.’