ORLOV was right. Twenty-four hours later, Tallis received a call. Ruslan Maisakov was to be released from prison at eleven o’clock sharp. Before he left, Tallis made contact with Asim and gave him edited highlights of events to date.
‘Ivanov seems pretty well protected for someone who’s no longer in the limelight,’ Tallis said.
‘Never underestimate the role of the Prime Minister. He may no longer be President, but he’s generally regarded as the power behind the throne. Our killer needs only to get lucky once. And there are plenty of opportunities to strike. The opening ceremony of the World Newspaper Congress takes place in less than three weeks. Traditionally, the President takes part, but the role could also fall to the Prime Minister.’
‘Can’t you issue a covert warning?’
‘Too risky. This arms dealer, you think he’s your in?’
‘Fairly certain. I thought I’d leave it a day and contact him, see if he’ll play ball.’
‘Don’t leave it too long. Things have gone scarily quiet.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Do you honestly believe that Darke would risk coming all the way down from the mountains, across the Caucasus to Moscow, to carry out the hits?’
‘He’s certainly capable of it.’
‘Then why am I looking for him in the mountains? Why not here?’
‘Because we have no intelligence to suggest he’s actually living in Moscow. His last known address—’
‘If you can call a terrorist training camp an address,’ Tallis chipped in.
‘Is somewhere near Borzoi.’
Not for the first time, Tallis wondered about Asim or rather Fazan’s source of information. ‘Something else,’ Tallis said. ‘I think I might have gone seriously over budget.’
Asim let out a laugh. ‘For once I can honestly say that’s not my problem.’
The prison surroundings were much as Tallis had imagined, daylight giving it, if anything, a more dismal and threatening appearance. The same could be said for Ruslan, Tallis thought, watching as a tall, pale-skinned young man wearing nothing but a threadbare jacket and baggy trousers slowly emerged from the eighteenth-century entrance. In spite of his bruised face, this was still recognisably and without doubt an adult version of the serious youngster in the photograph, but the aspiration and hope evident in the child’s expression had long been extinguished.
As Ruslan shuffled past, Tallis spoke. ‘Ruslan?’
Ruslan turned slowly. He had sad, angry eyes, much like his mother’s. ‘Do I know you?’
‘It’s OK,’ Tallis said softly in Chechen, raising both hands, palms facing. ‘I’m a friend.’
Ruslan’s laugh was dry. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are. Leave me alone.’
‘Your mother sent me.’
Ruslan scowled, his face a picture of suspicion. How many times had he been tricked? Tallis wondered as Ruslan shook his head, turned on his heel and made to go.
‘No, wait,’ Tallis said, catching at Ruslan’s sleeve, the fabric oily in his fingers. ‘Here,’ he said, pressing the battered photograph into the young man’s hand.
Ruslan stopped in his tracks, uncurled his dirtstreaked fingers, ran a grimy nail over the print, staring, it seemed, at another soul, another life. ‘My mother gave you this?’ He looked up, awe-struck.
‘Lena, yes.’
‘And she is alive, she’s well?’
‘She is living in England.’
‘England?’ Ruslan said, bewildered. ‘And my little sister, Asya?’
Tallis saw hope flare in the young man’s face. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer we had this conversation somewhere quiet and warm. I’m staying in an apartment in Tverskaya. We can talk there. It will be safer.’
‘Nowhere is safe,’ Ruslan said. This time the smile was genuine.
‘Well, it’s the best I can do,’ Tallis said, a sudden feeling of elation sweeping over him. Ruslan was a sign, an omen, even the key. Now that he’d found him, he knew, in his bones, Graham Darke would follow.
Ruslan hesitated, briefly looked behind him then back at the prison walls. ‘Alright,’ he said, ‘but walk slowly.’
The reason for Ruslan’s sluggish gait soon became apparent. Back at the apartment, while Tallis dug out a set of clean clothes, Ruslan took a bath from which he emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist. His thin body and legs were a mass of bruises the colour of fresh aubergines.
‘Jesus!’ Tallis exclaimed.
‘Prison brutality is normal in Russia. You have no idea what prisoners endure. If you’re like me, well…’ His voice petered out, a lost expression on his face.
‘I’m surprised they didn’t break anything.’
‘One of the lucky ones.’ Ruslan flicked a smile, stiffly pulling on the clothes while Tallis made coffee. ‘Now, tell me about my mother and my sister,’ he said when they were sitting down.
So Tallis did, breaking the news about Asya as best he could. When he finished there was a long, painful silence. Finally, Ruslan spoke. ‘You say my mother will be deported?’
‘Eventually, yes.’ Except what had Rasu said? In reality, you’re only ever in with a chance if you’re a family.
Ruslan thoughtfully stroked the stubble on his chin then turned his full dark-eyed gaze on Tallis. ‘I’m not clear why your paths crossed. You must have some reason.’
‘I do. I need to find someone.’ Tallis got up, retrieved the photograph of Graham Darke from his backpack, handed it to Ruslan. ‘He’s a British guy. He’s gone missing in the mountains.’
Ruslan stared at it, shook his head sadly, handed the print back. ‘He’s probably dead. People disappear all the time. And now, with the new offensive…’ His voice petered out.
‘I have to try.’
‘You’re crazy. You don’t understand.’
No, you don’t understand, Tallis thought. How could you? ‘It’s not negotiable.’
Ruslan leant back in the chair. ‘You’re paid to find him?’
‘Yes.’
Ruslan nodded. Tallis could almost see the word mercenary flashing up on Ruslan’s forehead. ‘Then I hope you were paid a lot of money,’ Ruslan said. ‘Not only are there mines in the mountains but Mafiya, and soldiers, the type of guys who resent being back there again and who would kill simply because they’ve run out of vodka. There’s only one way to do it and that’s to find a fixer.’
‘And you’ll need false papers.’
Tallis nodded again.
Ruslan inclined his head. ‘If you know all this, why are you here?’
‘If you know all this, why are you here?’ Tallis smiled.
Ruslan let out a cold laugh. ‘Where do you think I’d find that kind of money?’
Tallis leant towards him. ‘Would you go back if you could?’
‘Of course. It’s my home. I still have family there.’
‘Really?’ He didn’t remember Lena mentioning anyone.
‘My aunt Katya, my father’s sister. She lives in the suburbs of Grozny. Perhaps, one day, I could find a place for me and my mother there,’ Ruslan said, reflective.
‘Then come with me.’
‘You’re mad,’ Ruslan half laughed, not quite certain whether to take this Englishman seriously.
Tallis flashed a grin. ‘I know.’
Tallis gave Ruslan a bed for the night. First light, while Ruslan was kneeling and saying his prayers, Tallis was up drinking coffee in the kitchen, studying the photograph of Darke, trying to work out whether Chaikova, the arms dealer, would play. He took Chaikova for being a calculated risk-taker. He could read it in that scarred face of his and in his eyes, and although Tallis didn’t particularly relish him at close quarters, he reckoned he’d be a really useful bloke to have on board. Cool and unflappable and used to things getting down and dirty, he’d provide a decent piece of muscle should the need arise. In fact, Chaikova probably enjoyed dispensing damage and, like it or not, Tallis thought it might be necessary. If Chaikova could get him and Ruslan to Grozny, Tallis could make the rest of the journey into the mountains alone.
One phone call to Orlov later, Chaikova was on the line. Tallis explained what he wanted him to do.
‘To Grozny, you say?’ Chaikova said, in a considered manner.
‘Yes.’
‘One way?’
Tallis hoped not in the literal sense. ‘Yes.’
‘After that, you are on your own,’ Chaikova said. ‘And you say there are two of you?’
‘That’s right.’
Tallis hesitated. Chaikova was quick to pick up on it. ‘And?’
‘He’s Chechen.’
‘As long as he doesn’t tell me what to do, so what? Grigori will fix papers for a price.’
‘Fine,’ Tallis said with more confidence now that he’d been given official clearance from Asim.
‘The route,’ Chaikova said, ‘it is probably better I decide. I know the checkpoints.’
‘Four-by-four is best. There’s a lot of mud this time of year. Where are you staying?’
Tallis told him.
‘I will get things organised then visit and collect the money. I will also bring extra firepower.’
Tallis had an image of Dragunovs, AKs and hand grenades. ‘The papers,’ he said. ‘How quickly do you think Orlov can get hold of them?’
‘Soon as. I will talk to Grigori personally.’
‘That’s very good of you. I appreciate it.’
‘No problem,’ Chaikova said. ‘Life is dull. It is some time since I enjoyed an adventure.’
The next two days were a whirl of activity. Any reservations on Ruslan’s part were swiftly overcome in the light of reports of a heavy-handed clampdown in the ghettoes. The simple truth was that the journey home provided him with a goal that had long been absent from his life.
Tallis bought enough suitable clothing for the boy. A Russian-style Cossak hat, pulled well down over Ruslan’s head, helped take some of the focus off his bruises, which were now fading to a paler shade of green. As for Tallis, he cleaned his weapons, checked and double-checked basic equipment—compass, knife, map, backpack, including a down-filled sleeping bag, all-important water and vacuum-sealed food supplies. He noticed that someone had thoughtfully added field dressings to the kit and several phials of morphine and a syringe.
Knowledge was power, particularly when it came to route planning. Although Tallis thought he could trust Chaikova’s judgement, he and Ruslan studied the maps in detail.
‘Most people used to fly from Moscow straight to Grozny. With the flights suspended you could still travel by road. The troops used to come in via Mozdok, a front-line town on the border. The headquarters of the combined forces of the North Caucasus are based there. Failing that, they’d fly by helicopter to Nazran.’
‘And now, which would be the best way?’
‘The best meaning safest? Travel by road to Rostovon-Don.’ Probably what Chaikova had in mind, Tallis thought.
‘How far?’
‘Seven hundred and forty-four miles.’
Depending on mode of transport, it could take the best part of three very uncomfortable days, Tallis estimated.
‘But whichever way…’ Ruslan pointed out on the map ‘…there’s a main checkpoint here beyond Nazran, and beyond that the OMON, or riot police, are stationed at the village of Assinovskaya. ‘This friend of yours,’ he said, looking up. ‘He must be worth a lot to you.’
‘Yes,’ Tallis said simply. ‘He is.’
As it turned out, Ruslan was right about the route, but not the method of travel. Chaikova called round two evenings later bearing false papers. He was wearing khaki-coloured pants and a camouflage-style jacket. He also sported a pair of aviators. Tallis thought he might as well have Come and Arrest me painted on his shaved head.
‘Change of plan,’ Chaikova announced. ‘We’re going by train tonight.’
‘What?’ Tallis said. ‘If we travel by train we can’t take any weapons with us.’
‘No problem,’ Chaikova said, a phrase that Tallis suspected was going to drive him nuts. ‘I know a man in Rostov who will supply.’
‘And how are we going to travel after that?’ Tallis said, trying to tame his growing exasperation.
‘Rostov has a huge car market,’ Ruslan pointed out.
Chaikova nodded. ‘We will easily pick up a set of wheels.’
‘It’s a good plan,’ Ruslan said, studying the papers that told him he was a Russian-born administrative assistant. He showed the papers to Tallis. ‘Administering what?’ Tallis frowned.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Chaikova said loftily, ‘it will do.’ The way he was eyeing Ruslan, Tallis half wondered whether it was a trick but, then again, if one went down, they all did.
They caught the Metro to Komsomolskaya and walked to Kazansky, a vast draughty train station. The train they were catching was bound for Vladikavkaz, capital of North Ossetia. En route it would stop at Rostov-on-Don. Chaikova had booked tickets in a second-class carriage with a sleeping compartment. The train, which was warm and cosy, was busy with families and single men saying goodbye to lovers. Tallis didn’t sleep much that night.
The next morning it seemed that they were stopping at every station along the way, the train constantly filling up with and emptying its cargo of passengers. The atmosphere on the train was strangely electric. A spirit of bonhomie prevailed that simply didn’t exist in Britain: people shared food and drink as well as conversation. Some stations were busy thoroughfares, providing goods for sale, men and women rushing to the windows to trade anything from bottled fruit and sweet pastries to whole fish wrapped in newspaper, and bags of beetroot; others looked empty and forgotten, a little like the bleak Russian steppes, Tallis thought. Neither he nor his travelling companions talked very much: Tallis because he feared that one of the numerous female officials stomping up and down the corridor might overhear; Chaikova because it was a way of demonstrating his dislike, on principle, of Ruslan. Despite that, they all ate well in the dining car—soup and pirozhi, savoury meat pies, washed down with coffee in plastic cups. By the second evening they were pulling into Rostov-on-Don. Herds of their fellow passengers disembarked. Here they met their first obstacle: OMON patrols.
‘Stay cool,’ Chaikova said, taking out a pack of cigarettes, walking calmly in front, papers at the ready.
‘Cigarette?’ he offered an officer as Tallis and Ruslan surged forward, averting their eyes from the granitefaced policemen, the patrol entirely unable to cope with the sheer volume of people.
‘Thanks,’ Tallis heard the officer say behind him as Chaikova pushed his way through to join them.
‘Which way?’ Tallis muttered.
‘Here.’ Chaikova led the way, crossing over and turning immediately into and down a road lined with nineteenthcentury red-brick houses. A few narrow streets on and they were in a less salubrious part of town where they were booked into a dispiriting and dilapidated-looking hotel. Tallis soon got the picture: hookers outside; cockroaches inside. He was too tired to pay much attention to either.
As soon as they were shown to their room, a barren chamber furnished with three single beds with dubiouslooking bedding, Ruslan fell to his hands and knees to pray. Chaikova yawned and stretched. ‘A man must have his enthusiasms, I suppose,’ he said cynically. ‘Say one for me while you’re at it.’
‘I’d be here all night, then,’ Ruslan flashed back, with more humour than Tallis thought Chaikova deserved. Ruslan’s magnanimity was rewarded by a deep throaty laugh from Chaikova.
The next morning, after a vile breakfast of sour yogurt and stewed coffee, they headed for the market. The nearest Tallis had ever come to visiting a place like it was one of the big markets outside Birmingham where you could pick up a battered Fiesta for two hundred quid. This was full of Ladas, Volgas, Mercedes, Land Cruisers, and museum pieces that he’d never seen before in his life. Chaikova had his eye on a Soviet-style 4x4 that had seen better times. Tallis preferred the look of a Nissan 4x4 but, as Chaikova had offered to do the buying and driving, he graciously deferred. Driving the vehicle to the nearest petrol station revealed a number of strange-sounding noises from the exhaust and clutch, although none seemed particularly terminal.
‘Nothing like travelling in style,’ Ruslan said dryly.
‘As if you’d know,’ Chaikova shot back. ‘At least it’s quicker than a tractor.’
‘What are you suggesting?’ Ruslan said, edgy. ‘That Chechens are all peasants?’
‘Far too glamorous a description.’
Ruslan let out a slow hiss of anger. ‘I guess that’s to be expected from a foul-mouthed, pig-eating Russian.’
‘Oi, boy,’ Chaikova growled. ‘Remember, I’m doing you a favour here.’
‘Really? Well, I’ll act grateful if you act nice.’
Chaikova twisted round and blew Ruslan a kiss, a naughty grin suddenly plastered across his face. ‘Nice enough for you?’ At which Ruslan then Tallis burst out laughing.
After they’d filled up, Chaikova announced the next stop: his friendly arms dealer.
‘Drop me here,’ Tallis said. ‘I’m going in search of a decent cup of coffee and something to eat.’
‘You don’t want any weapons?’ Chaikova said, mystified.
‘No need,’ Tallis said, pointing at the backpack positioned down by his feet. ‘That’s why I wanted the Kurtz, remember?’ And the Makarov, he thought.
Chaikova broke into a big smile then his expression darkened. ‘What about the Chechen? Does he want guns?’ Chaikova gestured with his thumb at Ruslan, who was sitting in the back.
‘Thought you were supposed to be polite.’ Tallis looked across unsmiling. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ He had no time for backbiting between them. It could cost them their lives.
Chaikova, chisel-faced, swivelled round, raised an eyebrow. ‘I’d be grateful.’ Ruslan nodded, ironic, squeezing a grudging smile from the Russian.
‘He’d better go with you, then,’ Tallis said, opening the door and hopping out with his backpack. ‘Meet me in a couple of hours back at the dump,’ he said, alluding to the hotel, and walked away. He quickly found himself in wide tree-lined streets with nearby parks. Rostov-on-Don, the entrance to the Caucasus, was, in fact, a much nicer regional city than he’d first imagined. Although it was cold, slashes of sunlight filtered through the trees, dappling the pavement, giving the illusion of spring. It hummed with people and, like a little Moscow, the buzzword was trade.
After a while, the parkland dried up and he found himself in a quieter area with far fewer people. He seemed to be in a maze of brick railway arches and back streets with tired-looking homes, the only inhabitants an old woman pulling a shopping trolley, muttering obscenities and a couple of teenage boys off their faces on hard liquor. Nobody paid him any attention. Nobody posed a threat.
Feeling hungry, he went into the first café he came across, off a side street full of lock-ups, close to a road where the river Don ran through the city. In Russian, he ordered coffee and pizza. Both arrived promptly and he ate and drank, savouring the solitude. He was so lost in thought he almost missed the two leather-jacketed men who entered the café, one a typical Russian—short, stocky with fair hair and blue eyes—the other taller, heavier featured with pouched cheeks. They were talking softly to the female proprietor. Something in her tense expression triggered Tallis’s alarm bells. When she glanced anxiously in his direction he thought it time to decamp. He scraped back the chair and got up slowly, working a smile onto his face and thanking the owner as he left. The two men immediately stopped talking and glanced away. There was something too studied about them, Tallis thought as he opened the door and slipped outside. If they were professionals, he knew they wouldn’t immediately follow so he hacked down the narrow street, darted into a darkened doorway and, taking the Makarov from his backpack, loaded a magazine, attached a silencer and released the safety.
Sure enough, the Russians came out of the café, looked both ways then, as if by a sixth sense, headed in the direction he’d just taken. Tallis could almost feel the air part as both men walked past. Counting to five and knowing that as soon as they hit the main street they’d realise his trick, he moved back into the alley and walked swiftly in the other direction, body hugging the wall. He’d gone no more than a few metres when the sound of footsteps hammered in his ears. That’s when he knew he was clean out of options.
He turned in time to see the stocky guy move for his weapon, the taller of the two already taking up a typical shooting stance, legs apart, knees slightly bent, a deadly PSM blow-back pistol in his hand. Without hesitation, Tallis squeezed the trigger, taking down the tall guy first with a head shot, then let off a second round, felling the man’s colleague. Two follow-up shots reduced his ammo to four rounds. Pulse hammering, Tallis looked around him. Other than a dog bolting past, the alley was empty. He couldn’t do anything about the blood, but he could remove the bodies. Breaking into the nearest lock-up, he lifted both men inside, careful not to leave a trail. A quick trawl through their wallets revealed nothing other than their names: no organisation, no rank. Reversing his jacket to conceal a bloodstain on the sleeves, he pulled the door closed.
Rolling up his collar, he set off down the street, leaving what he hoped seemed nothing more serious than evidence of a drunken brawl behind him, and returned via a circuitous route to the seedy hotel entrance. Why the two guys had singled him out, he hadn’t a clue. And that worried him. Could it be connected to the FSB man he’d run into when he’d been checking out the prison, and who’d later wound up with his throat cut? Could Orlov be playing fast and loose? But, then, why would he compromise the safety of his friend Chaikova? The trouble with working in a strange land was that it was difficult to tell who was the enemy.
Nodding a good morning at the blowsy-faced proprietor, Tallis crossed the lobby and went up the stairs to the room he shared with the others.
Chaikova was in his element. Wearing a shoulder holster, he was examining the goods: the latest Browning, derived from an earlier high-power model; and a SIG P226. For heftier weaponry, Chaikova had gone for an Uzi sub-machine-gun, not the standard pray and spray but the more diminutive model, the Mini-Uzi, smaller in every dimension bar the calibre. Ruslan had settled for the thirty-round Steyr SPP.
‘I told him it was good for a two-handed hold,’ Chaikova said.
‘Look,’ Ruslan said, imitating a typical shooting stance, more American gangster than British firearms officer.
‘Bang! Bang! That’s my boy,’ Chaikova said appreciatively, immediately colouring on realising the inadvertent warmth of his remark. Spotting weakness, Ruslan grinned and winked at him.
‘Fine.’ Tallis sincerely hoped Ruslan wouldn’t need the advice.
‘And I got us these,’ Chaikova said, producing three Kevlars.
‘Good idea.’
‘Everything alright?’ Chaikova frowned.
‘Cool,’ Tallis replied.
They left the next morning before first light. It took them eight hours to drive south along the main three-lane highway in the direction of Stavropol. On the way a news report hissed and crackled out of the radio. Tallis strained to pick up the gist, fearing that it would reveal the killing of two men in Rostov-on-Don. It didn’t. It concerned a Chechen terrorist attack at Nalchik.
‘What do you say to that?’ Chaikova said, an ugly note back in his voice, the remark clearly aimed at Ruslan.
‘I say there are terrorists on both sides,’ Ruslan said, staring out of the window. ‘I don’t agree with either.’
Chaikova gave a snort. Tallis was wondering whether Darke had had any involvement.
The journey was punctuated by numerous checkpoints. So far their luck had held out. After cursory examination of their papers by jumpy and undernourished-looking soldiers, they were waved through. Tallis understood the sub-text. Another crackly news report had talked of the possibility of suicide bombers. Whether this was the Russian government’s method of ramping up the fear factor or whether it was based on genuine intelligence, you could hardly blame the average soldier for being scared. Suicide bombers were difficult to defeat. It really was a case of Russian roulette. Fortunately, the threat was working in their favour. Nobody wanted to invite the opportunity by stopping them and poring over their papers.
Tallis, in the front, his cheek against the glass, spent the time contemplating the ever-changing landscape—fields of maize and sunflowers lining tributaries, surprisingly green pastures with cows and sheep, the odd shepherd’s hut, finally hints of shadowy peaks that haunted from a distance. It wasn’t so much what he could see as what he could sense, as if the land beyond spoke another narrative: of impending violence and hatred and dissent.
By the time they were drawing into the outskirts of Pyatigorsk, the light was starting to fade. Tallis stared out at a dense thicket of trees, their branches broken, the 4x4 slowing, rattling along a road slippery with mud and cratered with potholes, another checkpoint ahead. Usual four-man combo—one to flag them down, one to cover him, one sentry forward and one at the rear. This time they weren’t so lucky.
‘Registration number,’ the guy doing the talking barked.
Chaikova gave it.
‘Where’s your spare wheel?’
Chaikova smiled, yawned and told him. Had he got the answer wrong it would indicate that the vehicle was stolen, Tallis registered, trying to calculate whether the soldiers were going for a quick search based on nothing at all, or whether they’d been tipped off and were working up to a thorough going-over. As Chaikova had passed their little test, Tallis hoped that they’d be waved on.
‘You, get out,’ the soldier ordered, waving his rifle in Tallis’s direction. Not a good idea, Tallis thought. Once he was out of the vehicle anything could happen. He stayed put.
The soldier barked the order again. Three others gathered round, weapons raised. Tallis had a sick image of the vehicle peppered with bullet holes, three metalriddled bodies spilling out of the wreckage. He blinked. He could feel Ruslan’s hot breath on his neck. Chaikova, cool as mint julep, stared ahead, lazily chewing a wad of gun. Against every instinct, Tallis got out, nice and slowly, acting as easy as possible. He smiled at the officer, who had a face like a graveyard, and spoke to him in Russian.
‘Papers,’ the soldier said, one hand shooting out.
The night crackled with tension.
Tallis hesitated, knowing that whichever set he relinquished could be a bad move. Problem was, he had to act one way or another. Remembering Chaikova’s comment that journalists no longer travelled to the region because of the high price on their heads, he decided to go with his British helicopter guy identity. When they cocked their weapons he did as he was told.
‘You British?’ the soldier said, looking up.
‘Da.’
‘Businessman?’ The word was spat out.
‘Da.’
The soldier fired a volley of Russian, too fast for Tallis to catch. Another soldier standing next to him burst out laughing. Tallis was handed back his papers and waved away as if he were no more than a speck of dirt underneath the soldier’s boot.
Tallis walked slowly back to the 4x4, climbing into it as lazily as he’d climbed out. Chaikova started the engine, depressed the clutch and jolted down the road. Tallis let out a breath. A kilometre later he asked Chaikova what had been said. Chaikova kept on chewing.
‘Well?’ Tallis said, impatient.
Chaikova turned to him, briefly taking his eyes off the road. ‘He said you are a dead man.’
Leaving Pyatigorsk, one of those sprawling places that looked as if it had previously enjoyed more refined times and could currently do with some money being spent on it, they travelled south along the M29, along the last of the flatlands, and headed towards Nalchik, in the central Caucasus, and roughly one hundred and thirty miles west of Grozny. Chaikova was reluctant to spend the night there due to the recent terrorist attack. Tallis took the view that if the place was a recent target it was unlikely to come in for a repeat performance any time soon. After a frank exchange, in which Tallis gained the upper hand, they booked into an unassuming hotel in the centre—another win to Tallis as Chaikova had favoured a more elegant hotel in the wooded suburbs.
According to Ruslan, Nalchik was a spa town known for its fine mineral water. Not that any, either mineral or plain tap, was in evidence that evening or any evening at Hotel Rossiya, something Chaikova took great pleasure in pointing out. It wasn’t that extraordinary; water had a habit of being switched off in Russia and its satellite states. Later, with no ill will, Chaikova produced a bottle of konyak and offered to share it with Tallis, Ruslan already being asleep in bed.
The two of them stood out on the balcony overlooking the street, the cold against their cheeks, the only sound the howl of a stray dog and the noise of small-arms fire in the distance. The night was as black as any Tallis had seen. As if someone had switched all the lights off, it felt compressed, with silence and fear.
‘You know Timur?’ Tallis said, feeling the alcohol zip through his veins.
‘Timur Garipova?’
‘I’m not sure of his surname. He said he worked for the State. Grigori invited him to one of his dinners and we got talking. I had the impression he was connected to the FSB. Quite a cool customer.’
Chaikova let out a slow gurgling laugh. ‘I know the man. Part of the new criminal elite.’
‘You’re right,’ Chaikova flicked a smile. ‘He does work for the FSB.’
‘And?’
‘In a rather specialist unit.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Tallis took another drink. Chaikova wasn’t being coy. He was enjoying the chase.
‘It’s a secret department dedicated to extra-judiciary killings.’
‘Assassinations?’ Tallis suddenly felt quite sober.
‘Among other things.’ Chaikova shrugged.
‘What other things?’
‘Abduction, terrorism, provocation.’
Tallis took another drink, trying to think. Could Timur have engineered the incident in Rostov-on-Don? Had he ordered his execution? Then his mind leapfrogged in another direction. What if all this stuff with Graham was a blind? What if Graham Darke and his merry band were fall guys? What if Chechen terrorists had had absolutely nothing to do with the hits? His mind travelled back to Lena’s remark. She’d claimed that the FSB were behind a series of explosions that had ripped through Moscow as a means to discredit Chechen terrorists and provide the motivation to go to war for the second time. Trash or truth? And were they doing it again?
‘To black night,’ Chaikova said, raising his glass and toasting the sky. ‘The time for trade in bullets and booze.’
The next morning the air was thick with low swirling cloud that clung like shrouds. They left Nalchik and followed a tributary of the Terek, the river running cold and stark beside them. Mountain peaks faded in and out of the gloom, colours bleeding out. Eventually, they branched off towards the infamous town of Beslan, scene of a school massacre. The place was silent. Kestrels wheeling overhead, hemmed in on all sides by ridges and peaks, the slow earth descended into dirt track, the perfect terrain for mines. Tallis spent the next hour feverishly scanning for tripwires, the tell-tale stakes denoting the presence of the POMZ-2M, and the flat, circular-shaped pieces of metal common to the PMN. He suggested they get off the slip road and follow a main route, pressing on towards Nazran. It would then only take a couple of hours to drive from there to Grozny, but Chaikova said it was too dangerous. ‘You want to make that OMON guy’s dream come true?’
‘He’s right,’ Ruslan said, his voice travelling from the rear. ‘I can get by. Even that big lump in the front,’ meaning Chaikova, ‘can wing it. You stand no chance.’
And this time Chaikova didn’t protest or disagree.
And so they dropped down towards Vladikavkaz, the capital of North Ossetia and the ultimate destination had they stayed on the train instead of getting off at Rostov-on-Don. The road became steep and wild, hills and high mountain peaks rising up out of the murk. They turned off and followed the Assa River towards Achkoi-Martan, skirting the foothills of Samashki and on to the houses of Alkhan-Yurt, staying clear of the Federal Highway. The village, only a kilometre from the outskirts of Grozny, was once, according to Ruslan, the scene of a massacre. ‘Russian soldiers maintain a fierce battle took place here even though there was no sign of Chechen fighters and the victims were all civilians,’ he added dryly. ‘At first they came with planes,’ he said, ‘and then they sent in federal forces.’
Tallis looked around him, saw a belt of trees chopped down.
‘Mosques were destroyed, homes flattened, the bodies of the dead and dying left lying in the dirt,’ Ruslan said, his voice a chilling commentary. Chaikova, shaking his head in pity, drove on.
The village was deserted apart from a couple of amputees who stared at them with empty eyes. In spite of the rebuilt minarets, the homes with double-glazing and pretty courtyards, Tallis pictured something else: corpses; scavenging dogs; and destruction.
‘Where have all the people gone?’ he said.
Chaikova pulled up. Ruslan hung out of the vehicle, asked one of the men, dark-skinned and deep-eyed, what had happened.
‘Up into the mountains,’ the man said, pointing with a crutch. ‘They fear another onslaught.’
The cloud lifted. The sky was the colour of mercury. On they drove, dipping and looping through conflicting scenery: forest one side—providing perfect camouflage for troops of either denomination—marsh with tall rushes and ducks the other, the flood plain extending to the foot of the mountains. It was here, where the trees clung to black shale and they stopped for a moment to relieve themselves, that Tallis was seized with the weirdest sensation, as if these surroundings had absorbed past events. It was in the trees, in the soil, and in the rocks and crevices. The stony ground beneath his feet felt poisoned with fear and the spilt blood of too many young men. He’d felt the same sense of waste and hopelessness on the Normandy beaches and on a bleak visit to Auschwitz. In spite of not being particularly cold, he felt chilled to his bones.
From Alkhan-Yurt, they bumped along and, again after several checkpoints, made it to Grozny. When they finally arrived, Tallis was struck by the utter normality, the newness and modernity. It was evident in the buildings, the hotels and mosques in particular, the sidewalks and tree-lined avenues. Paradoxical was the word that sprung to mind. He felt as if he’d travelled from one country and into another. Ruslan was even more impressed.
‘The new Chechen president might be a Russian puppet,’ he said, ‘but, my God, he’s transformed this city. Only a few years ago this was nothing but rubble.’
Driving down the block and past Minutka Square, Tallis saw a group of teenagers chatting on mobiles. Kids like these were barometers of political and social stability, he thought. They looked happy, oblivious, more connected than their Moscow counterparts, and yet…
There was a definite Russian military presence and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the glint of metal as four plainclothes men with raw features lounged outside a café, automatic weapons at their sides. ‘Local officials,’ Ruslan murmured.
‘Not your usual choice of accessory for the office,’ Tallis said, meeting the heavy-eyed, silent gaze of one cold-looking individual as they cruised past. Were they looking for someone? A man who’d killed two others in broad daylight, perhaps? He swatted the thought.
‘Nothing more than bandits,’ Chaikova growled. ‘As for your president,’ he said addressing Ruslan, ‘he’s nothing more than an illiterate thug. Paramilitary units in his own government form the rule of law here, and, whatever our Russian Prime Minister says, he’s hated by lots of people in Moscow. It’s only a matter of time before he goes. You wait and see. Once Ivanov fades from the scene, that Chechen rebel you call a leader will disappear.’
‘If he does, all hell will break out among the clans,’ Ruslan said.
And that’s what Tallis was afraid of.
Ruslan’s Aunt Katya lived on the outskirts to the east of the city. Dotted between block after block of new housing complexes and sites under construction were some of the old-style properties that had miraculously escaped destruction in the two previous conflicts. Typically each dwelling had a walled courtyard garden with wooden fences and fruit trees of apple and pear, and shrubs of flowering jasmine. Years before, they’d have provided terrific cover for men with murder in mind, Tallis thought, imagining them scooting over the walls, clambering among the trees and taking up positions. Perhaps they would again.
‘This is it,’ Ruslan said, his cheeks coloured with excitement.
Chaikova pulled up. Ruslan got out. It was unspoken but this was Ruslan’s moment so Tallis and Chaikova stayed where they were. Tallis watched as Ruslan went in through the gate, his shoulders back, his head held high, a lilt in his step as he walked up the short path to a dwelling no bigger than Tallis’s bungalow back in Birmingham. He briefly thought of Lena, wondered if she was alright, hoping that Rasu and Viva would keep an eye on her like they’d said they would, wondered if Lena’s sister-in-law had the same parched features, the same…
Tallis craned forward almost the same time as Chaikova, Tallis twisting his head to get a better view. He was transfixed. He didn’t believe in love at first sight, lust certainly, but it wasn’t that either. He literally felt his heart explode. Unlike Lena, Katya was blonde, her skin, without make-up, fine textured and the colour of buttermilk. Her eyes, pools of electric blue, shone with vitality yet the slight downturn at the edges revealed fragile vulnerability. She had a small straight nose and her mouth was small, too much so some might say but, to Tallis’s mind, it was utterly kissable, and when she smiled, her face lit up.
Moments later, and with introductions over, of which Tallis remembered nothing, they were standing near the stove, in Katya’s tiny kitchen area, the rest of the room part sitting, part dining room. As the kettle boiled for tea, conversation between aunt and nephew rattled along. It gave Tallis the opportunity to perfectly study and commit each detail of Katya’s face to memory. She really was astonishingly beautiful.
Her voice, he noticed, was low-pitched, more oboe than flute. A cheap dark green shawl hung across her slim shoulders. Underneath, she wore a loose-fitting shirt tucked into a pair of slim-hipped worn denim jeans and boots. Her hands, ringless, fluttered like doves each time she made a point. When she looked at Ruslan, her expression was full of warmth and pride and concern.
‘And Lena, your mother!’ Katya exclaimed. ‘You say she escaped to England?’
Ruslan nodded and explained Tallis’s connection.
‘You met her?’ Katya said, her eyes wide and enchanting.
‘That’s right,’ Tallis said.
‘And Asya?’ She beamed.
‘Aunt,’ Ruslan intervened, darting an anxious look at Tallis. ‘So many questions. Come, the kettle hasn’t boiled yet. We can make tea and then we can talk and I will answer them all.’
The way she moved, unstudied, fluid, it was quite clear to Tallis that Katya had no idea how beautiful she was, or how attractive to the opposite sex. In spite of her Chechen blood, Chaikova also gawped at her, stupefied.
Finally, the tea made, the conversation returned to family and took a painful downward curve. Ruslan first broke the news about his father, Katya’s brother.
‘We were near Shatoi,’ Ruslan said, making Tallis’s ears prick—Shatoi was not far from his final destination. ‘When we were ambushed by reconnaissance troops heading into the mountains. They thought we were rebels. Dad said that if we went to them and explained, everything would be alright. I tried to dissuade him,’ Ruslan said, his voice cracking. Katya fluttered a hand towards him, letting it rest on his arm.
‘But, well, you know,’ Ruslan said with a sad smile. ‘He was always convinced that with reason, justice would prevail.’
‘He believed that people were ultimately good,’ Katya said, her voice low and strong so that Tallis could tell she shared the same view.
‘Well, I don’t.’ Ruslan’s voice was resistant, hard and petulant. ‘I went one way. He went the other. And they shot him.’
‘You saw this?’
‘With my own eyes.’
She sat stock still, acceptance in her expression, as if somehow she’d already known. Then the shock kicked in. A hand flew to her breast, her mouth falling open very slightly. Her luminous skin turned the colour of ash. Tallis felt uncomfortable. He didn’t think he should be there witnessing the grief of someone he didn’t know, and though a part of him badly wanted to put his arms around her in a simple gesture of humanity, he knew it wasn’t his place. He stood, bowed his head, as Ruslan gently guided a mug of hot sweet tea into her hands. Some traditions spanned both East and West. Tallis shifted his weight from one foot to another, and made a move for the door, muttering about getting some fresh air, half dragging Chaikova with him.
‘Jesus, what did you do that for?’ Chaikova growled.
‘What are you, a voyeur?’ Tallis rounded on him. ‘For God’s sake, the woman’s entitled to some privacy. We don’t belong in there.’
‘You certainly don’t, for sure.’ Chaikova scowled, dragging out his cigarettes. He took one out, tapped the end against the pack, plugged it into his mouth and lit up, blowing two long streams of smoke out through his nostrils.
‘What do you mean?’ Tallis’s tone was ugly. He knew it. Chaikova knew it.
‘I saw the way you were looking at her.’ Chaikova leered. ‘Not that I blame you. I wouldn’t mind giving her one myself.’
Cold anger shot through him like a lightning strike. ‘Know what, Yuri? You’ve got about as much sensitivity as an elephant’s foreskin.’
‘Elephants have large dicks, no?’
Tallis glared at him. Chaikova burst out laughing. Tallis shook his head, began to laugh in spite of himself, the tension between them instantly broken. They waited until Chaikova had finished his cigarette and went back inside. Ruslan nodded quietly. ‘My aunt says it is fine for you to stay.’
‘No, it’s—’
‘Fine,’ Chaikova said firmly, darting a mischievous look in Tallis’s direction.
‘Not too Chechen for you?’ Ruslan said, lifting a dark playful eyebrow. Chaikova’s embarrassed reply was cut off by Katya’s reappearance from the cellar where she’d been rooting for bottled fruit and tins of meat and fish.
‘Here,’ Tallis said, ‘let me take those for you.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled, shy. When his hand lightly brushed hers he felt as if he’d been shot.
The evening took on a festive atmosphere. They ate a glossy-coloured tomato and lamb stew with carrots and rice, followed by bottled cherries and sour cream. Ruslan, talkative and witty, was a different man in the company of his own flesh and blood. For one brief moment in time Tallis forgot the mountains and the mission. After dinner Chaikova, to Tallis’s amazement, insisted on clearing up. Katya, meanwhile, said she was going upstairs to find bedding for them all, in spite of Tallis’s protests that they’d brought sleeping bags.
‘My nephew will sleep in a proper bed tonight.’
‘Then let me help you,’ Tallis said.
Katya nodded graciously and Tallis followed her upstairs to a narrow landing, one room off on either side. Katya opened the door to the right. Inside was a single bed, a large bookcase stuffed with books, some piled one on top of the other, and a wardrobe filled with linen. She pulled out sheets and blankets and pillows.
‘You’re not what I expected,’ Tallis began.
‘No?’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘I thought you’d be like Lena somehow.’
‘Ah, you mean in looks. We’re not all descended from Mongol hordes.’ She laughed.
‘No, I didn’t mean—’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, throwing a sheet to Tallis who shook it out and covered the mattress. ‘Most of us are pretty indistinguishable from the Ingush, jointly known as the Vainakh. Farming people, we’re the result of decades-ago migration and war and, although the Russians don’t like to recognise it, we’ve been around for six thousand years. Some of us are rumoured to descend from the Crusaders.’
‘Hence the blonde looks.’ Tallis smiled. ‘What do you do here?’
‘Exist.’ She twitched a dry smile.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I—’
‘No, I teach like Lena.’
‘Is that why you stay?’
She puffed up a pillow, placed it on the bed with care. ‘Suffering this kind of tragedy either turns you into a committed terrorist or pacifist.’
‘And you’re a pacifist?’
She thought, nodded. ‘But I don’t blame those who have chosen another path,’ she said. ‘I don’t condone it,’ she added quickly, ‘But I understand. Before the Russians marched in and messed with us, most Chechens’ desire for independence was secular. Because of the conflict Islam has won many converts. Religion is the natural home for those who seek an identity.’
Tallis understood, at least, that much. The same could be applied to a certain strand of young British-born Asians back home.
‘Children need to know that there’s another way to live,’ Katya said. ‘All of the kids in my care have lost family in previous conflicts. There’s a whole generation out there waiting to wreak revenge. Unfortunately, the latest turn of events doesn’t make my job, or the prospect of long-term peace, any easier.’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘Often,’ she said simply. ‘Although not like before. Then I really thought I might die.’
‘What was it like?’ Tallis said, leaning his tall frame against the wall.
She thought for a moment. ‘You like fireworks?’
He smiled.
‘Think of all those tiny glittering sparks littering the sky then imagine every spark as a fragment of metal. Envisage it raining down on your head.’ He knew only too well the damage inflicted by grenades and mortars on the human body. ‘I felt then as if I had the lifespan of an insect: from chrysalis to bug to full maturity and death in a matter of days.
‘There are no definitions in war, no meal times, no routines, no full stops or commas to the day. Everything goes to hell. It’s the uncertainty, the endless passage of time, not knowing whether you might suddenly be caught up in events beyond your control. Things can change with surprising speed in these parts.
‘So,’ she said, smoothing down the bed sheets. ‘What are you doing here?’
Keep it simple. ‘Looking for someone.’ She inclined her head. He half thought she was going to say something. Instead, with a smile, she suggested they return to the others.
Midnight. Katya and Ruslan were still talking. Outside was the sound of baying dogs and random gunfire. Chaikova and Tallis were bent over a map. Both planned to leave the next morning in different directions. Tallis traced a line down through the Argun Gorge towards Shatoi.
Chaikova shook his head. ‘You will be passing through the triangle of death.’
Tallis looked up. ‘This folklore or informed opinion?’
‘He’s right,’ Katya said. ‘The area between Shali and Kurchaloi is dangerous.’
‘It’s all dangerous.’ Tallis shrugged. His passage was going to mean a keen divide between speed and concealment. He knew that to leave at night might better obscure his movements, that his sense of smell would be more acute, but the journey would be tortuously slow, especially in unfamiliar terrain. At night, sound was louder, shapes and distance distorted and, if there were mines, he ran the strong risk of triggering an explosion and seriously injuring himself. On balance, he opted for speed.
‘Which is why I need to say this,’ Katya said, turning to Ruslan, suddenly cupping his chin in her hands. ‘You know I love you.’
‘Yes, Aunt,’ Ruslan said, two points of pink appearing on each of his high cheekbones reminiscent of Lena.
‘Then you know that what I’m about to say next is because I love you.’
‘What?’ Ruslan said, squirming with embarrassment, drawing away.
‘We have enjoyed peaceful times, but I fear for the future,’ Katya said. ‘Things are changing.’
‘But—’
‘Listen,’ Katya said softly, stroking his face with one finger. ‘Moscow is nervous. You know we are being blamed for bad things that have happened there. I know, I know,’ she said in answer to Ruslan’s whatever expression, ‘it is the way with us. We are the whipping boys. But it’s rumoured that the rebels are planning a new offensive. They’ve changed their tactics, Ruslan.’
Underneath Tallis’s impassive expression, his brain was spring-loaded. What change in tactics?
‘There are fewer head-on collisions with federal forces,’ Ruslan argued.
‘That’s true,’ Katya conceded, ‘but the guerrillas are fighting on their terms now. More ambushes, hidden bombs, targeted attacks. Don’t you see, the situation cannot continue? The Russian government will respond the way it always does, with a crackdown. We’ve already seen the signs—more military presence in the streets, checkpoints, spot checks. You know all this for yourself.’
‘What are you saying, Aunt?’
She looked up imploringly at Tallis. ‘Go back with this man. He will look after you.’
Tallis opened his mouth to say that it was out of the question. Ruslan beat him to it.
‘No, absolutely, definitely—’
‘It’s for the best,’ Katya said. ‘Perhaps you could get to England, to be with your mother.’
Ruslan was adamant. ‘No. This is my home.’
‘Your home is where you make it,’ Katya said, an urgent expression in her eyes.
Ruslan jerked away, angry. ‘Then come with me.’
She shook her head.
‘Why not?’ he said, grabbing hold of both her hands.
She didn’t answer. Her gaze fixed on Tallis. Christ, he could willingly drown in those eyes. ‘You’ll take him, won’t you?’ she said, beseeching.
I’d willingly take all of you, Tallis thought wildly. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t.’
‘Please,’ Katya said, a pleading note in her voice.
‘I already told you,’ Tallis said elliptically, aware that Chaikova’s eyes were boring into the side of his face.
‘Oh, that.’ Katya let out a sad laugh. ‘A foolhardy mission.’
‘Maybe, but—’
‘Danger is everywhere.’
Tallis looked at Chaikova. Chaikova stared back, shrugged his large shoulders, and rubbed a paw of a hand over his grey-stubble jaw. ‘I’ll take him back if that’s what you want,’ he told Katya gruffly.
‘Stop it!’ Ruslan shouted, his voice more child than man. ‘I am not going back.’
‘Ruslan,’ Katya began, but Ruslan was unyielding. He turned to Tallis. ‘I’m coming with you into the mountains.’
Katya put the heel of her hand to her forehead. She looked anguished. ‘No,’ Tallis said. ‘That’s not a good idea.’
‘I can help you,’ Ruslan argued, his voice hard and grainy. ‘I know my way through. I’ve been there many times before. You won’t make it without me. Not now.’
‘I travel alone,’ Tallis said, firm.
‘You don’t understand,’ Ruslan said, drawing himself up to his full height. ‘The mountains are like no other place on earth. They are greedy. They will devour you.’
‘The answer is still the same,’ Tallis said. ‘I’m sorry.’
The rap at the door came at three in the morning. Tallis, who’d been asleep on the narrow landing, stirred in time to see a glimpse of naked thigh as Katya dragged on a robe over her nightshirt. Ruslan, too, was out of bed, Chaikova snoring open-mouthed, oblivious, on the floor.
‘Soldiers,’ she hissed, putting a finger to her lips, and motioned for Ruslan and Tallis to hide in the cellar.
‘What about Chaikova?’ Ruslan whispered.
‘It’s OK,’ Tallis said. ‘Give me two seconds.’
‘We don’t have two seconds,’ Katya said, anxious.
Undeterred, Tallis roughly woke Chaikova, and whispered hurriedly in his ear. Chaikova rubbed his eyes, then grinned and nodded. ‘OK. Let’s go,’ Tallis said, at the sound of more banging on the door.
The cellar consisted of two chambers that extended across the perimeter of the house. One side was full of gardening implements, the other, further along, food provisions. Tallis and Ruslan hid in the furthest part. For good measure, Tallis dragged a sheet of garden netting over the pair of them to break up their body shapes should anyone enter. Both fell silent. Tallis suddenly remembered Lena’s account of the massacre at Aldy, the grenades thrown into the cellars. He wondered what he’d do in such circumstances: stay and be blown to pieces in an orgy of torn flesh, or run into a waiting wave of machine-gun fire. He could tell from Ruslan’s expression that he was thinking the same. The atmosphere ratcheted up several notches.
Tallis craned his ears, listening for sounds of trouble. After the first barked orders, he heard nothing more. Seconds thudded by, then minutes. Ruslan looked at Tallis with a questioning expression. Tallis shook his head. At last, a peal of laughter followed by the sound of a door banging shut. Minutes later, the trapdoor opened and they were released.
Katya was smiling broadly. ‘Your friend deserves an Oscar.’ She laughed, glancing from Tallis to Chaikova who looked almost punch-drunk with glee.
‘It worked, then?’ Tallis said, wishing he didn’t feel so pissed off.
‘Like a charm,’ Chaikova said.
‘Would someone tell me what’s going on?’ Ruslan scratched his head.
‘I’m your aunt’s new Russian lover,’ Chaikova announced proudly. ‘As part of the new offensive, I, in my official capacity as an officer belonging to the Central Intelligence Directorate, am familiarising myself with the enemy.’
‘And they believed you?’ Ruslan said, astonished.
Chaikova flashed a grin. Then he turned to Tallis, his expression cool and muscular. ‘The soldiers also delivered a warning.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Two intelligence officers were killed in Rostov-on-Don two days ago.’
‘Really?’ Tallis said. ‘Extraordinary coincidence.’
‘Both were shot.’ Chaikova said. ‘Looked like a professional job. Someone who really knew what they were doing.’
Silence briefly invaded the room. ‘Like Katya said…’ Tallis glanced at her with an easy smile ‘…danger is everywhere.’