Logan pulled the car to a stop at the guard post. A man emerged wearing a thick green overcoat that reached down almost to his ankles. On his head he wore a military-style ushanka, the flaps tied under his chin so that much of his face and head was protected from the bitter elements.
‘I certainly don’t envy him,’ Logan said to Grainger, ‘sitting out here in this.’
Logan spotted an assault rifle inside the wooden hut, propped up against the back wall. It wasn’t clear whether the man had any other weapons on him. Logan wound down his window and squinted as a blast of ice-cold air hit his face.
The man – who was a similar age to himself, Logan thought, and who had distinctive Kazakh features, the epicanthic folds on his eyes that all Mongoloid peoples have – bent down and stuck his head toward the open window. He said something that Logan didn’t understand. Logan guessed it was Kazakh, a language of which he could remember only a small number of words. The man’s tone was brash, his look suspicious.
Logan spoke back to him in Russian. Although Kazakh was the national language, he knew almost everyone in Kazakhstan also spoke or at least understood Russian – although many of the inhabitants spoke a hybrid of the two languages, throwing in random words from one or the other tongues almost subconsciously. In any case, it was clear this man understood Logan’s words by the change in his facial expression. Even so, he didn’t make any move to accommodate his guests.
‘Just tell him it’s Carl Logan,’ Logan added. ‘I’m sure he’ll remember me.’
The man huffed and stood tall, taking a walkie-talkie out of his pocket. He spoke quickly into the receiver. The howling of the wind drowned out his voice but Logan could tell the man was again speaking in the unfamiliar language. The only word Logan made out was his own name as it was repeated to whoever was on the other end. When the guard finished speaking, there was a short pause and then Logan heard a distorted voice give a response. The guard listened and when the voice finished, he put the radio back into his pocket and bent down again.
‘Drive through and park on the left,’ he said, now speaking in Russian. ‘Park behind the other vehicles. Someone will come and meet you there.’
The man trudged over to his hut and sat down on his chair. A few seconds later, there was an electronic whir as the metal gate began to open, sliding on its rollers, across to the right. The man on the outside certainly hadn’t activated it, so it must have been controlled by another guard on the inside.
As Logan drove the car through the open gates, he spotted the small parking area on the left. Three other vehicles were there – two large four-by-fours and a pickup truck. All silver, all virtually new.
A man appeared, as if coming from nowhere through the wall of snow that was still falling. He was dressed similarly to the guard at the front gate but was noticeably taller. He waved Logan in behind the pickup truck.
Logan switched off the engine and looked over at Grainger. She looked uncomfortable. But it was too late to change their minds now.
‘Come on,’ Logan said. ‘Just follow my lead.’
Logan opened his door without waiting for a response. He stepped out of the car, a shiver running through him. It served as a chilling reminder of the last time Logan had seen his host. Snow smacked against his face and he reached up with his arm to protect himself from the blizzard as he turned toward the approaching guard. Logan was caught by surprise when he saw the man was wielding an AK-47 assault rifle, the barrel of which was pointing at Logan’s chest.
‘Put your hands in the air,’ the man said in Russian, coming to within inches of Logan.
Logan did as he was told.
‘Are you armed?’ the man said.
‘Yes,’ Logan said.
‘Where?’
‘In the car.’
‘And your friend?’
‘Why don’t you ask her?’
‘Get her out,’ the man shouted, off to his left. Another guard came into view and met Grainger as she emerged from the car.
Logan looked over and was pleasantly surprised to see that the expression on her face had changed to one of steely determination.
‘Can we get inside?’ Logan said to the guard. ‘I’m freezing my balls off out here.’
He jumped when he felt hands on him from behind. It was another guard, he assumed, patting him down. Satisfied, the man went over to Grainger and did the same.
Neither he nor Grainger had a gun on them. Logan hadn’t wanted to complicate matters and had insisted they both leave their firearms in the car. The idea wasn’t to come here to fight, even if the guards didn’t quite believe that yet.
‘Okay, follow me,’ the tall guard said after his colleague had finished patting down Grainger.
He lowered his weapon and turned on his heel.
Logan followed after him, Grainger behind, the other two guards at the rear. A total of four guards had welcomed them thus far. And Logan assumed that each of them was armed. Heavy protection for sure.
The guard led them into the expansive building through a side entrance that opened out into a kitchen. Logan sighed with relief as he stepped inside and the snowy air disappeared, replaced by warmth and comfort and the smell of freshly cooked food.
They walked from the kitchen into a hallway and across into a lounge area. The building on the inside was only marginally more attractive than the outside. Although it was clear now that this was indeed a home, the decor was still simple and functional – no elaborate art or ornaments or decorations. The furniture was stoic and dour and purposeful. It almost looked like whoever lived here didn’t fully believe this was their true home – just somewhere to eat and sleep. Temporary accommodation. But it was certainly better than what Logan had become used to recently.
As they entered the lounge, Logan spotted the man they had come to see. He was sitting in an armchair, a thick cigar stuck between his lips.
A wave of emotions coursed through Logan. The man was noticeably older than the last time Logan had seen him, his face even more hardened than before. But he retained a look of power and confidence that told Logan he hadn’t lost any of his appetite for life. He stood as Logan approached.
‘Carl Logan. Well, I have to say, this is certainly intriguing.’
His voice was loud, deep, gravelly. It had taken on a huskiness too since the last time Logan had seen him, but it was still unmistakable. Logan reached out his hand and his host hesitated for just a second before taking it and giving it a bone-crushing shake.
‘You know, I always wondered whether you’d turn up one day. But I have to say, I’m still very surprised you did.’
‘Fleming,’ Logan said, ‘you’re looking good.’
‘It’s Captain to you,’ Fleming responded, smirking.