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KENDAL, CUMBRIA.
Someone called Jilly’s name, then the name of her band, Four Girls on Fire. At first, she thought she was dreaming – they’d just won the nation’s biggest talent show all over again, and from now on, life was going to be really amazing! - then her stomach turned over.
She disengaged herself from Rob, got out of bed and went to the window. Bloody hell, yes, down in the narrow cobbled street that fronted the guest-house. Paparazzi, sixteen or seventeen of them, all men, full of last night’s chip fat and strip-club testosterone, leering up at the net curtain like they could see through it. She swallowed.
The other girls had warned her about dating a member of a boy band, but only tongue in cheek. Twice the publicity, babes, sure you can handle that? She couldn’t help herself, though. Two years ago he’d been her hero and she’d been a nobody. Now they were equals.
“They’ve found us,” she told him.
Rob stretched and yawned. He discarded the bedclothes, picked up his boxer shorts and put his foot in one leg. “The press?”
“You don’t seem very bothered.”
“You were bloody brilliant last night, Jilly.”
“How did they know we were here?”
“I mean it. Outstanding.”
She realised she didn’t even like him much. “Did you tell them?”
“Me?”
“Wake up, Rob! It’s the press! I said the press have found us!”
He pulled on his boxers and put his arms round her. She disengaged herself, plonked herself at the dressing table and brushed her long brown hair, pulling halfway down as if it was full of knots. She was trying to stop herself shaking.
“Anyone could have told them,” he said. “It definitely wasn’t me, babe.”
“Put your clothes on. We’re leaving.”
“Why? They can’t get in here.”
She fished her bra from the pile of clothes on the floor and put it on. “We’re in the bloody Lake District, Rob. We’re supposed to be miles from anywhere. How did they find us so quickly?”
She looked round the room: the plaid curtains, the beds with valances, the 1920s lampshades, all the varnished wooden surfaces, so unlike the places she always stayed when she was touring with the girls. She’d fallen in love with it at first sight. She’d been drunk, true, but she’d never wanted to leave.
Rob pulled his socks and T-shirt on then looked at her. “You’re not frightened, are you?”
“They’ve probably got the place surrounded. And yes. Yes, I am frightened.”
“We’ll just call a taxi. We can be downstairs and in the car before anyone knows it.”
“I’m not bothered about us, Rob. I’m bothered about them.” Tights, tights, where were her bloody tights?
“‘Them’?”
“Yeah, ‘them’. The photographers, journalists, whatever they call themselves. Them!”
He laughed. “First time anyone’s cared what happens to paparazzi. Anyway, what could happen to them?”
“Haven’t you been watching the news recently? Are you really that self-obsessed?”
“Hey, now - ”
“Four photographers shot dead in four weeks. Following Bobby Keynes, Zane Cruse, Mikey from Bad Lads Zero, Stallone Laine - ”
“No such thing as bad publicity, from what I hear. Not that you need it, girl, but it won’t hurt. Besides, they’re all douche bags, right?”
She pulled her dress on and smoothed the waist. She’d had enough now. She wanted out. Of everything. “I misjudged you, Rob. They’re still human beings.”
“No, they ain’t. Anyway, what are the chances?”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
He picked up the telephone. “Is that reception? Hi, yeah ... Room ...”
“Fourteen,” Jilly said.
“Fourteen. Could you get a taxi pronto for me and the shorty? And fetch us the bill for the room? ... Yeah, we’re leaving ... Yeah, all good things have to come to an end sooner or later ... Yeah, we’re disappointed too.” He put his hand over the receiver. “She knows us,” he told Jilly. “It’ll be her that told the reporters.”
“Bitch.”
He put the phone down. “About fifteen minutes. Get your face on, gorgeous.”
“I’m not waiting for her taxi to come, Rob. Not if she’s with them. I’ll get my own. There’s a rank down the road. Come on.”
“What about your make-up?”
She rammed a pair of sunglasses on and picked up her travel bag. He followed her downstairs. They didn’t stop at reception. Rob reached into his wallet, pulled out four fifties and thrust them at Mrs whatever-she-was-called, the proprietress. “Keep the change.”
Suddenly, they were out on the street. Paparazzi to their right, shouting Jilly. Jilly take off your shades, Jilly flick your hair, Jilly wave, Jilly smile, Jilly stop, who’s that with Jilly, that’s Rob from Simply Boyz, Rob give us a smile, Rob –
She took off her glasses, grabbed Rob’s hand and turned left and accelerated. She almost changed direction. There was a loud crack and she jumped like she’d been hit.
Behind them, the paparazzi roared. One of them – a photographer, about twenty-five - lay prostrate and bloody. Four others photographed him, ten or twelve were in full flight, one was trying to get a signal on his mobile. No one was interested in Jilly and Rob any more.
Rob looked at them then at her. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
Jilly started screaming.
Solikamsk Prison, the Urals.
Colonel Orlov came in looking lean and muscular. Bald, sunken eyes, sinewy hands. Much as Deputy Commissioner Khrantsov had been told to expect: like a skull on the body of a statue. He was forty-three, but he looked older from the neck up, younger from the neck down. He wore the regulation prison outfit: coarse grey jacket and trousers, white vest, black boots.
He sat at the table, straightened his back and flattened his hands on the Formica surface. Above him a single strip light buzzed and flickered. The walls were grey plaster, never painted. A patch showed where the portrait of Brezhnev had once hung.
Commissioner Khrantsov, ten years younger than the convict, with a shelf of blond hair and hard Kamchatka eyes, removed his greatcoat and bearskin hat to reveal an expensive blue suit, and sat leisurely opposite him. He nodded for the guard to wait outside.
“I’ve read a lot about you,” he said when they were alone.
“I haven’t the inclination to play games with the FSB. Either tell me what you want or leave me alone.”
Khrantsov lit a cigarette and leaned back. “I’m not in the FSB.”
“I’ve no means of verifying who you are or aren’t, so once again, why not just come to the point?”
“We’ve looked after you well while you’ve been in prison.”
“‘We’.”
“And I’m here to tell you you’ll soon be released.”
“After I’ve done one year of a twenty-five year sentence.”
“You’ve got a lot of friends in high places, Colonel Orlov, and they think your country needs you.”
“I’m in here for treason, tell them.”
Khrantsov smiled. “Thank you. Like I said a moment ago, I’ve read your files.”
“These ‘friends in high places’, they wouldn’t happen to have names, would they?”
Khrantsov ignored him. He took a small gift-wrapped box from his pocket and pushed it across the table. “This is for you.”
Orlov looked at it then opened it. A chess set. His chess set. He slid back the lid and took the thirty-two pieces out, spacing them equally for a full minute till they were all accounted for. He looked at Khrantsov. “Where did you get it?”
“I understand it was stolen from you two days ago.”
Orlov gathered the pieces and dropped them back in the box. “And how did it find its way into your hands?”
“As I said earlier, we’re looking after you. The thief’s being raped and beaten as we speak. It won’t happen again.”
Orlov’s expression filled with contempt. He pushed the container back across the table.
“Joke, Colonel, relax. Can’t you take a joke?”
It remained in the middle of the table. Khrantsov sighed. “If you ever hear of anyone being maltreated on behalf of your precious chess set then, yes, I’m with the FSB. Which I’m not.”
Orlov hesitated then retrieved it.
Khrantsov smiled. “Every man has his weakness, Colonel. Yours is your intellect. If we were other than we are, we might wish for something a little more malleable. But we aren’t.”
“When are ‘we’ going to secure my release?”
“I’m only here to tell you to be ready when the call comes. It’ll seem trivial. Don’t despise it.”
“Community service, you mean.”
“Not exactly. You’re going to England in the first instance.”
“England?”
“That’s right. We’d hardly send you to England if we were FSB now, would we?”
“What’s in England?”
Khrantsov ground his cigarette into the floor and stood up. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Colonel.”
2 Marsham Street, Westminster.
The Home Secretary’s office epitomised tidiness, polished walnut and the cultural triumph of the desk. Three floors below, men in yellow jackets with drills dug the road and the traffic was at a standstill, but the soundproofing in here was so complete you could hardly hear it. The Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Colin Bowker, came in holding his cap and waited to be asked to sit on the chair obviously reserved for him.
The Home Secretary, already seated, donned his glasses and leaned forward. His spiky hair, long eyes and hawk nose all seemed drawn to a point ready to poleaxe his visitor. Sir Colin was much slighter and in his retirement year. He guessed he didn’t cut much of a retaliatory figure. But he had his stratagems. It was just a case of deploying them in the right order.
“Sit down, sit down,” the Home Secretary said. “I take it you’ve seen the papers?”
“For what it’s worth, yes. I have.”
“‘Serial killer’? ‘Police apathy’? ‘Amnesty International expresses concern’?”
Sir Colin brushed his right cuff. “We went through this a week ago. Up until Tuesday hardly anyone gave a damn. Because the fifth victim happens to be Harriet Johnson’s nephew, all hell’s been let loose. The truth is, I’ve got officers working on it flat out. Any ‘apathy’ has been the media’s not ours.”
“You’ve been lucky so far. The press has been itching to make more of this since day one, but they know they’ve got their work cut out drumming up public sympathy for gutter rats. Now Harriet’s on board, though, they’re on a roll. And I don’t bloody deserve it.”
Sir Colin chuckled. “Have you told the Secretary of State for Education you think her nephew’s a gutter rat?”
“I didn’t drag you here to bandy witticisms, Colin. I want to know how far you’ve got. If anywhere.”
“We’ve made a lot of progress, actually.”
“Amaze me.”
“I’ve come up with a plan to take the heat off.”
The Home Secretary sighed through his teeth. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me what it is. I’m not in the mood for teasers.”
“Firstly, we’ve been in contact with Interpol. I know what you’re thinking. Whose bright idea was that? My reaction too. I’ll come to that in a minute. Anyway, it turns out to have been very germane.”
“You mean – what? - there have been similar crimes, elsewhere?”
“About a year ago. Four in the USA, within the space of about a month. And another five in Russia, of all places.”
“So someone’s been killing paparazzi in three countries.”
“It seems so,” Sir Colin said.
“A copycat, you mean ... or copycats?”
“There’s a ballistics match. The same make of weapon. None of that’s public knowledge.”
“You’re saying it’s the same culprit?”
“Or group of culprits.”
The Home Secretary looked hard at his own reflection in the desk. “I can imagine a murderer operating in the USA, say, then coming to Britain to continue the slaughter when the net starts closing in. But Russia? Why Russia?”
“We don’t know.”
“I mean, did it begin in Russia? Is it a Russian weapon we’re talking about?”
“I see where you’re going. Russian murderer, starts domestic then branches out, goes international. But the first murder was in the USA, only a few hours before the Russian one. There wasn’t time for a single murderer to get from one location to the other.”
“So how? I’m a busy man, spell it out for me.”
“Possibly some sort of internet cult. That’s speculation, of course.”
“Look, I’ll be blunt, Colin. I’ve a cabinet meeting in fifteen minutes. Harriet Johnson’s going to chase me down the corridor with a cricket bat if you haven’t got something better than ‘speculation’.”
“We’re creating a special unit.”
“Details.”
“Three persons. One British, one American, one Russian. We each put up a third of the cost.”
“And the Americans and the Russians have agreed to that, yes?”
“The US Department of Justice has already named its man. We’re waiting to hear from the Russians.”
“Who’s our man? I mean, rank? What’s he do?”
“He’s an Inspector. You might know him. Hartley-Brown.”
“No relation, surely?”
“His son.”
The Home Secretary laughed. “Sons, nephews, whatever next? Is he any good?”
“A bit wet by all accounts but exceptionally good at putting two and two together. A First in Computing and Electronics. Very good at searching information for patterns, that sort of thing.”
The Home Secretary pinched his chin. “What my grand-daughters would probably call a ‘geek’, I suppose.”
“It’ll get Harriet Johnson and the papers off our backs. Next time she decides to chase someone down the corridor, it’ll be the Shadow Foreign Secretary. In any case, I don’t expect there will be any more shootings. There were four in the USA and five in Russia. We’ve had our quota. If I’m right, and I usually am, the murderer’s already looking to move on.”
“Let’s hope so. I’m not sure it’s the point.”
“These things tend to follow patterns.”
“Who are the Americans sending? Just out of interest?”
“A ‘Lieutenant Detective Commander’ from the New York City Police Department, name of David Bronstein. Brilliant investigator, by all accounts.”
The Home Secretary sighed. “Let’s hope so, for your sake as well as mine. There’s a very low limit to how stupid I’m prepared to look in public.”
Yekaterinberg, the Urals.
Khranstov’s office was carpeted and freshly painted, with a dado rail that ran the perimeter halfway up. In the middle of the wall, facing the desk, hung a picture of a woman, barely more than a teenager, with blonde hair and a long coat, presenting something to a much older man. Vera Gruchov. The man was Khrantsov himself.
Rostov entered with his cap under his arm and came to attention. Khrantsov swivelled on his chair and spread his hands. “Well?”
“It’s just been confirmed.”
“When?”
“A week today. Eleven hundred hours.”
“Does Colonel Orlov know?”
“Excuse me, sir, but I understood you’d already informed him.”
“I told him to expect it,” Khrantsov said. “I mean, he needs to know when.”
“I’ll send word to the prison authorities.”
“He needs to be prepared. Make sure he’s got an Ots-33 and sufficient ammunition. And a light aircraft. If we can get him out of the country, we’ll drop him in Minsk and he can proceed by commercial flight from there.”
“‘If’? You mean there’s a chance he might not make it?”
“His enemies have been trying to get him released from prison for months. They know we’ve got him covered in there. Once he’s free, he’s entirely in the open. Do you really think we could have secured his release without their cooperation?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
Khrantsov shook his head. “You’ll never get promoted if you don’t learn to look ahead, Alexei.”
“What do you think his chances are?”
“Of making it out of the country alive? Not even fifty per cent. But we can’t keep him locked away for ever. We need him.”
“Do the British know he’s coming?”
“Not yet. It seems pointless telling them, given how precarious it all is.”
“What will we do if he doesn’t make it? Send someone else?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that the situation over there’s more complex than the British can possibly imagine. It’s not remotely what they take it for.”
