Текст книги "Ghosts"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

The office was at the other end of the storeroom and he knocked twice, waiting for permission to enter.

“Yes,” the voice said in harshly accented Russian.

Milton pushed the door and stepped into the small room beyond. There was a desk with a computer, two filing cabinets and a slit-like window that opened onto the trash infested alleyway at the rear of the supermarket. The room was lit by a single naked bulb. An old FM radio stood on one of the cabinets, tuned to a news channel, the voice of the announcer obscured by the regular bursts and burbles of interference. There was a chair before the desk and sitting in it was a woman who looked to be in her late sixties. She was short and stout with a heavily wrinkled face and a bowl of grey hair that was shot through with streaks of silver. She was dressed practically: sensible black shoes with a decent tread, thick stockings and a worn woollen skirt and sweater that had been chosen for comfort rather than style. She had kind, wise, sad eyes.

“John?”

“Mamotchka,” he said, smiling. It meant ‘mother’ in Russian. Her given name was Anya Dostovalov but mother was what he had called the old woman for years.

“My God,” she said, pushing herself out of the chair and crossing the room to enfold him in an embrace. She smelled the same as he remembered: the floral perfume was a trigger that always threw him back to the times he had spent in the East. She put her arms on his shoulders and held him back a little so that she could get a better look at his face. He smiled into her eyes and dipped his head so that she could kiss him on both cheeks. “My God,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I did not think I ever see you again.”

“Mamotchka,” he chided, unable to prevent the smile that twitched the sides of his mouth. “You didn’t think I’d forget about you, did you?”

“I hear what happen. What happen in London.”

“You probably heard their version of it.”

“You must tell me. I hear stories, many stories, you are right, but you must tell what really happened. We will have cup of tea, yes?”

“Something warm would be good.”

“And have you eaten, Vanya?”

John was translated as Ivan in Russian, and Vanya was the affectionate diminutive that replaced Ivan. She had used that for him for all the time that they had known each other.

“I haven’t.”

“Then we must go upstairs. To apartment. I cook for you.”

Chapter Fourteen

Anya spoke to the two members of staff on the checkout desk, telling them that they would be locking up tonight without her, opened a door and led him up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor. The doors to a half dozen apartments faced onto a spare and ascetic lobby; snow was melting on the boots that had been left on mats outside. Anya took the key that she wore on a thin chain around her neck and unlocked her door. Milton remembered the apartment beyond: parquet floor, a faded and moth-eaten rug and a small chandelier that looked grand but, upon closer inspection, was dusty and dirty and broken in several places. Mamotchka took off her shoes and Milton did the same, following her further into the apartment.

There was a bedroom with a single bed, plus a pine wardrobe and dressing table set that was scattered with cosmetics and scents. The tiny bathroom was next and then, at the end of the corridor, a sitting room with a small kitchen arranged at one end. The kitchen was equipped with an old-fashioned stove, a tiny fridge and a stovetop kettle. The sitting room had yet more of the parquet floor, softened by another rug. There was a mushroom-shaped water stain that had spread across the ceiling, peeling the plaster away and a bookshelf with communist-era travelogues and histories. The windows looked down onto the snow choked streets below. The central heating, which was still regulated by the city government, was brutally hot.

“Now, John,” she said, gesturing towards the sofa. “Sit. I prepare food and tea.”

Milton sat and watched as she went about her business. He had known Anya Dostovalov for almost a decade and she had been an asset of British intelligence for far longer than that. Her role had always been as a ‘cut-out.’ She would stand between a spy and his or her source so that, were her role to be uncovered, she would only be able to identify the sender and the recipient of information. She acted as insulation for the network that MI6 had built, protecting its agents from exposure. The role was critically important and exposed her to considerable risk; once Milton had grown to know and respect her he was loathe to put her in harm’s way. Her response had always been to politely yet firmly brush his concerns away. She had been doing this for years, she would say. She knew what she was doing.

First, she brought over a teapot, a samovar filled with hot water and two cups, and prepared the tea. She had brewed it strong and poured small shots into the cups, topping them up with boiling water from the samovar. Milton sipped his, the taste sharp and bitter and not particularly pleasant to his palate, but the warmth was welcome in his belly. Anya Dostovalov took her own tea to the kitchen and worked with quick and silent efficiency, emptying out the contents of the tiny fridge and assembling a small buffet for them both: slivers of fish and hunks of pork, pieces of bitter Russian chocolate, a collection of warm blinis, sour cream, the sweet cheese that the Russians fried in little rolls and saucers of jam that Milton knew you were supposed to eat with the tea. When she was finished she brought it over on a wooden tray and set it down on the low coffee table.

“You still remember how to find shop,” she said as she sat down.

“Of course. I’m not likely to forget, am I?”

“You were not followed?”

“Please,” he smiled. “You know me better than that.”

“I am sorry, Vanya,” she said. “I have reason to be careful.”

“How do you mean?”

“The… how do you say? The climate is difficult. Everyone knew KGB was bad but SVR is just the same.” She smiled. “And I am too old for gulag.”

“You’re not old, Mamotchka.”

“Bless you, Vanya, but I am seventy-three. Old woman now.”

“There’s no need to worry. I was followed but I lost them on the Metro. They don’t know where I am.”

He sipped the fragrant tea, feeling its warmth in his belly. She waited patiently as he finished the cup and then poured him another.

“So, dear one. What has happened to you?”

He told her. He told her about the assignment in the French Alps and the two Iraqi scientists that he had assassinated and about the little boy who had hidden in the footwell of the car that he had sprayed with bullets, and about the gendarme who had been unlucky enough to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He told her how he had lost himself in the boy’s brown eyes and how he had seen an unbroken line that connected all his victims all the way back to another little boy he had seen in the desert years ago. He told her how he had decided there and then that he couldn’t justify his life’s work any longer, that he had been haunted by the ghosts of the men and women he had dispatched, how they had stormed his dreams so that he had only been able to escape them by drinking so much that he obliterated all sense of his self. He told her about what had happened in East London, how he had ruined the lives of the people he had been trying to help, about how he had fled to South America and worked his way north, trying to do the right thing where he could, but moving on before he could become settled, before he could make attachments that he knew he would eventually have to break. He told her about Cuidad Juárez and Santa Muerta, about how the Group had located him and how he had escaped. He told her about San Francisco and all the dead girls and, as he did, he saw, again, that whatever he did and wherever he went, he could not escape Death. It followed in his wake, dogged and relentless and impossible to shake.

“Guilt always comes to men in your work,” she said when he was finished.

“I lasted longer than most.”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m not sure what that says about me.”

She smiled, a sad smile. “You are good man, Vanya.”

“I’m not going back.”

“You would not have that option even if you did. I am told Control is furious.”

“I’m sure he is. I put a bullet into the knee of the man he sent after me.”

“Yes, Number Twelve. His new little pet. I heard.”

“You still have your ears open?”

“I hear most things eventually. You know me.”

“That’s what I was hoping. I need your help. Information.”

“Whatever I can do.”

He finished his last mouthful of blini and put the plate down on the table.

“Do you know a colonel Shcherbatov?”

A wry half-smile. “Pascha? I do. A little.”

“I’m meeting him tomorrow.”

“For what?”

“I’m not sure. What do you know?”

“I know that he is secretive man. He has been intelligence officer for many years. Trained with the 401st KGB School in Okhta, near St. Petersburg. Leningrad, as then, and worked for Second Chief Directorate on counterintelligence and then First Chief Directorate. He monitored foreigners in Leningrad and was sent to East Germany before Wall came down. He came back to Moscow, survived coup and was given senior role in new KGB. He has been there ever since.”

“Anything else?”

“He is old-fashioned. Traditional. Still views West as enemy. He is not popular among his comrades. His views are unpopular. Government wants good relations with west. Money from oil is worth more than principles. Pascha Shcherbatov does not share this view – old Cold Warrior. I hear suggestion that Kremlin would not be upset if he were to retire.”

“Then why didn’t they get rid of him?”

“A man like Pascha learn many secrets, Vanya. He work in intelligence for many years. Do not think his attention has always been focussed across Russia’s borders. He is not kind of man who makes fuss of himself but apparatchiks are not stupid. They know not to be afraid of barking dog. Pascha is silent dog. You should be afraid of silent dog. Do you understand what I mean, Vanya?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what he wants?”

“No,” he said. “I have no idea.”

“Treat him very carefully, Vanya. He is dangerous. Not to be trusted. Whatever he wants from you, it will not be good.”

Chapter Fifteen

Milton slept at the apartment that night, setting an alarm for four in the morning. He rose quietly from the couch in the hope that he might not disturb Anya Dostovalov but she was already awake and, upon hearing that he had risen too, she bustled into the front room and made busy preparing breakfast. She prepared large mugs of Sbiten, the honey beverage laced with cloves, cinnamon and ginger, and gave one to him. She made fresh blinis and served them with sour cream. Milton didn’t know when he would be eating again and so he had five of them, washing them down with another mug of Sbiten. He hugged her before opening the door, telling her that he would see her again soon even as he knew that was unlikely, unlatched the door and stepped out into the hallway beyond.

The snow had fallen heavily overnight and walking had become even more difficult. There were huge mounds of wind blown snow across the sidewalk and, where it had been cleared away, hidden expanses of black ice. The municipal workers were out even at this early hour, preparing the city for the day ahead. They were dressed in orange overalls with thick parka jackets over the top and drove prehistoric trucks, shovelling snow into piles and treating patches of ice with caustic chemicals that dissolved it with a worrying hiss and fizz. In the street outside the supermarket they had piled all the snow on one side, burying the cars that had been foolishly left there. They hacked at the thickest patches of ice with pickaxes and shovels with an abominable screeching that reminded Milton of nails being dragged down a blackboard. He had to wait fifteen minutes for a taxi; the cold quickly robbed him of the warmth he had managed to absorb from the apartment’s baking central heating and he was shivering when he finally slipped into the back seat and asked to be taken to the Ritz-Carlton.

* * *

He opened his door quietly and slipped inside. It was just past six. He had taken off his coat and shirt and was about to run the bath when there was a knocking at the door. It was Anna. She must have been awake, listening for his return. She stood at the threshold, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Her eyes fell to the scars on Milton’s naked chest, switching back promptly as she noticed he was smiling with amusement at her.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Milton?”

“I went out.”

“Where did you go?”

“Sightseeing.”

“All night?”

“Lots of sights to see,” he said.

She frowned at him disapprovingly. “It does you no favours to play games with us. And it does your friend no favours.”

“I’m not playing games. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m ready to see the colonel.”

“Yes,” she said. “We are leaving immediately.”

“Where is he?”

“Not in Moscow.”

“Where?”

She did not answer. “We have a long trip ahead of us. Four hundred kilometres, Mr. Milton.”

“In this snow?”

“It should take us eight hours.”

Chapter Sixteen

Milton swapped his bath for a shower, dressed warmly, and met Anna in the lobby. There was a car waiting outside for them. It was a top-of-the-line Range Rover Sport, a big and powerful four wheel drive with snow chains fastened around all four tyres. It was black and the windows were tinted. Anna led the way to it and opened the rear door.

Milton got inside and saw that they had been provided with a driver, too. The man was dressed in an anonymous suit and his blond hair had been shaved to a short, prickly fuzz. He was an intelligence operative, he guessed, one seconded from the Spetsnaz if his guess was right. He was big, several inches taller than Milton and fifty pounds heavier. He would be armed, and tough, and a passable match for him if things took a turn for the worse. Milton looked into his face in the rearview mirror as he slid into the seat, the man’s eyes cold and impassive as he glared back at him.

“Who’s the gorilla?” he asked Anna, his eyes still fixed on the man’s.

“His name is Vladimir,” she said as she slid alongside. “He’ll be driving us.”

“Just driving?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Milton. You’re under the protection of the Russian government now.”

“That fills me with confidence.”

“Please, relax. We have a long drive.”

“So you said. Are you going to tell me where?”

“There is a place called Pylos. North east from here. The colonel is staying at his dacha. We will visit him there.”

“Why all the way there? You don’t have a safe house in Moscow?”

“Of course we do,” she said irritably. “But, no matter how careful we are, there will always be prying eyes in the city. The colonel is a private man. Pylos is remote. A place where Muscovites go for their summer holidays. It will be deserted in this weather. There is one way in and one way out and we will be watching both. Easier for us to ensure that your meeting is not noted. That is in both our best interests, is it not?”

Milton said nothing.

The driver put the Range Rover into gear and slid into the traffic. They headed to the north.

There were new high-rise apartment buildings on the edge of Moscow, coloured beige and cream and not as ugly as the old Soviet ones, with patches of snow-covered lawn between them. They drove on, passing out of the suburbs and into the countryside beyond, the road occasionally taking them through cute Russian idylls of sloping wooden houses and little orchards alongside and behind them. The houses all had ornamental window frames, rickety fences and rusty roofs, and sometimes the snow receded just a little to reveal a hint of the landscape that hibernated beneath it: a grove of silver birch trees, stretches of water choked by mirror smooth ice, tethered goats, wild deer and elk foraging for greenery amid the freezing grip of winter. The towns and villages were beautiful and ugly in equal measure, with fly-tipped trash left to rot on the outskirts: bits of old machinery covered over by the snow, discarded white goods, empty vodka bottles scattered across deep drifts. Milton remembered Russia well enough, and knew that the snow was covering a multitude of sins. It masked all the scars and blemishes and lies that collected beneath. It was an apt metaphor for a great country that had fallen into disrepute.

They followed the E115 north, passing through Khotovo, Pereslavl-Zalessky and Rostov. Milton watched the scenery passing by the window and thought about Pope and what the Russians wanted from him. Whoever he was, Shcherbatov was obviously a man not to be taken lightly. Mamotchka was a tough old coot; she had seen plenty of the KGB’s hardcases and blowhards, watched them rail against the unstoppable tide of capitalism, and she had outlasted them all. Her years had given her a breezy confidence and yet Milton had not missed the frown she wore throughout their discussion last night. Colonel Shcherbatov was different.

Anna was next to him. “Are you going to tell me anything about your boss?”

“It would be better if you met him with an open mind.”

“Why? Does he have a reputation?”

“Judge him for yourself.”

The driver glanced up at him in the mirror.

“What do you think, Vladimir?”

“Colonel Shcherbatov is patriot and hero,” he said in heavily accented Russian.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You remember.”

“Vladimir,” Anna chided. “Please. Concentrate on the road.”

They stopped for diesel after six hours. The station was on the outskirts of Yaroslavl, three hundred kilometres from Moscow, and Milton got out to stretch his legs. The cold grew more severe the further north they travelled and here, on the station forecourt, it took just a few minutes to spear into the marrow of his bones. Anna came out and stood beside him, their clouded breath merging together and their shadows thrown long by the afternoon sun. They were enclosed by forest, the branches of the trees sagging with the great weight of the snow. Milton looked at the woman through the corner of his eye. She said nothing, as she had said nothing all the way throughout the drive, but now it seemed almost a companionable silence, as if a friendship might be possible between them if the circumstances were different. He had been in the same business as her, after all. Same coin, different sides.

He absently followed her towards the garage. A wrecked, bearded man was slumped against the wall. He looked up as they approached and asked in Russian if they would buy him a bottle of vodka. Anna dismissed him curtly and went inside. Beside the fuel, the proprietor had a ramshackle business selling beer and vodka, stationery, pornography, cigarettes, bootleg DVDs and perfume. The man glared at Milton from over the counter, a baseball bat ostentatiously propped against the wall, and when he came over to the till to accept Anna’s payment, he revealed an empty trouser leg that hung loose between his good leg and his crutch. He wasn’t old enough for Afghanistan, Milton guessed. Chechnya.

“You smoke?” she said as they walked across the forecourt together to the car.

“Now and again,” he said.

“Here.” She tossed him a packet of Winstons.

“Haven’t seen these for a while,” he admitted as he tore the wrapper from the pack.

“Taste like shit and they still sell more here than anything else.”

Milton put one of the cigarettes to his lips and lit it. The tobacco was harsh and bitter and strong and he had to stifle the urge to cough.

“See what I mean?” she said, a half-smile brightening her face.

“It’s a challenging taste,” he said, briefly raising an eyebrow. He mastered it and filled his lungs.

“We’re halfway there,” she said.

“What time will we get in?”

“Provided it doesn’t snow, around ten.”

“And if it snows?”

“Then we’ll sleep in the car.”

Chapter Seventeen

Pylos was an enchantingly pretty place. There were onion domed churches and brightly painted wooden houses with ornate carved window frames and zinc and tin roofs, spilling down a hillside to a waterfront of fine former merchants houses and colourful houseboats. The main street was tiny and entirely free of designer shops and even the advertising for Western brands, ubiquitous in every other town through which they had passed. Milton had visited upstate New York on several occasions and the town reminded him of Bridgehampton: deliberately folksy, carefully low-key, yet the signs that it was saturated with money were obvious if you knew where to look.

The dacha was on the other side of the town, just outside the boundary. Large residences started to appear, walled and gated, all with plenty of land and access to the Volga. Milton stared through the window across the vast expanse of water. It was five hundred metres wide and seventy-five metres deep, the moon throwing a rippling stripe of light across the blue-black water. Milton saw the two police speedboats bobbing at anchor and, as he looked further towards the other bank, he saw the discreet signs of military activity. He knew there was no point in asking, but it was easy to guess what that meant: a place like this, with all these big summer retreats, there had to be a good chance that members of the political elite could be found here. Oligarchs, crime lords, high-ranking military officials, all of them swimming in the money that the new Russia showered on the chosen few.

Vladimir slowed and turned off the road, proceeding along a short drive to a pair of gates. There were two armed guards just inside and Milton noticed the CCTV cameras that were trained down on them; after a moment, the gates parted and they continued onwards. Milton concentrated on taking in everything he could. The dacha was large, much bigger than the cabin that he had naïvely expected. They approached it along a short drive that passed through a festive Russian landscape, stands of silver birches alternating with thrusting fir and redolent pines, the greensward between them obliterated by the deep falls of snow. There was an area for parking cars and the driver reversed next to another big executive Range Rover and an army jeep. The snow had been shovelled to the edge of the parking area, revealing the frozen gravel beneath, and as Milton stepped down from the car he stood on a twig and snapped it, the sound ringing back through the darkness like the report from a rifle. That, and the crunch of their boots on the gravel, were the only sounds; everything else was muffled, as quiet as the grave. Milton scoped out his surroundings as he allowed himself to be led to the entrance. To the south was a frozen stream, crossed, if necessary, by two planks which met at a man-made island in the middle. On the other side of the stream, and similarly set out along the banks of the Volga, were other dachas, each of them seemingly larger than the last. Milton saw smoke emerging from the chimney of the nearest one but the rest seemed deserted. The illuminated green roof and golden cupolas of a Church poked through a stand of fir. Icicles hung from the eaves of roofs, icy daggers that shimmied and glimmered. The road that they had entered on was quiet. There were no other people abroad. Anna had been right: this was perfect isolation. It was the ideal place to hold a meeting that no-one else could know about.

Vladimir led the way to the front door. It opened on his approach and he conferred in Russian with the guard who stood behind it. The man was armed: Milton recognised his holstered weapon as an MP-443 Grach, the double-action, short-recoil 9mm that was standard issue Russian service pistol. The conversation was brief, and evidently satisfied, the guard nodded and stepped aside. Vladimir waited at the door; Milton followed Anna past them both and inside.

He took it all in, unconsciously performing a tactical assessment. There was a large hallway, with doors opening out into the rest of the dacha in all three internal walls. A flight of stairs led up to a first floor and, he guessed, to a second and third above that.

Anna noticed him paying attention; she smiled and nodded at him. “It is quite something, yes?”

She thought that he was impressed. Fair enough; he would rather she thought that than the truth, which was that he was working out the best way to breach the thick oak door. “Who owns it?” he asked.

“The federal intelligence service.”

“I saw a lot of big places as we came in.”

“Plyos is special, Mr. Milton. Very exclusive.”

“And why’s that?”

“Have you heard of Isaac Levitan?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

She pointed to the wide canvas that was hung above the fireplace in the sitting room. It was a beautiful landscape, the distinctive bulbs of a Russian church reflecting against the water of a wide river. “He was the most famous Russian landscape painter of the nineteenth century. He worked here. He painted it many times. That is one of his works.”

“I’m not great with art.”

She ignored that. “Repin, Savrasov and Makovsky, too. All of them worked here. It is very beautiful in the daylight.”

“Shame we’re not here to visit, then.”

“Yes. There will be no time for sightseeing, not like in Moscow.”

He ignored the jibe and allowed her to lead the way upstairs. They reached a landing with several doors leading from it; again, he committed the layout to memory. She took him halfway down and pushed one of the doors ajar.

“This is your room,” she said.

Milton opened the door fully and looked inside. It was a large room, dominated by a four poster bed. It was simply but evocatively furnished, with heavy Volga linens and had a brick stove beneath a marble fireplace. A fire had been made, and, as the flames curled around the logs that had been stacked there, they cast their orange and yellow light into the dark corners. It was warm and friendly.

“Please, stay here tonight. There’s nothing to see in the village after dark and there are armed guards posted outside. They have been told to prevent you from leaving. I’m sure you could avoid them but it wouldn’t do you any favours. The temperature up here is colder than in Moscow. If you don’t have the right clothes, and you don’t, you wouldn’t last twenty minutes. Much better to stay here, where it’s warm. Okay?”

“Don’t worry,” Milton said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded her approval. “The cook will prepare anything you like for your dinner. It will be brought to your room.” She indicated the telephone next to the bed with a nod of her head. “You just need to dial 1 to speak to the kitchen.”

He stepped further into the room, sat on the edge of the bed and started to work his boots off.

Anna stayed at the door. “The colonel is arriving tomorrow morning. He wants to see you immediately. We will have breakfast together and then I will introduce you.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Her face softened with the beginnings of a careful smile. “My room is next door. If you need anything, you only need knock.” She said it as she stared into his face; it was meant to be meaningful, and Milton did not mistake the message.

He was tempted, but he did not take the bait. “Thank you,” he said. “In the morning, then.”

If she was offended, she didn’t show it. “Sleep well, Mr. Milton,” she said, closing the door. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

* * *

Milton was awoken by the sound of an engine. He reached out for his watch: the luminous dial showed a little after three. He slipped out of bed and, crossing the room quietly, reached the window and parted the thick blackout curtains. Snow was falling heavily outside, fat flakes that had already piled two inches deep against the sill and limited the view to a handful of metres. Milton saw headlights approaching from the road, an amber glow that moved slowly through the blizzard. A large, humvee style vehicle painted in military camouflage drew into the parking space and reversed to a halt so that its rear doors faced the dacha. Milton recognised the vehicle as a GAZ 2975 Tiger: large, heavily-treaded tyres, an armoured cabin and narrow windows at the front, rear and along each flank. Troop transport, for the most part, and rugged enough to make short work of this weather. The engine cut out and the driver and passenger-side doors opened. Two soldiers disembarked, crunched across the compacted snow to the rear and opened the doors. The driver hauled himself up into the back and emerged with a third man. He looked half-unconscious, falling to one knee as his feet hit the ground. The two men put his arms across their shoulders and dragged him into the dacha. Milton’s view was from above and obscured by the wide flanks of the Tiger and the falling snow, but he saw enough of the man’s face to recognise Captain Michael Pope.