Текст книги "Ghosts"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

It was trite to say that Pope had saved Milton’s life. He had, though; that much was unquestionable. There had been times in the years that followed when Milton had wished that he hadn’t, that he had left him to die in the smoking ruins of the village, because that would have meant that none of what followed would ever have happened. No Group. No Control. No blood on his conscience. Recently, he had started to feel different. He had found the Rooms and the Steps and he felt, for the first time in as long as he could remember, that he had hope. Not the hope of atonement, perhaps, but the chance of a little peace.

Milton thought of Pope in the basement of Shcherbatov’s dacha. He was done for unless he went after him. Milton tried to live his life by the Steps. They had saved his life, he was quite sure about that, and he believed that if he observed them faithfully, they would keep him safe.

The Eighth Step injuncted him to make a list of the people that he had harmed.

The Ninth Step required him to make amends to all of them.

He couldn’t make amends to the people who he had harmed through his work for the Group: one hundred and thirty nine of them were already dead. He chose to interpret those two Steps to mean that he should use his skills to help others. That was how he would make things right. Tonight, as he walked through the busy streets of Hong Kong, the monsoon rains starting to fall again, he knew that he had no choice but to do whatever it took to help his friend, even if doing so would lead to his own death.

He was alright with that.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Milton grabbed a couple of hours of sleep, rose quietly at seven and worked out in the hotel gym for a couple of hours before getting breakfast. It was just before eleven when he returned to the room. Anna was dressed and writing an email; she logged off and closed her laptop as he came inside.

“Letting the colonel know I’m still here?”

“Where have you been?”

“The gym,” he said. “I like to run. It helps me focus.”

“And last night?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m afraid I do…”

“Are you ready to go?”

She dropped it as a lost cause and said that she was ready. They found a taxi in the rank outside and Milton asked the driver to take them to Nathan Road. The rain had continued to fall overnight and through the early morning and, even though the temperature was much less oppressive than it would have been during the summer months, it was still warm enough to render the city’s streets cloyingly humid. The driver followed Kimberley Road and then Nathan Road; when they emerged it was midday and the dampness seemed to wash over them. Anna was wearing a loose dress and sandals. Milton had on the suit that the Russians had bought for him together with one of the white t-shirts. He felt the wash of sweat in the small of his back within moments. He raised the umbrella that the hotel concierge had given him and covered them both as they made their way across the sidewalk and into the café.

Calling the place Chungking Mansion was misleading. That made it sound grand and opulent and it most certainly was not that. It was large, though: a sprawling collection of shops, takeaways, restaurants and hundreds of hostels with everything from two to twenty rooms spread over five 17-storey tower blocks. Five thousand people lived here, with another ten thousand coming to visit every day. Interpol countries were legally obliged to register foreign nationals when they checked in to hotels but that requirement was flouted here. The hostels could claim that they were distinct from hotels and, in many ways, they were. There were small businesses with a couple of rooms to large dormitories with a dozen beds to more traditionally arranged establishments with single rooms and shared bathrooms. They were cheap, occasionally cheerful, and you got what you paid for in all of them: a night’s sleep, if you were lucky, and not much else besides.

It was a sprawling place, choked with crowds. If you were going to submerge yourself anywhere in Hong Kong you would do it here. You could just sink into the sprawl of humanity. You could do everything you needed to do without ever having to leave.

Milton crossed the traffic with Anna behind him, parted a way through the crowd that had gathered outside the garish entrance and went inside. It was a confusing place, crowded corridors branching off in all directions. Chinese lanterns were suspended from the ceilings and the stall holders crammed in beneath them hawked electronic goods, clothes, DVDs, cell phones and foods for every possible ethnicity. It was a high-rise souk, rammed full of people, especially so with the rain outside: they passed petty traders, asylum seekers, itinerant workers, small-time entrepreneurs, tourists, and the unavoidable gamut of sex workers and substance abusers. Conversations merged into an incessant yammer so that when Anna spoke to him he had to raise his voice to answer. There was a small arcade near the door, the machines adding their own electronic babble to the cacophony, a clatter of coins as a lucky punter lined up three cherries; the screech of metal as a key-cutter copied a key; the bubble and hiss of hot oil as fries were lowered into a fryer; an argument between a money changer and his customer; talk radio hosts vying with broadcasts of Muslim prayer meetings and shows playing western music. The air carried the odour of hundreds of damp and sweaty bodies, the tang of sweet-and-sour sauce from a fast-food joint, the heady sweetness of decomposing trash.

Milton pressed through the crowd, bumping against a pair of pasty-skinned backpackers with bewildered expressions on their faces, and found his way to a uniformed guard with an elevated position, his elbows resting on the balustrade of a flight of stairs that led up to the first floor.

The Russians had provided them with the name of the hostel where they believed Beatrix had been staying. “Do you know the Golden Guest House?” he asked the man.

The man shrugged.

“It’s a hostel.”

The man shrugged again, the corner of his mouth curling up in a suggestive smile.

“Here,” Anna said, pressing a ten dollar note into his hand.

He folded the note once, then twice, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt. “Other side of building,” he said. He gave them directions and left them to find it.

* * *

The hostel was on the third floor at the end of a maze of windowless corridors that Milton found intensely claustrophobic. He had completely lost his sense of direction and, the deeper they penetrated the warren of rooms, the more vulnerable he felt. An ambush here would be difficult to escape. The Golden Guest House was announced by a painted sign and the open door beneath gave onto a tiny lobby with a bored looking man behind the desk. It was hot and sticky. A broken desk fan sat impotently on a low table between two battered sofas, yellowed stuffing leaking out between rents in the leather that looked like they had been torn open at the point of a knife. The man behind the desk was small and sallow faced, eating a piece of greasy chicken with his fingers as he watched American wrestling. He barely looked up as Milton and Anna entered.

“I’m looking for a woman,” Milton said.

“We all look for woman,” the man said with a lewd smirk at Anna.

“A friend of mine. I think she’s staying here.”

“Can’t talk about guest. Confidential.”

Milton had a photograph of Beatrix that the Russians had provided. It was old, from before the time of the hit on Shcherbatov, and she was dressed in what Milton thought was a police uniform. The likeness was good from what he could remember but it was nearly ten years out of date; time would have aged her, surely, not to mention the changes she would have effected herself. He laid it flat on the counter and left a hundred dollar bill on top of it. The clerk sucked the grease from his fingers and then wiped them on his shirt, pocketed the bill and turned the photograph around so that he could look at it properly. He put a finger up his nostril and turned it around absently. “I don’t know. Maybe I know her, maybe I don’t. Hard to be sure.”

Milton dropped another hundred on the counter and, as the man reached for it, Milton caught his hand and squeezed.

“Ow!” he said. “That hurts!”

“You take me to her room now, alright?”

Milton knew taekwondo and all of the pressure points. His thumb was pushing on the nerve, sending exquisite bolts of pain up the arm. The man winced and thought better of trying to inveigle another hundred out of him. “Okay, I show.”

Milton smiled politely and released the man’s hand.

He led them through a narrow corridor to a tiny box of a room with a single bed, a suitcase propped against the wall and an old-fashioned cathode ray portable television set resting atop a rickety dresser. The A/C unit above the bed gurgled and expectorated a trail of moisture that had stained the wall. There were no windows and, although there was a bathroom, it was only just big enough for the toilet with the result that the shower head was directly overhead.

“How long has she been here?”

“Don’t know. Six month, seven month, maybe more.”

“On her own?”

“Yes.”

“Have you spoken to her?”

“No. No speak with guests.”

“And where is she now?”

He found a little courage. “Who are you?”

“Friends,” Milton said patiently. “We need to find her. Where is she?”

The man hesitated, calculating how much he stood to lose if his guest left in disgust at his impropriety against the damage this intimidating westerner might cause. He dipped his head and whispered, “She eats here, in Chungking.”

“Where?”

“There is a place. Syed Bukhara. Malaysian. Floor Seven, Block E.”

* * *

It took them another hour to find their way to the restaurant. There were dozens of places, mostly very small, and although Syed Bukhara was a little bigger than the average it was still only big enough for a half dozen plastic picnic tables and matching chairs. It was painted in schoolyard green and orange, with neat and tidy mauve cushions on the seats. There was a formica countertop, a revolving display case that advertised sickly-looking desserts and an Indian man in a turban who showed them to the only empty table. The overhead lights were bright and harsh and the laminated menu was stained with fragments of rice and sauce that seemed to have been welded to it. Milton scanned it. The prices were worryingly cheap but his fears were offset by the aroma that was coming from the kitchen: a delicious wafting scent of simmering meats and spices.

Milton ordered Nasi Lemak with egg, a Malaysian comfort food that he remembered from a particularly messy assignment in Kuala Lumpur. Anna ordered the mutton Bukhara biryani special. The dishes arrived and what they lacked in presentation they made up for in taste. The creamy sweetness from the coconut rice mixed well with the spicy sambal sauce and Milton, who found that he was very hungry, made quick work of the whole plate. Anna’s portion was even bigger than his and she couldn’t finish it all; he helped, polishing off the generous chunks of mutton meat that were meshed in fragrant basmati rice. By the time he was finished, he was sated. They ordered two cups of Indian chai tea and drank them slowly. When they had finished those, they ordered a couple more.

Milton’s chair was facing the corridor. He made sure that it was angled so that he wouldn’t be too easy to spot. He didn’t think that Beatrix would run, but he didn’t want to take the chances.

They had been there for two hours when Milton finally gave up.

“If she comes in here, she’s not coming today.”

“We’ll come back later?”

“Tomorrow,” Milton said.

“What now?”

“I need a shower.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Milton had no interest in waiting in their hotel room. The rains cleared away in the middle of the afternoon and he decided to go out for a run.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Out,” he said. “I need some exercise. I’ll be back this evening.”

“What exercise?”

“A run. Is that alright?”

Anna stood, too, and slipped her feet into her sandals. “Do you mind if I come too?”

He paused at the door. “I don’t know, Anna. I’m not feeling particularly sociable.”

“It’s not to keep an eye on you,” she qualified. “I don’t want to stay here all afternoon.”

“Then don’t. Go out.”

He looked at her. He felt the same primal response again, quickly suppressing it, and relented.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll need some kit.”

He opened the door and they made their way to the lobby. She smiled sweetly at him as they waited for the elevator to arrive. Perhaps it would be useful to have her around. He didn’t know very much about her, and that was remiss of him; anything at all could prove to be useful. And, perhaps, she could be persuaded, or tricked, into passing him a little information about Shcherbatov and his plans for Control and Pope.

* * *

There was a small sports shop not too far from the hotel and they visited it to buy running shoes and socks, vests and shorts. They returned to the hotel, changed in the gym and then went back onto the street. Milton had run around Hong Kong before; the sidewalks themselves were not suitable, too clogged with people and sometimes too steep, plus the air was often thick with smog that could make for an unpleasant experience. He had learned his lesson and researched alternative routes. As they headed out, he decided to run his favourite of them.

They headed southwest through the Zoological and Botanical Gardens, past the Ladies’ Recreation Club and then started to ascend the Peak. The weather had cleared, a gentle breeze blowing in off the bay taking a little of the edge off the humidity. It was still hot, though, and it didn’t take long for Milton to work up a sweat. Anna kept the pace beside him. She was fit and strong and it was obvious that she ran often. The climb up Old Peak Road grew steeper and steeper and, eventually, she started to flag. Milton dropped his pace and she reeled him back in again.

They reached Peak Tower and ran around Lugard Road. It was car-free and, as a result, it was busy with dog walkers, other runners and families. There was a tower at the top, an upside-down wok shaped building with a galleria that contained shops and restaurants. The route was mostly shaded and, as they got up high, it offered postcard views over Central and Wanchai. They paused at the ten kilometre mark to look out at it: the sparkling skyscrapers and the deep blue of Victoria Harbour all the way to the green hills of the New Territories, the panorama slowly melting into the pink and orange of early twilight.

He was a little short of breath but Anna was breathing harder.

“Alright to keep going?”

“Sure.”

“Mostly downhill from here.”

He led the way again as they wound back around the Peak, picking up Harlech Road on the backside until they were at the Peak Tower again. They followed Findlay Road until it met Severn Road, home to the most expensive property in the world. That was the turn-off point, and they ran back down into Central and made their way towards the hotel. It was a fifteen kilometre route, all told, and Milton’s muscles were tingling as they finally stopped to warm down.

There was a small pharmacy across the road.

“Want a bottle of water?” he said.

“Sure.”

“Hold on.”

He went inside, picked up two half litre bottles and took them to the desk. He paid for them and spoke to the chemist for a moment. Tremazepan should not have been available without a prescription but he explained that he had been unable to sleep properly all week and that he needed it badly. A twenty dollar note laid on the counter was sufficient incentive and, with a nod of understanding, the man disappeared into the back and came back with a box of Restoril. Milton thanked him and went back outside to join Anna again.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

They went back to the hotel to shower and when Anna disappeared down to the lobby – to file a report, Milton guessed – he spent a couple of hours with his book. When she returned he suggested that they go out to dinner. She smiled brightly at the suggestion; it was an innocent happiness that must have been inspired, he guessed, by the thought that she had finally broken through the hard carapace that he sheltered behind. It almost made him feel bad to see it. He knew then that he would be able to do what he needed to do.

She suggested that he choose where they eat and he picked Caprice, a favourite of his from years ago. They took a taxi and it was nearly eight when they arrived.

There was something very modern about the place, and yet something proper and solid. The lobby was crafted between two floor to ceiling displays of wine bottles – with some enviable vintages on show – and the maître d’ led them through a dining room that was encased with dark wood panelling and equipped with luxurious leather sofas and armchairs. The kitchen was open and situated in the middle of the dining area, with nothing to separate the diners from the delicious smells that were created or the quiet, determined communication between the chefs. All of the tables enjoyed a view of Victoria Harbour, and theirs was especially good. The room was busy, with local Hong Kong Chinese and expat diners enjoying their meals, filling the space with engaged conversation and the sound of expensive cutlery on expensive plates. Milton followed in Anna’s wake and watched the heads of the other diners turn to look at her. Her summer dress was creased and marked and her face was streaked with sweat and dust and yet she was still extraordinary to look at.

Milton looked out over the broad curve of the harbour. Lights were strung between the trees in the garden and then, out on the water, colourful junks rose and fell on the shallow swells. They looked through the elaborate, leather-bound menus. Milton beckoned to the sommelier and turned to his companion.

“What will you have?” he asked.

“Do you have a recommendation?”

“Not really,” he said. “I don’t drink.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I used to drink too much,” he said simply. “So I stopped.”

“Do you mind if I…”

He waved it off. “No, of course not. Have whatever you like.”

She replaced the wine list face down on the table and turned to the sommelier. “I would like a gin and tonic, please. Hendricks. Fill the glass with ice, all the way to the top, and a slice of cucumber.”

She returned to her study of the menu. “Do you know what you want?” she asked. “Please, don’t be frugal. The Kremlin is paying.” She smiled at her own joke, trying to encourage him, too, but it fell rather flat; it dragged Milton away from the potential pleasure of a meal in her company and back to the reality of why they were here together.

Milton summoned the waiter.

He turned to Anna. “Madam?”

“The langoustine lasagne and then the wagyu striploin, please.”

The waiter turned to Milton. “And sir?”

“The vegetable panache, please, and then suckling pig rack.”

The man complimented them on their choices and left the table.

“You must forgive me,” Anna said. “I am very particular about what I eat and drink. It comes from my background. There was very little luxury when I was a child. Times were difficult. And now, when I’m working, it’s usually on my own. It makes things more bearable if you can go to nice restaurants and know a little about what’s on the menu.”

“You were born in Russia?”

“Volgograd,” she said. “Have you been there?”

“Never.”

“I wouldn’t bother. It is not a pleasant place. My father worked for the KGB. We moved around a lot, depending on where he was posted. We spent time in Kenya, Somalia, Vietnam. I was a bit of an embassy brat.”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“Just me.”

“Where did you study?”

“Moscow. We moved back when I was sixteen. The People’s Friendship University of Russia. Masters degree in economics. I could have had a job with a Russian bank, made a lot of money perhaps, but I was recruited by my tutor as soon as I graduated. They had different plans for me, I suppose. My father was proud. It wasn’t something I was able to turn down. I moved to London in 2003 and worked for a couple of banks. And I met my husband there.”

“You’re married?” he said. He pointed to her naked hand. “You don’t…”

“Divorced. He was American. It was for the passport.”

She reported it completely matter of factly, as if getting married was something that had needed to be checked off a list. “How long were you there for?”

“In London? I moved in 2006.”

“And after that?”

“New York, originally. I worked in international real estate.”

“That was the cover?”

“Of course. There was no business. There never was. It was a fantasy. Just a desk. It was a useful front and a good way to pass funds to me.”

“What were you doing there?”

She smiled and shook her head. “No, Mr. Milton, that wouldn’t do. Some things will have to remain secret. You understand, I’m sure.”

“Alright. So why don’t you tell me why were you in Texas?”

“That was for you. I was given instructions that an asset was thought to be in the area. We didn’t know where, exactly, so several of us were moved to the south to wait.”

“Several? There are more of you?”

She smiled. “Many more. The CIA has been focussed on external threats for too long. It is easy to work in America if you know what you are doing.”

“So you just up and left? Do you live alone?”

She smiled mischievously. “Do I have a boyfriend, you mean?”

He knew that the conversation was pulling him in the direction she wanted but he didn’t feel like resisting her any more. “Do you?”

“There was someone, but it was for work. I doubt I’ll see him again.”

He left a pause and then allowed her a smile. “A little better,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“I like to know the person I’m having dinner with,” he said. “I think I’m getting there.”

He raised his glass.

She touched hers to his. “Nasdrovje,” she said.

“Cheers.”

The waiter arrived with the lasagne and the panache and they ate for a time in silence. The food was as delicious as Milton remembered.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she said.

“Depends what it is.”

“‘Some things will have to remain secret?’” Her eyes gleamed.

He smiled. “Something like that.”

“You had a bad dream on the flight…”

“I told you,” he said sharply. “It was just a bad pill.”

Her eyes clouded with concern.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s alright,” he said. He gazed out into the darkness of the bay. “It’s something I saw a long time ago. It’s not a very good memory. Occasionally I dream about it.”

They were quiet again as they finished their starters. Milton watched her face: she looked deep in thought as if, he wondered, she was trying out conversational lines to be sure that she didn’t spoil the mood. She finished the lasagne, placed the cutlery on the plate and looked up, a bright smile on her face. “You know,” she said, “I was pleased that they asked me to go and get you in Texas. It was something of a coup. You are famous with Russian intelligence. Well, not you personally”—she corrected herself quickly, although he knew that she had meant him—“your Group. Group Fifteen. You are famous and feared.”

“I’m not a member of the Group any more.”

“Nevertheless…”

He frowned and, when he spoke, it was quietly. “It’s nothing to be proud of. What we did. What I did. I have a lot of blood on my hands, Anna. Some of them probably deserved what they got. The others, I don’t know. Maybe not.” He felt awkward talking about it; it made the prospect of a drink more difficult to ignore. He remembered the meeting and the sense of calmness he had felt. He needed to change the subject. “How did you like the lasagne?”

“It was delicious. I’ve had a good day and now I’m having a lovely evening. It’s just a pity…”

“What is?”

“You know. The circumstances. Now. The job.”

She stopped, warned by a blank look on Milton’s face.

“That’s just the way it is,” he said. “Orders. You’re doing what you’ve been told to do.”

He paused and turned his head to the window again. The conversation was becoming more intimate than was appropriate. There were some subjects that Milton would not discuss, with anyone, and she had an open and inviting manner that made it easy to forget his boundaries. He had already said too much. He chided himself: she was a Russian agent. He was only here – in Hong Kong, having dinner with her – because they had a gun to his head. A man he owed a blood debt to had been arrested, beaten and was being held God knows where, having God knows what done to him. That was the only reason he was here. Pope was the only reason that he hadn’t already abandoned her, blended in with the multitude and disappeared from view again.

He was having dinner with her under sufferance and not through choice. Unfortunately, however many times he told himself that, he knew it wasn’t really true.

The rest of the meal went well. The food was excellent and the conversation was good. Anna loosened up even more after her gin and then she ordered a couple of glasses of wine with her main course. She became a little more indiscrete about her work although Milton was sure that some of it was calculated; passing on a little harmless gossip here and there in an attempt to inveigle herself into his own confidences.

She excused herself between the main course and dessert and Milton took his chance. He had prepared earlier, before they left for dinner: he had popped three of the temazepam tablets from their blister pack, ground them together swept the fine powder into a folded triangle of paper. Now, he reached across the table for her unfinished glass of wine and, after checking that he wasn’t observed, tipped the powder into it. It dissolved quickly and without any sign of residue.

She returned to the table and asked him to talk about his background. Assuming that she knew it all anyway, he did. He told her about the peripatetic early years spent following his father’s career around the oil states in the Gulf, his parents’ death, the largely unsuccessful time at private school and then his years reading law at Cambridge. He explained how he had eschewed the career at the bar that had seemed mapped out for him and how he had joined the Green Jackets instead. There was his first posting in Gibraltar, the time spent in the Gulf for the first Iraq war and then the Provinces. Talking about that brought him right back to Pope again and, not wishing to dwell on that tonight, he had been glad that their desserts were finished and cleared away and Anna proposed that they return to the hotel.

Anna summoned the waiter, asked for the bill, paid it in cash and left a large tip on the table. She rose, suddenly a little unsteadily.

“I’m afraid I’m a little drunk,” she said.

“Here.” He offered her his arm and, with her clinging onto it, he led the way out of the restaurant and onto the street outside. It had started to rain again; gently at first, a fine gossamer mist that dampened the face, but then, as they stood waiting to flag a taxi, it fell harder and harder until it was drumming thunderously on the awning above them. Milton took out a packet of cigarettes and offered her one. She took it, ducking her head to accept his light and exposing the nape of her long, white neck.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“A little – fuzzy. I…I…” She stammered for the words and, slowly, a frown that might have been realisation broke across her face. “You…you…” she started again, but the words fluttered away, the thought incomplete and unexpressed.

A taxi pulled up. She was asleep on his shoulder before it had even pulled away.