Land of Ghosts

by E. V. Seymour

  Tallis flashed a no-worries smile. Along with his Chechen, his skill for lying had improved enormously.

  By midweek he was able to talk with a great deal of fluency. Settled, Lena had lost much of her early reserve. She became cheerful, less intense and on occasions displayed a sense of humour. Against his wishes, she did rather more in the home than he’d intended. Washing curtains and cleaning down paintwork was not his idea of a good time, but it gave Lena purpose so he left it at that. He never made reference to her previous life, to her family and what she’d lost and, so far, they’d only briefly touched on Islam, and that had arisen from her questioning him about his own beliefs.

  ‘Brought up a Catholic,’ he said. ‘Although I don’t follow the faith any more.’ Funny how people like him got turned off God because of the terrible things he’d seen while others, like Lena, as a result of their dreadful experiences became more religious. She didn’t make a deal of it but he knew that she prayed five times a day, that her only source of reading was the Koran.

  Their existence assumed an easy pattern—rise early, talk, eat, talk, shop, talk, walk, more talk, and eat again. Sometimes they would sit in silence, mainly because he was too knackered to crank his brain into gear, and occasionally he’d imagine a knock on the door, officialdom in full flight, the final push from Immigration.

  The more she learnt to trust him the less strident her views. In his experience, it was always those most fearful and insecure who bandied about extreme opinions. Having said that, he also discovered that his initial impression of Lena was nearest the mark. A firebrand by nature, it took very little for her to ignite on certain subjects.

  ‘How can you say such a thing?’ she demanded, eyes flashing. They were in the kitchen, preparing a meal, or rather Lena was preparing a meal and he was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, brain working at full tilt.

  ‘I’m simply pointing out that Britain has hardly been accommodating in extraditing certain Russians. It plays both ways, Lena.’

  ‘And do the British government respond by sending hit squads to Moscow?’ she said, a withering note in her voice. ‘No,’ she said, jabbing a kitchen knife in the air to make the point. ‘Russian security services have always maintained departments dedicated to assassination.’

  No different to former Iraqi hit squads, the Mossad and countless other government-sponsored institutions, Tallis thought, deciding not to pursue it. Never wise to argue with a woman holding a knife in her hand, even if it was ostensibly for the purpose of chopping onions.

  It was early Friday night, the evening before he flew to London to collect Kumarin. He’d spent much of the day, when not conversing with Lena, reading up about mines: how to spot them and how to manually clear an area should he be unfortunate enough to find himself in a minefield. The key words were look, feel and prod.

  Lena was talking about oil, the reason, she said, for the blackness of the earth in Chechnya, although Tallis suspected it had more to do with humus, an organic constituent of soil.

  ‘You can buy home-refined petrol at any crossroads. It’s big business,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately, it also attracts criminal gangs.’

  ‘Seems to me anywhere in Chechnya provides a haven for armed thugs.’

  Lena conceded with a weary shrug. ‘The Russians have a vested interest in exporting criminality to the Caucasus.’

  Tallis said nothing. Notwithstanding everything he’d been told, he was starting to tire of the Russians as bad guys argument. Life was never that simple. ‘This mission of yours,’ she said, a tentative note in her voice. ‘You will be leaving soon?’

  ‘Hopefully. But there’s no need for you to move out,’ he said, in quick response to the unsettled expression in her eyes. ‘You can stay as long as—’

  ‘I’m permitted,’ she cut in with a tight smile.

  ‘You’re welcome to stay was what I meant.’

  She nodded again, staring at the hearth, her face thrown into stark relief by the firelight. Features fused in concentration, she was clearly turning something over in her mind. Tallis wondered whether she was remembering her flight through the mountains, the cold and the dark, the gut-churning horror when the mine had exploded and claimed the life of her daughter.

  ‘When you travel, are you flying to Moscow, or will you be going in through the back door?’

  She meant through Finland or Estonia or one of the many other borders. It had puzzled Tallis that Asim hadn’t ordered him to go straight in, no messing about, but he guessed Asim had his reasons for what seemed to him an elaborate subterfuge. ‘I’ll be spending some time in Moscow.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Lena said. She never told him why and Tallis didn’t ask. That came later.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FABULOUS weather, Tallis thought as the helicopter lifted and soared heavenward—bright, crisp sunshine, wind speed light, soft puffy clouds in a watercolour sky. For maximum impact, it had been decided that Tallis would not fly the Agusta to collect Kumarin, but wait and unveil it, ta-da, the other end. Instead, he was in the ditzy two-seater Robinson 22. Everything would have been perfect had it not been for the sour-faced, sour-breathing Russian travelling in the passenger seat close beside him. Apart from his typically Slav appearance—short stature, flat rectangular face, washed denim blue eyes—he seemed to defy everything Tallis was told to expect, notably that Russians were friendly and big on chat as a preliminary to getting down to business. From the moment Tallis met Kumarin, he was virtually expressionless and monosyllabic. At first, Tallis thought this was through sheer disappointment—the R22 was a tiny, fun machine but a little crowded for two men, but on the contrary he was assured that the Robinson was perfectly fine—or that there was some language difficulty, but even a quick burst of Russian elicited a flatline response. For the entire flight back to Shobdon, Tallis was subjected to the silent treatment, his questions answered by either a straight nyet or da.

  Desperate measures, Tallis thought, showing Kumarin into the meeting room and whipping out a bottle of vodka. At once the man’s hardened features softened. His mouth actually formed half a smile. Thank Christ for that, Tallis thought, pouring Kumarin a healthy measure, which he tossed back with gusto.

  ‘You’re not drinking?’ Kumarin said, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

  ‘Afraid not,’ Tallis said. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’

  ‘Me, too,’ Kumarin said deadpan, gesturing for Tallis to pour him another. ‘So how long have you worked here?’ Kumarin said, putting his briefcase on the floor and parking his stocky frame on a chair.

  Tallis fed him his cover story and handed him a carefully crafted business card, the flip side displaying Tallis’s impressive list of bogus credentials. It had all been carefully scripted in Russian using Cyrillic text. Now that they were on a comfortable footing, largely thanks to Smirnoff, he felt himself relax. A convivial hour later, Kumarin asked to use the tualet. Tallis opened the door from the meeting room and indicated the lavatory down the corridor. When Kumarin returned Tallis escorted him downstairs and into the hangar housing the Agusta. At once, the Russian’s eyes danced with light. He walked around the helicopter, surveying, one hand on his chin, a gleam in his eye suggesting naked admiration, then opened the pilot doors, and climbed inside.

  Contrary to Ginny’s advice, Tallis kept his mouth shut, and let the helicopter do the talking. Let Kumarin set the pace. When Kumarin was satisfied, he climbed back out and they returned to the meeting room where the Russian requested the logbook and records. Afterwards, he politely asked to be left in peace. ‘I will be some time.’

  Tallis read the sub-text. In Russia certain items were three times more expensive to the tourist than to the Russian. Applying that same logic, Kumarin would try and find reasons to bring the price down. ‘Can I bring you anything to eat or drink?’

  ‘No, but leave the vodka,’ Kumarin said, a sly smile touching his mouth.

  Tallis left, shutting the door behind him, and walked
down the corridor to Ginny’s office, which she shared with one of Tiger’s pilots, the man in charge, as she called him.

  ‘No Ginny?’ Tallis said.

  ‘Not in today,’ the guy said, stretching in his seat, making the creases in his crisp white shirt rustle. ‘Got a cold, or something.’

  Tallis wondered if Ginny’s absence was deliberate, whether it was connected to him giving her the brushoff. No, of course not, he thought. She wasn’t like that. Deciding to catch some fresh air and a sandwich from the tearoom, Tallis bowled down the stairs, slapping straight into Blaine Deverill.

  ‘Just the man,’ Deverill said, all smiles. Tallis wasn’t sure whether Blaine was a natural fool or one of those exhausting individuals who constantly seek to please—he found the always-happy routine irritating. ‘How’s that Russian deal of yours shaping up?’

  ‘Still shaping,’ Tallis said, making for the exit, Deverill falling into step beside him.

  ‘Heading that way myself. Fancy a coffee and a bite to eat?’

  With no escape, other than to hang around the mechanics and drive them crazy, Tallis reluctantly agreed.

  ‘Enjoying it here?’ Deverill said, once they’d ordered, taken their drinks and were settled at a table.

  ‘How could I not?’ Tallis said, noncommittal.

  ‘Know what you mean. Flying gets under your skin. If you can turn a hobby into work, bloody marvellous.’

  ‘So what do you do when you’re not speeding through the skies?’ Tallis said, spooning sugar into his mug.

  ‘Bit of this, bit of that,’ Deverill said, elliptically. ‘I’m an engineer by profession, first-class degree from Caius, Cambridge, for my sins.’

  ‘Right,’ Tallis said, feeling seriously cheesed off. This was going to be one hell of a boring coffee break.

  ‘You a university man, Paul?’

  Tallis shook his head.

  ‘Worked in industry for many years, but that was after I’d done my stint with the Hereford Gun Club.’ A pseudonym for the Special Air Service, Tallis knew.

  ‘Right,’ Tallis said, barely listening. A practised liar himself—necessary for the job—he could sniff one out at a hundred paces. And Deverill was telling fibs. Probably never set foot in Cambridge let alone been in the SAS.

  ‘You look like a forces man, if you don’t mind my saying,’ Deverill said in a nudge-nudge fashion.

  ‘Me? No. Humble plod, that’s all. Well, used to be.’ That was the other thing about telling convincing lies—it always paid to mix in a pinch of truth.

  ‘That so?’ Deverill said. ‘Where was your patch?’

  ‘Nowhere very exciting—West Mercia,’ Tallis lied. ‘Decided to escape after I was left a bit of money.’

  ‘Got you,’ Deverill said.

  Mercifully, their food arrived, sausage and chips for Deverill, BLT for Tallis. He fell on it, hoping that Deverill would shut up and follow suit. He didn’t.

  ‘How do you rate the lovely Miss Dodge?’

  ‘Rate?’ Tallis frowned.

  Deverill began to laugh, shoulders pumping. ‘I didn’t mean like that,’ Deverill said, wheezing slightly.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know,’ he said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Tallis said, drinking his coffee.

  ‘She’s quite a sharp one, isn’t she?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Tallis said, noncommittal.

  ‘Not without guile.’

  ‘That right?’

  ‘Razor-sharp brain. Got her wings years ago before women really got into flying.’

  Two words to that, Tallis thought: Amy Johnson.

  ‘Asked me out a couple of times,’ Deverill continued, droning on.

  Here we go, porkie time again. If Ginny Dodge had asked Blaine Deverill out, Tallis reckoned he’d run round the airfield naked. ‘We had quite a thing going.’ Yeah, yeah, Tallis thought. ‘’Course we had to cool things, what with her old man showing back up on the scene.’

  Tallis made a pantomime of looking at his watch. ‘Hell, is that the time? Sorry, I promised my Russian client I’d be back in twenty minutes. See you around, Blaine,’ Tallis said, standing up. ‘Thanks for the chat. Been interesting.’

  For the next two hours, Tallis went to ground, Kumarin finally emerging half an hour before they were due to fly back to White Waltham. Tallis wondered if it was a tactical move. On the other hand, it would be Kumarin who missed his flight, not him.

  ‘I am generally pleased with what I’ve seen, but there are a number of shortcomings.’

  ‘Oh?’ Tallis said, sounding casual.

  ‘My client is a distinguished businessman.’ That’s not what Ginny thinks, Tallis thought. ‘He trades in international circles. He has a reputation to maintain. Do I make myself clear?’

  No, not really, Tallis thought.

  ‘The leather seats, for instance, they are sandcoloured. My client likes tan, and there are no gold fittings, no drinks cabinet.’

  No problem. ‘I’m sure we can arrange to meet your client’s specific requirements. Naturally, it will cost.’ He did the maths: another fifty thousand, at least.

  ‘Cost you, yes.’ Kumarin shrugged.

  ‘I’m not sure I can authorise that.’ As soon as the words had left his mouth Tallis knew he’d messed up.

  ‘Then I would like to speak to someone who can,’ Kumarin said, grit in his voice.

  ‘What I mean,’ Tallis said, trying to recover some ground, ‘is that I’m unwilling to authorise such a deal.’

  ‘Then we have no deal.’ Kumarin tipped his short frame forwards, bending down and picking up his briefcase.

  ‘That will be a pity,’ Tallis said, bullish.

  ‘Indeed,’ Kumarin said, equally bullish, straightening up.

  ‘Naturally, in the interests of international relations, I’d like to come to a mutually favourable arrangement.’

  The glint in Kumarin’s blue eyes, the slight twitch of his wide nose, suggested he’d scented weakness.

  ‘Which is why I’m prepared to compromise,’ Tallis said.

  ‘Not a word I like.’

  ‘Concession, then.’ Tallis arranged a warm smile on his cool lips.

  Kumarin sat back down and gave a silent nod for him to continue.

  ‘We will cover half the cost. I will also personally fly the Agusta to Moscow to an airfield of your client’s choosing.’

  ‘Half, you say?’ Kumarin said, rubbing his smooth chin.

  ‘Half,’ Tallis said, pointedly looking at his watch.

  Silence. It seemed that Kumarin was hell-bent on playing hardball. Finally, he spoke. ‘We pay twenty-five per cent. You pay the rest.’

  ‘I’ll send the contract,’ Tallis said, knowing the Russian would further modify it to his advantage. ‘And you’d like me to deliver?’ Tallis said, pressing home the point.

  ‘But of course,’ Kumarin said, getting to his feet, his final words on the subject.

  The journey back was a lot more fun. Kumarin seemed genuinely interested in Tallis, and Tallis was surprised to learn that Kumarin was a keen collector of Russian artefacts. He briefly wondered whether it was legitimate, or part of a mean trade in stolen art.

  ‘I am also a keen painter,’ Kumarin announced proudly. ‘I have supplied one of your galleries here.’

  ‘What, in the UK?’

  ‘Moreton-in-Marsh, you’ve heard of it?’

  ‘The Cotswolds, yes,’ Tallis said, expressing genuine surprise. ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Women.’ Kumarin glanced across at Tallis, a lusty note in his voice.

  After dropping Kumarin back to his taxi to Heathrow, Tallis returned to Shobdon. By the time he’d wheeled the Robinson 22 into the hangar, it was already dark, which probably explained why he noticed the lights on in Ginny’s office. Naturally curious, he decided to investigate.

  Moving silently, he went up the stairs, crossed the meeting room, softly opened the door into the corridor and heard the sou
nd of a lavatory flushing. Tallis paused. The door swung open and Blaine Deverill came out.

  ‘Caught short,’ he said, with obvious embarrassment.

  ‘Right,’ Tallis said, moving along, listening as Deverill’s footsteps receded down the stairs.

  When he went into the office, the lights were off, nobody there.

  The contract was returned four days later with predictable edits, namely that Tiger would cover the entire cost of the refit. In fact, the SIS was picking up the tab. A subsequent phone call to Kumarin confirmed that the Russian position was immutable. Tallis decided to play the good loser. Kumarin revealed that his client was a man called Orlov.

  ‘How soon can you deliver, Paul?’

  ‘I’ll need to file a flight plan…’

  ‘Not necessary. Mr Orlov can ease any permissions you will need. He has connections.’

  In Tallis’s mind, Orlov was bear-like, grey-haired, urbane and sober-suited, with a taste for the finer things in life. ‘Yes, but I’ll also need to apply for a visa.’

  ‘This can also be taken care of.’

  Friends in high places, Tallis thought. He called Asim straight away and delivered the good news.

  ‘So you could be out there in a few days?’

  The reality of the situation suddenly hit him. Truth be told, he’d got used to having Lena around. He’d taken her shopping for clothes. A pair of jeans, new shirt and a sweater knocked a decade off her. At last she was starting to look like a product of the twenty-first century instead of several before.

  ‘Don’t see why not. Method of contact?’ He had visions of dead-letter drops or being asked to stand at a certain time on a particular street with a particular newspaper, an SIS operative waiting and watching in the shadows, ready to pass on information.

  ‘Phones in Moscow. You’ll be on your own in the mountains.’

  If only it were true, Tallis thought. From warlords to FSB officers and soldiers, the mountains would be crowded, and everyone in them a potential enemy.

  ‘Something you should know,’ Asim said.