Land of Ghosts

by E. V. Seymour

  Darke suddenly yanked Tallis back. Tallis closed his eyes. This was it, he thought. He was going to die like a dog in a strange land. Then the grip eased and he was free. He turned, faced Darke’s gimlet eyes. In that brief moment in time Tallis understood how the years of living a lie, with death hounding him from every corner, had taken its toll on his old friend. He suddenly looked ancient.

  Darke let out an anguished sigh, put the heel of his hand to his forehead. ‘I tried to send warnings, but it was hard to get word out. Believe me, I’ll carry the guilt of what happened at that school to the grave. But you have to understand that Beslan and many other atrocities were gifts to Ivanov. They handed him his raison d’être, both with his own people and with the West. It wasn’t the bombing of terrorist camps but the wanton destruction of cities and villages, the killing of hundreds of innocents, that produced the state of terror that will take generations to rectify.’

  Exactly how Lena had described it, Tallis recalled. ‘You sound like a sympathiser.’

  Darke shook his head. ‘I’m telling you how it is. Ivanov is on a mission. He won’t rest until he’s subjugated the Caucasus, even if it takes him to the day he dies.’

  ‘Which might be a lot sooner than you think.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve no idea about any plan to assassinate him?’ Tallis’s expression was searing.

  ‘Christ, they sent you all this way to ask me that? They actually risked your life and mine? Unfucking-believable.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Tallis said with a dry smile. ‘And if someone kills him and it’s discovered that you’ve been working alongside the rebels, imagine the political fallout.’

  Darke cast him a hard look. ‘If. Have you any idea of the personal risks I’m taking? Do you know what would happen to me if Akhmet got even a suspicion that I’m a spy?’

  Unfortunately, Tallis could.

  ‘So you go back, tell our masters I’m clean, and, while you’re at it, you can pass on the latest piece of intelligence.’

  ‘What intelligence?’

  ‘You think I’m just going to come out with it?’ The haughty, distrusting note had crept back into Darke’s voice. Was this the hallmark of a man who’d spent the best part of a decade trusting nobody but himself, or did it signify something else? Tallis wondered. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Darke said, with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Because I came through the mountains to find you. Because I remembered a lad who cheered me up, who made me laugh, who stuck up for me when nobody else did, and whom I missed when he left. And because seven men have died on your account, including a young Chechen I couldn’t save. You don’t own the monopoly on guilt, Graham.’

  ‘Graham.’ A smile touched Darke’s mouth. ‘Haven’t heard that name in years,’ he said, momentarily dreamy, his pin-sharp eyes losing their intensity, drifting off to some far-away and forgotten place. ‘Alright,’ he said, collecting himself. ‘Akhmet is planning a meeting with a bloke called Hattab.’

  ‘The same Hattab who wants to overthrow the Algerian government and set up an Islamic state?’

  Darke nodded. ‘He bears allegiance to a number of jihadist causes and movements. It’s thought he has close links with al-Qaeda.’

  ‘And Akhmet’s going to do business with him, you say?’

  ‘It signals more bloodshed to come.’

  For which ordinary people like Katya will be deemed culpable, Tallis thought. ‘Can’t do it,’ he said. ‘I’ve express orders to bring you back.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Christian Fazan at the SIS.’

  ‘You work for Fazan?’ Darke said, amazed. ‘He sent you?’

  ‘I’m on secondment to him. I’ve been working for Five for the past couple of years. Before that, I was with West Midlands police as a firearms officer.’

  Darke thoughtfully stroked his beard. ‘And Fazan believes that I’ve gone native, that I’m working with the rebels? That I orchestrated the hits in Moscow?’

  ‘And that you have the prime minister and former president in your sights.’ He suddenly remembered Asim’s fears for the opening ceremony of the World Newspaper Congress. Time in the mountains seemed to work in a different vortex. He wondered whether it had taken place or not, whether it had, in fact, passed off without incident.

  ‘Where did Fazan get his information?’ Darke scowled.

  ‘I wasn’t privy to his source.’

  Darke didn’t say it but Tallis knew what he was thinking. Something isn’t right. ‘What’s this Fazan bloke like?’ Tallis said.

  ‘Experienced, dedicated, been in the service for a good many years.’ Darke shrugged.

  ‘Think someone is trying to frame you?’

  ‘Or him?’ Darke smiled. ‘I don’t know. Chechens get the blame for most things.’

  Had the Russians somehow pulled the wool over Fazan’s eyes, too? Tallis wondered. But they didn’t know about Graham Darke so what had led Fazan to be so specific? And then another more ugly thought entered his head. What if Asim had been set up? What if Asim was in some kind of danger?

  ‘I’ve got to get word to my contact,’ Tallis said urgently.

  ‘Not going to be easy. Especially after what happened this morning.’

  ‘What was your usual method for communication?’

  ‘Going down into the foothills and making contact with a Russian commander who is also working for the British. Last time I went there was no sign of him. Might mean something, might not.’

  ‘If you try to sneak away now, it will look like you had something to do with the ambush going wrong and the trap laid. Any thoughts on that?’ Tallis said.

  ‘Two. I don’t believe Akhmet’s contact in the police snitched. I do believe we have an insider. And it wasn’t me,’ he added in response to Tallis’s challenging expression.

  ‘Think it’s me?’ Tallis gave him a level look.

  Darke smiled. ‘Not unless you’ve changed.’

  ‘People do,’ Tallis said mildly.

  ‘Not people like you.’ It was the closest he’d come to a good-natured smile. Tallis smiled back, a mask for a misshapen thought flitting through his mind. Why you and not us?

  ‘Look, maybe I can talk to Akhmet,’ Darke said, ‘try and persuade him that we need to scout out the surrounding area, see how many Russians are heading for the mountains.’

  ‘Think he’ll buy it?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. Then you could give me the slip.’

  ‘Dangerous. Much better if you come with me. Clear your name.’

  Darke thought for a moment. ‘Leave them all behind?’ He sounded almost wistful, Tallis thought. ‘No, it’s more valuable if I stay.’

  ‘But I have my orders. For Chrissakes, Graham, someone out there is killing an awful lot of people. The President and the Prime Minister could be next. Whatever your personal thoughts about the people in the Kremlin, I need your help. You’ve got to come with me.’

  ‘I’m not coming back,’ Darke said, eyes flashing, immutable.

  Loyalty or treachery? Tallis wondered.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE next few days, lost days as far as Tallis was concerned, were taken up with regrouping, nursing the injured and burying those who died from their wounds.

  Akhmet, statesmanlike, talked to his men, comforted the widows, promised that their needs and those of their children would be met. He complained bitterly that the Russians had used elite FSB commandos disguised as Chechens. Tallis wasn’t sure how Akhmet could have been that certain. It was hard to distinguish one from another in the mist. In spite of Akhmet’s brave talk, suspicion hung over the camp like a black cloak. Nobody trusted the man sitting next to him. Already a young Chechen had been disciplined by being cast into a pit. His crime: he had not acquitted himself well in battle. Sprite, Tallis noticed, took a perverse delight in watching the unfortunate boy’s suffering.

  ‘He’s lucky,’ Sprite said, with his weird long-faced smile. ‘In the heigh
t of summer the temperature can reach fifty degrees Celsius.’

  ‘And in winter, minus ten,’ Tallis countered.

  Two hours later, after Darke finally intervened, the boy was released. While he had Akhmet’s attention, Darke put forward a proposal.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the attack. Obviously, like you say, someone has talked. It’s imperative we stop the leak of information. If we don’t, the campaign for the summer is compromised.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  Darke looked at Tallis. ‘We send him down the mountains to gather intelligence. He speaks fluent Russian,’ he said, ignoring Tallis’s startled expression, ‘and he’s not known as a fighter.’

  ‘But he killed three soldiers at a checkpoint,’ Akhmet said, sharp intelligence in his eyes.

  ‘If I shave my beard, I won’t be recognised,’ Tallis chipped in helpfully.

  ‘And I could go with him,’ Darke said, ‘and ensure he does as he’s told.’

  Akhmet said nothing. He looked out across the camp, his eyes scanning the sorry remains of his band of warriors. Lula and Irina were standing nearby, cleaning their rifles. Akhmet smiled at them. ‘My girls,’ he said softly. Then he turned to Darke, the smile fading. ‘No,’ he said, and walked away.

  As Tallis passed Lecha, who was drawing water from the well, he swore he heard his voice trickle with laughter.

  Moscow: 09.00 a.m. Opening ceremony of the World Newspaper Congress

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ the President of the Congress began. ‘My apologies for the delay of this the eighteenth World Editors’ Forum. As you’re all aware,’ he said, looking across an auditorium of nearly two thousand newspaper executives, ‘security procedures are particularly tight, and we’ve had to reschedule our programme due to the President being unable to attend after he was suddenly taken ill last night. It’s nothing too serious, I’m assured, and we all wish him a speedy recovery. However,’ he said, ‘it’s my pleasure at very short notice to introduce the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation, Andrei Ivanov.’

  At once, a gasp went up from the crowd. People rose to their feet, straining to see the figure walking up onto the stage, clapping and whistling applause. The ovation lasted a full three minutes in spite of a cry of dissent from a small vocal group of protesters complaining about the lack of press coverage on the newly emerging situation in Chechnya. As they tossed leaflets into the air, armed security officials swooped, heavy-handed, rounding them up, dragging every one of them out.

  Apart from one who lay in wait.

  Abzo Gaziev watched the Prime Minister with awe and fear. A doctor, Gaziev was not naturally a violent man. His mission in life was to save it, not destroy it—unlike the man soaking up the adulation on stage. My, this was something of an unexpected turn of events, Gaziev thought. He didn’t know whether it would play to his advantage or not. That was the other thing about him. He was naturally cautious, a rational individual, a man not given to emotion. His was a need for cold appraisal, moderated, without heat or passion, which was why Gaziev wanted to see the man in the flesh, to look him in the eye, if at all possible to draw near. He thought that by studying the man at close quarters he might learn something new, something illuminating. Would Ivanov’s words, he asked himself, reveal a different, more moderate side, someone whom he could do business with?

  Ivanov thanked his host and, after brief preamble, launched into a speech about the increase in press freedom. ‘Vast changes have occurred in Russia in the past decade. Only a few years ago, we were having this same conversation about the state’s so-called control over the media. I said then what I say now, that the number of press assets owned by the state is in decline. Furthermore, there are far too many publications for the state to be able and willing to take an interest—these are of no concern to us.

  ‘As for those Chechen sympathisers demonstrating today, what do their actions say about freedom of speech, freedom of debate?’ he said, a withering note in his voice. ‘It is not true that there has been a lack of coverage in the Caucasus. For the record, those who wish to cover the emerging conflict are free to travel and report on the rise in terrorist activity—not that they have to stray too far,’ he said with a dry laugh. ‘You only have to walk out onto our streets in Moscow to see the Chechens in action.’ Polite laughter rippled through the hall. ‘All journalists, with the correct paperwork from the Kremlin, are welcome to observe the brutality handed out by the rebels to our soldiers. Unrestricted, they can witness for themselves the flagrant disregard for the sanctity of human life in what these fundamentalists call the fight for Islam…’

  Gaziev tuned out. He had slowly inched his way towards the stage. The number of tight-jawed heavies at Ivanov’s side precluded conversation, but he thought he might be able to deliver a personal letter he’d written earlier, outlining his concerns. The letter was addressed to the President but in his absence he would pass it to the Prime Minister. Not that it would do any good. He could see that now. The intransigence on the man’s face was crystal-clear. What did he, Abzo Gaziev, and his wasted life matter to this man? What would Ivanov, the man with the playboy lifestyle, who enjoyed the respect of leaders in the West, care that, as a humble trained medic, he could no longer find work, was actually forbidden to practise?

  Gaziev, the mild-mannered, cool-thinking individual, shook. As he remembered what the man was responsible for, a part of him twisted inside. Better get it over with quickly, he thought, watching as Ivanov’s short, off-the-cuff speech came to a close, the Prime Minister reaching for his chair.

  As Gaziev lunged forward, a shot rang out, throwing the hall into commotion. The Prime Minister was thrown down onto the floor, his close protection team surrounding him. As Gaziev craned to see what was going on, he was grabbed and dashed to the floor, blows raining down on him, the letter crumpled in his hand.

  Darke again tried to reason with Akhmet. ‘We need more men. Why not contact Abdul across the mountains in Vedeno? If we pool our resources, we can still complete our summer offensive.’

  It was true, Tallis thought. Their numbers were so depleted the sentries were working double time. This was good. It meant they’d be tired and less alert should he make his escape.

  Akhmet said nothing. For two days now he’d hardly spoken except to comfort the bereaved. Tallis was fast running out of patience. He had to get out and get back to civilisation—with Darke.

  ‘If we start at daybreak,’ Darke continued, ‘me and Tallis can evade the patrols and be with Abdul by nightfall.’

  Still Akhmet was silent, his eyes unreachable. Tallis felt a small spark of rebellious anger. All this messing about, trying to finesse the bloke, was getting them nowhere. And he was running out of time. Maybe he already had, he thought grimly.

  Finally, Akhmet spoke. ‘No. We wait then I will give the orders.’

  As day rolled into night, Tallis made his way to Darke’s quarters as arranged. Darke had told him to come equipped for flight. The thought of fleeing back down through the mountains left him cold. Coming up had been dangerous, exhausting and physically testing. Going down was a whole different challenge.

  This time Tallis’s arrival was greeted with no hostility.

  ‘Akhmet’s getting suspicious,’ Darke said. He was standing next to what passed for a bed, a raised piece of board with a thin mattress on the top.

  ‘Stating the obvious.’ Tallis flickered a smile. He’d long come to the same conclusion. ‘Now what? You said I stood no chance alone through the mountains.’ Although it would certainly minimise any contact with Russian forces, he thought.

  ‘Akhmet has his men watching at all times. I’d give you ten minutes, tops, maybe less. Remember, they’re intimately acquainted with the terrain, and determined. They’d track you down like a dog.’

  And kill me like one, Tallis imagined. A chill shiver flew down his spine.

  ‘But there is another way.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Through the
mountains.’

  Tallis scratched his nose. ‘You said that was impossible.’

  ‘I mean literally.’

  ‘There’s a tunnel?’

  ‘The Chechens are rivalled only by the North Koreans, who have a bit of a thing for burying their nuclear plants in the sides of mountains.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Why didn’t you say so before?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘Sure of what?’

  ‘Whether I was coming with you or not.’

  ‘And you are?’ Tallis could hardly believe it. Darke had been so adamant about staying.

  ‘Yes.’ Darke blinked.

  Why? Tallis thought. What had changed his mind? Could it be the suspicion that Akhmet was onto him, or something else entirely? Tallis couldn’t quite reconcile the difficulty he encountered in reading Darke’s responses. It was as if something was off with the man, something missing from his human jigsaw. ‘You sure?’ he said, solemn.

  ‘No other way. I want to make clear the Chechen side of the story.’

  ‘That they’re innocent?’

  Darke hesitated. ‘Akhmet’s men are guilty of many things but not this. Second, if Ivanov does get bumped off, I don’t want to be around for the backlash.’

  Sounded plausible. ‘When do we leave?’

  ‘Now. Did you bring your weapons with you, like I told you?’

  ‘Fully tooled up.’

  ‘Bet you haven’t got one of these,’ Darke said, stooping down and reaching under his bed. He took out a Dragunov and handed it to Tallis.

  ‘Think I’ll need it?’ Tallis said, cautious. He was starting to feel like a character out of a Schwarzenegger film. The rifle had a custom-made leather strap attached so he was able to carry it easily on his back.

  ‘Good for picking off sentries.’

  ‘Right,’ Tallis said, lacklustre. Too much blood had been spilt already. Any more had to be on a strictly defensive basis. ‘Can we do something first?’

  ‘What?’