The CD petered out into silence. Tallis sat alone, taking it in, fearing for the Katyas and the Lenas and even the Akhmets of the world and, yes, fearing for what might be disclosed and the fallout of such a revelation. He wondered if this was the reason Fazan had seemed so stricken the last time he’d seen him—he’d sustained not only a professional attack but also a personal one. He wondered whether Graham Darke knew that his own cover had been blown months before, and how close he’d come to being betrayed, both men played for fools. He was so lost in thought, he didn’t even notice that Asim was back in the room. And then it came to him.
‘You know what this means, don’t you?’ Tallis said.
‘Apart from the obvious fact British Intelligence sent one of its own to play fast and loose with the Russians, which of course we’ll strenuously deny?’ Asim said, laconic. ‘From where I’m sitting I’d say the scales are evenly balanced. We have dirt on them. They have dirt on us.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Tallis said.
‘No?’ Asim frowned.
Tallis leant towards him. ‘Don’t you see?’
‘See what?’
‘Now would be the perfect opportunity to assassinate the Russian Prime Minister, and I can think of two people who’d be happy and willing to do it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
IN ANSWER to Asim’s startled look, Tallis explained. ‘What would happen if you went public?’
‘About the Russian security service killing its own civilians? It would be denied. The most we could hope for would be that the Kremlin admitted there was a rogue agency at work over which they had no jurisdiction.’
‘As in the Litvinenko case?’ It had been suggested that the Kremlin, although not exactly issuing the order to assassinate the former FSB officer, had turned a blind eye to some over-zealous former members. No surprises that the main suspect, whom the Russian authorities flatly refused to hand over for questioning by British police officers, had subsequently risen to an elevated seat in the state duma and had then been given a key security role.
Asim hiked an eyebrow, clearly uncomfortable with the comparison. ‘Your point?’
‘Who are the people who know about Numerov’s admission?’
‘What admission?’ Asim blinked.
Tallis felt a nerve pulse in his jaw. ‘The people in the know, how many? Ten? Twenty?’
‘Less. Aren’t you forgetting something? Who and why?’
‘I was coming to that. Fazan was a changed man the last time I saw him.’
‘Shocked, stunned, not changed,’ Asim snorted. ‘Don’t be too influenced by what I told you.’
‘I’m not. It’s what Numerov revealed on the CD. You said Fazan used Malika Motova, but what if it was more than that, what if he fell in love with her? It was bad enough that she got caught but now he discovers that Ivanov set her up and was personally behind her death. More critically, that Ivanov was onto him long before he knew it. That kind of thing dents a man’s pride.’
‘Paul, you’re speculating. It was over twenty years ago, for God’s sake.’
‘So what? Fazan went back to Moscow, didn’t he?’
‘Proves nothing.’
‘Did he ever marry?’
‘What’s that got to do—?’
‘So he doesn’t really like women?’
‘On the contrary, he—’
‘Guilt does strange things to people.’ He should know.
‘Guilt is not an emotion with which Fazan is familiar.’
Tallis wondered if the same applied to the man sitting in front of him. Did that come with the job description, too?
‘Look, Paul,’ Asim continued, ‘for Fazan to suddenly decide to have Ivanov killed now doesn’t make psychological sense. Fazan came to me asking for my help to avert an international crisis.’
‘Based on false information. Not only has he suffered personal injury, his professional expertise has been called into question. He fucked up, Asim. He should never have fallen for the information he was fed.’
‘Fazan is a proud man,’ Asim conceded, ‘but I don’t think he’d let something like this cloud his better judgement. He’ll settle into his post in Berlin, lie low and forget all about Russia and Ivanov.’
‘You’re right. You know him. I don’t,’ Tallis said, curt. ‘But I know Graham.’
‘Graham?’
‘You asked me how he’d adjust. The truth is I don’t know. If I’m honest, I don’t think slotting back into modern life is something that will come easily to him. And what’s he going to do now he’s back home, sit at a desk and push a pen around like Fazan?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Asim said, looking troubled.
‘One of the first criteria for being a spy is the fact you blend effortlessly into the landscape. You haven’t seen his face. He wouldn’t last five minutes out in the field. And remember, he’s spent years in the most basic of conditions, fighting, living on the edge, witnessing acts of extreme cruelty. What I do know is that he could swear black was white and have you believe it.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something? Graham Darke is loyal to a fault.’
‘Making him the best man for the job.’
Asim pulled a face. ‘You’re seriously telling me that Darke would follow an order to kill a head of state?’
‘Not just any head of state.’
‘Alright, suppose he does it. Then what? Where is Darke supposed to go? What happens to him afterwards?’
‘Wherever the loner in him takes him. I’m sure Fazan could provide safe passage. It’s in both their interests for him to succeed.’
Asim thought for a moment, exploring the possibilities. ‘With careful handling, stories leaked in the right places, we could allow Ivanov to become a victim of his own policy.’
‘You mean what was supposed to be a bluff actually takes place?’ Asim was prepared to let it happen, Tallis thought, quietly appalled.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone screwed up, exchanging a blank for a live bullet.’
‘It won’t make the problem go away,’ Tallis said, insistent. ‘If Darke kills him, believe me, the story of an SIS officer fighting against Russian soldiers isn’t going to die with him. The Kremlin will see to that.’
Asim’s expression darkened. He said nothing. ‘Wait,’ he said sternly, getting up, taking out his phone. Punching in a number, he asked for a status report on Darke and Fazan. Tallis watched Asim as he waited and was given an answer. Asim nodded, his expression indecipherable.
‘Fazan is in Berlin, Darke has been released, destination unknown.’ He went to make another call.
‘You won’t find him, if that’s what you’re doing,’ Tallis said.
A pulse tensed in Asim’s jaw. He closed the phone. ‘If, and it’s a big if,’ he warned, ‘there was an intention to strike the Prime Minister, where would it be?’
‘France. He has a home there and my guess is that’s where he’s fictionally taken refuge, except, of course, the threat to his well-being is entirely real.’
‘And the last thing he’d expect would be an attack.’
‘You’re getting the picture.’ Tallis smiled. ‘Having said that, he’s a high-risk target whatever his current threat level, and high-risk targets are rarely caught in ambushes. If he’s going to be taken out, it will be when he’s at home.’
‘Impossible. The Russians are meticulous. They’ll have the place locked down—dogs, state-of-the-art technology, armoured doors, armed security. For Darke to even attempt to get inside would be suicidal.’
‘Who said anything about attempting to get inside?’
Asim raised one eyebrow, thought for a moment, let out a long slow breath. ‘Go on.’
‘Darke will do what he’s best at. He’s a sniper. If we can find the layout of the house we have an advantage, we’ll discover the target area. If I know the target area I can work out where Darke will position himself for the hit.’
‘It will take time.’
/>
‘No, it won’t. One phone call should do it.’ Tallis swallowed. Would Orlov play ball? Would he give him the information he needed? Could he trust him? Had Kumarin been using Orlov, or, like Kumarin, had Orlov been in on it from the start? Tallis briefly closed his eyes. This was his call, his decision. If he got it wrong, the consequences were unthinkable.
‘I know the bloke who constructed Ivanov’s house. He’d have the plans.’
‘And he’ll just calmly hand them over to you?’ Asim’s tone was as incredulous as it was cynical.
‘Doesn’t need to. I simply need him to talk. Served up in the right way, saving the nation blah-di-blah, I think he might crack.’
‘And what if you’re wrong about this? It won’t look good for you to be stalking about the French countryside with a gun in your hand.’
‘Certainly won’t do much for the entente cordiale even if the French aren’t too keen on the Russians.’
‘Not too keen on anyone at the moment, but I’d like to think they’d stop short of having a head of state assassinated on their soil,’ Asim said dryly. ‘I don’t need to point out that if you’re caught…’
I’m on my own, Tallis knew. ‘What if I’m right?’
Asim gave him a long hard look. ‘Do you realise what you’re saying?’
Tallis met Asim’s eyes. ‘I have to stop Darke before he gets to Ivanov.’
‘Are you out of your mind?’ Orlov wasn’t playing ball.
‘I wish I was. Look, Grigori, I’m not asking you to disclose the security arrangements.’
‘I don’t know the security arrangements,’ Orlov bellowed, his voice reverberating down the line like a trumpeting elephant.
‘But you know the layout.’
‘Which I’m not going to tell you. You want me to be sentenced to thirty years’ hard labour?’
‘Look, I wouldn’t ask, you know that, but I think Ivanov is going to become the next victim.’
‘Absurd. You see how the man is protected.’
‘Any killer only has to get lucky once. We live in strange times, Grigori.’
‘Certainly since I made your acquaintance,’ Orlov muttered. ‘And how the hell do I know I can trust you? That Chechen girl might have turned your head. Maybe it is you who wants to hurt our Prime Minister.’
‘I assure you that isn’t the case.’
‘Assurances come cheap.’
‘Alright, how are you going to feel if Ivanov is assassinated?’
Orlov said nothing. Maybe he didn’t give a damn, Tallis thought. Time to apply some pressure. ‘Heard from Boris Kumarin lately?’
‘What has Boris to do with all this?’ Orlov said, testy.
‘He worked for the FSB.’
‘That’s ridiculous. He—’
‘Used you.’
There was a brief, stunned silence. Tallis could almost hear Orlov’s brain making the connections. ‘Worked, you said? You mean he is no longer with us?’ Orlov spluttered.
‘Sadly, he took a bit of a fall.’
‘Mother of God, Paul!’ Orlov exclaimed, clearly shocked. ‘And now you expect my help?’ His astonishment bordered on awe. If there were two things Tallis had learnt about Orlov, he was a man of inconsistency, a man who always had an eye to the main chance. Bugger loyalty.
‘Think of it as doing your bit for the motherland,’ Tallis persisted. ‘There might even be a medal in it for you,’ he said, appealing to Orlov’s sizeable ego and ignoring the ferocious warning look Asim was giving him.
The silence that followed was for so long Tallis thought Orlov had gone off the line. He imagined him puffing away, sitting in a fug of cigar smoke, jewellery jangling. ‘What would I get for this information, apart from the honour of serving my country?’ Orlov said, his voice a low burr.
That’s my boy. Tallis beamed inside. He looked at Asim who slowly but firmly shook his head.
‘It’s not the agency’s style to reward Russian gangsters,’ Asim murmured in his ear.
‘Businessman,’ Tallis hissed back. ‘Let’s see, Grigori, apart from the Agusta—’ Tallis began.
‘Which I bought fair and square,’ Orlov cut in.
‘And which is being flown back to Moscow even as we speak.’
‘And my Robinson 22?’
‘Delivered any day now.’
‘Why the hell are we horse-trading when there are matters of international security at stake?’ Asim barked in his ear.
‘I’m sure we could come to a mutually agreeable arrangement,’ Tallis said to Orlov, smiling. ‘What would you be looking for?’
‘A house, Queen Anne, anywhere in Britain.’
‘Done,’ Tallis said, ignoring Asim’s shocked expression. ‘Now tell me what I need to know.’
Early the next morning, after Asim called in a favour from the French and secured safe passage, Tallis was flown to Hyères in a Cessna Citation 501. From there he travelled by helicopter.
It was a beautiful spring day, high cloud, little wind, and the sun shining bright and clear. The light was every bit as intense and luminous as he’d been led to believe, which was why, he guessed, the Côte D’Azur was such a hit with artists. From his vantage point, Tallis had a fantastic view of contrasting terrain—beach and palm trees, forest with sprinklings of eucalyptus and acacia, and hard rocky peaks. Down below he could see the Massif des Maures, extending over sixty-five kilometres, a compressed, entangled wilderness of pine and oak, dark and forbidding, and a strange reminder of the mountainous regions of Chechnya.
Sidestepping the flowering hilltop village of Gassin, and its near neighbour Ramatuelle with its winding streets and ancient-looking houses and ruined windmills, they travelled north over a profusion of lavender fields so dense and vivid he could almost smell the scent. Minutes later, losing altitude, they cleared the small and unspoilt agricultural town of Aups and tracked the road north, touching down near the western end of the Gorges du Verdon.
Tallis thanked the pilot, and got out, walking clear and turning only briefly as the helicopter ascended and flew off in the direction of Nice. If Tallis made it, the pilot would be back at 15.15 at the planned pick-up point on the outskirts of the town of Castellane. If he didn’t, no doubt a clean-up squad would be dropped in to bag and remove his body.
He was standing on a sheer slab of rock, deeply hewn into a rugged rust-red valley, the holly-coloured river Verdon flowing from the top of the gorge and disappearing into fathomless tunnels below. Lifting the telescope to his eyes, he saw a mass of hairpin bends and largely uninhabited countryside that in a couple of months’ time would be packed solid with traffic and holiday makers. Using the zoom facility on the scope, he scrutinised the surrounding area in more detail—the mountain villages, the Pont de l’ Artuby, a magnificent curved bridge that spanned the gorge with its hairraising drops to lake and river—but it was of no intrinsic interest. He was looking for one man only: Graham Darke.
He began to climb, ignoring the designated walking routes, carefully calculating which path Darke had taken. Each step taking him higher than the last, the land was a mixture of twisted rock and heath. Automatically he searched the ground, looking for proof of Darke’s existence, but the hardened stone obscured any trace of a trail. The only give-aways would be some movement, a noise, or silhouette in the late morning sun. That Darke had travelled that way was almost of no consequence to him. He sensed he was there, knew it.
On he walked, boots hitting the stubbled earth, travelling light, no backpack, no compass, his binoculars and the holstered Glock his only weapons. He’d insisted on it. How much firepower do you need to stop a man? he’d said. How much to prevent an old friend from committing a criminal act of calamitous proportions? That he could not stop him had never occurred to Tallis. Failure was not an option. He, too, had his loyalties. If that meant that one of them had to die, so be it. Beyond all doubt, he knew that Darke was not a man to give in or give up; along with his pride, it was the essence of his character.
&
nbsp; And did Tallis feel regret? He’d once fondly thought of them as blood brothers. Now, in his heart, he thought they were different creatures. Events and circumstances had seen to that. If he could stop Darke without killing him, if he could somehow win him over, he would. If he couldn’t…
The rock had given way to hills and woodland, thick, dense and unkempt. From the sky it would look like a massive sea of dark green. Heat from the midday sun fastened like a dark spot in the middle of his shoulderblades, moderated only by the sudden approach of a bitter mistral wind blowing cold through the trees. The narrow streets of the town of Castellane beckoned from less than nine kilometres away. Maybe Darke was already on its outskirts, already in position. As a seasoned sniper, he’d wait for days, if necessary, to get the perfect shot. Patience was key and another of Darke’s more recently acquired attributes, but Darke didn’t have days. If Orlov’s information proved correct, he only had one window of opportunity.
Tallis had already worked out that there were two possible vantage points for a sniper: the fourteenthcentury clock tower and the massive rock that rose abruptly above the town and had once served as a natural lookout. He discounted both. Apart from being blatantly obvious and checked by the Russians regularly, from his conversation with Orlov, neither presented a view of the outdoor pool in which Ivanov was so fond of swimming come summer or winter or spring.
With the smell of tree in leaf heavy in his nostrils, he forged a way through the woods then, taking a sharp left turn at a pile of white stones, exactly as Orlov had described, dropped down a little into a valley. Below lay the remains of Hôtel de la Fôret, now a Jacobean-styled residence belonging to Andrei Ivanov.
Tallis lowered himself to the ground and crawled through the undergrowth to where the earth shifted and fell away. Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he smiled. Orlov hadn’t been joking, Tallis thought in amazement. With its gargoyled figures over the entry gates, leadedlight mullioned windows, enormous oak doors and beams, the house could have been lifted straight out of the county of Hereford and Worcestershire. Given a free rein, Orlov had indulged his obsession with British architecture to the full. Tallis was too far away to glimpse an inside view, but it was easy enough to picture the oak panelling, stone fireplaces, the great hall that Orlov had described and the gallery overlooking it.
Land of Ghosts Page 30