Land of Ghosts

by E. V. Seymour

  Tallis thought he’d stumbled out of the Tardis and fetched up in World War Britain. The bar, small, dark and clubby with brown leather chairs and sofas, heaved with people. Images of moustachioed blokes in Bomber Command, pipes clenched between their teeth, tumblers of single malt at the ready, preparing to go into battle, flashed before his eyes.

  As he cut through the swathe of early evening drinkers, conversation was dominated by the blinding success of the open day. Blaine Deverill, Tallis noticed, was in full flight, Ginny Dodge, immaculately turned out in a pure white shirt and tailored trousers, looking bored beside him. As Tallis walked towards them, both turned, each face registering astonishment then forced pleasure. He reckoned Ginny had the edge by about half a second.

  ‘Good God, thought you’d left the country,’ Deverill said, half getting up.

  ‘Did you now?’ Tallis smiled, nodding hello to Ginny who nodded hello back.

  ‘So what have you two been up to in my absence?’

  ‘This and that,’ Deverill said. ‘’Course, when you’re used to a high-powered existence, it’s not easy adapting to a slower pace.’

  ‘High-powered existence?’ Tallis frowned, exchanging a grin with Ginny who was suddenly hugely enjoying herself.

  ‘Well, yeah, did I ever tell you I was in the Special Boat Service?’ Deverill said.

  ‘Thought it was the Hereford Gun Club. Actually, Ginny, I will have that drink after all,’ Tallis said. ‘Single malt, please.’

  ‘Really?’ Deverill coloured, unused, it seemed, to having his fantasies punctured. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Odd error to make. There’s quite a difference.’

  Deverill let out a shaky laugh. ‘No, really, it was a long time ago, naturally, but I was definitely in the SBS. Lived down in the South-West, you see.’

  Tallis didn’t see. What the hell did that have to do with anything? Deverill was floundering and he knew it. Under Tallis’s icy gaze, Deverill decided to down his pint and cut and run. ‘Anyway, must be getting on,’ he said, pushing his chair back.

  ‘So soon?’ Tallis clamped a hand over Deverill’s arm, glancing up as Ginny returned with his whisky, her expression altering from one of good humour to mild concern. ‘What surprises me, Blaine,’ Tallis said, smiling warmly, Deverill’s arm still manacled to the table, ‘is that you come out with all these fibs like some blundering fool, yet you never tell us what you really did.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘You worked in the defence industry, isn’t that right?’ Tallis said, aware that the noise in the room had dipped and others around them were glancing their way,

  ‘I’d prefer not to talk about it,’ Deverill blustered.

  ‘Because you’re not allowed to, I understand, and also because you’re embarrassed that, after your nervous breakdown, your employer was less than happy with your performance,’ Tallis said, looking at Ginny, whose smile had vanished like frost in sunshine. ‘Which was why when you left you took off, like many escapees from life, to the South-West, but by then, of course, you were well acquainted with certain classified designs in the aeronautical market.’

  Deverill paled. His fingers gripped the table, nails digging into the wood. ‘How did—?’

  ‘Which explains why Miss Dodge here…’ Tallis switched his gaze ‘…thought it worth hanging out with you.’

  ‘What?’ Ginny said, her blue eyes standing out sharply against skin that had turned an odd shade of grey.

  ‘But I’ve never said a word,’ Deverill protested. ‘Not to her, not to anyone. I wouldn’t. I signed the Official Secrets Act. I believe in Queen and country,’ he burbled. He looked mortified.

  ‘Which was why you got suspicious of her apparent interest in you.’

  ‘What the hell…?’ Ginny began.

  ‘Isn’t that why you were in her office a few weeks ago, searching for clues?’ Tallis persisted.

  Blaine looked from Tallis to Ginny, spreading his hands, mouth gaping open.

  ‘It’s alright. I understand,’ Tallis said kindly.

  ‘Understand?’ Ginny burst out. ‘Have you had a blow to the head or something?’

  ‘Many.’ Tallis smiled sweetly. ‘But, then, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you? Did you have a direct line to Timur Garipova or did you use Boris Kumarin as your go-between? I know you approached Orlov under some pretext to find out if I was still alive—bum move, if I might say so—but I suppose if you have no concept of loyalty and trust, you fail to recognise it in other people,’ he said, calmly taking a sip of whisky. ‘I’d no idea you were a member of the Communist Party in your youth.’

  Conversation in the bar was so non-existent it was possible to hear the hunger pangs of the man standing next to you.

  ‘It’s not a crime,’ she said, the accompanying smile lacking conviction.

  ‘But spying for another country is.’

  Ginny appealed to Deverill, who was staring open-mouthed, then burst out laughing. ‘Paul,’ she said, looking around her. ‘This is ridiculous. This is—’

  ‘True,’ Tallis said, his voice granite-hard. He glanced out of the window and saw the black saloon draw up outside, two men stepping out.

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this,’ she said, getting up, darting him a venomous look before storming out of the bar where two intelligence officers, waiting in the wings outside, prevented her flight.

  ‘Like another drink?’ Tallis winked at Deverill.

  He nodded blindly. For once Blaine Deverill kept his mouth shut.

  Berlin

  Christian Fazan stared at the unfamiliar surroundings of his office and drained his glass of whisky, and wondered if he’d got away with it. Asim seemed to buy his account but appearances were deceiving. Asim was not an easy man to fool.

  Fazan got up, walked a little unsteadily to the window and looked outside to the quiet street below. Will I ever get used to Berlin? he thought sadly. In some ways, it was similar to Moscow, especially the older parts that had not yet been knocked down, yet in other respects, the people in particular, it was a different world. Whatever the truth, he would miss Russia, and his last link to Malika Motova.

  Reaching for his coat, his mind reeled back through the decades to a shabby Moscow apartment on Leninsky Prospekt that had exuded more life and glamour than he’d experienced before or since. How he’d enjoyed those thrown-together late-night meals, downed with vodka, the terrific conversation, the ebb and flow of ideas, the rebelliousness and courage of people motivated by art and words, and, of course, with such a fabulous woman, an older woman, at his side. That it had been his first and only foray into entrapment he chose to forget. He’d never meant to fall in love, and hadn’t been certain that Malika had felt the same, although as the years had rolled by his memory had become smoothed and refined and prettified by time. Yes, he believed that she had loved him, too. Thing was, he’d never found anyone to replace her and the guilt of what he’d done, what he’d exposed her to, weighed heavily on his soul. But he was a professional and to carry out a job like his it was essential to separate emotion from intellect, and he had. For years, and to the very best of his ability, he’d compartmentalised and detached the personal from the career. In fact, his job had been the saving of him. He put on his coat, light and expensive cashmere, and frowned heavily. In the end, even his work had betrayed him.

  Opening the door, he walked outside into the corridor and down the stairs to the entrance, issuing a series of goodnights along the way. The evening was cool but not unpleasant and, wishing to clear his head, he decided to walk in preference to taking a cab, taking the scenic route back to his apartment by walking along the river Spree.

  When he’d first heard about what he believed to be Darke’s rogue status, the intelligence officer in him had taken over. At least, he thought so. Certainly, his approach to Asim had been honest and above-board, sanctioned by C. himself, but now, looking back with the aid of several glasses of finest malt, he wasn’t so clear in his mind. Pe
rhaps, even then, he’d secretly entertained the unconscious hope that Darke would succeed in his so-called mission. Then when he’d found out that not only was Darke innocent of the allegations but on his way back he’d realised the depth of his disappointment. Maybe that had been the moment the seed already sown had blossomed. Next had come Numerov’s account. It had proved to be the deciding factor.

  Fazan felt a chill so strong he rolled up the collar of his coat even though it was not particularly cold and wished guten abend to a young pair of lovers strolling past, the only people on the riverside. He glanced at his watch: shortly after seven. Most would be at home, or eating dinner in one of the many restaurants in the capital.

  Apart from feeling duped, what enraged him most was the racism and callousness of Ivanov’s behaviour. His attitude to Malika had not been born out of her alleged treachery but her cultural roots, her creed, everything that had made her different to him. It had been in that moment he’d known he had to act, to get rid of this smiling tyrant, and to hell with world peace. That Darke, a loyal if damaged collaborator, had failed was a personal tragedy for both of them.

  Footsteps behind him. Fazan turned and smiled. ‘You two again,’ he said in German. They smiled back. As he stepped aside to let them pass, he never realised his mistake. Neither did he spot the outline of a man watching with interest from a distance, a man he knew only as Asim.

  The expert blow to the back of Fazan’s neck rendered him unconscious immediately. As he tumbled into the ice-cold river, his clothes and the whisky he’d consumed that afternoon did the rest.

  Tallis did not leave the airfield immediately. He went back to his office, cleared his desk and called in at the village pub to consume a pint of their best ale. He was stalling. The thought of going back home filled him with dread. It was awful enough breaking bad news about Ruslan to Katya. The thought of telling Lena, who had already lost so much, appalled him. He’d tried to call Viva to see if she could come round to provide emotional support. Neither she nor Rasu were picking up the phone. All he could do was leave a message to the effect that he would be back in Birmingham within the next hour and please could she contact him.

  Eventually, and undoubtedly over the drink-drive limit, he drove back in silence. Images of Katya floated to the forefront of his mind. When he pictured her, she was smiling, her face lit up with a radiance that was only matched by the light in the Côte D’Azur. Then he thought about Lena, dark-eyed, anxious, waiting. He expected she’d looked after the bungalow beautifully in his absence. On his arrival, she’d probably burst into a great litany of how she’d kept house, washed his curtains, spring-cleaned and polished the furniture, wanting to please him, and then she would notice the fear and despair in his eyes and guess that something terrible had happened.

  He pictured the scene. A hand covering her heart, her eyes welling with tears, and he would put his arm around her shoulder, lead her through to the sitting room and sit her down and say those words that, however much you switched them around, however painstakingly you chose them, the message was the same: raw and bleeding and final.

  The bungalow looked as homely and welcoming as when his gran had lived there, he thought, pulling into the drive. The grass was cut without being too short. Spring flowers, narcissi and crocuses, peeped through the borders. Lena had given the front door another coat of paint. It sparkled in the evening sun. By the time he parked the Porsche in the carport, he’d run through what he would say a dozen times. He knew that what he finally told her would be nothing like his prepared speech. The best he could offer would be to provide a roof over her head, to look after her, to see if a fresh appeal could be made to the Home Office.

  Putting the key in the lock, he turned it and let himself inside, dropping his bag on the floor, calling Lena’s name, his own voice hollow in the silence. There was no smell of mustiness or neglect. Perhaps she’d gone for a walk he thought, walking through to the kitchen to check the phone for messages. That’s when he saw a note with his name on it, propped up by a jug of yellow tulips. The writing was in Viva’s strong hand. Tallis picked it up, already sensing its contents, and took it through to the sitting room. He noticed that it was dated the day before.

  Paul,

  So sorry to inform you that Immigration officials came for Lena this morning and, despite my strong protestations, put her on a flight back to Moscow. Although clearly upset, she seemed to accept what was happening with weary resignation.

  Lena asked me to thank you for all that you’ve done for her. She said how much she’d enjoyed your company and that she would never forget you, or your kindness. She also said something about you looking for her son, Ruslan—was that the real reason for your trip? Anyway, she said that if you had any news, a message could be left for her at the Cathedral Mosque in St Petersburg.

  As you can imagine, we’re pretty upset and disappointed. No doubt you’ll feel the same.

  Hope you’re OK. Perhaps we could get together soon and you can update me. With love,

  Viva

  Tallis let out a breath, sank into the nearest chair and briefly closed his eyes. Inexpressibly sad, he stayed there until the light finally faded from the sky.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

  All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

  First published in Great Britain 2010.

  MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road.

  Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

  © Eve Seymour 2010

  ISBN: 978-1-408-91700-8

  60-0410