And the text. He’d signed it ‘Giorgio xxx’.
Why the kisses?
And why today, of all days? The day he gets a package from The Mafia ordering him to stop working on Matteo Monza. Was this a coincidence? Were they – who the fucking hell are they? – using Giorgio to get to him?
Is Giorgio in danger?
Was this all his fault?
He was sober and sensible enough to know that he’d achieve nothing until he’d slept; until he had a clear head with which to be objective.
Sleep.
But he couldn’t sleep. Not now. Not with the lights playing chase on his ceiling. Not with his emotions in the washing machine. Fear. Passion. Anger. Frustration. Pity. They all spun about in the tumble.
He needed to sleep. He had to sleep. Wake up with a clear head. Be sensible. Objective.
And, about then, sleep came.
Chapter 5
42°25'28.4"N 43°59'48.0"E, Caucasus Mountains, South Ossetia/Georgia
Sam raised a hand to the departing red Lada Vesta. It was, considering the history of the marque, a surprisingly good ride. And what a ride. They’d left Vladikavkaz airport, a municipal hub hoping for international recognition, four hours ago. Until they’d hit the main Caucasus mountains, the vista had been interminable Russian steppe. Dull, flat plains of forests, corn and root crop, broken up by decaying towns and belching industry. This part of Russia, like much of the Siberian west, hadn’t seen investment since the fall of communism. If you lived in a town, it was very likely that you were housed in a state-owned, concrete and ‘peeling paint’ apartment. And you probably worked in a 1950s-style industry making industrial-sized equipment for the factory in the next town. Which, in turn, was making industrial-sized equipment for the next city. Or you were digging and drilling – for anything the land would give you: oil, natural gas, bauxite, iron … gold. It was men’s work, undertaken in all weathers and every season. Hard and physical. That didn’t mean the women weren’t hard and physical – nor did it mean the women didn’t work on the industrial complexes; they did. They administered and book-kept; cooked and cleaned. And they took on some of the less physically demanding grunt work. It was work Sam knew would add years to her, if she were to last a year.
Timber was huge. Millions of square kilometres of forest carpeted the steppe. And the Russians were now adept at scything it down. Huge machines felled, cut and shredded trees in minutes that must have taken decades to grow. Sam had read somewhere that the worldwide trend for laminate flooring had stepped up the decimation of hardwood forests. Whilst the Russian climate hardly encouraged replacing felled trees with an oil-rich plant, such as palms, their choice of softwood to fill the gaps still took years to grow.
Old forests being usurped by new ones.
As the scenery flashed past her all Sam saw was green and brown wallpaper, with the odd break for yellow and green crops.
Until they reached the Caucasus.
She’d experienced the steppes before. But the Caucasus Mountains were definitely new territory for Sam.
These were tall mountains, rising to over five and a half thousand metres, spreading themselves between the Black Sea in the west to the Caspian Sea in the east. A natural barrier between Russia and the Middle East, the range has always protected both sides from each other. After the second world war Russia increased its influence and added a further layer of protection to its soft underbelly by bringing its southern Caucus neighbours, Georgia, Azerbaijan and Armenia, into the Soviet system. Since the fall of communism, the three states had reclaimed independence. Now, after a series of local, but bloody wars, an uneasy truce was in place.
Over the past century the mountains hadn’t flinched. They’d seen fighting with tank and artillery, they’d protected non-combatants as they escaped from the wars. And they’d allowed terrorists and freedom fighters to exploit their ravines to ambush their enemies.
And Sam loved them.
Once they’d left the small village of Nar, where the road split, they headed further into the mountains. The Roki Tunnel and the Russian/Georgian border was their next destination, and their progress slowed as the gradients increased and road disintegrated. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t used; Sam reckoned she saw a couple of dozen logging trucks climbing and descending the mountains. Every time they squeezed past a big truck on a road now suitable for a single vehicle, Sam felt herself breathing in involuntarily. It was as though the Russians hadn’t bothered to keep one of the few main routes to Georgia in good order. Or maybe they couldn’t afford it.
As they climbed Sam soon spotted snow on the side of the road and, in the near distance, it covered all of the peaks. Even in early autumn it was winter here. And there was no way they kept the road open in the winter.
The tunnel itself, which Vlad had told Sam was at a height of 2,000 metres, was in good order – and it took them only a few minutes to navigate the unlit three kilometres before they emerged, south facing, into sunlight.
Wow.
The view was outrageous. Ahead of them the mountains on either side dropped away precipitously. Rocks and scree littered the vista, trees only making an appearance when it was safe to do so. The valley fell dramatically in front of them, before bearing right in the distance at the edge of Sam’s ability to focus. And the road was straight out of Top Gear. Hairpin bend after hairpin bend like a grey snake on a brown and beige carpet. It was all spellbinding.
And she had a chance to study the view in some detail.
As soon as they got out of the tunnel they were met by a concrete block chicane; poorly painted in red and white stripes. Off to one side was a small military encampment which appeared to provide the guards for the border crossing point. There were men in untidy, olive-drab uniform everywhere.
The car came to a halt by a sandbagged, machine gun post. Poking through a horizontal slit between the bags was the foresight and barrel of a weapon. Sam recognised it immediately. It was a Kalashnikov PKM; 7.62 millimetre short, belt fed. Not a bad weapon if it were properly maintained. Which, looking at the state of the man who was operating it, she thought unlikely.
One round and then a stoppage.
The belt would seize.
Soldiers forgot that belt-fed machine guns were the sum of two parts. The weapon, which they knew to keep as clean as a new born baby. And the belt of rounds - brass casings and mix-metal slug bullets held together by black steel clips - that feeds the gun. Which they don’t.
After each shot the steel clips and the empty case split up and are discarded – and this happens at great speed. For any machine gun manufacturer this is a complex piece of engineering. The complete belt feeds in one side, the bullet leaves the barrel and the spent case and clip eject separately, on the opposite side of the feed. It is the engineering equivalent of applying lipstick whilst doing your hair. There’d be red everywhere.
If you don’t keep the belt clean – and oiled, if the weather is cold and damp – then it won’t feed and the gun will only fire the first round. And then stop.
But soldiers, especially poorly trained ones, don’t get that.
Vlad wound down the window. A bearded and badly dressed soldier, who wouldn’t have passed muster in any first world army, barked an order in Ossetian, a dialect of Iranian.
‘Get out!’
Sam’s Iranian was not great, but she had a handle on a number of key phrases. She understood that one, especially as it was accompanied by spittle and the sharp wave of the barrel of an AK47.
En route Vlad had explained that, at the border, they’d be met by the South Ossetian army, such as it was. They’d be asked to pay for the privilege of passing through their checkpoint. Having a small army and then fleecing trade through the Roki Tunnel was one of the few independences Georgia allowed her errant region to enjoy.
Vlad pointed to his legs. And then over his shoulder to the wheelchair that was in the back. The guard was confused. He looked from Vlad to the wheelchair and back again.<
br />
‘Papers!’
Vlad calmly reached inside his jacket and took out some papers. He passed them through the window to the guard who studied them carefully. In an instant his demeanour changed from ‘man with a gun’ to ‘man under the cosh’. There was a further soft-toned conversation, and Sam thought she spotted a bow.
Vlad took the papers back and put them in his jacket.
‘What’s so special about your papers?’, Sam asked.
Vlad turned to Sam.
‘I’m a good friend of the Chief of the Staff of the Ossetian Army.’
‘That’s impressive. Are you a Godparent to one of his children?’ Sam was playing with him.
Vlad snorted and turned the Lada over.
‘I haven’t got the necessary paperwork for that …’
With that they headed off down the most dramatic road she’d ever driven on, at the bottom of which the Vesta’s brakes were smelling like they were about to set the tyres on fire.
And that was about an hour ago.
Now, here she was.
Alone.
Thick cotton trousers, t-shirt, blue Buffalo top, hiking jacket, decent boots, ski gloves, a cheap Casio watch and her favourite beanie. In deference to the fact she was a journalist, she was also carrying a notebook, two pens and a Dictaphone. She had an FSB-issued mobile, which Vlad told her could be tracked even when it was switched off.
‘But what if they take it apart and find some of your clever jiggery-pokery in the workings? They’ll know I’m no ordinary journo.’
He’d assured her someone in the FFO would have to have a PhD in micro-electronics to spot the difference between her new phone and a shop-bought one. She wasn’t convinced. In any case, she wasn’t sure Georgia Telecom would be providing a signal where she might be going.
And she was carrying a passport. It was Russian and had her new name on it: Varvara Koslov. It was good as an original. As were the 30,000 roubles she had in her pocket.
Other than that she was all alone on the side of a road, in the increasingly cold Caucasus Mountains - waiting for a ride. She checked the time: 4.20 pm. She was 40 minutes early. With the sun now behind thick cloud and the temperature dropping a degree every 15 minutes, it was going to be a long wait.
She stamped her feet and wrapped her arms tightly around her chest.
She rehearsed the questions she was going to ask Hasan Kutnetsov.
She stamped her feet some more.
She thought of Vlad. Sam had told Alena Vlad wasn’t travelling with her outside of Russia. Because that is what Vlad had told her. When they’d got to Moscow Vnukovo airport this morning – just the two of them – she’d asked, ‘Are we meeting someone when we get to Vladikavkaz?’
‘No, It’s just us.’ He’d replied.
‘But I thought you weren’t travelling into South Ossetia with me?’
‘Did I say that? Sorry.’
And that had been that. She’d inadvertently lied to Alena, and Vlad was now heading off to South Ossetia’s capital, Tskhinvali, where he would wait for her call. He reckoned if at the end of the meeting the FFO dropped her where she was now, he could be with her in under two hours. She hoped that that wouldn’t be in the middle of the night. Not unless someone had lent her another jacket. Or a bottle of Vodka.
She danced up and down a bit more. Her toes had stopped speaking to her.
A car? From her left; the south - down the mountain.
She checked her watch. It was 4.56 pm. Could they be this efficient?
It was getting dark, but Sam recognised the small 4x4 immediately. It was an old Lada Riva. Cream. Petrol – two-door. She reckoned mid `90s. Not heavy, it was a really decent off-roader, although bits did have the tendency to fall off when the driver least expected. In the half-light Sam made note of the registration. Tick.
The Riva drove past her on a wide track, turned and then stopped with a gravel skid next to her. Left-hand drive, the driver was half a metre from her. The face belonged to a thin, old man. His skin was wrinkled and weather beaten, with a scruffily-clipped white beard and plenty of nose hair. He was wearing oily blue coveralls and an un-logo’d, red baseball cap. He looked miserable, as though he’d rather be at home watching TV.
He wound down the window.
‘Varvara Koslov?’ Russian. Sam wasn’t surprised. Under communist rule, by edict all Soviet states spoke Russian. The man would have grown up with Stalin’s long arm reaching every corner of the USSR.
‘Da.’
He didn’t reply. Instead he flicked his head in the direction of the passenger seat. Sam walked around the back of the Riva, checking for any signs that might give away ownership. There were none, but at least the rear number plate was the same as the one on the front.
It took them 20 minutes to make their way further down the mountain before the man, who hadn’t said a word – nor replied to any of Sam’s questions - pulled off left and drove the Riva another couple of klicks up a gravel track until they stopped outside what appeared to be a single-storey house. It was black-dark now, so Sam could make out very little. But it looked like the house was on its own, surrounded by trees.
‘Podpisyvaytes na menya.’ A bark.
Sam got out of the 4x4 and was about to take in more of her surroundings when the man grabbed her arm and pulled her to the door and then inside the house.
She took it all in. Dim light and smoke. A mid-sized room. Peeling paint. A wood table, Formica top. Four chairs. A simple kitchen. Some pots and pans; a copper kettle. A fireplace with the remnants of a fire, but with plenty of wood to make more. A black and white TV which was switched on, but with no sound. The picture was fuzzy. It might have been showing the news. Two windows, heavily curtained. And a further door, heading into – it was anyone’s guess.
The other door opened. It was a woman. She was a bit younger than the man, but with the way weather aged people round here, Sam couldn’t be sure. The woman had more flesh on her than the man and she was wearing denim dungarees and a greying flowery blouse. Her hair, which was mostly hidden under a checked scarf, was tied back with a piece of garden twine.
Initially she looked as miserable as the old man, but as she approached Sam her expression softened.
‘Take everything out of your pockets.’ Russian. The woman pointed to the table.
Sam didn’t move.
‘Am I going to meet with Hasan Kutnetsov here?’ Perfect Russian.
The woman’s face turned sourer.
‘No. Someone will come and collect you. Soon. First you must be searched.’
Sam spotted the woman’s face change again. Some of the sourness had gone. There was a glint in her eyes which Sam couldn’t place.
She emptied her jacket pockets: notebook and pens; mobile; cash; every last thing. She placed them on the table. She straightened the pens up so they were in line with the edge of the small book and perpendicular to the side of the table.
‘Jacket.’
Sam did as she was told. She hung it on the back of one of the chairs.
‘Top.’ The woman pulled at the strap of her own dungarees.
Sam stared at the woman. Just for a second. And then she slipped her Buffalo over her head and put it neatly on the back on a second chair. Other than when her face was covered by the Buffalo, she hadn’t taken her eyes of the woman.
The woman took a couple of steps forward. They were now standing less than half a metre apart. Sam stayed focused on the woman’s eyes ….
… which looked Sam up and own. It was quick. Like a farmer assessing a lamb for the abattoir. Sam thought the woman momentarily dwelt on her crotch. Looking back at Sam she licked her lips, but quickly put her tongue away. Sam thought she recognised anticipation.
‘T-shirt.’
No. That’s not going to happen.
‘No.’ Sam replied.
The woman’s eyes – small and piercing – darted round the room. Then back on Sam.
‘If you want to meet Kutnetsov,
then I must search you. No search – no meeting … now, t-shirt.’
This is not good.
‘Please.’ A statement, not a question from Sam. She wanted a delay. She thought she knew what was coming and she didn’t know how she would cope. She needed time to prepare herself.
The woman stiffened, her brain in a spin. Then she smiled. She got the game.
‘Please.’
Sam slipped off her t-shirt revealing a workmanlike bra. Thankfully some of the heat from the dwindling fire had been retained by the room.
The woman’s pupils grew perceptibly larger.
‘Drop your trousers.’
In all of this Sam had forgotten about the man. She glanced towards him. He was standing to one side with his hands in his pockets. If he was fiddling, he stopped as Sam shot the glance. But he was definitely an accomplice. They were in this together.
‘The man leaves the room. Otherwise I tell Kutnetsov he’s employing a filthy pair of perverts. And that this is no way to treat a Russian journalist.’ Sam nodded toward the door.
The woman thought for a second and then, without taking her eyes off the prize, she nodded to the door. The man sighed petulantly, but did as he was told.
‘Now drop your trousers.’
Sam undid her belt, the top button and the zip. She pushed her trousers down to her ankles as benignly as she could. She stood up again.
The woman moved forward, neatly stepping around Sam and stopping so that she was directly behind her. She was a couple of inches shorter than Sam, and Sam knew that in a cat-fight she’d probably come out the winner. But with her trousers around her ankles, she’d be at an immediate disadvantage.
But it was an option.
Shit! The woman’s hand were cold. They were on her breasts, but not under her bra. A couple of seconds, no more. Sam had flinched, but not moved.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 10