Man on Edge

by Humphrey Hawksley

  ‘I am Sofia.’ Carrie looked at the boy. ‘What’s your name?’

  The boy had an eye infection as well as snot around his nose and blotched circles on his cheeks, signs of diarrhea and fever.

  ‘His name is Rufus,’ said Hektor Tolstoye.

  Carrie held out her arms. ‘Come, Rufus. Jump across here and we’ll get your jacket on.’

  Rufus curled up on himself.

  ‘His mother is getting married,’ said Tolstoye. ‘He is afraid. His father used to beat him and then left. He doesn’t want a new father.’

  ‘That stump must be driving you crazy,’ said Carrie. ‘I am a doctor. Let me take a look.’ She climbed down to collect her bag. The old man touched the sleeve of her coat. ‘I am Oleg Tolstoye. He is my son, wounded in Syria.’ He pulled up his blue shirt to show a massive red scar across his torso. ‘For me, Afghanistan. All stupid wars.’

  The train jolted, pulling out of the station. Applause broke out around the carriage. Carrie hoisted herself up and examined Hektor’s stump. ‘How long since the amputation?

  ‘A year.’

  Carrie pulled on blue disposable medical gloves and touched the raw skin. Hektor flinched. It was bruised and infected and needed dressing. She opened her bag and pulled out a pack of Ampicillin, not perfect, but the best she had. She tipped two 250mg white tablets into her hand and held it open for him. ‘Antibiotics. Take two three times a day for a week.’

  Hektor swallowed them dry. Rufus watched, entranced at Carrie and all she was doing. She cleaned the stump. Hektor winced against stabs of pain. For the amputation and the burns on his face he may have had half a dozen operations. She covered the stump with antiseptic cream, tore open a pack of sterilized bandages, sealed the dressing with tape. It would hold for two or three days. Once done, Rufus held out his hand, his bloodshot eyes filled with longing.

  ‘Are you going to put on your jacket?’ Carrie asked.

  Hektor held up the jacket with his left hand. Rufus slipped his arms through the sleeves. The jacket was too big on Rufus’ torso and too short on the sleeves. Carrie rifled deep into her bag and brought out a chocolate nutrition bar. Rufus lunged forward to grab it. Carrie whipped it back. ‘Let me examine you first, like I did your uncle.’

  Sitting on the bunk, with the train swaying, beams of different lights slicing through from outside and vanishing, Carrie gave Rufus as full a medical as she felt she could. Tongue. Throat, Chest. Neurological reactions. He was healthy but run-down. He had a low fever, mild conjunctivitis in the left eye, and a sore throat. She gave him lozenges, vitamins, and mixed up a strawberry rehydrate from bottled water.

  Rufus reached into his small yellow rucksack and pulled out a torn, faded, dog-eared children’s book of Russian fables. He opened it to a precise place and handed it to Carrie. She read aloud a story called Father Frost about a daughter banished by her evil mother and rescued by the good Father Frost. Hektor brought soup and bread from the restaurant car. Carrie ate. A guard came. Tickets were shown and scanned.

  ‘Does Father Frost also help little boys?’ Rufus was drifting off to sleep. Hektor watched, relief on his face.

  ‘Of course.’ Carrie kissed his forehead. ‘He watches over all children.’ She climbed down to her bunk and lay, hands linked behind her head.

  Unexpectedly, the rocking of the train enveloped her. She had not slept since getting off the plane in Moscow, since Harry Lucas had buzzed up to her apartment in the middle of the night. She woke with Hektor tapping her shoulder, crouching at the side of her bunk. The stump dressing looked good. That wasn’t why he was there. Worry etched into his face. The boy. Snot-nosed. Rufus; was he all right? Not that either.

  ‘Sofia, are you really Israeli?’ Hektor said. ‘Is your real name Sarah Mayer?’

  THIRTY

  Moscow

  Ruslan Yumatov’s black Mercedes limousine drove south along the deep maroon fifteenth-century western wall of the Kremlin. A message came through that Carrie Walker had been found. Thanks to the determined fury of a French-Canadian nurse over her stolen passport, police discovered that a Sofia Gagnon had booked a third-class ticket on a night train to St Petersburg. He messaged his unit that Sofia Gagnon was Israeli doctor Sarah Mayer, who should be watched until the train reached St Petersburg, but not intercepted.

  Locating Carrie Walker was a piece of good news that might signal his run of bad luck was over. He had been summoned to see the President, who had even sent a car. The vehicle turned through the Borovitsky Gate on the Kremlin’s south-west corner. Once inside, they headed toward the ornate pastel-yellow Senate Building. Yumatov was always awed at how the Kremlin’s grandeur had endured through so many upheavals. Just as an Italian architect was brought in to design the walls and towers of the Kremlin in the late fifteenth century so in the late twenty-first century his own great-grandchildren might see Oriental designs from Asia make their mark across Russia’s seat of power.

  To his surprise, when they pulled up President Lagutov himself was standing outside the main entrance of the Senate Building as if to greet him. Yumatov was about to leave his car, when the President signaled that he should stay, breaking away from a cluster of officials and getting into the back seat beside him.

  ‘Too damn cold out there for an old man to think.’ Lagutov took off his fur hat. Fragments of ice dropped onto the floor. ‘Now, Colonel, I spoke to President Merrow and he’s agreed. I wanted to thank you for suggesting it.’

  ‘It was a privilege. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘The Norwegians are helping out. We’ll meet on their royal yacht.’

  A convoy of seven presidential vehicles wound in and stopped in line at the entrance to the Senate Building. ‘I’m opening an engineering faculty at Moscow University. I enjoy so much talking to the students. They are always full of ideas. We must never crush ideas like the Soviets did.’

  ‘I agree, sir. Very much.’ The confined space and the way the light played through the tinted windows of the limousine made it difficult for Yumatov to read the President. Lagutov had unusual enthusiasm in his tone, like a man with a new project, pulling out of a mood dip.

  ‘Foreign Minister Grizlov speaks highly of your capabilities and I want you to oversee another event that will follow the summit.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘On December 30th 1922 we created the Union of the Soviet Socialist Republics, the Soviet Union, and we delivered paved roads, sanitation, and electricity from here to Asia. How did the West succeed in making us ashamed of our achievements? Tell me that, Colonel.’

  ‘It was wrong, yes, sir.’

  ‘But no more. I have ordered a ceremony to mark December 30th and we will hold it in Severomorsk because from there Russia will protect its sea lanes of the future and its path to Asia.’ A huge smile spread across Lagutov’s face. ‘The Presidential Regiment is already heading there, and I want you to run this for me, Colonel. Make it a celebration for all of Russia to remember.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I am honored to be asked.

  Lagutov opened the door an inch, letting in a rush of cold air. ‘Make it a celebration to show the world that Russia is strong, and no one should fuck with her again.’

  Barvikha Village, outside of Moscow

  Stephanie Lucas didn’t expect her early morning visit to Sergey Grizlov to be an easy one. She had insisted on seeing him after Harry Lucas sent photographs of the memorial service, and the Washington gunmen with Lagutov and Grizlov. ‘It’s on you, Steph,’ Harry had said. ‘We need to know Grizlov’s link to Yumatov and who Yumatov’s working for.’

  Grizlov had tried to stop her. It wasn’t convenient, he argued; too far to come. He was tied up with other stuff. Stephanie countered: ‘Give me one line on why you, Ruslan Yumatov, Viktor Lagutov, and the two Washington gunmen were on the Amur River outside Khabarovsk.’

  ‘Who needs to know?’ said Grizlov.

  ‘I do, and I want to keep it like that.’

  Grizlov had agreed. />
  They had left the British Embassy in lockdown with a fresh security team flown in to establish the level of infiltration and the fate of Alan Scott, the missing security guard. Streets around the embassy were cordoned off. Moscow morning traffic had yet to fill the roads. Sleeting rain eased and strong south-westerly winds shifted clouds and pollution to bring a clear, dark winter sky. Her black diplomatic SUV with chase cars front and back headed due west along Kutozovsky Avenue. Stephanie sat belted up and dressed in a sharp black pin-stripe trouser suit with a white blouse, starched collar, and deceptively stylish shoes, black leather, with small white buckles and sand-rubber soles so she could move fast if need be.

  They turned right into the Ryblevkoye and headed north-west. A British Union flag flew on the hood to get through checkpoints quickly.

  She looked out at dirty high-rise blocks of drab Moscow suburbs and found herself yearning for a London traffic jam, a bacon sandwich at a Soho cafe, a call center row over the telephone bill, things manageable.

  They slowed at the first checkpoint. Keating, her new security guard, showed the email of Grizlov’s invitation. The three vehicles were waved through. Barvikha Village began life as a Communist-era retreat with a hotel, spa, sanatorium, and dachas for political leaders. In recent decades, mansions had sprung up, mock-Tudor, open-space Scandinavian, a spectrum of designs, all huge, all with security posts at the driveway entrance, all with large satellite dishes, interspersed with car dealerships and luxury stores, Gucci, Armani, Lamborghini, a retreat for oligarchs and political elite. Sergey Grizlov was both.

  All Russia’s modern leaders, Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, Gorbachev, Putin, Medvedev, Lagutov, had had places in this dazzling swamp of power and money. Stephanie was rich but she couldn’t have afforded a bathroom in one of these properties.

  Grizlov’s mansion stretched across at least two plots. A snow-covered lawn between the carriage driveway where ice was melted with under-surface heating. The main house had three big doors with steps leading up. Its design lay somewhere between Baroque and Gothic with arched windows, brick chimneys, and green crenelated roof surrounds. Grizlov had never invited her and now she knew why. For a twice-divorced single man apparently living alone, it was way over the top. It might have been very Russian elite, but it didn’t match the funny, self-deprecating Sergey Grizlov she had once thought she loved.

  Headlamps from the British Embassy vehicles arced around the driveway and lit up the biggest set of steps at the front of the house. The vehicles stopped.

  ‘Wait, ma’am,’ said Keating. He got out of the vehicle, walked round, allowed time to scan the environment. He opened Stephanie’s door. As she got out, two jeeps, four men in each, came around from the back of the house and boxed in the vehicles. The double doors at the top of the steps opened. A figure appeared in a black suit, no tie, and a large round head, creased like a football. He came down the steps, speaking in Russian. ‘I am Yolkin, head of security for Foreign Minister Grizlov. They need to search the vehicles to ensure the Minister’s safety.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen,’ Stephanie said. ‘This is British diplomatic property.’

  Yolkin held a phone to his ear, spoke into a microphone hanging from an earpiece. He beckoned Stephanie to follow him up the steps, went inside, and left the door open. Stephanie walked into a badly lit entrance hall that looked like a shoddily curated museum. There were three gold-framed mirrors and a chandelier, heavy sets of furniture, a brown leather sofa with two armchairs, another with embroidered yellow covers, dark wood tables, and two television screens, one tuned to CNN, the other to Russia One, running on the story of the Washington shootings and still demonizing Rake Ozenna. The area was wide and at the end was an arch where Yolkin waited. Beyond were dark wood double doors. Yolkin pressed down the gold-plated handle and pushed it open for Stephanie to go in. Keating began to lead. Yolkin waited until he was close, then stopped him, hand directly on Keating’s chest. ‘Only the Ambassador,’ he said.

  Keating didn’t resist, didn’t move away. He waited instructions, stationary like a pillar. ‘It’s OK,’ said Stephanie. ‘Stay here.’

  Stephanie passed Yolkin, who stood hands cupped in front of him like a concierge, huge head dipped, bald on the crown. Inside, there was a different room, stylish, homely. She recognized Grizlov’s stuff, student posters, once taped up, now framed. Suppose They Gave a War and Nobody Came looped with rainbow psychedelic colors; a Munch poster, not The Scream, one called The Dance of Life, that they had bought together at the Norwegian National Gallery on a weekend visit to Oslo, two monochromes of a Rolling Stones tour, of whom Grizlov was a fan.

  Yolkin closed the door. Stephanie couldn’t see anybody. Like the entrance hall, the room was dimly lit, a desk light and a couple of standing lamps. It was hot and airless. The furniture was undemanding, colored bean bags, low white coffee tables, a desk to one side, and bookcases, as if Grizlov had ordered in from IKEA. No feminine touch. A bachelor apartment. Not a home.

  A door to the left opened. Light flooded in, like driving from shade into the sun. Stephanie stayed back where she was, letting her eyes become accustomed.

  ‘Stephanie. How good of you to come!’ Grizlov’s voice had less power than usual, and she could barely see his face. There may have been a stoop. It looked like he was wearing the same clothes as in the Four Seasons. His lips were poised tightly as if he planned to say more but decided not to. A second person stepped into the shaft of light and a cold electricity crawled through her body.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Ruslan Yumatov was as tall as she had seen on television and as polished. He wore full dark-green military uniform. The tunic and trousers had lost some of their shine, stretched creases, crumples around the sleeves. Like Grizlov, tiredness etched his face as if, overnight, youthful arrogance had crashed into reality. From Grizlov’s rigid body language, Stephanie sensed tension cloying the air between the two.

  Stephanie’s father told her many times that she had a natural talent for selling, a turn of phrase, knowing how and when to bend truth, not a skill that could be taught. You either had it or not, how a person presented themselves, how their mind worked because they had to believe the story they were telling, how they purveyed trust. Her father held his only child on a pedestal because she had inherited his talent for performing the perfect con, well suited to inherit his trade, maybe even better than him. Once she had reached her late teens, he changed his story. Sure, his little daughter had all those skills. She could rig, lie, and forge just like a man. But she was way too good for a used-car lot in South London.

  Stephanie examined the confident expression held by Yumatov against the out-of-character self-doubt that enveloped Grizlov, his blue and yellow silk tie undone, his collar open, his face exhausted.

  Yumatov was thirteen years younger, his eyes strained but still blue and sharp and devoid of any texture except determination. As silence hung, arteries pulsed in her neck. Grizlov came forward, held both her hands, and kissed her on the cheeks.

  Stephanie said, ‘Good of you to ask me, Sergey.’ First name. Informal visit. Ignore Yumatov. Treat him like a valet.

  Yumatov saluted. ‘I am Colonel Ruslan Yumatov, Madam Ambassador. May I reiterate the Minister’s gratitude for your coming here at such an unearthly hour.’

  ‘Colonel,’ said Stephanie with a nod. ‘If you’ve a moment, Sergey, it won’t take long.’

  ‘Sure, but Colonel Yumatov has something that will be useful to us. He can brief you on that, then you and I can have a chat.’ Grizlov looked across the room toward a dark area Stephanie hadn’t noticed before where a wiry, small man stood by a table, like a butler. ‘Some coffee over here,’ instructed Grizlov. ‘Steph, you’re black, no sugar, right.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Anything to eat. Pastry? Croissant?’

  ‘Coffee’s good.’

  Grizlov stepped across to a table under the Munch poster. ‘Put your bag here, Steph. Perfectly safe. I assume
you have stuff you want to ask about the Khabarovsk ceremony.’

  ‘Embassy stuff.’ She gave a quick smile and pointed to a single armchair with a coffee table by its side. ‘Best keep it with me.’

  A steaming coffee, strong, thick, and dark arrived. Yumatov took the chair next to her, Grizlov the sofa opposite, leaning forward, elbows on knees. She and Grizlov had worked on many negotiations together. She could read part of Grizlov, but not all. She realized she might be outflanked. The skill of how to tell a con was as crucial as how to con, and Yumatov was cold and strong-minded. She couldn’t read him, which meant she couldn’t read the room.

  Yumatov took a tablet from his tunic pocket and put it on the coffee table. The photograph showed the gathering of Yumatov, Grizlov, Lagutov, other powerful men at the memorial for the casualties of the Diomede operation. The faces of the two gunmen were not ringed as in Harry’s photographs. But Stephanie recognized them.

  Grizlov said, ‘I’ve asked Colonel Yumatov to explain why we are all here.’

  Yumatov’s intense eyes shifted in a disciplined way between his tablet and Stephanie like watchtower searchlights. ‘Valentyn Golov is here in the second row, Adrik Syanko here in the front. These men are responsible for the shootings in Washington. Their motive was revenge. They are trained military men and went further than most grieving fathers in getting themselves to Washington to avenge the death of their sons.’

  ‘We want to think of it as a crazy mass-shooting incident,’ said Grizlov. ‘The US is familiar with the motives and mental-health problems of such perpetrators.’

  ‘America is far ahead of Russia with mass shootings,’ added Yumatov. ‘It is part of their culture, not part of ours or yours.’

  ‘These men lost loved ones. They couldn’t deal with it,’ continued Grizlov. ‘They bought their weapons in Purcellville, Virginia, an hour’s drive from the venue in Washington, DC. The rifle was a .260 Remington. They knew exactly the weapon they wanted. They removed the stock and bought a hollowed-out microphone pole for the concealed fit. They drove to Rhode Island Avenue, parked their hire car, walked in, and tried to kill the man who killed their sons. They failed and died. They probably expected it. We don’t know what was going through their minds. They had never processed their grief.’ He looked at her with a glint in his eyes. Trust me. Stay with it. ‘That’s what happened, Steph. Not nice. Not big either. The surviving member of their team was an off-the-rack hired cameraman. He had no idea what he was getting into. We’re giving him consular help, of course. Russia is not making an issue of it. We don’t want the Americans to.’ Grizlov shadowed his hand over the tablet. ‘And this memorial was exactly what it was. Think of the President, the Secretary of State, a commanding officer at Arlington Cemetery honoring the dead from one of America’s wars.’