Fire Hawk

by Geoffrey Archer

  ‘Like the way your friend killed Chrissie? Or . . . or was it you who did that?’ The words had come out of their own accord.

  ‘Tch, tch.’ Rybkin let out a long sigh. ‘That’s why you’ve come, yes?’

  ‘Why else? And take that bloody light out of my eyes.’

  Rybkin pointedly left the beam where it was to remind him who was in charge.

  ‘Turn around. Put up your hands.’

  ‘Now that’s not very friendly, Viktor.’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Slowly and fearfully Sam obliged. Rybkin felt his armpits and trouser waistband for a weapon, then patted his jacket and ran a hand down each leg, outside and in.

  ‘You’ve got a luvverly touch, darling,’ Sam lisped, trying to defuse the situation.

  ‘Okay. Enough of your shit.’ Rybkin lowered the beam and stuffed the gun into his belt. ‘Come inside the house. But don’t be dumb my friend. You go in front where I can see.’

  Sam picked his way through the builders’ debris to the porch and entered the hall.

  ‘To the left,’ Rybkin ordered, the torch revealing rough plastered walls with electric cables protruding and an internal arch with its door not yet hung. Beyond was the large room Sam had looked through from outside. The floor was bare concrete. In the middle stood two wooden chairs and a small trestle table. On it was a bottle of vodka and two glasses. ‘Sit please. Now we will have a drink together.’

  There was a candle on the table, stuck to its rough surface with melted wax. Rybkin lit it with his cigarette lighter. Then he sat opposite Sam and filled the glasses.

  ‘Budmo!’ said Rybkin, raising his.

  ‘Absent friends,’ murmured Sam.

  The vodka was warm. They drained their glasses in one. Rybkin refilled them. As he did so Sam noticed the hand clasping the bottle had the end digit of one thumb missing. The Ukrainian had changed out of his green jacket and was dressed now in a blouson windproof with its zip half undone. A patterned sweater showed underneath. The flickering candlelight exaggerated the crookedness of his jaw and his unreadable brown eyes watched with a wary concern.

  This was the man who’d known about Chrissie’s peanut allergy. So had he chosen the method by which she should be killed?

  ‘Why did you do it?’ Sam growled, plunging straight in again. ‘Why did you kill Chrissie?’

  ‘I?’ Rybkin protested, his voice pained. ‘You must not say such a thing. You don’t believe that?’

  ‘You were with her the night she died.’

  The Ukrainian’s jaw set as hard as stone.

  ‘No games, Viktor. What happened? To start with, you can tell me why you’re in Cyprus.’

  Rybkin didn’t answer immediately. Sam guessed he was trying to assess how much he knew so as to decide how much truth he would need to offer up to season the soufflé of lies he was concocting. Behind his back the glass doors to the terrace were open. Outside, a bat swooped and looped, its squeak on the limits of their hearing. In the far distance Limassol glowed and flickered like a distant conflagration.

  ‘You know,’ Rybkin began, his voice thoughtful and slow, ‘you and me, we are the same. We do the same job. So we understand each other. Yes?’

  ‘Don’t give me that guff. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Look, my friend, there are things that happen in this world that people like us have to know about, yes? To know, but maybe do nothing about. We are policemen but we are not policemen. You understand?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Tell me why you’re here and what happened with Chrissie.’

  Rybkin sucked in air.

  ‘You see . . .’ His voice when he spoke again began high like a falsetto and swooped deeper as the words emerged. ‘Some of my countrymen, they . . . Well, it is my job to know if they are doing things that are not exactly legal, yes? I told you that in Kiev. So when they come to Cyprus for biznis, then it is good that I come too.’

  The answer was absurdly inadequate. Sam fixed him with a steely look.

  ‘And you visit their half-built homes in the middle of the night—’

  ‘Sometimes it’s nice to be alone, my friend. That’s why I came here. And I like the view.’

  ‘Or perhaps this particular little palace belongs to you?’ Sam mocked, spreading his arms.

  ‘Of course not,’ Rybkin replied carefully. ‘It belongs to one of those men that I speak about.’

  ‘The man who was also with Chrissie on Tuesday night. The man who killed her,’ Sam persisted.

  Rybkin looked uneasy. ‘The other man who was with Chrissie,’ he acknowledged simply.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘What can I say to you, when you think you know everything already?’

  ‘Don’t play with me, Viktor. What happened on Tuesday? How come you were all having a cosy drink together, then a few hours later Chrissie gets murdered?’

  Rybkin sucked in air again. ‘I will tell you the truth. I don’t know what happened later. I wasn’t there.’

  He held up his glass. Sam shook his head, leaving his own full glass on the table. This man was lying to him. Pretending he wasn’t responsible.

  ‘No more vodka. You can drink alone.’

  ‘A pity. You see, in my culture it is impolite to refuse.’

  Rybkin shrugged. He tossed back the drink, smacked the glass down on the table, sat back in the chair, and tucked his thumbs into his belt.

  ‘All right. I will tell you everything I know. I met Christine completely by chance at the Mondiale when I went there with a colleague for a drink. Big surprise. You can imagine. For her and for me. Well, of course I introduce Christine to my colleague. Then we have a drink together to celebrate this happy coincidence, but it soon becomes clear to me that it’s not my company that Chrissie is interested in. You get me?’ he asked pointedly.

  Sam didn’t answer, convinced this was bullshit.

  ‘I could see that she and my colleague had things they wanted to do together. Alone. You understand me?’ His eyes were like lasers. A faint, manipulative smile flickered. ‘Of course you do. You know her appetite pretty good. Or you used to. Quite strong and healthy, huh?’

  Sam bunched his fists on his lap and kept his mouth firmly closed.

  ‘I tell you, my friend, they were sniffing each other like dog and bitch. You never saw anything like it.’

  Sam tried to shut his mind to what he was feeling.

  ‘I warned her Sam. I did tell her to take care.’ His eyes crinkled with contrived concern. ‘You see, I liked Chrissie. I liked her very much. We go back years, she and me. So when my colleague left us for a couple of minutes to go to the john, I took my chance and warned her that he was real hard case. I told her to watch out because he was a guy who didn’t believe in rules. “No limits”, that’s what I told her.’

  Sam faltered. Maybe there was some truth in what Rybkin was saying. He fought back thoughts about what ‘no limits’ might have meant in the context of what happened later.

  ‘Who is he, your colleague? What’s his name?’ he snapped.

  ‘I can’t tell you. It’s confidential information. You know that,’ Rybkin whispered, refilling his glass and adding a drop to Sam’s so the liquid reached the rim. ‘Come on.’ He raised the vodka. ‘Let’s drink to Chrissie, God rest her soul.’

  Sam held his look for a few moments, wanting to believe that beneath the veneer of crocodile concern there might be an ounce or two of sincerity in this man whom Chrissie had considered a friend. He picked up his glass.

  ‘Chrissie,’ he whispered, then drank.

  ‘You know, this beautiful island can be a dangerous place, my friend,’ Rybkin whispered, his words full of an understated menace.

  ‘Particularly with men like your colleague running around,’ Sam answered gratingly. ‘What is he? Biznisman? Mafiya? And what about you? What’s your relationship with him? You work against him, or with him?’

  He was remembering the banya in Kiev.

  Rybkin’s face set
like granite. He rubbed his scar.

  ‘You see, you damned English, you always have a problem understanding my country. You think everywhere in the world they play cricket. The same rules that you have. Fifteen men on one side, fifteen on the other. And virtue always wins.’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eleven men in a cricket team,’ Sam corrected.

  ‘You see? You just proved it. You expect me to know these things,’ Rybkin smirked. ‘But look, you know my point, Sam. In my country virtue does not get its reward. No person can be on any one side. No person can be what you Anglo-Saxons call straight. We are different from you because to survive we have to cheat. All of us. In the countries of the former Soviet Union it is our way of life. It’s the way we’ve always lived. And now more so than ever. Under socialism there was a kind of fairness, but not today, not any more. You know this Sam – you been to my country. People cannot live on what they are paid.’

  His broad shoulders lifted as if to say that surely the whole world understood this by now.

  ‘In my country, if you’re sick, the doctor is there for you free. Oh sure. But if you want him to make you better, if you want medicine or surgery then you have to put money in his hands. Because the guy’s got to eat somehow. Same with school-teachers. Your children will be taught for nothing. Free education is your right in Ukraine. But, to pass your grades, to get a certificate when you leave, then you got to pay. You got to give your teacher money so she can eat too. It’s normal now for us. You understand?’

  It was a given for Rybkin. A fact. A statement of the obvious.

  ‘And you?’ Sam snapped, his chin jutting. ‘You get your payoffs from the criminals you’re supposed to be fighting?’

  Rybkin shrugged again. ‘I showed you in Kiev how it is. These New Russians, they have many businesses. Some are criminal, some are not. But because in Ukraine we have crazy laws and a crazy tax system, even normal businesses have to cheat. ‘So, you ask about me? I guess I’m kind of like a street priest to these guys. I mix with them so I understand their lives. I can’t stop them sinning, nobody can, but I can tell them when they go too far. Being there among them, I’m like a warning that if they step too far out of line, the big judgement will come for them.’

  ‘And like a priest you hold out your hand and the sinners put coins in it,’ Sam mocked. ‘Only in your case it’s folding money.’

  Rybkin’s jaw set firm. ‘I have to live, my friend.’

  ‘By taking dollars from arseholes like the one that murdered Chrissie.’

  ‘Believe me, I feel terrible about it. I introduced her to him for God’s sake. How d’you think that makes me feel? Look, when I next find that guy I’m really going to let him have it.’

  Rybkin’s pretence at innocence was now nauseatingly transparent. Sam narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Your colleague, this guy you’re going to sort out. Why did he come to Cyprus?’

  Rybkin’s cheek twitched. ‘He has investments here,’ he said quickly, waving a hand around to indicate that the villa was one of them. ‘They need attention from time to time – like indoor plants. That’s all. Nothing else.’

  ‘And he paid you to come to Cyprus with him? So you could help him water his plants?’

  Rybkin’s face pulled into a guilty smile. ‘Well, it’s kind of a free vacation for me. That’s all.’

  ‘Always take a gun on your hols, do you?’ Sam goaded.

  ‘When you are a KGB man for many years, you collect a lot of enemies,’ Rybkin sighed.

  That at least would be true, thought Sam.

  ‘And these days they are all allowed passports,’ Rybkin added ruefully.

  ‘Where is he now, your colleague?’

  ‘He had to return to Ukraine yesterday. Urgent business.’

  ‘The business of avoiding a police inquiry into how the woman he went to bed with on Tuesday night ended up dead, yes?’ He’d intended the words to come out cold, but they were tinged with bitterness.

  ‘As I explained to you before, my friend,’ Rybkin repeated, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And I don’t believe you, Viktor,’ Sam snapped, his eyes like knives. ‘You knew about her lethal allergy. You decided how she should die. You were there.’

  ‘Look, my friend,’ Rybkin retorted, ‘you may have a clever brain, but your heart is weak. How many years was it you let this woman play games with you?’

  ‘Fuck off.’ The man was side-tracking.

  ‘No. Not fuck off. You have a weak heart with women and that means bad judgement all round. Believe me. And Chrissie too, she had bad judgement.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  For just a moment Rybkin seemed poised to tell him something, then decided against it.

  ‘Bad judgement about how far it was safe to go,’ he explained cryptically. ‘I warned her about him – I told you that. And she ignored my warning, that’s all.’ He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘And my friend, let me give you some advice. Because I like you, understand? I like you just as I liked Chrissie. And the advice is this. Don’t try to find the man who killed her. His affairs do not concern you. Not you or your SIS. Just to ask questions about him will be dangerous for you.’

  He swung his arm across his body as if drawing a line under the whole affair.

  Questions. Had Chrissie died because she’d asked too many?

  A hint of a breeze from the terrace set the candle flickering. In the guttering light Rybkin had the look of an evil god. He stood up and closed the doors, shooting the bolts at top and bottom.

  ‘You talked with Chrissie,’ Sam stated.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about?’

  The Ukrainian eyed him with an expression that contained a hint of pity.

  ‘Look. On Tuesday she was drinking more than she should. I ask her why she drinks so much. She told me she was sad because a love affair had just ended. I ask if the lover had been you and she is surprised. Because I guessed it in Kiev last year, you see. Not great detective work. You were both pretending too hard.’

  ‘Really,’ he remarked flatly.

  ‘She told me she thought you still loved her. Is it true?’

  ‘It’s irrelevant.’

  ‘No. Not irrelevant. Look. Here’s some more advice. It’s better for you that you forget her. The more questions you ask about her, the more you will hear things you don’t like.’

  Sam blinked. ‘What d’you mean?’

  Rybkin’s shoulders heaved again. ‘I mean like how one moment she tells me she is sad about breaking up with you, and then the next she throws herself at my colleague. What sort of woman is that?’

  Rybkin was deliberately stirring it now, Sam realised. He decided to throw a pebble into the water.

  ‘Did she mention Iraq to you?’

  The Ukrainian looked startled, but recovered quickly.

  ‘No. Why? What about Iraq?’

  An impenetrable mask clicked into place, one perfected through decades of Cold War deception.

  ‘Never mind,’ Sam answered. Rybkin’s sensitivity to the question was enough.

  The two men stared at each other across the flimsy table, each trying to read the other’s mind. Suddenly Rybkin stood up and pulled the gun from his belt.

  ‘And now my friend, we are going to say goodbye,’ he announced abruptly.

  Sam’s stomach balled. The gun was being pointed at his chest.

  Rybkin laughed. ‘You think I’m going to shoot you?’ He laughed again. ‘You’re wrong my friend. This time I just want to be sure you don’t follow me. Understand? So, wait here five minutes after I’ve gone, please. But if I see you coming after me I will shoot, and this time I’ll shoot to kill.’ He started backing towards the open doorway. ‘The front door – please close it when you leave. Because of the thieves I told you about. Just pull it shut. And I repeat, don’t move from here until I am long gone.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sam protested, his
voice heavy with irony. ‘A minute ago we were friends drinking vodka and now you’re running out on me again.’

  ‘Well, I apologise for leaving so suddenly but I have another appointment.’ He paused. ‘Look, I told you I like you Sam, yes? But I think it best that we don’t meet again, if that’s okay by you.’

  He was in the hallway now.

  ‘Suits me, Viktor,’ Sam grunted. ‘But do one thing for me will you? Take a message from me to whoever killed Chrissie. Tell him he’s going to pay, okay? Just that. That he’s going to pay.’

  Rybkin’s shoulders sagged. ‘No Sam. I will not pass such a message. Because you are still a friend. And too many of my friends have been killed already.’

  The front door clicked shut. Rybkin’s feet crunched up the cinders to the Lexus. Sam leapt for the hall. When he heard the engine roar into life, he inched the door open. As the tail lights sped down the road, he sprinted after them, ducking for cover behind the construction plant. The limousine turned left towards the valley, its lights disappearing behind the bank of earth where the Toyota was parked.

  ‘Fuck!’

  The lights hadn’t emerged from the other side. He heard a dull phut phut, followed by a hiss.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Rybkin had blown his tyres. A few seconds later the Lexus reappeared and accelerated down the hill.

  Sam cursed again. He’d lost this round. But there would be another, he decided, and very soon.

  He sprinted behind the mound to check the damage to his car. Both front tyres totally flat. It would take an hour to walk back to Limassol.

  He returned to the villa to fortify himself with another shot of vodka and to satisfy his curiosity about the place. He downed a slug, then unstuck the candle from the wooden table. Across the hall from the main room was a smaller one – bare concrete floor and unplastered breeze-block walls. Behind that, a kitchen and a third room. All bare, all empty. He wanted to check upstairs but discovered that the staircase had yet to be installed in the house.

  He returned to the main room and refixed the candle to the table. Then he unbolted the doors to the terrace and opened them, stepping onto a balcony three metres deep with a wrought-iron railing protecting its edge. Beyond it the ground sloped steeply downwards, the full moon casting silver reflections on the distant sea.