by Azam Hossain
“He seems like a very interesting man,” I suggested, “and very rich?”
She smiled embarrassed, “Yes, but I did not know he was rich until later.”
“You must be very fond of him?”
“I am fond of many things Damian,” she purred mysteriously.
“Is that possible?” I queried. Her eyes gave me a piercing look.
“I believe it is Damian. Vasily has given me great opportunities that I would not otherwise have enjoyed. I hope you do not judge me harshly,” she implored.
“Not at all,” I assured her, “He must offer you many comforts?”
She looked as if she had taken umbrage at my question and then as if she thought better of it said, “A rich man can offer many comforts to a girl. I am sure that if you had Vasily’s wealth you could offer me much.”
“Yes I dare say.”
“For example this opportunity with this gallery would simply have been impossible without Vasily’s money,” she explained candidly.
“Your frankness is admirable. Forgive me if my questions show any impropriety.”
“No it is O.K,” she assured me.
We stopped in front of the next picture and I tilted my head just slightly both left and right as I attempted to “appreciate” it. This was what I would call a minimalist painting, which apart from some blobs and squiggly lines was largely a blank canvas. I was desperate not to be engaged in another discussion of art - there was a limit to how much nonsense I could concoct on the spot.
“What does Vasily do?” I asked, to which she gave me a queer look so I promptly added, “I only ask because he and I could do business.”
“I’m afraid I may not be much help. I do not take interest in his business,” she explained.
This answer whilst not very revealing seemed to suggest that she was ignorant and thus innocent of any knowledge of his criminal activity.
“Does Zhukov do much travelling?” I asked.
“All the time,” she giggled bemused by my question.
“What about Azakistan?”
She thought for a moment, “Yes he has been there a couple of times recently. We will go together later this week.”
She had confirmed Guy’s intelligence. If Zhukov was going to Azakistan something significant must be happening.
“I hear it’s dangerous. What business does Vasily do there?” I enquired.
“I think he is selling something to the Persians.”
Just then a couple of guests entered the room.
“Should you not be returning to your guests?” I enquired considerately.
She looked at her watch. “I will return in a few minutes. Many of them know nothing about art and are only here to be seen,” she explained.
“In that case shall we go and see your office?” I suggested.
Her office was large, bright and tastefully decorated in a modern style. In addition to a desk and chairs there was a large black leather sofa on which I sat. She locked the door and poured vodka into two glasses with ice, which jangled against the glass seductively as she came and sat next to me. “Anastasia,” I said using her first name without being invited to do so, in the hope that it might create greater confidence between us, “It’s important that you tell me everything you can about Vasily’s business in Azakistan.”
She was about to comply, when she suddenly assumed a defensive manner, “Why you ask this? Are you a spy?” she accused.
“No I am not a spy Anastasia,” I protested fervently, putting down my glass, “My friend is dead – murdered; that’s why I’m here in Moscow.”
“And you think Vasily killed him?” she enquired perceptively looking me in the eyes.
Her glance made me feel awkward and I looked away for an instant and then met her gaze again, “Yes,” I said stoutly, and a trifle too robustly I fear, for her face assumed a pained expression. Her eyes stared at the floor and I looked at her face; it was as if a realisation was dawning on her - an epiphany no less. She nursed her vodka and then gulped it down in one.
“Are you alright?” I asked genuinely concerned as I put a hand on her upper arm.
She looked at me and nodded. She was clearly upset and it was all my doing.
“I always felt that there was a dark side to Vasily - a bad side,” she began almost trembling at first, “but I did not ask questions. I felt that his business was how you say....his business. I once asked a question and he not like it, he had anger, he made me frightened. After that I never ask again,” I listened sympathetically, “He surrounds himself with people I know were not good people. Sometimes he talk on phone and it made me suspicious.........”
I shall spare you the tedium; suffice it to say that the poor girl made a clean breast of it, explaining what life was like with Zhukov. She was an innocent who avoided asking questions, preferring to believe in the good in him. With my revelation that I suspected him of murdering Andrew, she could no longer deny what she had long secretly suspected. I was convinced that she no longer loved Zhukov, assuming of course that she ever did. I got her to tell me everything she could about Zhukov’s business interests, particularly in Azakistan and his dealings with the Persians. What she did know was based on snippets of conversations and half of a sentence here and there. Someone who had made a point of not knowing could hardly be expected to know much. However she did disclose that their visit to Azakistan in a few days time was important. But by this time she had started to cry as the pain of her disclosures had exacted their toll. I got the distinct impression that she had stored up all these fears for a long time; and had found no one in whom to confide – until now.
After she had divested herself of her confidences, she seemed almost cleansed, as if she had gone through an absolution. I placed my arm around her to show my sympathy and decided that I should now take my leave.
“It was never my intention to cause you any upset; that was the last thing I wanted to do. I am very sorry,” I whispered.
“It is not your fault,” she said obligingly, “I am glad I have told you all this.”
“I must go now,” I said removing my arm from around her as I made to stand up.
“Please do not go,” she begged. She looked embarrassed as she took hold of my arm.
I forced a smile to hide my impatience and placed my arm around her once more as a last parting act of empathy. Having got her to make her disclosures, getting what I wanted and upsetting her in the process, I was now leaving her. I felt a pang of guilt about this but decided that I couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
“Perhaps you should get someone to comfort you,” I said endeavouring to sound as considerate as I could, as I attempted to leave once more.
“You comfort me!” she demanded. The vodka had emboldened her and brought an outpouring of melancholy.
As if to reinforce her words she placed her arms around my neck and brought her face up to mine as her body leaned against me; causing her pert breasts to rest heavily on my chest thus impeding any attempt to stand and sending a quiver of latent desire through my entire being. Suffice it to say that I don’t need to be asked twice, but this was the woman whose boyfriend I had vowed to kill, Ollie would be waiting for me and I was here on business. As these thoughts ran through my mind, her beautiful and imploring eyes, quivering but luscious lips and heaving cleavage all came into view. I would readily confess that I’m a weak and feeble man; and I could feel my defences collapsing on her first advance. Our eyes met and I knew then, that my primeval instincts would prevail. She brought her lips up to mine and leaned her young sensual body even more heavily against me. She had now got me into such a state of excitement that it would have required a herculean effort on my part to have resisted - I am alas a mere mortal. My head leaned forward and our lips met – we kissed passionately and I surrendered entirely to her. My hands explored her firm curvaceous body liberally as they sought to undress her. Once we were naked I rampantly plundered her body for my pleasure. She placed me inside her at
which point I began copulating vigorously, much to her delight; her breasts wobbled around admirably with each of my exertions. The things I do for England.....
I had no notion that an Art Gallery could be so pleasurable! Anastasia was herself a work of art. We both must have lost track of time, so ardent was our lovemaking, for there was a knock at the door. I looked at my watch, a Breitling Airwolf Raven Chronograph SuperQuartz – amongst its features was backlighting enabling it to be read in the dark. Ninety minutes had gone by since we had met in one of the galleries. I grabbed my clothes and ran naked and hid by a book shelf. Only when I was concealed and Anastasia had herself dressed, did she unlock the door. A big man walked in and the two of them exchanged a few words. The man was too big to be Zhukov. As he turned to leave, out of the corner of my eye I saw a scar on the left side of his face. My heart missed a beat - for it was Yuri Gromyko.
CHAPTER 12 – INTO THEATRE.
The following afternoon as the aircraft descended, the clouds parted and I got my first look at Azakistan. It revealed the mountainously desolate, hostile and rugged landscape, over which paradoxically so many had fought for centuries. The thought “out of the frying pan and in to the fire” rather leapt to my mind as my flight touched down in the capital Kushanbay. After Guy had told me that Zhukov was coming here, there seemed not much point in staying in Moscow. I had cursed Guy several times to myself since we had parted in his office. I couldn’t help but feel that he had contrived it, so that I could not very well decline to come to Azakistan. By way of assuaging my concerns he assured me that I would receive support, I reflected bitterly that he could hardly have done otherwise. Just before leaving Moscow, Guy had informed me that the Germans had also sent someone to Azakistan to thwart Persian plans to place and operate nuclear weapons and that we ought to cooperate. It would seem that the Germans had a half decent intelligent network themselves. It was less than a hundred years ago that they were plotting and scheming their way through Central Asia in order to prise India from Britain. After two world wars we were now chums.
The airport itself was a ramshackle affair. I was travelling under the false passport that Edward had sent me from London.
“Mr Will....ough.....by?” the immigration officer asked me suspiciously, struggling with the pronunciation.
“Yes,” I said with all the assuredness of someone who had been called Willoughby since the day he was born.
He handed me my passport and gestured for me to proceed, which I did gratefully having been fearful of more questions. After immigration I came out from the airside and was greeted by a man in the arrivals hall. He looked like an expat, all Panama hat and linen jacket.
Taking care that no one around us could hear, he simply said, “Mr Willoughby?”
“Who are you?” I asked suspiciously.
“My name is Travers, Jim Travers,” he said as he shook my hand, “Guy told me you’d be coming. I’m from our Embassy. I’ll take you to your hotel.”
He led me to a car with a driver. After my bags were loaded we moved off. Travers and I sat in the back seat. The roads around the airport contained the chaos of all human life: hawkers, beggars, urchins, roadside eateries and the idle merely watching everyone else. The place was congested and there was the incessant sound of car horns blaring. Despite all this, it was a pleasant spring day and the sun was shining.
“Can we talk?” I asked nodding towards the driver.
“Oh you mean Ismail. Yes he’s one of us. You can speak in complete confidence Mr Willoughby – or would you prefer Mr Collingwood?”
I looked at him startled, “Mr Willoughby – certainly when in the earshot of the locals.”
Travers just laughed, “You must relax Willoughby.”
He offered me a cigarette which I declined before he lit up his own with a lighter.
“What do you know about Zhukov and the Persians?” I ventured.
“Quite a bit I should say. Bad eggs the lot of them,” he began just after blowing a cloud of smoke from the first puff of his cigarette, “Faryab is of course the place to be. We can have you there tomorrow; it’s about 350 miles from here. Our embassy here in Kushanbay has been at the forefront of the intelligence gathering. There’s a remote valley in Faryab called the Bactria Valley. It’s there that the nuclear launch facility is located. Our informants tell us of large vehicle movements in and out of that valley from the only road that leads in to it – the North West Pass. Additionally, the JFF have been discouraging the local people from entering or even approaching the valley by placing gunmen at key entry points in to it. Of course they haven’t been 100% successful and naturally the local people resent such restrictions.”
“What’s the source for all this?” I asked wanting to make sure the intelligence was above reproach.
“The information has been corroborated independently. Ismail has been there. Additionally, we have informants and locals to whom we ask open ended questions to reduce the chance that they are merely saying what they think we want them to say and then we cross check it against what others have said.”
“What’s the best way of thwarting these plans?”
Without hesitation Travers said, “Destroy the site so that nothing can be launched from it.”
“As simple as that?” I queried.
“Anything else will simply delay not actually thwart them. You could sabotage the vehicles bringing materials or attack the workmen and scientists at the site but they can be replaced.”
I could not fault Travers logic.
Initially my purpose was to exact justice against the killers of my friend and comrade in arms Andrew Sinclair. But what was justice? And how could one obtain it in a place such as this? Did I seriously think that if I went to the local police they would arrest Zhukov, anymore than the police in Moscow would have done? Even if the issue of the police corruption were not a consideration what evidence did I have? Solomon’s words to me in his hotel room – utter hearsay, or a recording of a conversation between him and Zhukov in English - a tongue not common amongst the local constabulary I should wager. If it wasn’t for this nuclear business than I in all candour would have told Guy that I had done all that I could and returned to England. But this scheme of the Persians I felt had to be stopped. That, I resolved was now my primary purpose here in Azakistan. I consoled myself that this was a selfless mission, much bigger than me, a mission that could save countless lives and prevent the world being changed for the worse and made my concerns regarding the death of one man, trifling by comparison. I concluded that “justice” for me, to all practical purposes meant killing Zhukov, but only if the opportunity presented itself and it wasn’t incompatible with the mission that I had now awarded myself of destroying the nuclear capability that the Persians were trying to establish in the Bactria Valley.
We arrived at my hotel in an affluent part of Kushanbay. It was a white building with a colonial look about it that had clearly seen better days. The pistol and tracking device that Edward had sent from London had been sent in the diplomatic bag from Moscow to Kushanbay. I was to pick it up the next day. Travers dropped me off and informed me that he would come by in the evening for dinner, at which point the German I was to meet would be introduced to me. In the afternoon I went for a stroll and stumbled upon this enchanting bazaar, where I came upon a shop selling all manner of weaponry, most of it antique. I don’t doubt that many of the pieces had once been taken into battle in the 19th century. I purchased a rather new 6 inch knife which came with its own holster, to augment my Glock. It was large enough to be effective, but not so big as to be cumbersome when concealed. I spent the remaining time before dinner reading a guide book to Azakistan, learning a few words of the language and poring over some maps.
Casually dressed, I went down to the hotel bar in the evening where I met Travers as arranged. We ordered a couple of beers and then sat at a table away from the other guests, of which there were only four.
“Why are the Germans so keen to foil
Persia’s plans here in Azakistan?” I asked.
“The fact is we don’t know for sure,” began Travers, “But my hunch is that the German government and ours are probably in the same position. They’ve both discovered that some of their companies have supplied materials for this base. I know our government and almost certainly the Germans want to eliminate this base for that reason. It’s also an illegal base constructed without the knowledge of Azakistan’s government which violates its sovereignty and it could all trigger a nuclear conflagration in the region - the consequences of which would be incalculable and contrary to both British and German security interests.”
“Half the region could go up in flames?” I asked.
“Worst case scenario, yes,” Travers answered grimly. Suddenly neither of us was smiling.
He continued, “It won’t make either government look good if this gets in to the public domain, and that’s even before any missile is launched from the site,” he concluded with typical Foreign Office understatement.
We both took a sip of our beers and there was a moment’s silence.
“What can you tell me about this German?” I piped up
“Based on what I’ve heard from the German embassy here he sounds very impressive.”
“They probably won’t make much of me,” I said in a mixture of self deprecation and doubt.
“Nonsense Captain Collingwood, you’ll be his equal,” chastised Travers gently.
“Well?”
“Ah yes. He started initially in the Bundeswehr - the German Army...........”
We heard a different booming voice interject “....Where he rose to the rank of Major within 11 years of joining the army before joining the Kommando Strategische Aufklrung.....”
I and Travers turned around startled and saw this tall, athletic, casually dressed European man in his late thirties, with dark blond hair swept back, wearing a jacket and cravat, carrying on where Travers left off, speaking excellent English with the occasional turn of accent betraying his German antecedents.