A deal seemed possible from what they’d been told, but the final details still had to be ironed out with AND’s management.
But deal or no deal, being late for this social event was not an option. The Dutch trade delegation’s tightly organized programme had begun in the morning with a wreath-laying ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Seventy-five thousand tulip bulbs had been planted in Gorky Park and in about ten minutes’ time the gala in the Pushkin Museum would begin.
Anya ignored an ENTRY FORBIDDEN sign and raced into a one-way street in the wrong direction. Barely five minutes later, waving their press credentials and the VIP card that had been bestowed on Farah, they were being ushered through the security check at the top of the grand staircase. They entered a magnificent ballroom where a starry starry night à la Vincent van Gogh was being projected on the ceiling at that moment. As Farah approached the entourage hovering around Valentin Lavrov, Paul unexpectedly ducked behind a marble pillar.
‘What’s got into you?’ Anya asked.
‘See that guy with the bald head?’ Paul said. Anya looked around and saw a man at Lavrov’s side. He had the nose of a hawk and the face of a wizened vulture.
‘Arseni Vakurov,’ muttered Paul. ‘My plastic surgeon. He gave me a hell of a facelift in Jo’burg recently. Once these last bandages and stitches are removed, I’ll look twenty years younger.’
Suddenly a slew of mobile phones in the room began to ring, zoom and resound as though an invisible conductor had struck up a digital orchestra. Anya’s phone also went off. It was Roman, who told her that a large group of masked men and women had entered the Mass Media Centre of Moscow State University and taken two hundred International Summer School students hostage.
There was a huge commotion in the ballroom: apparently a number of the students being held were Dutch. Amidst the chaos of emotions, Anya saw Lavrov talking to Farah with seeming calm, after which she accompanied him through the crowd. Bodyguards led by the vulture shielded them completely.
Anya hurried down the wide staircase with Paul. Outside by the main entrance columns they saw Lavrov and Farah get into the second of two black Falcon four-wheel drives, which then sped off.
‘Oh, just our luck,’ Anya sighed as they ran to her double-parked car.
8
Farah was sitting next to Lavrov in the back seat of the Falcon, fighting her growing fear. They were driving through the city’s fringes, an area marred by drab high-rises.
‘Dreadful news, that hostage-taking,’ Lavrov said in a reassuring tone. ‘But I’m sure the authorities will do everything they can to resolve the situation. We won’t let it spoil our lovely evening.’
‘You wanted to show me something special?’ Farah said guardedly.
‘A special woman deserves something special,’ Lavrov said with a smile. An enigmatic smile.
Outside the city, they passed army trucks parked by the side of the road and columns of soldiers digging fire trenches. She thought of Roman Jankovski’s words: when dealing with Lavrov you could hope for the best, but you’d better be prepared for the worst. She also thought of her father’s advice: you need to feel the fear to go through it. She was busy arming herself for a fight, when Lavrov noticed she was tensing up.
‘Are you all right, Farah?’
‘I don’t like surprises,’ she said. ‘Not even when they’re special.’
‘True, I’m not giving you much of a choice,’ he replied. Had she been more naive, she might have interpreted his smile as charming, but her intuition told her it was the smile of a man with a cold heart. She ought to try to escape – as soon as possible. She was prepared for the worst.
A firefighting plane flew low overhead, its engines roaring. The haze of smoke appeared to be thinning. For what seemed like several kilometres, they drove past a green fence before coming to a halt at a wide entrance gate where they were met by security guards emerging out of a glass booth.
Then the two Falcons proceeded up a hill to a sleek post-modern house with enormous windows.
When Farah stepped out of the car, she caught the scent of pine trees. The wind was south-westerly and the air was clear, not a hint of smog here. Via a maze of wide wooden staircases, Lavrov escorted her through the enormous house full of modern art directly up to the third floor.
‘Are you ready?’
‘As I said, I don’t like surprises.’
‘You’ll love this one, Farah,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’ll love it.’ Glass doors slid open and they entered a pleasantly cool, dim room where the sound of running water could be heard. Then, slowly, a spotlight came on. A narrow strip of light revealed the statue of Sharada, the river goddess.
‘I know how much this statue means to you,’ Lavrov said. ‘I saw how moved you were when you spotted it in my office in Amsterdam. That’s when I got this idea. I’m sorry, the exhibition at the Pushkin Museum was just an excuse. I hope you’ll forgive me.’
Farah glared at him. She was bamboo now. Strong and flexible.
‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘I won’t.’
‘I hope what I’m about to tell you will change your mind,’ Lavrov said, unmoved. ‘I told you we’re working on a special project in Indonesia. It has the potential to lift the lives of millions of Indonesians to a higher level. The moment I saw your fascination with this statue, I dubbed the project “Sharada”.’
Farah took another look at the statue. Seeing it again caused her physical pain. The sadness over Parwaiz’s death suddenly came rushing to the surface.
‘Some thirty small, floating nuclear power stations are being built off the coast of Java. We opted for small installations because their limited capacity poses less of a safety threat. We’re further developing the concept of underwater power stations from the 1960s, which is when the initial experiments with nuclear reactors on board submarines took place. In fact, the current Sharada design even looks like a submarine, but without the screw propeller and the weapons. Each Sharada power station will be installed on the seabed at a depth of 100 metres. Beyond the reach of terrorists, pirates, hurricanes and tsunamis. And there’s a crucial role for you in all this.’
‘How’s that?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Let me explain. Come with me.’ He ushered her to the enormous patio from where they looked out across a tree-lined lake. A champagne cooler and two glasses were waiting on a table.
‘This project needs not only a symbol, but also a face. Somebody to spread its philosophy. To visit locations, speak to government leaders, bring fellow investors on board. And that person, Farah, is you.’
Lavrov gently popped the cork from the bottle and filled the two glasses with sparkling champagne. Farah was completely taken aback and struggled for breath. She saw that Lavrov wanted to hand her a glass and had to resist the urge to ward off that gesture the way she’d do in a fight.
‘Why me?’
‘You’re intrepid, intelligent, passionate and extremely presentable as well.’ Lavrov was still holding out the glass to her.
‘No, thanks,’ she said firmly. ‘What’s the real reason?’
‘The real reason?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m not a philanthropist, I’m a businessman. I can offer you a share of the profit. Come and work for me. Better than writing phoney art supplements about dodgy oligarchs, right, Farah Gailani?’
She looked at him, unsure what to say. Roman Jankovski had been right. This man knew everything about her.
‘Let me be frank, Farah. In Amsterdam you asked me how I came by the statue. Well, I inherited it from my biological father. Grigori Michailov.’
‘Michailov was your father?’
‘You didn’t make the connection because of the different surname. You’re not the only one. I’m what you’d call the bastard son.’
Now she understood what had happened in The Hague when the Bentley drove by. Lavrov’s shocking resemblance to his father had been too much for Parwaiz’s heart. From beyond the grave Michailov had cla
imed another life.
‘Bastard son or not,’ she said. ‘I can’t work for you, Lavrov. Sharada belongs in an Afghan museum. She shouldn’t be misused by a criminal investor who’s only interested in making other countries energy-dependent, because that’s what this is all about. You said so yourself. You’re not a philanthropist, but a businessman. And if the facts are anything to go by, a ruthless one too.’
Lavrov put the champagne glasses back on the table. The look in his eyes had changed. He regarded her coldly.
‘Now that we know who our real fathers are, let’s stop all this pretending.’
‘Please,’ Farah said.
‘I know your real reason for coming to Moscow,’ Lavrov said. ‘It was a disappointing realization, in more ways than one. I would have enjoyed being involved in a beautiful art special with you, but I’m afraid that’s out of the question now.’
Farah felt her breath catch in her throat, but she still didn’t think she was in real danger. Outside the Pushkin Museum she’d got into the Falcon before lots of witnesses. Paul and Anya must have seen her leave. If anything were to happen to her, the trail would lead straight to this house. Lavrov was far too cunning for that. He had something else up his sleeve.
‘We have some good contacts at the Dutch embassy,’ Lavrov resumed. ‘This morning a certain Detective Calvino dropped by with some rather incriminating information. I understand you’re on quite intimate terms with him?’
‘Leave Calvino out of this.’
‘Of course. The man’s just doing his job.’
‘So am I.’
‘No, Farah. You’re doing more than that. You’ve thrown yourself heart and soul into this case. And you’ve already unearthed more than is good for both of us. That’s why I hope you’ll reconsider and accept my offer. I’m throwing you a lifeline, Farah, do you understand?’
‘Throw whatever you want, but I’m not a woman who betrays her principles. And now I’d like to leave, if you don’t mind.’
‘One final question then,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’d like you to think about this carefully. Right now, not far from here, hundreds of students are being held hostage. With some luck, most of them will survive. But my question is this: are you, like those black widows walking around there in suicide vests, prepared to sacrifice your life for an unattainable ideal?’
‘Only if I’m forced to.’
‘In that case, I suggest you reconsider and raise a glass with me after all.’
‘Not in a million years,’ she said. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
‘Oh, will you …?’
He accompanied her downstairs and shook her hand at the front door. ‘We could have gone far together, you and me. Not as adversaries but as allies. That’s what I was hoping. But you’ve made your decision, Farah. I’m very sorry to see it end like this.’
‘I’m not. Goodbye.’
She breathed a sigh of relief as she walked to the waiting Falcon. But the chauffeur beside the car showed no intention of opening the door. Then she heard footsteps behind her on the gravel. Turning around she saw two men coming towards her from either side, followed by two more behind them. Now she understood the ramifications of her decision and heard her father’s voice.
‘Remember what you did when you first felt the fear?’
She assumed her starting position. With her right hand opened up and held out. The first man grabbed her left arm and shoved her back with full force. She absorbed the blow and landed a right hook on his chin, rammed him in the ribs with a left and threw him against the car with a right kick. She had no time to think. Her whole being was now geared towards the next opponent she glimpsed from the corner of her eye.
Her body was taken over by the ancient spirit of dead warriors preparing for a controlled and rapid counter-offensive. Standing with her legs aligned, she kicked the right one at the second man’s thigh while at the same time absorbing his blow by grabbing his arm and using the momentum to plant the knuckles of her fist extra hard in his Adam’s apple.
She averted the third man’s low kick with a scooping motion. As she caught his outstretched leg, she rotated 180 degrees, brought her elbow to crotch level and rammed it straight in.
Then there was the unmistakable sound of an automatic weapon being cocked. In a split second she realized she’d never be able to floor her fourth opponent, a bald man with the eyes of a vulture, because he’d blow her brains out first.
9
Paul had been consumed by an intense hatred since that beating he’d taken in Ponte City. He’d felt the adrenalin surge through his body again after spotting the condor at the Pushkin Museum. His need for revenge was so overpowering that for a moment he lost sight of the fact it was Farah who now needed help. He tried reaching her by phone, but there was no answer.
In the Skoda they could hardly keep up with the two black Falcons that raced through the suburbs at top speed, but Anya had a hunch where they were going.
‘Lavrov has a large villa on Lake Glubokoe,’ she said, driving purposefully on, despite losing the Falcons when they were delayed by a procession of army trucks full of soldiers being brought in to fight the forest fires.
‘There’s Lavrov’s estate!’ Anya cried suddenly.
She pointed to the left side of the road, where Paul saw an endlessly long, undoubtedly electrified fence delineating an artificial boundary between the asphalt and pine woods. They drove past an entryway with a black metal gate guarded by broad-shouldered men in dark suits. From behind the bullet-proof glass of their booth, they spotted the Skoda immediately.
Anya stepped on the gas. ‘I know a safer way,’ she said with a devilish smirk.
Moments later, she turned left on to a bumpy dirt road. The Skoda hobbled over the gravel along the green metal mesh until they were close to the edge of the lake. Paul suspected they were driving around the lake. Anya kept glancing left out her window. Paul looked at her apprehensively, but she wasn’t saying anything. After a few minutes she pointed through the trees.
‘Lavrov’s villa!’
She slowed down and manoeuvred the Skoda behind a large shrub, quickly grabbed her camera and lens case and ran up a steep hill, which turned out to be higher than the fence. Paul followed, hot on her heels.
‘We have to be careful. Lavrov’s guards patrol this area in their jeeps,’ she said, out of breath.
Across the lake Paul saw a large post-modern villa with huge windows. The two Falcons were parked in the driveway. Nearby stood a man casually smoking a cigarette. There was little other movement.
‘I see them,’ Anya exclaimed, keeping the long telephoto lens pointed at the villa. Paul saw two small figures on a panoramic terrace and heard an audible clicking sound. Anya used the Nikon like a sharpshooter. ‘Dammit! I think something’s wrong,’ she muttered as she watched Farah and Lavrov go back into the house.
There was the roar of an engine. In the distance a jeep approached along the fence.
‘We’ve got to go,’ Anya said. She was about to return to the car when Paul stopped her. He took the Nikon from her and through the viewfinder saw Farah in front of the villa surrounded by a few men, including the one he wanted dead, the condor. Meanwhile, the jeep patrolling the fence kept getting closer.
‘We really need to go, Paul,’ Anya snarled but Paul kept taking pictures. Within seconds, Farah took out the three men who were guarding her.
‘My God,’ Paul said ‘that woman’s a lioness!’ But when the condor aimed his weapon at her head, the lioness froze. Handcuffed and with a sack over her head, Farah was then shoved into the boot of one of the Falcons.
Anya dragged Paul away. They jumped back into the Skoda. Thanks to the curves along the fence they weren’t spotted by the jeep. Shortly afterwards, having reached the paved road again, Paul saw the black Falcon speed through the gate with Vakurov at the wheel.
Anya soon lost the Falcon again, but just kilometres away, due to the threat of the rapidly spreading fire, the flow of ve
hicles was stopped by military personnel. From afar they saw that the Falcon was singled out and allowed to leave the line of traffic and drive along the hard shoulder. While scorching ashes were spewed across the road by the fire they saw raging to their left, Anya pulled her steering wall to the right and put her foot down hard on the accelerator. Paul couldn’t help but shut his eyes as they too sped along the hard shoulder past the angry soldiers.
Because of the red-hot rain of ashes and the thick, dirty smoke that drifted over the road, the Falcon also had to slow down. Anya managed to keep up until they reached the outskirts of Moscow.
‘Chyort voz’mi!’ she cried as they approached downtown. ‘Shit, they must be headed to the Seven Sisters!’ Paul was familiar with the seven skyscrapers – built by Stalin – where Moscow State University was located, where hundreds of students were now being held hostage by Chechen rebels.
They managed to get within a hundred metres of the large complex before they encountered the tanks and vehicles of the Russian army that had sealed off the grounds. To their amazement, they saw the Falcon being allowed through the barricade.
10
Chalim Barchayev, brigadier general of the Smertniki suicide squad, looked around the auditorium and liked what he saw. He’d gathered the vast majority of the students in the large lecture theatre and distributed the others across three adjacent seminar rooms. He’d also ordered the strategic placement of several booby traps. On his command, the fourteen black widows in the unit would immediately blow themselves up. Chechen women were prepared to do everything for some money, a one-way ticket to paradise and the honour of revenging husbands who’d been killed by the Russians.
They’d arrived in the capital at different times and at different locations. Some had spent days travelling. This morning they’d all driven in from the suburbs in separate minivans and had gathered at the time agreed. They crossed the park in front of the Seven Sisters, like so many tourists and students did on a daily basis. It all looked perfectly normal. Young people with large bags and rucksacks walking over to the university to attend a range of summer school courses.
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