Perry, Susan, Basir, Lola, Tuba and Shahiera for the patience and respect with which you initiated me into so many aspects of your native country.
Sehnaaz and Julian for the introduction to Pencak Silat.
Ton for your dedicated coaching on detective matters. Stefan for your invaluable assistance.
Erik, Tessa, Lizenka, Ad and Frodo for the medical underpinnings.
Lidy, John and Annieke for your tales from the world of journalism.
Paul for your monetary expertise and Nico for your advice.
Everyone who read and commented during the various stages of the book: Josje, Michael, André, Henk, Bernique, Lilian, Donat, Bas, Lamia, Mo, Roel, Jan, Meike, Clemence, Ivar, Annet. And anyone I may have forgotten …
My heartfelt thanks!
1
She could see her reflection in the lens of the digital camcorder. Standing behind it was the bald man with the vulture eyes who looked like a condor. He’d flung her into the boot of the armoured Falcon four-wheel drive and driven into central Moscow. Once there, he dragged her down long, empty corridors, like a hunk of meat. The few words he bothered to utter were in English, with that thick Slavic accent so typical of Russians. He spoke gruffly, barking commands. His movements were hurried and stiff, mirroring the cold-blooded expression on his face. The only sign of weakness was his panting. Every so often he sucked on an inhaler.
In a tiled room with blacked-out windows, he’d tied her to a chair in front of the camcorder. A man dressed in camouflage gear entered. He was holding a Kalashnikov and wearing two ammunition belts as well as a holster containing a powerful gun. From the way he talked to the condor, she figured the two must know each other well.
A woman in a black robe and a scarf wrapped tightly around her head was filming everything on her mobile. With her pale skin and blue eyes, she looked quite striking. The man in the fatigues barked something at her, after which she disappeared and reappeared again seconds later, shoving a girl of barely twenty ahead of her. He took the girl and forced her to kneel down beside the condor, who switched the camcorder on and, without looking at the girl, casually pressed the barrel of his Zastava against her temple.
The girl begged for her life. Her mutterings in Russian sounded like a whispered prayer. The condor took no notice of her. He had only eyes for the woman tied to the chair opposite him. His tattooed finger pointed to the lens.
‘Look at this!’
Farah Hafez raised her head and stared into the camcorder’s reflective black hole.
‘Now say what I want you to say, bitch. And do it convincingly. You can save this girl’s life.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ Farah murmured.
‘Repeat after me.’ Farah listened to the words he’d prepared for her, words that were not hers, words that would never even occur to her. She moved her lips in an effort to repeat them. The girl mustn’t die.
Her vocal cords barely vibrated, and the lines came out as little more than a sigh. The condor cocked his Zastava. The camcorder’s red light flickered. The girl flinched.
That’s when the words came. Unexpected and forceful. Like vomit.
‘I, Farah Hafez, support the jihad against President Potanin’s criminal regime.’
The condor smiled coldly and pulled the trigger anyway.
The Zastava’s dry click betrayed an absent bullet. When the girl fainted, the pungent stench of urine filled the air.
Farah swore at the man, yelled at him in Dari that his mother was worse than a whore – she’d done it with dogs and he was the spawn of that coupling.
The condor charged at her like he’d lost control. Despite being tied up, she kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. When she tried to avoid his next charge, she fell over, chair and all. Undeterred, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her, still bound to the chair, out of the room and down a corridor to an auditorium, where a large group of young men and women had been herded together and were being held at gunpoint by a woman in black.
He retied her so tightly she could barely breathe, stuffed a piece of cloth into her mouth and taped her lips shut. Then he picked up a small, flat metallic box, connected to a laptop with wires, and strapped it to her chest.
He stood before her, sweating profusely and sucking hard on his inhaler.
‘You’re going to go out with a bang, you bitch.’ Somehow he reminded her of a giant bubble about to burst. He marched away.
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Holland by A. W. Bruna Uitgevers, 2013, then Luitingh Sijthoff, 2016
First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph, 2017
Copyright © Walter Lucius, 2016
The moral right of the author and translators has been asserted
Epigraph credit: Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There, Lewis Carroll, 1871
Cover image © Kirill Voronstrov
ISBN: 978-1-405-92133-6
Butterfly on the Storm Page 46