by Chris Ryan
"Rust, his name was," I said.
"Mathias Rust. He landed up the slope." I pointed ahead.
"That means he must have come in from that direction, towards us. Didn't the cheeky bugger get a job at some travel agency in Moscow, once he'd come out of gaol? I think so. It just shows how times change."
Soon we were walking down the gentle hill past St. Basil's. At the bottom we found a bridge over the river, and decided to cross to the other side, so we'd be able to look back across the water and get a view of the Kremlin. We cleared the steps on the far bank, and had just started walking, the river on our right, when Rick said quietly, "We've got a tail."
"Sure?" I asked.
"Pretty much. He's been with us at least since the bottom of the square."
"Keep walking, then. When we get to that bench, we'll sit down and see what he does."
On the embankment a hundred yards in front, a metal bench faced out over the water. When we reached it, I sat on one end, took off a shoe and proceeded to shake out imaginary bits of grit.
Up on Red Square there had been plenty of people wandering about. Down here by the river the wide road was deserted, and our follower stood out like a spare prick.
"He's stopped," Rick announced.
"He's leaning over the wall."
"Let's tip the bastard in," said Whinger.
"It could be someone Sasha's laid on to keep an eye on us, Rick suggested.
"Hardly," I said.
"I don't think he'd do that. More likely a common-or-garden mugger. He could have mates waiting up ahead, though. He may be trying to push us towards them. We'd better sort him."
Whinger agreed so we strolled forward, slower than before, then suddenly turned and began walking fast towards our pursuer. He'd started after us again, and it seemed to take him a moment to realise what was happening. Then he also turned round and began to scuttle off By now we were running, and we were on to him in a flash.
Whinger and I each went for an arm and grabbed him, bringing him to a rapid halt. We couldn't see him too clearly in the lamplight, but he looked a swarthy lad of twenty-odd, with a bit of a ragged beard, wearing a check shirt and a thin jacket of some dark material. He was angry, but also scared.
"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" I snapped.
He let fly a stream of Russian, of which I understood not a word. Rick said something in Russian, and he spat out an answer. Then he started to struggle, and for a moment I was afraid he was going to scream to attract attention. I got my handkerchief rumpled in a ball, to stuff in his mouth if he opened it any wider, but already Rick was frisking him, and in seconds came up with a nasty, slim-bladed knife which he held in front of the guy's face.
That made his eyeballs rotate and quietened him nicely.
"Into the river," I said, and Rick flipped the weapon over the wall. We heard the splash as it hit the water.
"No mobile phone or radio?"
Rick shook his head.
"No wallet or money either."
"In that case he's probably after ours."
Suddenly I remembered one of the unofficial phrases Valentina had taught us. Valite otsyuda!" told him, and indicated the direction he could go back the way we'd come.
He got the message, no problem. As we released him, he shook himself like a dog and set off without a word. I saw that he had a bit of a limp, dipping slightly on his right leg. We watched until he had disappeared up the steps by the bridge, then we carried on along the river.
"What did he say, Rick?"
"Just that he was out for a walk."
"Like hell he was.
Rick was the most observant member of our party. He had a terrific knack of noticing any small object or incident that was out of line, and his memory for faces was phenomenal: even a year or more after an event he'd remember a person's appearance. Sometimes it took him a minute or two to place them, but then the setting and date would come back. I'm sure his skill derived partly from all the surveillance work he'd done in Northern Ireland, and often it stood us in good stead.
"Where did he pick us up?" I asked.
"Was he outside the hotel?"
Rick shook his head.
"I don't think so. He must have been hanging around on Red Square."
Away to our right, across the river, the floodlit Kremlin was a magnificent sight, but we were feeling too unsettled by the incident to appreciate it fully.
"I can see three possible explanations," I said.
"One, he was after our money. Two, Sasha detailed him to check where we went. Three, he was a Mafia dicker. I don't like any of them. If he was just a mugger, it goes to show how dodgy this place is. If Sasha sent him, it means we're not trusted. If he's Mafia, it means we may have been rumbled already."
I was getting jumpy. I remembered how the Colombians had had dickers posted at all the airports, photographing people as they arrived off the planes. Someone had told me that the secret police got hold of the flight manifests, and that by using computers they were able to match up passengers with pictures, so they could keep tabs on every single visitor to the country.
We walked on, until we became aware of a handsome, old style building set back from the road behind a courtyard on our left, and flanked by two matching outliers, evidently part of the complex. Beside the gate, in a grey pillbox, were two Russian guards in uniform, chatting, smoking, looking bored and not paying attention. Behind them, further in, was a stone gatehouse containing a guy in a red jumper who sat at a desk behind a glass screen.
"Bet that's a Brit," I said.
"He's a bit more alert. He'll be controlling the electronic gates and the phones."
"Look on the roof," said Rick, 'left-hand corner. There's an infra-red light. They must have good security systems."
We crossed the street towards the gates, where a brass plaque announced that the building was the British Embassy. The discovery made me feel a little better: at least we'd carried out one small but useful research task.
We recrossed the river by the next bridge, watching our rear all the way, and returned to base along the north side of the Kremlin, past the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, where a perpetual gas flame burned out of a horizontal slab, and a cloak made of bronze lay folded over a plinth. We paid our respects and walked on.
Then, only a minute or two away from the hotel, we were nearly caught up in a violent incident. Fifty yards ahead, facing us, a single car was parked against the kerb. Suddenly a grey van hurtled past us from behind. Tyres screeched as it scorched to a halt inches in front of the car, blocking any take-off From the van burst four figures in uniform militiamen, by the look of them. They ran at the car, ripped the doors open and dragged out the driver and passengers.
In seconds the three guys from the car were spreadeagled over their own vehicle, taking heavy punishment from batons. Then one of the uniformed men stood back in the road and fired a couple of short bursts from his sub-machine gun, aiming into the air over the river. His purpose seemed to be to scare the shit out of the targets and I wondered where the bullets were landing in this huge city. As if to emphasise what he thought of his victims, another militiaman ran in and swung his boot, delivering a fierce kick to one of the huddled bodies, catching the man in the small of the back, whereupon he sank to the ground with a groan.
My instinct was to back off as fast as possible. Whinger evidently felt the same, and hissed in my ear, "Keep walking!"
This was nothing to do with us, and we definitely didn't want to get involved. So we crossed to the far pavement and kept going.
The last we saw, one of the three had been dragged into the van and driven off, leaving the others slumped in the gutter by their vehicle.
"What the fuck was that all about?" Whinger muttered.
"Were they the cops, or hooligans pretending to be cops?"
"I bet those were some of the guys we're going to have to train," said Rick cheerfully.
The brawl had made me yet more edgy, and f
or the last few hundred yards to the hotel, we speeded up. The approach was thronged by hangers-around, but as far as we could see the crowd didn't include our friend who'd lost his knife. Still, I was relieved when we'd pushed through and were back inside.
By now it was nearly 11:00 p.m." and Whinger spoke for all of us when he said, "Let's get a pint, for Christ's sake."
We'd already spotted a bar on the third floor, so we took the lift up. Whinger stepped out first on to the landing, and he was hardly through the door before I heard him go, "Phworrhh!
Firekin ell!"
"What is it?" I rushed out and instantly saw: leaning against the wall was the most blatant hooker I'd ever set eyes on — fishnet stockings, black leather skirt nine inches long, white blouse open to the navel, blazing scarlet lipstick, hair a dark, coppery colour she was never born with. As we passed within a couple of feet of her she let out a long jet of cigarette smoke through pursed lips and gave us a cool, arrogant stare of appraisal.
"Jesus!" Whinger muttered as we turned along a corridor.
"How was that for an old slag? She could be quite a looker if she wasn't so plastered in make-up."
"Rather you than me, mate," I said.
"Wait a minute, though.
You're not exactly strapped for choice."
The entrance to the bar was ahead of us, at the end of the landing; in front of the doorway lurked three more women, all peroxide blondes, all smoking. We pushed past them into a dark cavern thudding with a disco beat and headed for the bar on our right.
"Pivo, pozhaluista," I said, trying out two of my best words.
"Tn."
"Three beers?" said the barman in good-sounding English.
I nodded, and he pulled three tall glasses of Heineken, the only brand on offer. The beer was OK, but it cost the equivalent of k3 apiece.
As our eyes became accustomed to the dim light, we realised that the whole room was heaving with hookers, all dressed in minimalist kit. Two were dancing with each other under strobe lights on a small circular floor in the centre; the rest were sitting at tables or standing against the walls, gyrating in time with the beat. A quick head-count put the total at sixteen. The three other men present were paying them no attention whatsoever.
Soon it was clear that Rick had spotted someone he fancied. I saw him getting eye contact, and his gaze kept wandering off across the room.
"Bloody hell!" he muttered.
"There's going to be some crack when the rest of the lads get here." Then he said, "Look at that, too."
Above my head and behind me, on a high shelf in the corner, sat a television set. I turned to look at it, and saw a guy, with his bare arse to the camera, humping a woman, going at her hammer and tongs.
When I turned back, the two girls had left the dance floor and their place had been taken by a single, pasty-faced man. The guy, who looked to be in his twenties, was pissed out of his mind. He could still just about stand upright, but he staggered whenever he tried to walk. Lurching, faltering, tripping over his own feet, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings, but at the same time hell-bent on staging a grotesque solo dance.
Only when he started a strip-tease did he become too much for the management. Two security heavies hustled in and took him away.
We had another round of beers, watched the hookers vainly circulating, and then decided to get our heads down. At least, Whinger and I did. Rick said he was staying on for one more round.
"Watch yourself," Whinger told him.
"This place is hopping with Aids."
"How d'you know?"
"I can smell it."
Out in the corridor we were accosted by yet another pair of tarts, one dark, one fair. The blonde came straight for me, stopped a foot away and said, "We go to the bedroom."
It was a statement, not a question. I twisted a smile into position and said, "No thanks. I'm happy."
"I make you more happy." She moved even closer and ran her fingers down my chest.
"It's OK." I gestured towards Whinger.
"I'm with a friend."
"All four go to the bedroom." She pointed at her companion.
The blonde was slim and quite pretty, with a good set of tits on her, but the dark girl was a nightmare, flat chested, and with a complexion like the surface of the moon. I shook my head, pushed past them and made it to the lift.
Safe inside my room so I thought I had a shower and stretched out on the bed to watch CNN news.
The next thing I knew, the phone was ringing. The light and the TV were still on. I looked at my watch: 1:30.
I picked up the receiver.
"Meester Sharp?" It was a woman s voice.
"I think you are lonely."
"Am I hell!" I spluttered.
"Get lost. Valite otsuda!"
I slammed the phone down, switched everything off and lay down again.
Fifteen storeys below, traffic was still surging along Tverskaya. Opposite my window, huge, bright neon advertisements for Panasonic and Technics blazed on the top of another high-rise building. What a place, I thought. What a shit-heap: overrun by commercialism, yet scruflV as hell. Nowhere else in the world had I ever known such unpleasant vibrations: nowhere had I sensed so clearly that if I got into trouble, nobody would help or protect me. When the rest of the team came out, we were going to have to take care.
Back in Hereford Valentina had told us all about babushkas literally grannies the old ladies who do menial jobs like sweeping the streets, shovelling snow and sitting at desks on the landings of big hotels. Sasha had mentioned how they also run little kiosk shops and sell illicit vodka to soldiers.
Whinger and I clocked our first specimen when we went down for breakfast: eighteen stone if she was a pound, with eyes set too close together in a huge pudding of a face, and a stack of violet-tinted grey hair piled six or eight inches above her head.
On the wall behind her was a notice half in English, half Russian: CONTINENTAL ZAVTRAK: 50 ROUBLES, and the babushka's function was to intercept people on their way to the dining room and take the number of their room, so that she could make sure no one sneaked in twice or let somebody else in on their ticket.
Breakfast was self-service: rolls, bread, butter, jam, cheese and so on. There were sachets of instant coffee, tea-bags and a big samovar of boiling water with a tap that spat on your fingers when you turned it. We helped ourselves and went to sit at a table in the outer room. The little packets of butter were Finnish, the redcurrantjam German; the local bread was dry and papery, and the cheese, presumably home-made too, tasted of nothing.
But I wasn't in critical mood. I'd slept pretty well, it was a fine morning, and I was looking forward to seeing the camp.
Whinger was also in good nick. He too had had a midnight call, but he'd sensibly seen it off Then in came Rick, face pale, T-shirt on back-to-front.
"Rough night? What time did you hit the pit?"
"Dunno," he mumbled.
"Had a couple more drinks."
"Don't try bullshitting us," I warned.
"I know what you were hanging around for."
He leered.
"Don't tell me you… Bloody hell! Which one was it?"
"That little blonde in the corner." He blushed scarlet, then said, "Wait a minute."
He put two sachets of sugar into his black tea and got a couple of mouthfuls down him. Then he said, "Natasha, she's called."
Whinger went, "You bastard! How much did she take you for?"
"Nothing."
'What? Come on.
"Honest. She wants help."
"I should think she bloody well does after you've been through her a few times."
"It's not that. It's her sister."
Whinger and I looked at each other. Then Rick began to explain.
Natasha's home was in Rostov-on-Don, a thousand miles south of Moscow, he said. She was eighteen, a student, and supposed to be starting her autumn term at university. But like hundreds of other provincial girls she'd d
one a runner and come to the capital to earn some money and make a better life for herself. And along with all the rest, she'd fallen into the clutches of the Mafia.
"The point is, she's shit-scared," Rick went on.
"They all are.
They have to hand over half their earnings. If they don't pay, they're liable to have their faces carved up."
"Is that what's happened to the sister?"
"Not yet. But she's deep in it. Irma, she's called. She went to New York on the job, with a friend, but both of them got caught up in a money-laundering racket run by the Mafia. Apparently it's got a hold on the States like a tick in a dog's arse."
"So what was this slag doing?" Whinger asked.
"Something in a restaurant. There's drug money pouring through: she has to bank it and make out phoney bills for meals that nobody's eaten. Last week the friend got murdered, and now Irma thinks she's for it too."
"And what is the great, all-shagging, all-conquering hero supposed to do about it?" Whinger shot a steely look across the table.
Rick scrubbed his eyes.
"Natasha wants me to rescue her sister."
"Fucking roll on!" Whinger cried in alarm, so loud that a Japanese couple at the next table jumped in their seats.
"Who does she think you are?"
"Part of a film company. Don't worry I stuck to the cover.
It's just that, because I'm a Brit and have dollars, she thinks I can whip across to America, sort the Mafia and bring her little sister safely home."
"What did you tell her?" I pushed back my chair.
"How did you get rid of her?"
"I haven't yet. She's still there."
"Where?"
"In the bed."
"Bloody hell! For Christ's sake, Rick she's nothing but a whore. Otherwise she wouldn't be in a dump like this."
"No, no," he protested.
"She's a really nice kid."
"What did she do to you?" Whinger asked sarcastically.
"She emptied your head as well as your balls."
Sasha was in the foyer at 8:30, still in civilian clothes, evidently not wanting to show any military presence in the hotel. Leaving the others, I got up, greeted him and walked him over into the area near the ground-floor bar, where a few tables and chairs were so widely scattered round the large atrium that I felt sure they couldn't be covered by microphones.