by Chris Ryan
Late as it was, the lads were far too hyped up by the success of the operation to feel sleepy. As we had sat round the kitchen table with a brew, Pavarotti had croaked, "What the fuck have we done?" perhaps partly in amazement because we'd managed it, partly in alarm at the possible consequences.
"That's put the frighteners on the bastards, anyway."
"Not yet it hasn't," I'd corrected.
"It may do at some time in the future, but they don't know about it yet."
"If that thing went off now," Johnny had said, 'what effect would it have on us here?" "Ask Toad."
Toad, as usual, was hovering at a distance from the rest of us.
"Eh, Toad!" Pay had shouted.
"Would Apple do for us here, now, if it went off?"
"Not immediately," he'd replied.
"We'd hear it, of course. We'd feel the shock-wave. But the big danger would be the radiation."
"How long would that take to get here?"
"Depends on the wind. An hour?"
"Would we feel anything from it?"
"Not until it was too late."
"Firkin ell!" went Whinger.
"Duty, old boy. Must do your duty." Rick could take off the CO to perfection.
We'd gone on shooting the shit till nearly 3:00, so it wasn't surprising that morning found us a bit jaded.
What brought me to my senses was an encrypted message that came in while we were having breakfast. Decoded, it read simply: WEST END CONFIRMS APPLE PIE ORDER. West End was Washington, and the rest was obvious. The Pentagon must have put out a test transmission and made contact with the SCR.
"Can you believe it?" I said to Rick.
"They're talking to the fucking thing, as if we'd buried a person there."
"I hope they're being polite to it," he said.
The fact that Apple was up and running gave me a jolt. I suppose I'd been subconsciously hoping that somewhere along the line the system would fail, and that, through no fault of our own, the satellite would be unable to make contact with the bomb. In that happy event we'd be absolved from responsibility.
Speculation was cut off when Anna appeared at our back door proffering a small package.
"I brought you a present," she began.
"Great! Come in. Have a cup of coffee. We've got a few minutes."
Perching neatly on a chair in our mess-room, she said, "This is by way of saying thank you for your help the other day."
"Oh, come on. We got a big thank you anyway.
"I know. But this is more important. Your security people in London may like to have it. MI5? Yes MI5."
"That is it, then?"
"Only a computer disk. But it contains full details of the Mafia organisation in London."
"In London?"
"Yes. They've made rapid progress there lately. Drugs, banking, prostitution all the usual things. The London network is spreading fast: links into Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, Rome and other cities. This is a copy of a disk we picked up in the apartment after the raid. It's in Chechen, I'm afraid, but I'm sure your specialists will manage to translate it."
"Is Chechen different from Russian, then?"
"Absolutely." She saw me looking blank, and added, "All educated Chechens speak Russian, of course. But the languages are entirely different."
As she talked, my mind was moving at speed. Another computer disk.
Had this presentation got something to do with our own disk that had been destroyed? Was this supposed to be an apology for that accident?
"Well," I said.
"As you know, that kind of crime isn't really our field.
But I'm sure the guys in London will be grateful. Thank you.
"You're welcome. Please send it with the compliments of the FSB."
"Sure. I'll get it off today. The guys can take it when they go into town on the post run.
A couple of the other lads were present at this informal meeting, but as Anna and I walked out and down the steps of the building she and I were alone for a few moments. Suddenly she said, "I'd like to offer you a more personal thank you as well." She gave me a sideways, come-on look.
"Will you come and have supper?"
The invitation took me by surprise. Until now she'd been so formal and so correct so impersonal, although always friendly that the idea of trying to take her out had almost faded from my mind.
Still less had I imagined that she'd ever invite me. Apart from that brief walk we'd taken one lunchtime we'd never been alone. Now, for a moment, I was stuck for an answer.
"You don't have to come. That wasn't an order!" She gave me that sidelong glance again and burst out laughing. She also started to raise her right hand, and I thought she was going to take me by the arm; but luckily at that moment Mal came running round the corner with a cry of, "Forgot my flaming notes."
Once he'd passed, I looked back at her and said, "Terrific. I'd like that. When were you thinking of?"
"One day next week, maybe? Friday?"
"Fine."
"I'll come and pick you up at seven-thirty. I suggest that to avoid gossip, we say we've been summoned to see the Minister."
In the mean time I was glad to keep our rendezvous with Sasha and his mother. Since he'd asked two of us, Whinger was my obvious choice as No. 2but that afternoon he had developed a filthy sore throat, and by the evening he was more or less speechless. So in his place I nominated Rick, first because of his Russian, second because, if he was with us, I'd know for sure that he wasn't shagging Mafia women.
Sasha came and collected us at 7:00, and for this excursion no subterfuge was necessary, so we went off openly, casually dressed in jeans and sweaters.
At first, Sasha was on a high. He had more information about the victims of the raid on the apartment, and it had emerged that one of the five at the table had been Ruslan Beno, another big player in the Chechen mafia.
"You don't mean Keet?" I asked.
"By no means," Sasha replied quickly.
"This Whale, Keet — I showed you, he was one. His name was Gaidar, one of three brothers, very notoriotous. Beno is also from Grozny, but younger man.
"I know which he was," I said.
"That dark young fellow who got dropped half-way to the door of the living room.
"Yes. That man." Sasha turned to me with a big grin.
"Fantastic creeminals, Chechens. They make fabulous amounts of money. For example the Lazanskaya gang, based on Lazania restaurant, here in Moscow they got enormous riches from stolen cars. They operate very much in Brussels, stealing big cars from diplomats. Then, you know avizo system?"
I shook my head.
"Avizo is promise note. A bank signs it, to say they will pay so much money. The criminal makes forged promise note in one city, gets it signed, takes it to another city and cashes it. Simple!
By such means Chechen avizovshchiki made meellions. No not meellions. Beellions! In early nineties, such kind of Chechen gang got sixty billion roubles."
The idea of Mafiosi making fortunes obviously excited Sasha as much as did the idea of knocking off big-time players, and he talked enthusiastically for most of our short journey. But then, as we drew near his flat, he fell silent. After a couple of minutes he said, "Zheordie you must know. My mother she is very simple woman. Not very educated. Peasant woman.
"That's OK," I said.
"I expect mine was too."
"You don't remember her?"
"I thought I told you. I never knew my parents. I was brought up by my uncle and aunt."
That seemed to ease his mind, and his cheerfulness returned.
"Here is my house," he announced as he pulled up outside a tower block.
"Please, this way.
We walked down an asphalt path between patches of grass, with a few young trees scattered about. Other tall blocks rose all round, at a reasonable distance. In the dark, with only a few lamps glowing here and there, it was difficult to judge the state of the area, but it looked run-down, with litter blown
up against the walls of the buildings.
We entered a cavernous lobby with bare concrete walls, and took the lift to the eighth floor. As we went up slowly, juddering and jerking, I sent Rick a glance that said, "Might try the stairs on the way down."
Sasha stepped out first, sifting through a bunch of keys, and ushered us towards a door one of four on a small, dingy landing. Turning the lock, he led us in.
"Please," he said, 'welcome to my house.~ His apartment was very small. That was my first impression as we stepped straight into the living room, which was cluttered with furniture and lined with shelves. Some held books and magazines, some vinyl albums. In one area Sasha's hi-fi equipment was stacked Teac amplifier and turntable, dating (by the look of them) from the seventies. At the tight-hand end of the room a table was laid for supper: blue-and-white check tablecloth, glasses, knives and forks, but only three place settings Beyond it a doorway gave on to a tiny cubicle of a kitchen, and in the opening stood a little old woman, rather bent, with her silver hair swept back into a bun, and wearing a shapeless dress of dark-blue covered in white polka-dots.
"Here is my mother," said Sasha, following up with a few words of Russian.
Rick, in the lead, did brilliantly, cracking off a "Dobriye ve cher (Good evening) and a couple more Russian phrases.
The broad old face startlingly like Sasha's creased into a smile, and the woman gave a little bob, inclining towards us. As we shook hands, I asked Sasha her name and he said, "She is Lyudmila."
The first few minutes were pretty difficult. Sasha insisted that we sat down, so I perched in an armchair and Rick on a sofa.
Because the flat was extremely warm, I asked what powered the heating. The answer was that all apartment blocks in Moscow are centrally heated that is, not from boiler rooms in individual buildings, but directly from power stations via underground pipes. Sasha said there was always plenty of heat in winter, even when the outside temperature was twenty below zero, but I noticed that there were no controls or thermostats on the old-fashioned radiators.
"How many rooms d'you have?" Rick asked.
"Living room, here. My mother's bedroom. Bathroom.
Kitchen. And balcony."
"Where d'you sleep, then?"
"There where you are!" Sasha laughed and pointed at the sofa Rick was occupying.
"I make bed." He obviously sensed that we found the place rather small, because he added, "For Moscow, this is good apartment. Besides, I am not very much here: always I have been away in army in Africa, in Afghanistan, in Chechnya. Not much time in Moscow."
In spite of his protestations, I felt a pang of guilt at having accepted hospitality in surroundings as humble as these. The idea of living in such cramped quarters eight floors up also brought on a surge of claustrophobia.
Looking round, I realised that there was a huge ginger cat asleep on a shelf above a radiator a welcome diversion.
"What's he called?" I asked.
Back came the answer, "Tigr."
Tiger the cat, Tiger Force. Of course. What other name could he have?
"Isn't it awkward for a cat; living high up like this? I mean how does he go about his business?"
"No problem," Sasha answered airily.
"He has box on balcony.
But two times every day, my mother takes him down in the lift for walk in the park. Also, he is very good hunter."
"What mice?"
"Birds. Here on the balcony. He can go for three flats along.
He is very quick' — a swiping motion with one hand 'he catch many birds."
I had a fleeting, uncomfortable vision of Tigr missing his grip and toppling eight floors to the ground only half the distance that wretched Igor had fallen. Even a cat with nine lives would hardly survive such a drop.
When I turned my head to look farther round, I realised that one wall was dominated by a large sepia portrait photograph, framed in a border of carved wood. I was startled, because the subject looked so familiar.
"Surely that's our old king, George V?" I asked.
"Not English king. Russian king! It is Tsar Nicholas."
"But it looks exactly like George."
"Konechno. These men were cousins. My mother, she is beeg fan of royal family."
"But the Russian royal family's long gone" English royals she likes. Prince Charles she likes very much.
"When Princess Diana was killed she felt vary sad." During our conversation Lyudmila had been bringing dishes of food out of the kitchen and setting them on the table. Now she murmured something to Sasha, who jumped up announcing, "Please! Dinner is ready."
He went to the head of the table, and indicated that we should sit either side of him. But his mother continued to hover in the doorway, and it soon became clear that she didn't intend to join us.
"Isn't your mother going to eat?" I asked "Later. She prefers to serve us. Now, please, we have teepical Russian meal. First, zakuski." He gestured lavishly over the spread of dishes.
"Such kinds of smoked fish, fish eggs, smoked meats, cheeses, cucumbers help yourselves."
I would have felt bad had I not known about the Mafia dollars which had obviously financed this banquet. As it was, I started eating fast, to provide some bedding for the vodka which Sasha kept pouring freely from a litre bottle. The food was delicious, and the vodka made a perfect foil for the sharp, salty, smoky tastes, especially of red fish roe. Whenever one of us paused for breath Sasha exclaimed, "Please, eat! Dreenk!" and waved us on.
"Take it easy," I muttered to Rick.
"I'm sure this is only the start."
Sure enough, the next course was bortsch thick soup, not full of beetroot as it usually is in England, but more subtle, with a meaty stock for background, small slices of various vegetables floating in it, and a good, peppery overall taste. Next came bitochki meat balls in a rich tomato sauce, with mashed potatoes and after that a special cake full of nuts, made by our hostess, with which Sasha served sweet Georgian champagne.
Throughout the feast his mother waited on us with embarrassing anxiety to please, bringing new dishes, removing empty ones, watching us, fussing around, gently urging us: "Yest! Yest! Eat! Eat!" Sasha, though clearly devoted to her, did nothing to help, but ate and drank to keep up with Rick and me.
By the later stages of the meal, the vodka had got to all three of us. Sasha was gabbling away about how his brother, a taxi driver, had made millions of roubles from illegal sales of booze in the period when Gorbachev tried to bring alcoholism under control.
"It was a kind of prahibeetion," he kept saying.
"Everyone was crazy for vodka."
"You mean booze was banned altogether?" said Rick incredulously.
"Not absolutely. But rationed. One half-litre of vodka a week that was all."
"Why, though?"
"Russian people were drinking all day, all night. They were falling down in street, running over by cars. They couldn't work.
Very many died. Alcohol was our national disease."
"And did the prohibition have any effect?"
"Konechno nyet! Black market was immense."
Rick began to converse freely with Lyudmila in Russian. I sat listening, smiling genially at everyone, but my spirits were sinking. Once again guilt was clawing at me.
After many entreaties, we finally persuaded Lyudmila to join us for tea, and she sat at the other end of the table, obviously pleased that we had enjoyed ourselves, but still watching anxiously for any possible deficiency in her arrangements.
Suddenly Sasha raised his glass and shouted, "Your Queen!"
"The Queen!" we echoed, slurping champagne.
"My mother, she say your Queen is beautiful woman.
"Thank you!"
"My mother is big monarchic."
"Monarchist."
"Yes big monarknik. She make beautiful book of royal peoples." He switched into Russian, asking Lyudrnila to fetch her prize tome. With a show of simulated reluctance she got up, opened a drawer and p
roduced a large, cheap scrapbook carefully jacketed in tissue paper, which she laid on the table for our inspection. The pages contained dozens of photographs cut from newspapers and magazines, almost all to do with England, but including a few of Tsar Nicholas II and his family, taken in the last few months of their lives before they were executed by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Towards the end, the cuttings went fast forwards and pride of place inevitably was accorded to Diana, Princess of Wales.
"Such kind of tragedy," Sasha kept saying, repeatedly translating a remark of his mother's.
"I know," I said.
"But she'd become a bit of a loose cannon.
"Excuse me?"
I explained that the phrase was used about people whose actions tended to be unpredictable.
"Yes, yes," said Sasha impatiently.
"But British people loved her. When she died, they came in millions."
Lyudmila had gone off on another tack.
"Something about the Second World War," Rick said.
"Can't quite get it' "Heetler!" cried Sasha.
"My mother would like to say thank you to British and American soldiers for help in beating Nazis.
She thanks you and your fathers. Her father was killed at Stalingrad, famous battle. She does not like Germans. British and American armies very brave."
"I'm glad to hear that," I told them.
"I've read in Communist history books that it was the heroic Soviet army who defeated Fascism single-handed."
"Kommunizm!" shouted Sasha derisively.
"Kommunizm is shit.
My mother does not say that, of course, but it is what she believes. Kommunizm all lies and rubbish." He turned and in Russian loudly sought confirmation from Lyudmila, who nodded and went, "Da, da."
The next thing we knew, Sasha had brought out a bottle of Georgian brandy and was pouring huge slugs. His mother did not touch the spirit.
The conversation became ever wilder, with stories of army brutality.
"You know how they treat prisoners in Russian army? This soldier in Murmansk..
"Murmansk?" yelled Rick.
"Where the f-' He stopped himself just in time and and finished up, "Where's that?"
"In Russian Arctic. Far north from Moscow. Terrible place.