His world revolved around percentages, but his business was built on trust – and favours. Two years ago I’d saved him from a Chechen hit squad on his own doorstep and he’d been resentful ever since: he owed me, big time. He dug his left hand into his pocket and tossed a crumpled fifty-euro note on the table.
‘For you, Max McLean,’ he snorted, ‘and only for you, my friend, Sergei will wash your C-note at fifty cents on the dollar.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Buyer’s market! Super!’
‘Yeah,’ I smiled. ‘Incredible. Really incredible. You know why?’
‘No, my friend. Sergei absolutely promises you he does not know why.’ He was still laughing. Tears formed at the edge of his eyes and moistened his cheeks. ‘Tell me, please.’
‘Because …’ I paused and reminded myself to be patient with him, tempting though it was to throttle him. ‘Because this isn’t a hundred-dollar bill.’
‘Ah, really, Max McLean, what is it then?’ His smile was slipping again.
‘It’s a death warrant.’
Lukov stubbed out his cigarette and dried his eyes and poured two more glasses of rakia. He lifted his high, and then with great and sudden solemnity proposed a toast.
‘To death.’ We clinked glasses again and swallowed the grape distillate. ‘But whose?’
‘Mine, nearly,’ I said truthfully. ‘The Brits want the bill, and so do the Russians. And they aren’t choosy about how they get it.’
‘My friend, there are a hundred and forty million Russians. Sergei knows. He’s met all of them.’ He licked the last of the rakia from the rim of his glass and lit another Gauloise. ‘Which Russian?’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘OK. And the British, they are trying to kill you, too? For this?’ Lukov rarely asked questions to which he didn’t already have the answer. His interrogations were intended to corroborate what he already thought he knew.
I shrugged. He shook his head.
‘But … why?’ He sounded genuinely, uncharacteristically confused.
‘I don’t know, Sergei. Truly. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the note. Maybe it was the hit.’ There isn’t one damned straight line in any of this, I thought to myself, and I wasn’t about to lay out everything I knew for Sergei Lukov. ‘The last week has been, uh, unpleasant. The note, that note, is the only thing that links a series of very unfortunate events.’ I picked up the cigarette and drew on it again. ‘That note, and me.’
‘So …’ He picked his words carefully. ‘The golden boy of MI6 is here to see Sergei, how shall we say, in a personal capacity?’ I nodded again, and pushed the note towards him. He laughed and picked up the bill, turning it over in his hands – and flinched. Not even Lukov could mask his surprise at seeing the single Russian word scrawled across the back of the note. ‘Ebah mu maikata,’ he swore. ‘What is this?’
He held the note up so I could see what I already knew was written on it.
‘It’s what makes it personal,’ I said.
‘What, Max McLean is on the side of the angels now?’
I smiled at that.
‘Maybe. Maybe not. You’ve seen the photo?’ I asked him. ‘In the press?’ Lukov choked on his cigarette smoke and held his hands up – Gauloise in one, hundred-dollar bill in the other – as if to say, Of course. ‘So? What do you hear?’
Lukov dropped his hands and his expression and pushed the note back across the table towards me.
‘Sergei hears,’ he said, ‘that you tried to do the Russians a favour.’
‘How so?’
‘By completing their contract for them.’ He stubbed his cigarette out. ‘But he also hears they lost something very valuable in the process.’ He pointed to the hundred-dollar bill on the table. ‘Maybe that is half the mystery solved, nali?’
‘Their contract? I don’t understand.’
‘Max McLean,’ he said, pausing to drag hard on his cigarette, ‘are you just talking or are you buying now, too?’
‘Buying. Fifteen per cent on the note.’
‘Twenty.’
‘Fuck.’ I rubbed my face. ‘OK. Twenty. Which contract?’
‘The old man.’
‘What old man, exactly?’ I said, choosing my words carefully.
‘The old man in the, uh, v kashtata?’ He fished for the right words in English. ‘In the cottage?’
‘Got it,’ I said, though I hadn’t. ‘The Russians and the Brits both wanted Chappie Connor dead?’
Connor hadn’t been named in the newspaper reports. Throwing it at Lukov was like trying to land a spotting round on a fire mission when you couldn’t see the target. Sometimes you overshoot. Sometimes you get lucky.
‘Chappie Connor?’ Lukov spluttered. ‘That piece of shit?’
‘Uh-huh.’
It was always amusing when Lukov thought someone else was deplorable. The Lord only knew what he thought other people said about him. He pressed his lips together into a tight smile and nodded, processing the information.
‘Connor worked for the Russians. No question. But he worked for the British, too.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Simple. Like I said. He worked for the British.’
‘When?’
‘When he was in the Irish Republican Army.’
‘And how would you …?’ Then the veil lifted. ‘Because you brokered his defection. You sold him back to the Russians.’ I looked at the note, and the empty glass of rakia, and into Lukov’s beady black eyes. ‘Wow.’ Lukov finished his cigarette. ‘And when he, uh, died, who was he working for then?’ I asked.
‘My friend,’ he said patiently, ‘now only the angels know who Chappie Connor really worked for, and when he worked for them.’ I could do nothing but accept the infuriating truth of that. ‘Sergei,’ he continued, ‘is not an angel.’
‘You got that right.’
‘But Sergei does know that the man you were sent to kill was not Chappie Connor.’
‘How so?’ It was uncomfortable being perplexed in his presence. He cocked his head to one side and grinned widely, relishing my ignorance.
‘OK. But first, Sergei has a question for you.’ His nose twitched and he fiddled with the cigarette packet. ‘When did Chappie Connor die?’
‘You know that,’ I said, wondering if in fact he did know that Connor had been dead at least a week before I got to him. There was every reason not to tell him anything; but once bargaining began, it was difficult not to tell him everything.
‘Da,’ Lukov agreed. ‘I do. But does Max McLean? Sergei Lukov doesn’t think he does.’
‘Sergei Lukov,’ I replied, ‘is very close to pissing me off.’ I caught hold of my temper and smiled again. ‘All right. You can have this for your twenty per cent. Connor was already dead when I got to the cottage. So, if there was another contract on him, they got there first.’
‘That,’ said Lukov, ‘is correct.’ He plucked another Gauloise from the packet and lit it carefully. ‘Chappie Connor was already dead. Da. Bravo. He was killed by the KGB.’
‘The FSB, Sergei.’ It was hard not to laugh at his slip-up. ‘The Cold War is long gone, my friend.’
‘Not in 1988 it wasn’t.’ His face was set, serious. Lukov wasn’t joking.
‘What, exactly,’ I asked him carefully, ‘do you mean?’
‘Sergei means,’ he said, ‘exactly what Sergei has said.’
‘That Chappie Connor was killed thirty years ago? By the KGB? That’s what you’re telling me?’
‘Da. That is what Sergei is telling you.’
‘And how would you know that?’
My mind raced. It didn’t matter that Lukov had brokered his defection. Connor would have been given a new identity, a new life, a fireproof exit into the new Russia emerging in the thaw of Glasnost.
‘He was hit by a truck. In Sofia,’ he said with evident pride, patting his chest with his free hand. ‘Sergei’s home town. The driver of the truck,’ he continued, ‘was Sergei’s priyatel.’
�
�Careless driver, your friend.’
‘That is the only problem with Bulgarians. They are very bad drivers. Very bad indeed.’ I felt a line of sweat break across my back. My mouth went dry. ‘Sergei has a better question for you. There are sixty million British. Which one ordered the hit? That is the real question, nali?’
‘Yes, Sergei. That is the question.’
‘And what is the answer?’
‘Are you buying now, too?’
‘Da.’ He scratched his head. ‘Why not?’
‘Ten per cent on the note.’ I smiled. Lukov sighed and raised his eyebrows.
‘Fifteen?’ he countered.
‘Done. King. General King. Director Special Forces. Off the books, of course.’
Lying to Lukov was a hard card to play. His face remained expressionless. Not even a flicker.
‘Of course.’
‘Though whether he knew it was Chappie Connor, I have no idea.’
‘And now you are in shit?’
‘No offence, but I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’
‘Da. OK. That is the truth. So … You are sure you want to do this?’
‘Yeah. Sure. Just put the note on the market. See who bites.’
Lukov dragged on the Gauloise and blew his smile away for good with the smoke.
‘Let me be very clear with you. Sergei is a broker. He makes sales. And the way he makes them is to guarantee them. You put that note on the market, then you sell it. It’s merchandise, not bait. Sergei does not do your reconnaissance for you. You know the rules. If you want to sell, then you guarantee the sale, so I can.’ He dragged on the cigarette. The moment he stopped calling himself ‘Sergei’, I knew he was serious. ‘And what, Max McLean, do you have for collateral?’
I showed him my empty hands again and pulled the left-hand side of my overcoat away from my chest. With my right thumb and forefinger I produced Doctor David Mann’s passport from my inside pocket and dropped it on the table in front of him.
‘Me,’ I said. ‘I’m your collateral.’
Lukov picked up the passport. I picked up the hundred-dollar bill and put it back in my pocket.
‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘It’s not your cover. Who is David Peter Mann?’
‘A sap,’ I said. ‘It’s stolen and it’s how I got here. Like I said, the job was off the books. And like you said, I’m in deep shit. Whoever pays the most gets the note. If you give them this, they’ll believe you, believe it’s really me selling.’
‘And the note? I can keep it?’
‘I like you, Sergei. But I don’t want to fuck you. So don’t try to fuck me. I keep the note. You keep the passport.’
‘OK.’ He slipped Doctor Mann’s identity into his back pocket. ‘And the price?’
‘Five million.’
‘Dollars?’
‘Pounds.’
He inhaled sharply across his teeth.
‘That is a very expensive hunch, Max McLean. It will make them take notice. Of that we can be sure. You want it in crypto, da?’
‘Yes. It has to be anonymous.’
‘Sergei will drink to anonymous.’ He filled the glasses for a third time. But I stopped him before he drank.
‘One more thing.’ His eyes narrowed and he nodded. ‘When this blows up, I’ll need a way out.’
I dipped my hand back into my coat pocket and put the strip of instant photos I’d had taken earlier that morning at the Gare du Nord on the table between us.
‘A passport?’
‘Yeah. Canadian.’
‘Canadian will take one week. Greek, Sergei can have tomorrow.’
‘Yamas,’ I toasted him in Greek.
Lukov raised his glass, too. ‘Yamas,’ he replied. ‘Finally those Hellenic sons-of-bitches are good for something.’ We drank down the rakia and both stood up. He extended his hand, and I took and shook it. ‘Noon, tomorrow. There’s a bar in the onzième. La Fée Verte.’ He winked at me. ‘The waitress there. Sochni dini.’ I shook my head and walked to the door. He pressed my hand again, serious this time, with a wad of folded euros. ‘In case you get hungry. I don’t want my collateral to get damaged.’
I thanked him and he showed me out, carefully, on to the street. A trickle of light crept into the courtyard through the open door. My temples felt tight from the alcohol and the intel.
‘You know, Max McLean,’ he said as I pulled up the collar of my overcoat, ‘you Irish have the same problem as us Bulgarians.’
‘Oh yeah,’ I said, ‘what’s that?’
‘Nobody ever knows which side we’re on.’
12
Goddamned Lukov. He was either an idiot or a genius.
La Fée Verte – an absinthe joint north-east of the city centre on the corner of Rue de la Roquette and Rue Basfroi – had about as much cover as a greenhouse. Along each street tall wooden-framed French windows, shut against the cold, stretched the full length of the building. Shooting fish in a barrel would, by comparison, have been challenging. Outside, a couple of smokers sat at one of the small tables heated from above by electric burners. Inside, it was already buzzing with brunch customers. Blending in as a solo diner is an unenviable task. There was no immediate sign of the fabled barmaid through the windows, which remained worryingly clear. And there was no sign of Lukov, either.
I resisted the temptation to circle the block and instead made for the bakery on the corner opposite. The entrance was set well back under the overhang of the first floor, shielded from the street by a masonry pier. I bought a croissant and loitered plausibly in the doorway while I ate it.
After leaving Lukov’s cell the day before, I’d ditched the tan overcoat and bought a decent black waterproof jacket with deep pockets and a down liner, new jeans and hiking boots – plus neoprene gloves, a sweater and a baseball cap. I’d reupped on painkillers, too. And a toothbrush. Man cannot live by Gore-Tex alone. In my jacket pocket: one hundred millilitres of legal pepper spray and a Pozidriv screwdriver with a six-inch shank. Knives were illegal to carry, and if I got stopped and searched I needed to be as clean as possible: a screwdriver would be easier to explain away than a blade, and would stab and throw just as well. On my wrist: the cheapest waterproof watch I could find. On my mind: nothing except the angles and arcs of fire around La Fée Verte that a sniper might use.
The Senegalese guesthouse I’d stayed in three blocks north of our RV demanded double the rack rate when I asked to pay cash with no ID. My shopping spree hadn’t left me with enough change to cover that and dinner – but the night porter took pity on me and brought me up a bowl of chere couscous and seasoned meat with tomatoes: ‘Un cadeau de ma femme.’ He brought me a beer – ‘Un cadeau de moi’ – too, and told me just to open the window if I wanted to smoke in the room – which I did.
Twelve fifteen.
Lukov was late. While I tried to work out where he was watching me from, a motorcycle cop pulled up. He killed the engine and dismounted, nodding at me as he flicked his visor up and moved past me into the bakery. Six-two, a hundred and eighty-five pounds. He wore the two-tone blue uniform of the gendarmerie, combat boots and a Glock pistol on his hip. I nodded back, waited a beat, and moved out across the road to the bar. The junction was ringed with six-storey buildings, mostly apartment blocks, all covered with dozens of windows. The crossroads could have been circled with snipers, but I was out of options. I breathed steadily as the grey pavement gave way to the white and green tiled floor of the bar. No shot rang out. The door creaked closed behind.
Safe.
I looked around and drew up a bar stool at the centre-sweep of the curved counter. At the far end the barmaid emerged from a narrow doorway that I guessed led to the kitchen. Lukov had been right about one thing: she was quite a creature – all teeth and tits and blonde tresses. I ordered a whisky.
‘Tu bois pas l’absinthe?’
I asked her if, frankly speaking, I looked like Ernest Hemingway.
‘Franchement?’ she laughed. ‘Non.’
It was busy, but not loud, as plates of food found their way to the brunch crowd. A solid murmur of conversation and the click-clack of cutlery on plates and no recorded music. Couples sat by the windows, looking on to Rue de la Roquette. A solitary drinker nursed a beer at the end of the bar near the door to the kitchen – out of which a teenager in cook’s whites – whom I took to be the plongeur – stuck his head out to see how many covers he might be washing up. He made a wisecrack as the barmaid bent over behind the bar and she caught him on the ear with a drying-up cloth as she straightened, sending him whooping back through the narrow doorway. A group of men in body warmers and maroon and mustard trousers – Italians or Spaniards by the look of them – rocked up outside the glazed main door, finishing their cigarettes before diving in for lunch.
I lifted a newspaper pinned by its spine to a wooden baton hanging from a hook under the bar. When I looked up, Lukov was sitting next to me, grinning.
‘You see?’ he said, directing his pitch-black stare at the bosomy beauty behind the bar. ‘Incredible.’
‘You’re late.’
‘And you,’ he said, reaching into his coat pocket, ‘are a free man.’ He slipped me the Greek passport. I covered it with the newspaper and thumbed the pages. It was masterful: worn, but not battered; old, but well within date; clean, but with holiday stamps.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’
I looked at the photo page. He’d taken two years off me, too. Maximilianos Ioannides was born in 1977.
Arkhangel : A Novel (2020) Page 10