Arkhangel : A Novel (2020)

  ‘The guy on the left,’ I asked, ‘who is he?’

  ‘Stein. Amos Stein. Senior lecturer here in applied mathematics.’

  ‘Israeli?’

  ‘Of course. His father survived the Shoah. He’s been with the faculty since the late seventies.’

  The last – and only – time I’d seen him, his skin was turning black and the back of his head was missing. It was, without doubt, ‘Chappie Connor’ – who was, without doubt, not Chappie Connor. I looked at the date stamp: 20/09/2017 – Rosh Hashanah the year before.

  ‘He is most definitely,’ she concluded, ‘not Irish.’

  I stared at her impassively. It was the first time I’d been debriefed by two different intelligence agencies for the assassination of a target I hadn’t killed.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ I said. ‘I shot him, but I didn’t kill him. He was already dead.’

  ‘And why did you do that?’

  ‘Because I was ordered to.’

  The woman reached out and retrieved the cell phone from me.

  ‘Who gave the order?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, lowering my voice, ‘write this down.’ She picked up the phone, poised to take dictation. ‘Mike-India-Charlie-Kilo-Echo-Yankee, uh, Mike-Oscar-Uniform-Sierra-Echo.’

  She put the phone down again. ‘Tell me,’ she sighed, ‘was that the same rat who ordered you to shoot Jacob Levy?’

  ‘Ah, you see, that’s the problem with rats,’ I said. ‘I don’t like them. But I don’t want to fuck them, either.’

  She was still angling for the connection between the hit in the cottage and Doc’s murder. ‘But you did kill him,’ she continued. ‘Ken?’

  I kept my mouth shut. Connecting me to Doc’s death was pure speculation on her behalf. It had worked, too. There I was, after all. But as for why I was there? They weren’t getting that for free. They couldn’t know how I knew Rachel, and I wanted to keep it that way. I didn’t know how Talia was getting her information. Maybe the Shabak had a tap on Lukov’s phone. Maybe he’d sold her our conversation. Whatever the case, Talia had eased my conscience. According to her account, Rachel went missing before Doc Levy had been killed. His death hadn’t put her at risk; unwittingly or not she might have endangered him.

  ‘And the note?’ Talia asked, breaking the silence. ‘The hundred-dollar bill?’

  ‘It’s in a safe place,’ I said. By which I meant that it was folded up in my jeans.

  ‘We offer a very good rate against the shekel.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  She crushed out her half-smoked cigarette and nudged the heavy white plastic bag an inch closer to me. I took the pistol out. It was a compact SIG M11-A1 with customized polymer grips and a fifteen-round magazine – a military version of the P229 I carried out of preference. Ezra had briefed her well. I eased the slide back a fraction. The chamber was clear. I dropped the clip: 9mm NATO ball.

  ‘Take these, too,’ she said, pushing the cigarettes towards me. ‘I quit.’

  I stuck the handgun in my belt, stuffed the Marlboros and matches into my pocket.

  ‘How will I find you?’ I asked. ‘If I feel like ratfucking.’

  ‘Look in the phone book,’ she said. ‘You’ll find us under S.’ I made to leave. ‘Oh, one more thing, before you go. A word of advice, if I may?’

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  ‘In this country, “following orders” is considered poor justification for murder.’

  22

  ‘Goldstar, please. Unfiltered.’

  The barman nodded and tipped a frosted glass beneath a tap set high above the counter. I sat on the bar stool and stared at my hands. If it was true that you were only ever as good as your last job, I was screwed. I rolled my shoulders and stretched my thigh. The bullet wounds weren’t improving. At least the bar was halfway decent – for a hotel joint, anyway. A gentle breeze was blowing. One of the three pairs of French windows leading to a decked terrace that overlooked the sea had been left open. Waiters serving guests who wanted to smoke traipsed in and out. Sodium-lit clouds peppered the sky beyond the glass. My bedroom window had the same view, one floor higher up.

  I closed my eyes and tried to bring Rachel’s face into focus, but all I could see was the half-smile of the Shabak agent. When I opened them again the glass of beer sat perspiring in front of me. I ran my index finger from the rim to the foot and then gripped it, gulping it down in one long draft.

  Going up against the GRU was not good news. As far as intelligence agencies went, it was the envy of the Western world – blessed with an exceptional degree of autonomy and unquestioned, unbudgeted financing – but with this caveat: so powerful was it that not even the Russian president himself could ever really be sure if it prospered owing to his magnanimity, or he to its mercy.

  So far it seemed that Avilov had tried hard not to kill me. I couldn’t count on that continuing. GRU operatives were masters of applying extreme, targeted violence in order to achieve their aims – even at their own personal cost. I wasn’t unknown to them, either. Our paths had crossed on countless jobs in the past. So far I’d come off on top. And I wasn’t keen on a grudge match.

  ‘So what the fuck,’ I said to myself out loud, after sucking the foam off my upper lip, ‘are you going to do now?’

  ‘Buy me a drink?’ came the reply from directly behind me.

  I froze.

  It’s not possible.

  I turned slowly on the stool, right hand drifting behind my back towards the SIG as I did so. But apparently it was all too possible. Standing before me was the irrepressible turbaned bundle of misplaced enthusiasm that was Bhavneet Singh. I had to give it to him, I had not seen that coming.

  ‘Baaz,’ I asked him, half-laughing despite myself, ‘what are you doing here?’ He smiled broadly. I was lost for words for a moment. ‘How are you even here?’

  ‘I caught a plane from Charles de Gaulle after you left. EasyJet. Simple, really.’

  ‘You followed me? Here? From Paris?’

  ‘Of course. We’re partners, right?’

  ‘Yeah. No. But … we’ve been through this. In detail.’

  There was a duffel bag at his feet and his skin had the sheen of someone sweating out the grease of a cheap airline meal. He must have just arrived from the airport. I rubbed my face and smelled the alcohol on my breath. I regretted the beer and immediately wanted another.

  ‘But I mean here,’ I repeated. ‘Right here. How did you find me?’

  ‘Talia,’ he said. ‘At the airport.’

  It was unlikely that the operator who’d intercepted me at Rachel’s office had also met Baaz at Ben Gurion – the times must almost certainly have overlapped. Either the Shabak had a better sense of humour than it was credited with, or that was how all its female agents introduced themselves.

  ‘OK, well for God’s sake sit down; we look like a right pair.’ He drew up the bar stool next to me. ‘Actually, no,’ I said, changing my mind. ‘Let’s go outside.’ And then to the barman: ‘Another one of those please, and one for my friend here.’

  ‘Tea, please,’ Baaz corrected me. ‘I don’t drink.’

  I raised my eyebrows at the barman in mock-exasperation and he smiled back, offering to bring the drinks to our table.

  ‘And a Johnnie Walker Black, too,’ I added. ‘Actually, make it a double. Straight up.’

  Outside, we settled into the linen-covered cushions that padded out the wooden patio furniture. Tel Aviv glimmered on either side of us – but dead ahead only sea and sky stretched to the horizon. Ships’ lights swayed on the black tide. Above, inbound aircraft slipped blinking between glowing clouds. The marina south of the hotel was full of boats but empty of people.

  ‘So,’ I asked. ‘Who is Talia?’

  ‘I don’t know, but she was hot,’ he said so ingenuously that it was hard not to take him at face value. ‘She was waiting for me at immigration,’ he added. ‘It was awesome. I didn’t have to wait in line or anything.
She just took my passport and waved me through. She even got me a taxi.’

  ‘A taxi?’

  ‘A really nice one, with leather seats and blacked-out windows.’

  ‘I see. And the, uh, taxi driver brought you here?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t even have to pay.’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Was that,’ he leaned in closer, ‘all part of, you know, government work?’

  Was it possible for anyone to be so brilliant and so stupid? Every alarm bell that nearly three decades of experience had hardwired into me was going off simultaneously. And yet here he was, clever, infuriating and – for all I could gauge – entirely genuine.

  ‘We’re just friends on holiday, OK?’ I cautioned him.

  He nodded. I looked around. The other guests looked like tourists and travellers. No self-respecting Israeli sits outside in January. A gay couple perched on the other side of the pool, talking discreetly over dinner. Two women shared a bottle of wine and a plate of mezze three tables to our left. A lone smoker sat by the railing, staring out to sea. He was clothed in an ill-fitting business suit and an air of regret. None of them looked like professional killers. But then we never do. And short of pulling the SIG on them, I was unlikely to find out if one, none or all of them worked for the Shabak, or whomever the two Talias took orders from – or guarded against.

  The waiter put our drinks and a bowl of French fries glistening with salt flakes on the table between us. I turned back to Baaz.

  ‘And if this Talia hadn’t found you, how were you going to find me?’

  ‘At the university,’ he said. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. And then, raising my glass to him: ‘Well, sláinte. Here’s to you.’

  ‘Khush rho,’ he replied in Punjabi. ‘Stay happy.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘I’ll drink to that.’ I downed the whisky and breathed out hard. ‘So, Baaz …’ He looked at me, wide-eyed, expectant. ‘Partners work as a team. They look out for each other. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And we talked about this, about you coming here. And you agreed not to. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, what changed?’ I took a long swallow of beer. ‘I need to understand this, Baaz, because I won’t be able to protect you at all if you don’t do as we agree.’ He nodded again. ‘And I am thankful,’ I said quickly, ‘for the money. I couldn’t have done this – got here, I mean – without you. But …’ The situation was so preposterous I didn’t even know what to say. I took another long hit on the Goldstar.

  ‘But you’re scared I’m going to mess things up?’

  ‘Yes. No. Fuck it, Baaz! I’m scared you’re going to get killed. Or worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ He laughed and drummed his fingers in the air, plugging away at his invisible keyboard. ‘There can’t be anything worse than being killed.’

  I gave him a hard stare.

  ‘You have a family. You might not like them very much at the moment, but they’re as much at risk as you are. How would you like to open the mail and find your auntie’s head in a box? Or your little sister’s fingers?’ He looked away, ashamed. I pressed the point home. ‘Baaz, I have no idea who is fucking with me – with us – or why, exactly. But trust me, of all the options on the table, you should be praying to your God to get you as far away from me as possible, not booking a one-way ticket to hell on bloody easyJet.’ His hands were shaking. He looked resolutely at the table. ‘OK, I’m sorry. That was harsh.’ I didn’t want to lie to him, but there was no other choice. I couldn’t protect him from the Russians any more than I could protect him from myself. By following me, he’d given me an unenviable choice. ‘We’ll work it out. Don’t worry. It’ll be OK,’ I lied. ‘But you need to start doing as I say, as we agreed. As partners. All right?’ I bent my head low and to the side, forcing him to look at me. ‘Baaz?’

  ‘OK,’ he replied after a pause. ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Cool, now drink up. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’ He brightened up at the thought of going on some damned fool mission and took a sip of the tea. ‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘I’ll order you dinner on room service.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘You’re paying, anyway.’

  Zero two hundred. It had been five hours since I’d said goodnight to Baaz. Before going upstairs to sleep, I’d made sure he was checked into the room next to mine, at the very end of the corridor. There was only the roof above us; below his room were the kitchen and the corridor to the bar. There was no sign of anyone occupying the rooms opposite. January was not the most popular month to visit Israel.

  I sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off, and listened. Outside, from the beach below, the gentle rasp of surf on sand and, when the wind picked up, a faint pinging of halyards against masts in the marina. The TV set in the other room next to mine had died down after midnight. And from Baaz’s room there was only silence. I concentrated on my breathing and cleared my mind.

  There was only one thing to do.

  I stood up and dressed fully and gathered up what few possessions I had. I tucked the SIG into the back of my jeans. Lightfoot, I stepped out into the hallway. Everything was still. No cameras. No staff except for the night porter downstairs. I slipped the spare key-card into the port on Baaz’s door. The lock whirred and the LED shone green above the handle. I swung myself around the frame as quickly and quietly as I could, leaking as little light into his room as possible.

  My eyes adjusted to the gloom. The windows were tight shut, the air rank with fried food and sweaty feet. Baaz had fallen asleep clutching his laptop. White light from the screen saver illuminated his face. Stretched out on his back, mouth open, snoring softly, he lay surrounded by sheets of hand-scrawled notes and strings of numbers. His hair was unfurled, masses of it, spilling over the pillow and keyboard. Next to him, on the bedside table, the remains of a half-eaten veggie burger. I stepped closer. He looked like a child.

  Max, I thought, he is a child.

  I drew the SIG carefully and cocked the hammer. I’d rather have had a .380. I’d rather not have to do it at all. I don’t like the act of killing. And no professional likes collateral damage. But Baaz had made himself a player. And, I told myself, in comparison to what the Russians would do to him when – not if – they caught up with him, a bullet now would be a mercy. What I’d said about his auntie was harsh, but it was true. I was a single, isolated target. He was the node in a network of innocents. Anyone prepared to kill Lukov for that hundred-dollar bill wouldn’t hesitate to wipe out Baaz’s entire family if they thought it would get them closer to what they wanted.

  I stood at Baaz’s feet and lined the front sight up on the space between the tip of his chin and his Adam’s apple. The shot would vaporize his cerebellum and sever his spinal cord. Instant. Painless. The mattress and the thickly furnished room would absorb most of the noise. If anyone heard anything, it would be as unremarkable as a distant slammed door. By turning up in Tel Aviv, Baaz had ensured that I’d be unable to operate freely – and, consequently, Rachel would remain beyond help.

  But it was more than that. For days I’d wondered if Baaz was really all he seemed. From the expert way he navigated the catacombs to the casual way he’d rocked up in Israel: naive, maybe; intelligence agent, possibly; inconvenience – definitely. Because I’d needed him, I hadn’t interrogated him. A bullet to the brain would end the speculation. Permanently.

  The Israelis would do nothing. A clean hit, no witnesses, their weapon. They knew I had the note, and needed me alive. The crook of my finger rested on the trigger. People who got in the way, people who didn’t get out of the way: any operator too squeamish to tidy up was not long for this world.

  But this wasn’t a job. It was an obsession.

  I heard my mother’s voice then, a distorted hum at the back of my head, asking me exactly what I thought I had become.

  Baaz stirred and mut
tered something in Punjabi. I kept very still and he started snoring again. It was justifiable; I could justify it. In the morning I knew I could look in the mirror and still see Max and not a monster.

  Baaz slumbered on, four and a half pounds of pressure from the grave. I raised my left hand, palm out, behind the pistol to shield my eyes from any blood or bone blown back towards my face.

  I felt the pressure of the trigger and looked aside.

  Goddamn it, Max. Just do it.

  On the bed beside him I saw the numbers he’d been writing out, over and over again. It was the same number – reversed, multiplied, factored, divided against itself. Rows and rows of tiny scrawled digits. Perhaps a hundred or more times he had returned to the same eight-digit number. My finger crept on the steel. I focused on the number.

  The number. I knew that number. I’d been staring at it for days. Staring through it.

  Fuck.

  I dropped my palm and picked up one of the sheets of paper. I turned it over. On the reverse he’d written, simply, Arkhangel!

  I switched the SIG to my left hand and worried the hundred-dollar bill out of my ticket pocket. I unfolded it one-handed, peering into the folds in the weak light afforded by the computer screen. I studied the serial number and Baaz’s spidery digits. They matched exactly. Baaz had written it out with compulsive accuracy, working it into a series of equations and computations that I didn’t even begin to understand. What I did know immediately, though, was that if I pulled the trigger I probably never would. I put the bill back in my pocket, thumbed the decocking lever on the 9mm and tucked it into my jeans.

  And then I put my hand on Baaz’s shoulder and rocked him gently back into the land of the living.