Land of Ghosts Page 4

  Gone native? Tallis baulked. A very different proposition to gone missing.

  ‘It’s possible he’s responsible for a number of high-profile murders in Moscow.’ Asim went on to describe the victims and circumstances of the killings.

  Bloody hell, Tallis thought. If there was even a grain of truth in the allegation, the political consequences could be dire and would require a high degree of fancy diplomatic footwork.

  Asim cleared his throat. ‘We thought you were best suited for the job because the man you’re tracking is an old friend of yours.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Graham Darke.’

  Christ. He hadn’t seen Graham since he was fifteen. They’d met in the last year at primary school in Herefordshire. He remembered a boy with sharp features, small for his age. Bullies made the fatal mistake of assuming Graham’s stature indicated vulnerability. In Tallis’s experience, it was often the short, wiry types who proved the most formidable opponents. Not too many tall and lanky members of the SAS. Graham proved no exception. He turned the tables in spectacular fashion one break-time. In the aftermath, two lads required hospital treatment, although neither could remember how they sustained their injuries. Tallis was the first to congratulate Graham. From that moment, they were firm friends, and went on to secondary education together. They’d also hit it off for another less obvious reason. Both had grandmothers on their mother’s side who were foreign. Graham’s gran was Chechen, Tallis’s Croatian. It was the reason for Tallis’s knowledge of both languages. But that was all a very long time ago. They hadn’t been in contact since Graham abruptly left one night and moved with his old man to another part of the country.

  Tallis glanced at Asim and did a mental recap. Graham Darke: an intelligence officer for the SIS. His mission: to penetrate one of the fundamentalist gangs roving the Chechen mountains and gather intelligence. Success rate: high, yielding good intel. Current status: Darke missing. Suspicion: Darke turned rogue agent. At this, Tallis frowned. Unless Darke had changed inordinately over the years, Tallis thought it unlikely, although was smart enough not to voice his opinion. When talking to Asim it was as well to listen more, speak less.

  ‘I’m guessing Darke’s suitability for the job was due to his Chechen roots,’ Tallis said. Chechens, he remembered, were fiercely nationalistic people. They belonged to teips or clans, the system based more on land than blood. He was buggered if he could remember which teip Graham Darke’s gran belonged to.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that the killings are just the tip of the iceberg?’ Where the hell did this bloke, Christian Fazan, Asim’s contact in the Secret Intelligence Service, get his information?

  ‘Which is why we require you to bring him back. This is no time for split loyalties,’ Asim said in response to Tallis’s sharp intake of breath.

  Fucking cheek. Tallis bridled.

  ‘What I meant,’ Asim said, emollient, ‘is that he’ll be given a fair hearing.’

  Oh, sure, and a lengthy jail sentence, Tallis thought. Or worse, he thought, Darke would be ‘disappeared’.

  ‘He’s not the first agent to feel compromised.’ The slightly smug note in Asim’s voice hinted that he was, nevertheless, glad Darke was not one of his. But there was something else, a note of caution, perhaps? Asim normally conducted all dealings in comfortable, hospitable settings. By adopting this slightly over-the-top approach, was he showing his hand? Was he suggesting that the danger to Tallis was over and above what could normally be expected, and was he unconsciously trying to distance himself from the dirty work in which he was engaged? There was definitely something Asim wasn’t telling him.

  Tallis turned towards him. ‘How much is at stake?’

  Asim kept his eyes fixed ahead. ‘A great deal. Should Darke follow through on his plans, he could help trigger World War Three.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Darke has Andrei Ivanov, the Russian prime minister, in his sights.’

  Jesus! ‘You’re absolutely certain?’ This really didn’t sound like Darke unless he’d lost the plot entirely. Then again, what did he know? He hadn’t clapped eyes on Darke in nearly twenty years. An awful lot could happen to a man in that time—he should know. Being honest, Tallis couldn’t escape the fact that a small silent part of him recognised he might be wrong about his old friend.

  ‘That’s my information,’ Asim said.

  Tallis wondered again about Fazan’s original source but said nothing—it was above his pay grade to ask. Asim was speaking again. ‘You know of nothing in Darke’s background that could indicate his vulnerability?’

  ‘Apart from the obvious fact he has Chechen blood flowing through his veins, which I presume the SIS has already looked into and discounted, no.’ Then another thought struck him. ‘If you’re right,’ Tallis said, ‘what the hell makes you think Darke’s going to come quietly?’

  Asim turned his head fractionally. ‘Nothing.’

  Kill or be killed, was that the deal? Tallis wondered with alarm. And if he refused the job, what then? ‘Is this a suicide mission?’

  ‘You could decline the offer.’

  That wasn’t quite the answer he was expecting. A straight yes or no would have done. And if he did refuse, he might never work again. ‘What do you take me for?’ Tallis smiled.

  ‘An intelligent man.’

  Intelligent enough to know when to quit? Tallis thought. Was Asim warning him off? Was he saying he didn’t rate his chances? ‘No, I’ll do it. I can never resist a challenge. Besides, there’s a man’s honour to defend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Graham Darke’s,’ Tallis said, bullish. Until he had proof, he refused to give up on his old friend. In many ways, Tallis realised, they worked in allied fields. As undercover operatives, both he and Darke were deniable and expendable. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Meet me at the Brandenburg Gate in one hour. It will give you time to clean the bird shit off your jacket,’ Asim flashed a smile. And with that, he got up and walked away.

  ‘Great,’ Tallis muttered, briefly surveying the foul green-yellow splodge on his shoulder, small comfort that it was supposed to be a sign of good luck.

  Notwithstanding Asim’s advice, Tallis stayed where he was, taking the opportunity to study his surroundings, a cover for what was really going on inside his head. He thought back to the Graham Darke he knew, a tearaway, and a ruffian. Tallis suspected that Graham’s behaviour was a response to a childhood defined by neglect: he was one of eleven children. Although Graham at fifteen had been more prone to think first and lash out afterwards, his flashes of extreme anger spoke of a volatile temperament. What was not in doubt was Graham’s sharp intelligence, a commodity, Tallis presumed, that served him well in his current occupation. It took courage to go undercover—he should know—but it took balls of steel to pass yourself off as a committed Chechen fighter. And what a terrifying way to spend the best part of a decade, Tallis thought. Strange, he’d often wondered what had happened to Graham Darke but never in his wildest dreams had he imagined this.

  After cleaning himself up back at the hotel, Tallis headed off at a leisurely pace. He estimated it would take him no more than twenty minutes to reach Brandenburger Tor, the defining symbol of Berlin.

  His immediate impression as he walked along Unter den Linden, the main street leading to the gate, was one of wide, open spaces, huge muscular buildings, perfectly proportioned, the sheer size mind-blowing. There was no visible litter, no dog crap. Culture oozed from every brick and column. And it was hard to miss the statues, which were in every conceivable place, lining bridges, staring down from rooftops, gracing every square and gravelled path.

  Crossing to the next block, Tallis was delighted to find an entire row of car showrooms on opposite sides of the high street. With plenty of time to kill, he dawdled, face virtually pressed up against the windows of Ferrari and Bugatti, admiring the sleek lines and fast colours. For the tighter budget, there was also VW, S
eat and Skoda, he noticed, quickly turning round at the sound of a minor spot of road rage—a lad on rollerskates pissing off a cab driver. Tallis smiled at the minor blow for freedom, and dragged himself away, continuing along the main thoroughfare until at last, up ahead, just past an S-Bahn station, he saw the familiar fluttering of embassy flags and then the gate itself with its fine neoclassical architecture and the four-horse chariot sitting on top, as magnificent and imposing as he’d expected. Evading a gaggle of Italian tourists who wanted their photograph taken next to a German soldier, Tallis cut towards Asim, who was standing in the square on the other side of the gate. At Tallis’s approach, Asim turned on his heel and started to walk briskly west in the direction of the Tiergarten which, that morning, looked more wasteland than parkland. Tallis followed. A church bell tolled in the distance. Traffic whizzed by on three-lane carriageways. Cyclists tore down cycle-paths that seamlessly and confusingly adjoined the pavements. The sound of chainsaws buzzed his ears. A sign indicated that three hundred metres away and down a path stood the Reichstag in all its glory. Next, a huge monument commemorating the Soviet soldiers, over 300,000 of them, who’d lost their lives in the Battle for Berlin at the end of the Second World War. He looked neither right nor left, his eyes fixed on Asim’s back, the way he walked sleek and feline and self-assured.

  They were heading down Strasse des 17 Juni, named after the 1953 uprising—more reminders of Berlin’s past. On they walked, towards Charlottenburg, once the centre of West Berlin until, without warning, Asim crossed the busy highway and stopped by a sign marked Potsdamer Place. There, he turned towards Tallis and stood with his arms folded, a wry smile on his face.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Tallis said, catching up.

  ‘Checking for tails.’ Asim said, this time speaking English. ‘Shall we?’ Asim said, indicating a path through the park.

  They walked a little way along. Silver birch flanked both sides. The air felt cool and still, the atmosphere as tranquil as a Gregorian chant; the only people a middle-aged overweight jogger and a woman walking a German shepherd.

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ Asim said softly.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘There are always choices.’

  Tallis cast Asim a low, level look. ‘And mine’s made.’

  Asim gave an as you wish nod. They walked on again. ‘You will be working under the cover of commercial interests,’ he said eventually.

  ‘About the only activity the Russians haven’t stamped all over,’ Tallis said.

  Asim smiled. ‘Those who have prospered under Ivanov are keen to hang onto their wealth and you are going to take advantage of it.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Your newfound skill for flying helicopters is about to be put to good use.’

  Tallis felt himself visibly brighten. ‘Does this involve Shobdon, by any chance?’ Shobdon was the small airfield in Herefordshire where he’d learnt to fly.

  ‘It does,’ Asim said. ‘We’ve already talked to the owner of Tiger Helicopters and he’s happy enough for you to use them as cover. I believe you know one of their employees.’

  ‘Ginny Dodge?’

  ‘Curious name.’ Asim frowned.

  It was. Tallis remembered her opening line. ‘Dodge by name. Dodge by nature.’ They’d got on like the proverbial house on fire. In fact, Ginny, slick and polished, wouldn’t have looked out of place in Berlin, he thought.

  ‘Ms Dodge is going to coach you in sales speak.’

  Things were looking up, Tallis thought. ‘You mean I’m going to be selling helicopters?’

  ‘To the Russians.’

  ‘Are they in the market? I mean, they’ve got their pick of ex-military choppers.’ Tallis was considering how on earth he, a complete novice when it came to business, was going to fool some filthy-rich Russian oligarch.

  ‘I think you’ll find there’s a certain cachet in buying from Britain.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Tallis said uncertainly.

  ‘It’s going to be your route in. With the recent troubles, Chechnya is closed to outsiders, even journalists right now, so you’re going to have to get inventive to penetrate checkpoints and border controls.’

  ‘I take it I’ll be armed.’

  ‘You’d be a fool not to be. The gloves are off on this one,’ Asim said, plunging into silence as a jogger plugged into an MP3 player sped past, kicking up the gravel, followed by a group of workmen in yellow jackets carrying chainsaws. Tallis stared upwards, over the tops of the trees, catching sight of the massive Sony building, a construct of Perspex, steel and glass. Asim waited for the workers to pass by before he continued. ‘There should be no problem picking up hardware once you’re in Moscow. The place is swimming in weapons.’

  Tallis nodded gravely. ‘Where will I be based?’

  ‘We’re going to rent an apartment for you, details to follow. No trace to us, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tallis smiled.

  More footsteps. More silence. It was almost companionable, Tallis thought. ‘And this bloke, Elimkhanova,’ Tallis began.

  ‘The warlord Graham’s tagging along with. What about him?’

  ‘Where do I find him?’

  ‘The last report states he’s somewhere near the mountain village of Borzoi. Think you can negotiate the terrain?’

  ‘No problem.’ Tallis expressed more confidence than he felt. It had been a long time since he’d tried anything like this—and he’d been a lot younger.

  ‘This way,’ Asim said, taking a detour, clearly clocking a woman cycling lazily towards them. She was swaddled in a hoodie, a white guitar case on her back. Tallis couldn’t help but smile. What did Asim think—that she was going to dismount and produce an automatic weapon, Mafia-style? The woman flashed a Guten morgen as she ambled past.

  They were in a maze of cobbled pathways that led to a monument, this time to musicians, including the greats—Beethoven, Haydn and Mozart. Beyond, and on the right, a small lake, and beyond this, where the leaves were stripped from the trees, a statue, green with verdigris, of a man on a horse. The place was unaccountably stark, the air chill, as if something dreadful had happened there years before; they fell into silence. It was some minutes before Asim broke it.

  ‘Think you’ll persuade Darke to return?’

  ‘Depends on whether he’s guilty or not.’

  ‘Perhaps I should rephrase that. If he’s guilty, will he come quietly?’

  Tallis had pondered the same. ‘I’d say the answer was no.’

  ‘It’s something you should be prepared for.’

  Yes, he knew.

  ‘With regard to brushing up on your Chechen,’ Asim said, ‘you must be able to speak the language as if it were your own. Your life could depend on it.’

  He was well aware of that. He just hoped to God that Viva Constantine, an old friend of his, could deliver.

  ‘We have plenty of linguists on hand to assist,’ Asim said. ‘Probably easier if you come to London.’

  ‘Won’t be necessary,’ Tallis said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’d like to use one of my own contacts.’

  ‘You know someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Paul, we don’t have much time.’

  ‘I know, but I don’t want to be coached by someone who only speaks the language. I need someone who’s intimately familiar with the culture.’

  ‘There is also the small matter of security,’ Asim said, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘So discretion is the name of the game.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I’ll give you twenty-four hours on your return. If your contact lets you down, for whatever reason, you’ll let me know?’

  ‘I will.’

  Together, they retraced their steps back onto the path and turned back onto the main road and into the shadow of the Sony building once more. Street sellers wearing fur hats with earflaps were out in force. Back at
Brandenburg Gate again, Asim invited Tallis to join him for coffee, a transparent attempt to lighten the mood.

  ‘I know the perfect place,’ he coaxed.

  Was this intended as a last act of a kindness to a condemned man? Tallis wondered. And why the hell had he agreed to do it? Easy, he thought. He needed focus, a goal, something to live for. He was also, frankly, curious. When he’d told Asim that he wanted to defend the honour of an old friend, he’d meant it.

  The wind had dropped. Embassy flags flapped listlessly in the dead air.

  ‘No, I’ll head off. Start the ball rolling.’

  About to extend his hand, Asim’s mobile rang. He picked up. ‘Yup?’

  Tallis watched his expression, enigmatic and impenetrable.

  ‘Right,’ Asim said, closing the phone. He looked off for a moment, clearly digesting the news he’d received. Tallis looked at him in question.

  ‘That call,’ Asim said, dark eyes glinting.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A former Russian general has just been killed in a car bomb attack outside his house. Looks as if our man has struck again.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  TALLIS cut short his visit, the hurried journey back to the UK a blur. All he could think about was Graham Darke, the work ahead, the mission. And when he wasn’t thinking, he lost himself in childhood daydreams—sitting on the branches of an apple tree, muddy-kneed, long-limbed and laughing, giving each other Chinese burns, talking low and long into the shadows, having his first fag in the woods and feeling sick, drinking Vimto outside the chippie, downing whisky in the park and considering what it might be like to get laid. All this to the accompaniment of Graham’s throaty laughter in his ears. Sometimes, and always against his father’s wishes, Tallis would go back to Graham’s home, two council houses knocked together to accommodate the family. It was his first and only taste of domestic mayhem—kids everywhere, cats, dogs, cigarette smoke and meals on the run, and adults who liked a drink or ten and got up at noon. He had been mesmerised by it, and now, even with his memory blunted, he felt consumed by the desire to find his friend, to see how he’d turned out, to discover what had really become of him.