Land of Ghosts Page 5

  No sooner than he’d dropped the borrowed helicopter back at the helipad, he lost no time and drove straight to Viva Constantine’s. He didn’t even bother calling ahead.

  Viva lived in Saltley, a suburb east of Birmingham, down a narrow terraced street largely populated by British-born Asians. Rasu, her partner, opened the door, his expression normally resigned and passive erupting into delight. Two years of living without the threat of being sent back to Iraq, his country of origin, had done wonders for him, Tallis thought. Rasu had filled out physically and lost the haunted look of a man banged up for a crime he didn’t commit in a country that was not his own. Tallis had no idea how old Rasu was but, in the past two years, he appeared to have grown younger. Even his skin seemed less pitted, the features less sharply defined. The solemnity in his dark brown eyes was still there but they also shone with contentment. Must be love, Tallis thought, feeling envious.

  ‘Come in, Paul,’ Rasu said. ‘It’s good to see you again. Goodness, how long has it been?’

  ‘Two years, got to be,’ Tallis said, feeling faintly embarrassed he hadn’t called sooner, not that Rasu was making a deal of it.

  ‘Viva’s not here at the moment,’ Rasu said. ‘She’s at the Refugee Council on Thursdays.’

  A grim monolithic building that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Berlin, Tallis recalled. Dark and brooding, even when the sky was gilded with sunshine, the council sat opposite the police station in Digbeth, not far from the train station. Years before, he’d had reason to visit the place to interview a witness to a shooting. He remembered the stained green carpets, the numbered compartments (half post office, half Argos) the posters on the wall with warnings about sexually transmitted diseases, and rows of chairs, people sitting quietly, the embodiment of patience, their whole lives, it seemed, revolving around waiting and more waiting, like they were in scene from a play by Beckett. He remembered how surprised he’d been by the atmosphere of calm and good humour. He told this to Rasu, who flashed a smile.

  ‘We try to do our best, and you’ll be pleased to hear we’ve recently moved to Aston. Conditions for staff and clients have improved immeasurably.’

  ‘I’m glad. So Viva works there as a linguist?’

  ‘She works in Admin. We both do,’ Rasu said, ushering Tallis into the kitchen, sweeping a pile of newspapers off a chair for his guest. ‘Obviously, the fact we both speak languages is a major bonus. There are many Iraqis seeking asylum, Kurds in particular,’ Rasu said. ‘Our workload also includes those from Zimbabwe and Afghanistan. Unfortunately, at Birmingham we deal with what’s called Section Four clients.’

  Tallis cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘People who are what is known as fully determined—they have already lost their claim to asylum. They tend to be single men in the eighteen to thirty-five age range. In reality, you’re only ever in with a chance if you’re a family.’

  ‘Must be tough to deal with,’ Tallis said.

  ‘It is.’ Rasu’s smile was humble. And when it came to tough, Tallis thought, Rasu knew what he was talking about. As a Kurd in Iraq he had suffered terrible persecution under Saddam’s regime. ‘So was it Viva you came to see?’ Rasu said, automatically filling the kettle.

  ‘Both of you.’ It was an honest answer. Tallis liked Rasu Barzani enormously. He was probably the most dignified individual he’d ever met. He was also highly intelligent, the kind of intuitive man who could deduce a great deal from very little.

  ‘She should be back home for lunch any minute. You’ll stay, of course.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Tallis said, glancing at his watch. ‘And you, how are things, aside from work?’

  ‘Life is good.’

  ‘I see the elephants have been breeding.’ Tallis laughed, his eye catching a dresser crammed with elephant ornaments. Viva, for reasons he’d never fathomed, had a thing about them.

  ‘You should see the sitting room,’ Rasu said. ‘We’re planning on opening a safari park. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, thanks.’

  ‘And you, Paul. How’s everything going? Still in the same job?’ Rasu and Viva were two of the few people who had more than an inkling of what he did, mainly because they had been involved in his first case.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And is this the reason you are here?’ Rasu said. He had his back to Tallis but the smile in his voice was unmistakably genuine in spite of the direct nature of the question.

  Tallis let out a laugh. ‘You know me too well.’ He was pleased somebody did. It made him feel less adrift.

  Rasu said no more about it. Tallis watched as Rasu pulled various items from the fridge—hummus, salad, plump purple olives, and pitta bread. ‘And, other than work, how are things with you?’ It was spoken in a way guaranteed to be neither prying nor shallow.

  Objectively, Tallis didn’t really think about work much. It was easy to equate. He enjoyed the cut and thrust, the freedom. The scary situations in which he often found himself appeased the dangerous side of his personality, the part that revelled in risk. Solitary by nature, he was no stranger to loneliness and, although he didn’t abstain from the company of women, since losing Belle he hadn’t felt the urge to have a committed relationship, let alone settle down. Besides, it would only complicate things. So, yeah, life was fine. He told Rasu this and Rasu was smart enough to accept what he said at face value.

  The coffee ready, Rasu put two mugs on the table and drew up a chair. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar,’ he said, surveying Tallis in a way that was entirely solicitous.

  Tallis stirred in two sugars. ‘Can I ask you a rather weird question?’

  Rasu lifted both eyebrows.

  ‘Does Viva speak Chechen?’

  ‘No.’

  Damn. ‘Anyone at the Refugee Council?’

  Rasu shook his head with a smile. ‘Apart from the manager, the staff are all bilingual, some speak more than one other language. In fact, there’s an amazing guy who speaks about ten. Between us we must cover Eastern Europe, the Middle East, China and Europe, the Baltics but, sadly, not Chechnya.’

  ‘So no Chechens seeking asylum?’

  Rasu opened his mouth to speak. Viva’s low voice stepped into the breach. ‘Who wants to know?’ She was leaning against the doorpost, her full lips drawn back in a big smile. Her coat was open, revealing a floppy dark brown roll-neck sweater over a long camelcoloured skirt. She had a handsome brown leather handbag slung carelessly over her shoulder. So far, so conventional. Her feet, however, were clad in what Tallis could only describe as suede pixie boots. They were an extraordinary shade of orange. Tallis had never quite got his head around Viva’s dress sense. He turned and got up to greet her, kissing her on both cheeks. She looked well, too. Her brown hair was cut into a shorter style. Made her look sassy.

  ‘And what brings the mighty Paul Tallis into town?’ She grinned, peeling off her coat and kissing Rasu on the lips, giving his arm a tender squeeze. She wasn’t what Tallis would call conventionally good looking. In a face that was full of character, her green eyes were almost too deep-set. Her mouth was probably her best feature, and there was definitely something compelling about her, more to do with her personality shining through, he suspected, than the way she looked. Viva could be challenging, and Tallis quite liked that. He found feisty women appealing.

  Viva plumped down in an easy chair by the door, curling her legs up underneath her. Rasu made more coffee.

  ‘There are several families of Chechens living in Scotland, if that’s any help,’ Viva said, picking up on the conversation again.

  ‘But none in Birmingham,’ Tallis said.

  Viva and Rasu exchanged glances.

  ‘I was telling Paul about the many languages we cover at work,’ Rasu said, so obviously trying to get off the Chechen subject Tallis found it amusing.

  ‘Sounds like the United Nations.’ Tallis flicked a smile. ‘So what do you do if someone shows up from some far-flung corner of the map for whom you don’t have a suita
ble linguist?’

  ‘We contact the Council in London,’ Viva answered. ‘There’s a database of interpreters we can access. Sometimes we link up a conference call over the phone with a client, usually works quite well in an emergency. And, believe me, emergencies are our stock in trade.’

  Tell me about it, Tallis thought.

  ‘Occasionally we use an agency in Birmingham but, at fifty pounds an hour, it’s not cheap,’ Rasu chipped in. He was leaning against a work-surface, cup of coffee in hand, relaxed.

  Tallis nodded, thinking he’d go for the curved ball approach. ‘These clients, Section Four, you said.’

  ‘The ones who get turned down,’ Rasu said.

  ‘Any of them Chechen refugees?’

  Rasu opened his mouth to speak. Viva checked him with a classic look. ‘One,’ she said. ‘But she won’t talk to you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you’re a man.’

  ‘A very nice man.’ Tallis shot Viva his most winsome smile, making her laugh.

  ‘Why the interest?’ Rasu cut in.

  ‘I have to go to Chechnya for a job.’

  Rasu nodded, his expression one of complete calm and thoughtfulness, unlike Viva’s, which was suddenly bitter and spiky. Rasu indicated for Tallis to help himself to food, which he did. The hummus was so pungent with garlic it could have felled a dozen vampires.

  ‘The Russian government has behaved deplorably towards the Chechens.’ Viva let out a small hiss of anger, tossing the salad with vigour. ‘They’ve virtually written off the refugees mouldering in Ingushetia. They’ve attacked civilians in Georgia. And now we have the latest crisis.’

  ‘Which is why it’s imperative I speak the language fluently.’

  ‘I could give you the name of a linguist.’ Viva shrugged, taking a decisive bite of pitta bread.

  ‘Won’t do,’ Tallis said. ‘I need to get a proper insight, know what I’m dealing with. My life may depend on it.’

  Silence descended in the small kitchen. The clock ticked loudly in Tallis’s ears. Everyone fell to eating lunch. Rasu, clearly uncomfortable, was first to talk. ‘Are you intending to help the people there?’

  ‘He’s not an aid worker,’ Viva scoffed. ‘Sorry, Paul,’ she said in answer to his arch expression. ‘But you know what I mean.’

  ‘I do and I don’t particularly care for it,’ he said without sounding too rancorous. Did he need to point out to Viva that had it not been for his help two years before, Rasu would be dead by now? ‘Helping people isn’t just about feeding and clothing them and dishing out medical supplies, important though that is. Like you say, the Chechens have had a raw deal. If I don’t get out there in the next couple of weeks and work a bloody miracle, the Russian government is going to be the least of their problems. It’s going to be War and Peace for real.’

  Rasu’s face creased with concern. He looked from Tallis to Viva. ‘Perhaps we could talk to Lena?’

  Viva pressed a little finger to her lip and began to nibble the nail. She looked straight at Tallis. ‘Leaving aside the literary comparisons, could you be a bit more specific about what’s at stake here?’

  ‘Can’t,’ Tallis said, draining his mug of coffee.

  An uneasy silence prevailed, the only sound the clacking of cutlery and the continued slow steady grind of the kitchen clock. Tallis wondered how long it had been since Graham Darke had shared a meal like this at someone’s kitchen table cluttered with yesterday’s newspapers. He glanced across at Viva. Head bent, she was slowly pushing a piece of pitta round and round her plate. Yeah, he thought, she’s torn.

  ‘Heard of a place called Aldy?’ Viva said at last, looking up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lena used to live there. It’s a suburb of Grozny. In 2000, it was the scene of a massacre. Like most of the refugees, Lena headed to the mountains. Eventually, she made it to the independent state of Georgia and, after a circuitous route, half-starved and ill, she arrived in the UK in 2004.’

  ‘Two thousand and four?’ That’s years ago, Tallis thought.

  ‘It can take Immigration a while to get their act together,’ Rasu said with a dry smile. ‘To be honest, at the point where an asylum seeker is refused entry, the system breaks down. We’ve had clients hanging around for years existing in a state of limbo, sleeping on people’s floors, living off handouts from friends.’

  ‘There’s a huge confusion in people’s minds about genuine refugees and asylum seekers,’ Viva explained in answer to Tallis’s surprised expression. ‘Contrary to popular opinion, they don’t get handouts from the state. They have no right to benefits. They don’t jump council waiting lists. Lena and hundreds like her live in a dark netherworld without rights or status. It’s not a way to live, Paul,’ Viva said, fluttering a hand in a gesture of despair.

  No, it wasn’t. ‘What’s her English like?’ Tallis said.

  ‘It’s good,’ Rasu said. This time his words went unchecked, a good sign as far as Tallis was concerned. He decided to push home the advantage. His appeal was to both of them.

  ‘Could you at least mention me to her?’

  Rasu looked at Viva. He was definitely on-side, Tallis thought. ‘I could come to the Council, see her there.’

  ‘No,’ Viva said flatly. ‘Too unorthodox. We have to respect client confidentiality—but,’ she said in answer to Tallis’s pleading expression, ‘I’ll talk to her, see what she says. I do want to help you, Paul,’ she rushed on, contrite, not something that came easily to Viva Constantine, Tallis realised.

  ‘It’s all right. I understand; you want to protect her.’

  ‘Someone has to.’ Viva cast him a level look, her eyes deep sea green. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, Paul. She’s been through a lot and, as you might expect, she’s not the easiest individual to deal with.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said, glancing at his watch. In less than twelve hours he needed an answer. Now was probably not a good moment to push it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Russian air space outside Grozny, Chechnya

  COLONEL FILIP LISAKONOV picked his teeth and stared down with contempt at the smudge of land below. More mud, more filth, more vermin, he thought. As deputy regiment commander of a platoon of conscripted soldiers and about to enter the Ethnic Republic of the North Caucasus, he believed that genocide of the Chechen nation should be a matter of state policy.

  With all civilian flights suspended because of the recent upsurge in unrest, Lisakonov was flying in by helicopter for the forty-minute flight from Mozdok to Khankala. He had been drinking vodka for most of the trip, and was feeling foul—foul to be in the company of such a snivelling band of conscripts, srochniki, foul to be back in this godforsaken place. He fully expected to arrive in Grozny by nightfall. Grozny, he thought with disgust, flicking a fragment of fish from a lower molar. The very word meant terrible.

  ‘You, soldier,’ he said, eyeing a weak-chinned youth with fat lips and skin the colour of fresh Brie. The lad flinched, turned his dejected gaze from the floor to somewhere just over his superior’s shoulder. Everyone knew that if you looked Lisakonov in the eye, you’d receive a severe beating for it later. ‘Know what? I was part of 58 army during the last conflict.’

  The soldier swallowed and nodded dumbly. The 58 had a reputation for extreme brutality. It was also well known that weapons were often stolen from the store and sold back to the Chechens, in other words aiding and abetting the enemy.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Lisakonov’s features fell into a grin, revealing a set of crooked teeth. Dark shadows lurked underneath eyes that appeared sleep-deprived. ‘Back then, I could beat a conscripted soldier to death in minutes with a spade. My personal best was twelve and a half, know that?’

  The soldier shook his head nervously, clearly wondering if he was going to be the next entry on Lisakonov’s personal scorecard. With no escape, the youth’s skinny body shrank into the interior of the hold. The others also shuffled position. If there was to be a scapego
at, let it be the next man.

  ‘Mind…’ Lisakonov grinned, taking another swig from a bottle of vodka ‘…sometimes they had their uses.’

  Again the soldier nodded stupidly, his Adam’s apple sticking out like he’d swallowed a gobstopper whole. The rest of his fellow comrades, pale-eyed and frightened, nodded in unison.

  Lisakonov began to enlighten the lice-ridden lads under his command. ‘Did a little buying and selling, see. Night was when the real trade began. Mainly weapons, nice lucrative sideline for Russian officers. What choice did we have?’ he rolled his eyes, which were like two blue pinheads. ‘Common knowledge we were starving. Lucky to get a tin of fish to last a week.’ He scratched his head, momentarily losing his train of thought, took another gulp of vodka. ‘Comes down to knowing your market. And the market then was for soldiers—rabble like you lot,’ he added with a highpitched peal of laughter. ‘We sold them as slaves and declared them deserters. Christ knows what the Chechens did with them. Probably fucked them and slit their measly throats.’

  The soldier to whom Lisakonov had been addressing his speech made a small inarticulate noise.

  ‘Chechens.’ Lisakonov belched. ‘We should have annihilated them years ago when we had the chance. Every Chechen is a Muslim and every Muslim is a terrorist. The Serbs have got the right idea with their ethnic cleansing.’ He scowled, addressing nobody in particular, leaning back, closing his eyes, a sudden weariness enveloping him. He knew he would not sleep, hadn’t done for years now, not since…

  Black dots and squiggles scampered at the edges of his consciousness. Sweat pooled underneath his arms and across his narrow shoulder blades. A sour taste filled his throat. In his imagination, he was back in the mountains, the horrendous sound of men being crucified screaming in his ears. It was during the first conflict. He had been an ordinary private then, not much more than a boy. The older soldiers, even those who’d fought in Afghanistan, had spoken of the exceptional brutality. ‘At least in Afghanistan, you knew who your enemy was,’ one had told him. ‘Here, it’s like fighting ghosts.’