Land of Ghosts Page 6

  The next day, when the barbarians retreated, they went in to take their boys down. One poor soul was still alive. Christ knows how. The others had all bled out. That’s what happened when your dick was scythed off. Lisakonov was ordered to kill him, to put him out of his misery. He hadn’t wanted to but an order was an order so, with tears streaming, he shot the young soldier at point-blank range. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the expression in the boy’s dying eyes, that terrible look of gratitude.

  Seized by a sudden wave of anger, Lisakonov’s eyes popped open. ‘When the fuck are we going to land?’ he slurred. In answer to his question, the rotor suddenly stalled then stopped. ‘What the…?’ Lisakonov began to speak, his words cut off as the helicopter dropped soundlessly from the sky and forty-five seconds later crashed into the Chechen countryside.

  Shobdon Airfield, Herefordshire, England

  ‘So never mind all this stuff about health and safety—basically if the rotor stops working we’re fucked.’

  ‘Just time for a quick hug, darling.’

  Tallis was smiling and remembering one of his early conversations with Virginia Dodge. He’d driven straight from Viva’s after lunch to the airfield where Ginny had already been on standby. Turning off into the ten-milesan-hour zone, and keeping well to the left and out of the way of incoming traffic, he also recalled her admonition to hang onto her rather than grab the controls should anything untoward happen.

  ‘What sort of untoward?’ he said, a cheeky grin on his face, for which he received a cute smile in return. He quite fancied the idea of grabbing hold of Ginny. She had shoulder-length dark hair, twinkly brown eyes and skin freckled from spending a lot of time outdoors. With a surprisingly athletic build for a woman of her age, late forties at a guess, she was definitely desirable and a lot of fun. And there was, according to her, no Mr Dodge.

  Tallis parked the Boxster close to the airfield café and got out, relieved that he’d at last got round to replacing his battered old Rover with a car that was as practical as it was dashing. Even now he found the lapis-blue exterior, the upholstery in sand beige leather, the to-die-for six-speed gearbox irresistible. As for the handling, it was a superb example of German engineering. Beneath the glamorous image, the Boxster delivered at every level and, like it or not, image was all with the flying set. He’d never come across a breed like them. The helicopter and light aircraft business attracted people with determined aspirations and serious money—impossible to enter its holy portals without it. Simply learning to fly was synonymous with relinquishing eye-watering amounts of cash. As for the machines themselves, you didn’t get much change out of fifty grand for the most basic two-seater second-hand helicopter. No, he reckoned, he’d got the better deal with his Porsche. And it fitted in with the rest of the cars dotted around the airfield—the Lexus, Audi TT, Ferrari and Jaguar convertibles.

  Inhaling the cold clear air, watching as pencils of light fell out of the sky, illuminating the runway, he felt, as he’d done on previous occasions, like he’d passed through a time warp and found himself back in the 1950s. He couldn’t really explain why except to say that the place, once a base for gliders during the Second World War, retained a strange enduring quality, as if whatever happened in the world Shobdon airfield would go on and on, remaining there silent and indestructible. Clicking his tongue for being so bloody fanciful, he walked past Ginny’s handsome Mercedes SLK and over towards the hangars and the offices of Tiger Helicopters, automatically ducking a little as a bright green Agusta 109 Power Elite hovered overhead before landing.

  Several police pilots from Kuwait, dressed in black jumpsuits, were hanging out at Reception. Sponsored by the Kuwaiti government, they were on an eighteen-month training programme with Tiger. Tallis exchanged greetings in Arabic with one of the pilots before darting upstairs to Ginny’s office, which lay down a corridor off a main meeting room and kitchen area. Ginny was peering into a computer screen and talking briskly into her mobile. At Tallis’s arrival, she turned, broke into a smile.

  ‘So,’ she said, cutting the call, ‘mine is not to reason why but I’ve orders to turn you into a first-class salesman.’ He wondered exactly what or how much she’d been told. Knowing Asim, not very much.

  ‘Shouldn’t be that tricky,’ Tallis said.

  Ginny placed a hand on her trim hip and elevated an eyebrow. She was wearing a pair of tailored cream linen trousers, a fitted navy sweater, which went in and out in all the right places, with a red silk scarf at her throat. It gave her a slightly nautical look. ‘Let’s hope not.’ She smiled. ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Well, I’m starving,’ she said, grabbing her handbag.

  ‘No problem. Being the female of the species, you’ll be able to eat and talk effortlessly at the same time.’

  Ginny gave him a playful swipe with her sizable shoulder bag.

  ‘Ouch, what did you do that for?’ He laughed, putting both hands up in surrender.

  ‘Didn’t your mother tell you that talking with your mouth full is rude?’

  As they got outside Tallis gave an involuntary shiver. The temperature seemed to have plummeted by several degrees in a matter of minutes due to the sudden onset of a bitter easterly wind.

  ‘God help you in Russia,’ Ginny said, swinging her hips as she walked.

  ‘Who says I’m going to Russia?’

  Ginny stopped walking and turned her stern browneyed gaze on Tallis. At times, she could be incredibly imperious, he thought. ‘Credit me with a little intelligence. I’ve already got a deal in the offing with a businessman from Moscow. If it plays out, and the Russians I have to tell you are notoriously slow when it comes to meetings and negotiations, you, my boy, are going to handle the transaction.’

  Not too slow, he hoped. ‘This going to screw up your commission?’

  Ginny’s face lit up with a smile. ‘Put it this way, I’ve been offered a very healthy incentive.’

  Good, he didn’t like the idea of her losing out.

  ‘So, like I said,’ Ginny picked up the pace again, ‘you’ll have no choice but to go to Russia. Only way to do business.’

  The cafeteria, an old Nissen hut with floral plastic tablecloths on the tables, smelt of fried food and bestquality catering brew. It was already busy with late lunchers, mechanics and aircrew stealing a break, and the odd visitor out for an early afternoon pot of tea and cake. Ginny ordered egg and chips from a large-framed woman and two mugs of tea, which they waited for. It came out steaming and the same colour as well-fertilised soil.

  With mugs in hand, they pulled up chairs near the window and sat down opposite each other. Ginny opened up her handbag, one of those large brown satchel affairs, and rummaged through it like a fox pillaging a dustbin. Aspirin, lipstick, tissues and Blackberry all piled out. Curious, Tallis picked up the Blackberry.

  ‘How do you rate these?’ The weight of it in his hand felt like a small firearm.

  ‘Brilliant. Does everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  She flashed him a reproving look. ‘Combined email, computer, phone.’

  ‘Next you’ll be telling me it brushes your teeth, too.’ Tallis knew it wasn’t cool, but he wasn’t much of a techno person—not unless it was the latest military hardware or satellite equipment. As far as espionage was concerned, in the field technology was simply an add-on. Technology left a trail. Electricity failed. Computers crashed and became prey to viruses. He still believed the human brain the most important component in any investigation. When it came to back-up, a firearm was all he required.

  Ginny flashed him a grin then, businesslike, handed him a brochure. ‘Read and digest,’ she said. ‘It will give you a flavour of the technical language so at least you sound as if you know what you’re talking about.’

  Tallis flicked through. Not unlike a helicopter version of Top Gear, same fact files, same performance ratings, same glossy photographs. He put it down. ‘Anything I should particularly bear in min
d when doing business Moscow style?’

  ‘I’ll come to that later,’ Ginny said, leaning back as her plate of egg and chips arrived. ‘Oh, bugger. I didn’t ask for ketchup.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll get it,’ Tallis said, scraping his chair back and heading for the counter. He returned with one of those sauce holders in the shape of a plastic tomato. In his absence, Ginny had already nicked the brochure back and flipped it open to a page displaying several top-of-the-range helis.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ginny glanced up. ‘Right,’ she said, liberally dousing her chips. ‘This is where we’re at. See this…’ She pointed with a manicured nail. ‘That’s what we’re selling.’

  Tallis took a look, eyes scanning the spec. ‘Bit bloody bright, isn’t it? Where did it come from?’

  Ginny rolled her eyes. ‘Limerick.’

  ‘Is it the same Agusta 109 Elite that landed here this afternoon?’

  ‘I had a mechanic put it through its paces.’ Ginny speared a chip and put it in her mouth. ‘We put an ad in one of the trade journals and received an enquiry a couple of weeks later from a Russian guy on behalf of an interested party.’

  ‘You don’t know who the party is?’

  ‘Not yet but I will.’ She gave a game grin.

  Tallis had no doubt. Ginny was one of the most persistent women he’d ever come across. ‘So it was a tentative enquiry, sounding each other out, that right?’

  ‘Seeing which way the wind’s blowing.’ She jabbed a chip into a dull yellow yolk, causing a minor eruption. ‘They go in for that a lot. I liken it to a form of elaborate courtship.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’ He grinned.

  She flicked him another of her reproving smiles. ‘Several things worth remembering about the Russians,’ Ginny said. ‘They don’t like to be railroaded, they respect pecking orders, preferring to meet people on a similar pay grade to themselves, and most importantly any business negotiation is viewed as win or lose.’

  ‘With them in the winning seat.’

  ‘You got it,’ she said, devouring another egg-coated chip. ‘Actually, you have a distinct advantage.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Ever been in sales before?’

  Tallis shook his head and tasted the tea. It was a lot better than it looked.

  ‘Didn’t think so. Means you’re not used to the typically British form of high-pressure sales tactics. That’s good. Russians don’t care for it. Patience is the name of the game.’

  Not a commodity he had in abundance, Tallis thought, suddenly feeling glum. He wished he could just get out to Chechnya and be done with it. ‘This call you received. What did you manage to glean?’

  ‘The all-important budget.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Between three and a half and five million.’

  Tallis let out a long slow whistle between his teeth. ‘Think he’s serious?’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’ She gave a shrug, pushing her plate towards Tallis, offering him a chip.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, helping himself.

  ‘A chip,’ she said, smartly tapping the back of his hand with the knife, meeting his surprised expression with a flirtatious grin.

  ‘You always had such a lively appetite?’

  ‘Always.’ She gave a sexy smile.

  ‘I still don’t really get why a stinkingly rich Russian wants to do business with Tiger—no offence,’ he added, drinking some tea.

  Rather than blowing him out, Ginny came up with the best argument he’d heard so far. ‘Image,’ she said. ‘It’s true the Russians have been producing helicopters for decades for both military and domestic use, but a lot of them are quite old and knackered. The point is it’s no longer frowned on to be a capitalist—Ivanov is positively encouraging capitalism—so it’s no longer bad form to buy from the West. In fact, the Agusta is perceived to be a status symbol—it says something about the man who’s either flying or buying. And the Russians are hot on image.’

  ‘This bloke you dealt with.’

  ‘Our main man’s engineer.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Kumarin.’

  ‘Won’t this Mr Kumarin think it odd you’ve dropped out of the negotiations?’

  Ginny shook her head and reached for her mug. ‘Goes back to what I was telling you about dealing with someone on the same level.’

  ‘But I’m no more an engineer than you are.’

  ‘But you’re a bloke. When it comes down to the heavy-duty side, Kumarin will want to talk man to man and you can use Charlie, one of our engineers, to talk the talk. Look,’ she said, pushing the plate away and leaning towards him, sending a fragrant mist of Dior in his direction. ‘Buying a helicopter is not like viewing a house and putting in an offer. All sorts of things have to be gone through first.’

  That was rather what he was afraid of. If the deal took as long as Ginny indicated, whoever had it in for Ivanov could already have assassinated him.

  ‘So what are the moves?’

  ‘If our Mr Kumarin bites, we invite him over and let him check the records. Basically, he’s going to be looking at the airworthiness of the machine and, key, whether it’s worth the money. With second-hand, he’ll be looking at when or if it had a rebuild, whether it’s got a proper service record, either every six months or fifty hours,’ she added. ‘Keep in mind he’s looking for a deal.’

  A bargain, more like. ‘Which is going to be loselose for us.’

  ‘’Fraid so, but you can afford to take a loss, or so I understand,’ Ginny said, a curious glint in her eye.

  ‘Then what?’ Tallis smiled, smoothly sidestepping further enquiry.

  ‘You get to fly the Agusta over to Moscow, you lucky boy.’

  ‘Nice,’ Tallis agreed. Then another thought struck him. ‘What if our Mr Kumarin cries off, or his boss doesn’t bite?’

  ‘We put another tiddler on the line and cast off.’

  All very chancy, Tallis thought, briefly looking out of the window and wondering how Viva was getting on with persuading Lena to talk to him.

  ‘Afternoon, Ginny. Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

  A heavy-set man dressed in a dark green fleece and jeans stood grinning like a meerkat at the pair of them. He had short dark hair plastered flat against his skull and blue eyes that bulged from his face as if they might pop out and land on the table at any second. His mouth was working its way round a wad of chewing gum.

  Ginny flashed a cold smile. ‘Blaine!’ she exclaimed, the tension in her eyes evident. ‘Blaine Deverill, this is Paul Tallis.’

  Blaine stuck out a hand. Tallis rose to his feet, towering over the shorter man, and exchanged greetings.

  ‘Haven’t I seen you around?’ Blaine said, eyes flicking in search of a free chair so that he could draw it up and join them. Ginny, very deliberately, took out her Blackberry and started checking for emails.

  ‘Bound to. I took flying lessons here.’

  ‘With Ginny?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good, isn’t she?’ Blaine smiled, clearly trying to curry favour. Ginny kept her eyes fixed doggedly on her gadget. ‘Got your own bird?’

  ‘Can’t afford it.’ Tallis gave a snort. He could but he wasn’t up for disclosing his financial profile to a stranger—or anyone, come to think of it.

  Ginny glanced up and gave Tallis a funny look then shamelessly clicked her tongue at Deverill, but Deverill was clearly not a guy to pick up a negative vibe, not even if it jabbed him on the arse.

  ‘Know what you mean,’ he said. ‘Big boy’s toys.’

  ‘And you, Mr Deverill, enthusiastic amateur or in the game?’ Tallis wished to hell the bloke would go away.

  ‘Call me Blaine, please.’ Deverill clicked a smile. ‘Been flying since I was this high,’ he said, gesturing with his hand, inferring that he’d become a pilot at the age of four. ‘I’ve got a Squirrel.’

  ‘Cool,’ Tallis said, resisting the temptation to make a joke.

 
; ‘Paul’s our new sales guy,’ Ginny said, without looking up, both thumbs tapping away.

  ‘Really?’ Deverill said, eyes alert with interest.

  ‘Hoping to net a Russian deal,’ Tallis said, glancing at Ginny who suddenly seemed to develop some difficulty in keeping a straight face. She was silently mouthing something at him, but he couldn’t make out what.

  ‘Good business to be had in Russia,’ Deverill opined. ‘Wouldn’t mind a slice of the action myself. Things are so much better under Ivanov’s influence. That man’s managed to bring stability and prosperity to the country in abundance. Wealth is spreading from west of the Urals right across to Siberia. Plenty of money sloshing about and, as we all know, Paul,’ he said in a worldly fashion, ‘money is what makes the world go round.’

  ‘Sure,’ Tallis said vaguely. Ginny was still hissing like a viper at him, lips drawn back, revealing a perfect set of straight white teeth.

  Deverill continued to spout on, clearly liking what he said and saying what he liked. Tallis had met plenty of blokes like him. The problem was, just when you thought they were talking bollocks, they’d say something mind-blowing.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about Russia,’ Tallis said, trying to stay focused. ‘You lived there?’

  Deverill dropped the smile, cast a cautious look around the café, and bent his head so close to Tallis’s mouth Tallis could smell the pomade on his hair. ‘Top secret,’ he whispered. ‘Twenty years ago, I served in the Special Air Service.’

  Not The Regiment, Tallis thought, which was how its members usually referred to it. Tallis wasn’t aware that the SAS had been on a mission in the Soviet Union but, then again, if it was Top Secret, why would he? Glancing across at Ginny, he suddenly realised what she’d been on about: SAS.

  ‘Yes, well, Blaine, sorry to be a bore,’ Ginny said, with emphasis, ‘but Paul and I have got a stack of information to get through. Would you mind?’ she said. ‘Only it’s warmer in here than in the office.’

  Deverill broke into an embarrassed smile. ‘Of course, forgive me,’ he said. ‘Nice meeting you, Paul. No doubt I’ll see you again.’