Land of Ghosts Page 7

  Not if I see you first, Tallis thought.

  ‘Christ!’ Ginny let out, once Blaine was out of earshot. ‘Should have warned you about Walter Mitty.’

  ‘Does he tell everyone he was in the SAS?’

  ‘Among other things, ’fraid so. Right, back to business,’ she said, a schoolmistress look in her eye.

  Tallis leant across the table. ‘I love it when you’re being dominant.’

  Before he left Shobdon, Tallis contacted an old army mate. Monty or Jack Montague worked for the Mine Action Coordination Centre, an organisation dedicated to mine risk education training, including reconnaissance of mined areas and the collection of mine data.

  ‘Monty, how are you?’ Tallis began.

  ‘Bloody hell, Tallis. Long time no hear. What are you up to these days?’

  You don’t want to know. ‘Trying to make a living like the rest of us.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Monty laughed. ‘The wife’s just about to have our third. You married yet?’

  ‘Do me a favour.’ Tallis grinned.

  ‘Your problem is you’ve never found the right woman.’

  Oh, I did, Tallis thought, the shine disappearing from his smile.

  ‘Anyway, this a social call or what?’

  ‘Bit of both, really. Don’t suppose we could have a chat, only I want to pick your brains.’

  ‘I’m down your neck of the woods next week. Got a seminar in Birmingham. Would that be any good?’

  ‘Perfect. Name a day and time and I’ll be there.’

  They agreed to meet up the following Tuesday.

  ‘You going to give me a clue what this is all about?’

  ‘Chechnya,’ Tallis said firmly. ‘I need countryspecific information on the type of explosive munitions in the area, locations if you can establish them, in other words a complete rundown.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘I have to go there.’

  Monty didn’t say a word—he was probably too surprised.

  On his way back, Tallis visited a local gym and pushed some metal for an hour, arriving back home around eight in the evening, tired and sweaty.

  The bungalow, his grandmother’s bequest to him, felt derelict. Yes, it had all the modern trappings, the colour high-definition television set, the state-of-the-art computer, the squashy leather sofa and easy chairs, pictures on the wall. But there was something definitely missing—a woman’s touch, perhaps. Occasionally, as an intellectual exercise, he wondered what it would be like to be in a settled relationship, to have someone to share his life with, or simply hang out with. But these were such rare fleeting hankerings he didn’t trouble himself with examining the possibilities too carefully. He certainly didn’t long for a partner on tap to take care of the domestic side of his life. Although the bungalow occasionally descended into abject disorder, he was tidy by nature, probably something to do with an early stint in the army, serving with the Royal Staffordshires. He’d always thought Graham would wind up in the forces. Sometimes it was the saving of a troubled boy; Graham, in his own way, had been as lost as he’d once been.

  He showered, changed into clean clothes and, pulling bacon and eggs from the fridge, cooked and ate, the brochure Ginny had given him propped up against a bottle of beer. He was reading through the specifications for the helicopter again: 2005; thirteen hundred hours; sand interior; new green paintwork; price of £3.5 million.

  After washing up the dishes, he put on an Amy Winehouse CD, switching straight to ‘Back to Black’, the haunting melody raw to the bone, drank another bottle of beer, and went to bed, his dreams filled with dark woods and mountains, of lunar landscapes and vivid sunsets, and two lads on the run.

  The next morning, Tallis rose early, hung around the bungalow for a couple of hours, hoping to hear from Viva. With no word he was soon out in the open, heading down dual carriageways and fast roads, the rear spoiler automatically rising up out of the Boxster’s body like an extra fin, wail and hum of the engine the only music in his ears. It took him a little over an hour to reach his mother’s, a modest dwelling in a rural backwater. Since his father’s death, he felt less threatened by memories there. With time, he hoped he could create new ones, happy ones, untrammelled by fear and conflict. Changing things around and stamping her own identity on the place, his mum had unwittingly gone some way to displace his troubled past.

  Her eyes lit up with pleasure at his sudden arrival. That, too, signalled subtle transformation. There had been a time when she hadn’t been able to abide surprises, or shocks as she’d referred to them. But that had been when his father was alive.

  ‘Paul, I wasn’t expecting you.’ She smiled, wiping the backs of her hands on an apron, leaving a trail of floury marks.

  ‘I’m not holding you up, am I?’ he said, stepping over the threshold, the smell of newly baked cakes scenting the hallway.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course not. Just doing a bit of baking for the church bring and buy,’ she said, trotting down the corridor, indicating for him to follow her into the kitchen. ‘Put the kettle on while I finish these pies.’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ he said, watching as she intently rolled out pastry to a fine, even depth.

  ‘Second thoughts, coffee.’

  Without a word, Tallis reached for a saucepan, filled it with milk. In posh circles this would be called a latte. His mother had been drinking latte for years, only she’d never realised it before.

  ‘So what brings you out here?’ she said, slicing off excess pastry from a pie lid and expertly crimping the edges.

  ‘No reason.’

  She gave him a short, sharp smile, her eyelids creasing. ‘Paul Tallis, you always have a reason for doing things.’

  ‘Well, I…’

  ‘Come on, spit it out,’ she said, elbowing him out of the way and reaching for the kitchen tap to wash her hands.

  Tallis grinned and sat down. ‘Graham Darke, remember him?’

  ‘I’ll say,’ she said. ‘The naughtiest boy in the village, not that you could blame the lad, what with that family of his.’

  ‘They weren’t that bad,’ Tallis said, getting up to rescue the milk before it boiled over. He poured it out into two cups.

  ‘I’m surprised they didn’t all go down with tuberculosis or something, living the way they did,’ she said, drying her hands. ‘Much against your father’s wishes, you two were as thick as thieves.’

  They had been. There was nothing like it on earth, that kinship, that heady sense of doing anything to protect another, lying, ducking and diving. They’d been like blood brothers.

  ‘Anyway, what about him?’ his mother said, stretching over for the sugar.

  ‘Do you know why he left?’ Tallis had heard many stories as to why Graham had been there one minute, gone the next. At the sudden disappearance of his friend, Tallis had felt as if someone had hacked off his arm. In total shock, he hadn’t consciously paid it close attention. To protect his sensibilities, he’d forgotten about Graham, willed him away, blanked him from his memory bank. Until now.

  ‘Thought that was obvious. His mother was having another baby. Different father again,’ his mother sniffed, disapproving. ‘When Graham’s real dad turned up, a lorry driver, I believe, Graham decided to join him on the road. It was too good an opportunity to miss. Dare say the lad needed an escape.’

  Had it really been so simple? Tallis wondered. Had Graham been torn or even given him a second thought? ‘And that’s the last you ever heard?’ Stupid question. It wasn’t as if his mother was in touch with Graham’s mother. She never had been.

  ‘Yes, why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason.’ Tallis dipped his head slightly, flushing at his mother’s amused expression.

  The sky was a pale wash of blue, clouds tinged silver. It was noon, a bitter wind blowing, and he was sitting outside the primary school where he and Graham first met; his secondary school had been demolished and amalgamated with another as part of the New World Order. He
believed the land on which once it stood had been used for a new housing development. Sitting there, engine running, heater on full blow, it was easy to imagine a ten-year-old Graham, scruffy in a tattered uniform handed down from at least three siblings, roaring round the playground, jumping off the walls, the original free-runner. Graham, Tallis remembered, had taken school meals. It had been the only difference between them and Graham had hated it, not because he wasn’t hungry—he was—but because it made him different. And yet Graham was different.

  They’d been like brothers-in-arms, setting things to rights, fighting all the small injustices of the world, or their world, to be more specific. And they really didn’t care too much how they went about it. Always getting the blame for crimes they didn’t commit, they didn’t have much to lose. When a particularly aggressive games teacher, a bloke called Sadler, forced Graham to continue a cross-country run after Graham had twisted his ankle, vengeance was sworn. A few weeks later, Tallis and Graham hitched a lift to Sadler’s house and, under the cloak of darkness, poured sugar into the fuel tank of Sadler’s pride and joy, a Morgan motorcar, screwing up the engine. As Graham once quoted, ‘If the cap fits, might as well wear it.’ And was this what Graham was doing now? Running with the wolves, making a stand for freedom, fighting back on behalf of the underdog?

  Once, Tallis remembered, Graham had talked about becoming a sniper.

  ‘What, shooting people?’ Tallis said.

  They were about thirteen years old, sitting on the wall in the pub car park.

  ‘Only bad people,’ Graham said.

  ‘Yeah, I know but…’

  ‘Have to join the army, and that. Get myself properly trained.’

  Tallis didn’t say anything. It suddenly dawned on him that change was on the horizon, that they’d end up going their separate ways. He didn’t like it.

  ‘Got to be a good shot, like. Do you think you see their faces?’ Graham frowned quizzically, turning to Tallis.

  ‘I don’t know.’ What a horrible idea, he thought, not realising that he was destined to become a firearms officer. ‘Can’t you shoot them from a long way away?’ His dad sometimes went out shooting, taking Dan, his elder brother, with him. They mostly shot rabbits and pheasants; taking pot shots they called it.

  ‘Dunno,’ Graham said, arching a bony shoulder.

  ‘Bit like being a hunter, I s’pose,’ Tallis said gloomily.

  When Tallis’s dad gave him a leathering, it was Graham Tallis fled to. Only with Graham could he let off steam, scream at the sky and plot revenge against his father—which was never taken. Graham was more of a brother to him than Dan. Graham was his mentor and mate. When Graham left, Tallis had his first unpleasant taste of betrayal.

  Tallis headed back to the car, his phone feeling like a dead weight in his pocket. If Viva didn’t get back to him soon with favourable news, he’d have no choice but to do Asim’s bidding and travel to London and talk to someone who might speak the language but did not understand the power play, the political dynamics, the nuances of history that only a Chechen would understand. Lena, to his mind, was a far better bet.

  Taking a big detour, he crossed over into Worcestershire, the Porsche letting rip, and headed for the small town of Upton-upon-Severn, a casualty of flooding some years before. Parking in the free car park on the periphery, he doubled back down the main street and went to a shop that sold maps. There was a slightly fusty smell, not unpleasant, as he walked inside. A map of Moscow was easy to acquire. Chechyna took a little more locating. The sales assistant spread the map out before him. His eye immediately went to the strange-sounding names, the range of mountains, the highest by 10,000 metres being Mount Elbrus with its twin peaks. Chechnya, he saw, was a thousand miles south of Moscow straddled between the Black and Caspian seas. Reaching for his wallet, he wondered where Darke was exactly.

  By the time Tallis returned home, he’d already had two missed calls from Asim on his mobile phone and it was getting dark. Wondering for how long he could keep his phone switched off and Asim at bay, he let himself in, the silence inside swallowing him whole. Unable to settle, he changed and went for a run, the illuminated strip on his sweatshirt glittering under the yellow glare of streetlights. A mile and circuit later, he returned home. More silence and still no word from Viva.

  After an evening spent poring over his newly acquired maps, he decided to turn in. The call he’d been waiting all day for eventually came through as he was switching off the light.

  ‘Lena says she’ll talk to you.’

  ‘Brilliant. When?’

  ‘Now.’

  Tallis glanced at his watch: 11:40 p.m. He was already getting out of bed. ‘Be there in ten minutes.’

  Rasu let Tallis in with a short smile and guided him through to the living room. With an imperious air, Lena Maisakov told Tallis to sit down. She, on the other hand, preferred to stand. Rather than him vetting her, Tallis thought, she was vetting him. He said nothing other than thanking her for seeing him, which she dismissed with a small wave of a bony hand.

  Tallis did as he was told and sank into the nearby sofa. It gave him time to view what he was up against. He took some moments to study the razor-sharp cheekbones, dark, sallow skin and eyes like burning flames. Her black hair was tied tightly back from her face, giving her a haggard appearance. Gold hoop earrings dangled from both ears. She was wearing an old olivegreen sweater and a long skirt, worn brown ankle boots on her feet. She was thin, very thin. It was impossible to tell her age. She could have been forty-five or fifty-five. She was, in fact, thirty-nine. He also found out that she’d once been a schoolteacher.

  Viva charged the small fire with wood and coal and exchanged a wary glance with Tallis. Rasu had sensibly left them to it, said he’d go to the kitchen to make coffee.

  ‘Why do you wish to learn my language?’ Lena asked, eyes burning into his.

  ‘Not learn exactly, more brushing up.’ His Chechen was almost two decades out of date. Any other language would probably have evolved in that time, incorporated modern colloquialisms. With a culture entrenched in the past, Tallis wasn’t sure if it applied.

  ‘Learn, or brush up, as you say, my question remains the same.’

  Tallis gave Lena the same answer he’d given Viva and Rasu: that he was going to help the people there.

  Lena briefly smiled, a curt tilt of her lips. ‘Help?’

  ‘Assist,’ he said, trying to sound vague but realising that she’d probably consider him a mercenary.

  ‘You’re clearly an idealist, Mr Tallis.’

  ‘I’m not, actually.’ He was polite but he hadn’t expected philosophical debate, let alone this early in the conversation.

  ‘Only idealists stay in Chechnya,’ Lena said, unsmiling.

  ‘I’m a realist.’

  ‘That I doubt. If you were a realist, you would know that your mission is doomed to failure.’

  ‘I think I’m the best judge of that.’ Tallis kept his voice neutral, his expression unreadable. It was a trick he’d perfected years ago when questioning a criminal. They could be going off the deep end, cursing him with expletives, and still he retained a mask of cold professionalism.

  ‘You’re wrong,’ Lena said.

  ‘Fine, I’m wrong,’ he said evenly.

  ‘You cannot afford a mistake.’ Her tone was biting.

  He met and held Lena’s gaze. He really didn’t warm to this woman even if her English was impeccable. ‘Touched as I am by your concern for my welfare, Mrs Maisakov, are you prepared to help me, or not?’ He ignored Viva’s warning expression.

  Like a practised politician, Lena interposed a question of her own. ‘Are you a Muslim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the Koran?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you know nothing of our culture.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said.

  ‘What makes you think you can learn?’

  ‘Because I have a gift with langua
ges and I’m a willing pupil. More than that,’ he said, eyeing her, ‘I’m determined.’

  ‘You’re very sure of yourself, Mr Tallis.’

  And you’re bloody impossible, Tallis thought, calmly standing up, heading for the door. ‘Thanks, Viva. Sorry I’ve wasted your time. Give my warmest regards to Rasu. Goodnight, Mrs Maisakov.’

  ‘Surely—’ Viva began, spreading her hands.

  ‘If you run away so easily from a woman,’ Lena cut in, a mocking note in her voice, ‘I rate your chances of survival as zero.’

  Tallis whipped round on his heel. In spite of Lena’s sallow skin there were two high spots of colour on her cheeks. His attempt to leave had been a calculated move that had paid off: Lena had called his bluff. Time to play his ace. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s no real difference between Chechens and Russians. No difference at all. You’re all proud, stubborn as mules, all hell bent on knocking the shit out of each other. And for what?’

  Viva opened her mouth in protest but Tallis wasn’t done yet.

  ‘Because you’re both full of pride. You care more about so-called honour than a future for the next generation.’

  ‘Paul, I…’ Viva began helplessly.

  ‘You think yours is a unique situation,’ Tallis said, looking straight at Lena who stood rooted, colour bleeding from her cheeks, ‘but it isn’t, and one day, like it or not, you’ll call a truce, sit down at a table and do a deal with the devil, if that’s the way you want to see it, because your children are dying and your young men are being butchered in their beds. And then you’ll live alongside one another in what passes for peace.’

  Lena met and held his gaze, her stare incinerating. The atmosphere was electric, like Tallis had thrown a grenade into the room and everyone was waiting for it to stop rolling and explode. Rasu walked in with a tray, caught the vibe, and walked back out again.

  ‘Do you know our history, Mr Tallis?’ Lena said quietly, the challenge diminished if not exactly absent from her voice.