Land of Ghosts Page 8

  ‘No,’ Tallis said softly. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

  And with that they both sat down.

  It was like sitting around a campfire in the woods again, Tallis thought, legs spread out. He was listening to Lena’s strangely hypnotic voice, and watching the last dying embers. A sucker for history, he was transfixed as Lena guided him through two hundred years of conflict, starting with Catherine the Great’s expansion plans for the Russian Empire and the fierce resistance with which her Russian army was met. Later on, in the next century, another spat broke out that lasted thirty years, thirty years of trying to tame the mountain people, thirty years of savagery on both sides. Then came the greatest betrayal of all, Lena told him darkly. During the Nazi invasion, thousands of Chechens fought the Germans. However, a small, independent minority decided to take the opportunity to lay claim to independence. As the war came to a close, Stalin’s revenge knew no bounds. Entire villages were razed to the ground and half a million Chechens were displaced and deported.

  ‘And a nation of outcasts was created,’ Viva said sombre. She was curled up like a cat on the floor in front of the fire.

  ‘It is the way with us,’ Lena said sadly. ‘Many are punished for the sins of the few. Most Russians believe that Chechens bear collective responsibility for the actions of individual criminals.’

  Tallis leant towards her. The firelight was playing on her hair, colouring it red, catching her face, throwing a ghostly hue over her features and revealing a level of pain.

  ‘In the early 1990s, there was a move towards national independence,’ Lena said in a way that neither seemed to support nor oppose it. ‘By then the Russian regime was already in some turmoil. A decision was made, some say by the FSB, the newly branded KGB, to return to old values. In order to validate that return, and get the Russian people onside, it was necessary to deliberately inflame the criminal situation in Russia. Chechnya was the first casualty of that decision. By 1994, we were at war.

  ‘The Russians were unsuccessful. Fighting subsided but by now the warlords, some of them fundamentalist, had taken to the stage. You have to understand, Mr Tallis,’ Lena said, her shoulders bowed with anxiety, ‘most ordinary Chechens couldn’t have cared less about politics, or about gangsters and the warlords of this world—we simply wanted security, to earn a decent wage and be able to put food on the table for our families, to live in peace. It was not to be,’ she said sadly.

  ‘In September 1999, a series of explosions ripped through Moscow. It was rumoured that the FSB were behind them.’

  ‘What, they killed their own people?’ Tallis said, aghast.

  ‘A necessary evil,’ Lena said, a thin smile on thin lips. ‘They blamed Chechen terrorists. It was the excuse to go to war again.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Tallis cut in, ‘Who would give the order for something like that?’

  ‘Ivanov,’ Viva said, her voice still and small from the fireside.

  Again Tallis remembered Asim’s assertion that the prime minister was top of the hit list. He felt cold fear, bright and metallic.

  Lena nodded. ‘The second war was bloodier than the first. I suppose you can say Ivanov won.’

  Nobody spoke for some minutes.

  ‘Would you choose to go back?’ Tallis said.

  ‘To what? There will never be freedom.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘A generation of young people, sons and daughters who have lost fathers and brothers and families have grown up hating the Russians.’ Her voice tailed off. An eerie silence settled on the room again like a shroud.

  ‘Tell me what happened at Aldy, Lena,’ Tallis said finally. He could almost hear his breathing, and the sound of blood trickling through his veins. Viva stirred. Lena pinched the bridge of her nose, sat very straight in the chair, shoulders back, gathering herself.

  ‘They came on the fifth of February, 2000,’ she began, her voice strangely detached. ‘Before the first war I taught at School No. 39. There were many children there. By the end of 2000 there was no school, and no children and our houses had been reduced to rubble. There was nothing to do except collect the dead and prepare them for burial.

  ‘By now, the fighters had abandoned Grozny and gone up into the mountains so there was nothing left to fight for but still the Russians shelled the village. You couldn’t sleep for the sound of bombs being dropped, missiles being fired, mortars howling like rabid dogs. It got so bad that some of the men of the village decided to take action. Carrying sheets as flags of surrender, they went to plead with the Russian commander leading the attack. They wanted to reassure him that they were not harbouring terrorists, as the Russians claimed. But it was no good,’ she said, her skin parched and drawn, so that she resembled an old woman.

  ‘Shots were fired from the Russian positions. The first villager killed was an ethnic Russian.’ A bitter smile flashed across her lips at the lunacy of it all. ‘The next day a delegation of troops arrived, youngsters. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. They were dirty, hungry and exhausted. Some of them had running sores on their hands and, yes, like us, they were frightened. They told us that if we knew what was good for us we should leave. ‘Don’t hide in your cellars,’ they warned. They said that others were coming, bad men, they said.

  ‘But where were we to go?’ Lena spread her hands, appealing to Tallis. ‘It was February. It was cold. There was snow on the mountains. We hadn’t eaten, or slept properly for months. So we stayed,’ she said heavily. ‘Seven hundred of us.’

  ‘The next morning was thick with mist. We crept out of our cellars and basements to pray and were greeted by the strangest thing, something we hadn’t heard in years.’ She paused, raising a hand, pointing an index finger to the ceiling. ‘Silence,’ she whispered.

  ‘At first, we thought this was a good sign. We thought they had listened to our plea. Some of the men set about making running repairs to homes damaged by the shelling. Myself, I was trying to melt ice to boil water. That’s when they came for us. That’s when the mist proved a friend to me, an enemy to others.

  ‘I heard them before I saw them,’ Lena said, her voice wavering. ‘I ran back to the house, grabbed Asya, my little girl, and we ran for our lives, and kept on running. Within minutes soldiers and armoured vehicles and trucks surrounded the village. If you hadn’t already got out, you were finished. The place was sealed off. A few managed to escape with me and together we fled to higher ground. Each time we stopped to rest, we…’

  Lena stopped, her mouth sagging, eyes bruised and wide with remembered horror, the skin underneath blue in colour. She put the heels of her hands to her eyes. Viva got up to comfort her but Lena shrugged her off. With the same iron will that had aided her survival, she moved her hands away, cleared her throat and battled on.

  ‘The soldiers, shaven-headed, bare-chested, tattooed, they came with Kalashnikovs and hunting knives. They came for sport,’ she said, with a sudden burst of anger. ‘We threw ourselves to the ground, covered our ears against the sound of shots and screams until we could bear it no longer. You understand,’ she said, eyes perilous and unfathomable, ‘we had to watch, to bear witness so that others would know what was done that day.

  ‘We saw men we’d grown up with taken out and killed, and they were the lucky ones, believe me. We watched as grenades were hurled into homes, the doors barricaded so that there was no escape. We saw women and children lined up against walls. We saw young girls raped, old men and the simple-minded shot in the face, their passports and papers clutched worthlessly in their hands. Then came fire. At first we saw only flames then vast plumes of smoke until the cold winter air was black and acrid with the stench of heat and burning flesh. It was late afternoon before the soldiers left. And still there were screams, the screams of women who’d lost husbands and children, children who’d lost parents, neighbours who’d lost friends.

  ‘Afterwards, the government called it a necessary evil, a zachistka.’ Tallis was familiar with the word. It meant
clear-up operation, a polite way of saying ethnic cleansing. ‘But it was a lie,’ Lena said, her shadowed eyes filling with tears.

  ‘And you and your little girl?’ Viva’s voice was soft, hesitant. Tallis realised that even Viva had not heard this story before, in all its vivid, tragic detail.

  ‘Asya stepped on a mine in the mountains. My little girl died.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Outside Moscow State University Friday morning: 8.00 a.m. Moscow time

  PROFESSOR ALEXANDER Tertz was taking a stroll before lectures and smoking his second cigarette of the day. It had suddenly turned exceptionally mild for the time of year but it was of little consolation to him. He preferred bright sunshine to unremitting grey. And, my God, was it grey. Even the trees in the park looked fed up.

  He inhaled, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, enjoying this small, vital pleasure, and returned to a favourite grievance. How could it be that university lecturers, revered by international peers abroad, remained unappreciated at home? As a teacher of economics, he had no status and his government-paid salary was lousy. It was a scandal that Russia’s new economy did not include the likes of him.

  ‘You should have gone into politics,’ Galina complained in a rare, talkative moment. Since his return from the war, his wife could hardly bring herself to look him in the eye let alone speak to him.

  She was right, of course, Tertz thought, narrowing his vision against a thin stream of smoke. Politics was the natural home for retired senior soldiers—if one could grease enough palms.

  He walked on, feeling a spit of rain against his face, and wished he’d brought an umbrella. In the distance he saw a handsome-looking couple walking a Rottweiler, a tall imposing dark-haired fellow and a petite blonde-haired beauty with the palest skin. There were also two figures jogging, an absurd occupation to his mind. The fact it might be considered pleasurable was equally bizarre to him. These days his only solace was in vodka, which he poured liberally each night. Only then could he escape, dream, and reminisce about the old times.

  He had worked at Chernokozovo, a prison turned filtration camp. Many, many Chechens passed through its doors. They were brought in chiefly by the OMON, Otryad Militsii Osobogo Naznacheniya (police unit of special designation) or the riot police, as they were known. Some prisoners he could do business with, buying and selling, but most were snivelling wrecks who were only good for venting one’s spleen on or exercising one’s desires. He reckoned that was why Galina steadfastly refused his advances. She could spot perversion and betrayal in his eyes.

  Sometimes the guys from the FSB would show up, sociopaths the lot of them, Tertz thought with disgust. They’d arrive with their cheap leather jackets, their superior manner and tell him how it was going down. He had no choice but to turn a blind eye. And what did it matter to him if they liked nothing better than to film him and his men gang-raping a dukh? Luckily, there was a timber mill nearby, handy for the disposal of bodies, and essential for covering up evidence. Apparently, the resulting videos were distributed to the boys at the front, to toughen them up, put fire in their bellies.

  One of the joggers pounded slowly towards him, hood up against the wind and rain, feet hitting the ground with a heavy tread, disturbing Tertz’s thoughts. Tertz went to sidestep but they both moved foolishly in the same direction, the jogger stumbling heavily into him. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Tertz barked, feeling a sharp stab of pain in his thigh.

  The jogger ran on without regard. Tertz scowled, rubbed his leg, which hurt like hell. No doubt he’d have a nice bruise, he thought, glancing up at the statue of Lenin, and silently saluted his hero.

  Two minutes later Tertz started to feel unwell. Heat was spreading through his body like an uncontrollable forest fire. Insides loose, a terrible nausea gripped him, vice-like, and his bruised leg was causing him considerable and an unusual amount of pain. By the time he reached the university building, his vision was blurred and he was running a fever. As he crashed through the doors, yelling for help, he had no idea of the lingering suffering that would precede his death three days later.

  Tallis climbed blearily into bed around five that morning. Hardened to tales of tragedy, he felt shaken to the core by Lena’s story. Who could blame Darke if he’d gone native and joined the armed struggle? Suddenly, the intelligence handed to Fazan and passed on to Asim seemed credible, he thought as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  Three hours later, Tallis’s alarm sounded. He got up and called Asim.

  ‘We’re on,’ he said, relaying the arrangements. He’d no idea why Lena had agreed to the plan. As a devout Muslim woman, it must have gone seriously against the grain. Perhaps it was because she had nowhere else to go, because she was desperate, because she hoped that Tallis was genuine in his desire to help her people. Whatever her motivation, that evening Tallis was to acquire a house guest. He just hoped Immigration didn’t turn up and rudely cut short his language lessons. He mentioned his worry to Asim. ‘Think you can pull strings?’

  ‘No way.’ Not after the previous dust-up with Immigration two years before, Tallis remembered. ‘You’ll have to keep her hidden and pray they move at their usual snail-like pace,’ Asim added.

  ‘But if they get the bit between their teeth, there’s no stopping them. She could be put on the next flight home.’ The Home Office, as Viva had once pointed out to him, was not known for its bleeding heart. And what was one lone foreign female against an entire organisation?

  ‘Let’s hope not, then,’ Asim said, breezy. ‘By the way, I’m having an up-to-date photograph of Graham Darke couriered to you.’

  Tallis thanked him. It wasn’t simply a practical consideration. He was genuinely intrigued to see how Graham had turned out.

  ‘Other than the spectre of the immigration authorities, you feel reasonably comfortable with the setup?’ Asim said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And you’ve teamed up with Virginia Dodge at Tiger?’

  ‘Everything’s in place.’

  ‘Good. Keep up the pressure. We need to get you out to Russia soon as.’

  Tallis spent the next two hours clearing out the spare room and cleaning the bungalow, preparing for Lena’s visit. The courier arrived as he was depositing another bin liner of junk into a dustbin. He took the envelope, signed for it and went back indoors.

  It was a head-and-shoulders shot, front on. Like most mug shots, it wasn’t particularly flattering but he could definitely identify traits of the boy inside the man. Graham had retained the same well-defined cheekbones and jaw line, although they had broadened out a little with age. The thin lips and aquiline nose were unaltered, his colouring a couple of tones darker, but it was the expression in his eyes that troubled Tallis. The mischief had translated to something more cold and dangerous. It seemed as if hostile and unbridled energy lay at the core of the man. Tallis looked on the back of the photograph. It was dated July 2005.

  Slipping it back into the envelope, he put it with the rest of what he called his ‘gear to go’, a rucksack of essentials should he be suddenly asked to drop everything and be somewhere else at short notice. After that he returned to the kitchen and wondered what to cook for his guest that evening. It occurred to him that half his staple diet would be unsuitable to Lena and set about chucking out every pork product he could lay his hands on, including several packs of ham and bacon. Throwing everything into a bag, he nipped round to his next-door neighbours. Jimmy, as Tallis had nicknamed him, opened the door. Seventeen years of attitude and belligerence stood before him.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ Jimmy said, half of him playing the cool guy, the other half, Tallis suspected, wetting himself. Thanks to Tallis, Jimmy had narrowly missed being on the receiving end of a gun the previous year.

  ‘Well, hello, and it’s lovely to see you, too.’ Tallis flicked a smile. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘thought you’d like this.’

  Jimmy scowled, took the bag and opened it. ‘Bacon?’

  ‘That’s what it
’s usually called. What did you expect—used tenners?’

  Jimmy cast him a piteous look.

  ‘Knowing your fondness for bacon butties, thought you might enjoy it.’

  Jimmy bent his head, sniffed the contents warily. ‘Is it alright, like? I mean it’s not past its sell-by date, or nothing?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Tallis said. ‘I’ve got a friend coming to stay. She doesn’t eat pork. She’s a…oh, never mind, long story.’

  ‘Normally are with you,’ Jimmy said, closing the bag. ‘I’ll give it to my mum. Nice motor,’ he said, making to go back inside. ‘No wonder you look smug as fuck,’ he added, shutting the door.

  Tallis was returning from an emergency trip to the shops for fresh provisions when his mobile went. It was Ginny.

  ‘Hi, handsome.’

  ‘You sound in a good mood.’

  ‘I’m always in a good mood,’ she chirped back. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that our Mr Kumarin has expressed an interest. I gave him your number. You should be hearing from him any moment.’

  ‘Brilliant. What’s the drill?’

  ‘Suggest he gets a taxi from Heathrow to White Waltham Grass—Heathrow’s far too expensive. You can meet him there and fly him back to Shobdon. Should take you about forty minutes. Then Kumarin can check the records, talk to the mechanics, and check out the helicopter for himself.’

  ‘Fantastic. Thanks, Ginny.’

  ‘You’ll let me know how you get on?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Kumarin’s call came through in the middle of Tallis stowing the shopping. Kicking a cupboard door shut and lobbing a packet of cornflakes onto a worktop, Tallis reached for his phone.

  ‘Mr Tallis?’ Kumarin said, in thick, heavily accented English.

  ‘A pleasure to talk to you. Miss Dodge has filled me in on the details. How can I help?’

  ‘My client wishes me to travel to Shobdon to inspect the helicopter.’