Land of Ghosts Page 9

  ‘Great news. When would you like to come?’

  ‘Next week. Friday would be good for me.’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll clear my diary.’ He told Kumarin about the suggested transport arrangements at the UK end.

  ‘This is good,’ Kumarin said. ‘I will let you know the time of my arrival then you fix the cab for me.’

  ‘No problem. Look forward to hearing from you.’

  Tallis clicked off and punched in Ginny’s number. It went straight to voicemail. He left a quick message, keeping her in the loop, and suggested that they run through his presentation one last time. He suggested Monday morning for a meet.

  That afternoon, he spent studying maps, locating Borzoi in Chechnya, tracking some kind of route from Grozny, the capital.

  On the hour, he switched on the radio, tuning into the news. Chechnya and the fast disintegrating situation there ranked as the number one news item.

  By the time Viva dropped Lena off, Tallis felt unaccountably nervous. Other than the off mate kipping for the night, usually after too much to drink, he’d never had someone stay before, not even Belle. Lena stood in the idle of the room, staring with wary eyes. She looked so small and lonely, he thought, nothing like the arrogant and feisty woman of their first meeting.

  ‘Where’s the rest of your stuff?’

  She swung the rucksack from off her shoulders and onto the floor. ‘This is it.’

  He stared. That was her life?

  ‘You’ll be alright, then,’ Viva said, her expression dubious.

  ‘’Course.’ Tallis winced at the hearty sound of his own voice, which was way too loud. Lena, seemingly rooted to the spot, nodded.

  ‘If there’s anything you need,’ Viva said, touching Lena’s arm, ‘call me. Mind how you go,’ she muttered to Tallis, more warning than concern as she left.

  ‘Right.’ Tallis turned to Lena. ‘Guided tour.’ He took her through the sitting room and opened the door to what would be her bedroom for the next few weeks. He hadn’t thought beyond that, which, he guessed, was pretty stupid of him.

  Lena walked inside and touched the bed gingerly, then ran her roughened fingers lightly over the dressing table left to him by his grandmother. For an odd moment he thought she was checking for dust, but the gesture seemed too reverent. At a loss, he indicated the en suite bathroom. ‘It’s only a shower. This is how you work—’ He broke off, knowing instantly from the misted look in her eyes that something was wrong. ‘Is it alright?’ he said anxiously. ‘If you like, we can swap rooms. I can easily—’

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head, swiping at her face with angry hands. ‘It is very nice and you are very kind.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Tallis said, bewildered. Dear God, he’d never understand women as long as he lived.

  ‘In Moscow,’ Lena said slowly, ‘there are men who live in secret cities, deep in the forest, in cotedgi, huge houses of marble and gold, while my people are forced to live in the grimmest places—in industrial zones, beneath power lines, in slums. They have lost everything, you see, a place to live, jobs, even the most menial form of employment, and there is no social welfare. Last, they lose their dignity. It is a slow way to die, Mr Tallis. This,’ she said, surveying the room with wonderment, ‘makes me feel guilty.’

  Tallis shook his head sadly then smiled. ‘Feel lucky instead.’

  At Lena’s insistence, and after a degree of wrangling, they agreed house rules: after their first meal together only Chechen would be spoken at home, and the housework and cooking was to be divided between them. Tallis was unhappy.

  ‘You’re my guest.’

  ‘I’m your teacher,’ Lena countered. The inference was that he would do as she said.

  Tallis looked up, noticed the shine in her eyes, the hidden smile. He laughed and caved in. What was the point of argument? Her mind was clearly made up. Between Lena and Ginny, he felt surrounded by bossy women.

  Dinner was French onion soup and lamb tagine. Tallis offered a small prayer of thanks to Nigella Lawson.

  ‘What would you eat at home?’ Tallis said, keen to put Lena at ease.

  ‘We eat lamb, beef, goat maybe. We grow fruit and bottle it for cakes and desserts and cordials. We eat cheese and drink milk. I had a small orchard of apple trees before the war broke out. We had a cow but she was killed by a shell.’

  Tallis nodded in understanding. When a person experienced tragedy firsthand, it became the only context in which to place events, but he didn’t want to get too personal. Not tonight.

  ‘And you,’ Lena said. ‘Have you always lived here?’

  Tallis told how he’d acquired the bungalow. He told her about his life, all the simple, easily understood bits like family, work (heavily edited). To his ears, it sounded like someone else’s story.

  ‘And there is no woman in your life?’ It was asked in a very fact-gathering way. Not for one moment did Tallis have the sense that this was either a chat-up line or naked intrusion.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She left you?’

  ‘She died.’

  She had eaten slowly and sparingly, like a bird.

  ‘How would you say Chechens are best defined?’ Nobody said he couldn’t discuss Chechen culture and national psyche over the coffee. Besides, he wanted to fit as much in as he could before the hard graft started.

  Lena put down her cup and thought for a moment. ‘Courageous, fearless, proud and vengeful. It is a point of honour to avenge the dead of one’s family. If you do not, you are shamed.’

  Pretty much fitted with what he already knew.

  ‘And, believe me, we have long memories.’ She paused, as if sensing that she was perhaps not painting her people in an attractive light. ‘But they are the best people in the world, too,’ she said, sudden passion in her eyes. ‘They are the most hospitable. Walk into a Chechen’s home and you will be given everything that is theirs, they will guard you with their very lives, and we have a strong tradition of looking after our old people. Unlike the Russians, who hide their elderly in homes, or leave them to rot, we take care of the most vulnerable in our society. It is not unusual for a family to take in orphans or the simple-minded.’

  Tallis nodded his approval. ‘And how in general should I behave towards a Chechen?’

  ‘Show respect and be servile.’

  Tallis pulled a face. He didn’t do servile.

  Lena leant across the table, her dark eyes trapped by candlelight. ‘You realise you will never be trusted.’

  ‘I can earn it.’

  Lena shook her head. ‘You are not one of us. You will always be treated with suspicion.’

  ‘Does that mean you don’t trust me?’

  ‘This is different,’ Lena said, picking up her cup again, tilting it to her lips.

  What she meant was that, in a position of weakness, she had no choice. Tallis waited a beat. ‘How can I demonstrate my worth?’

  Lena met Tallis’s eye, inclined her small dark head. ‘Prove yourself in battle.’

  He found it odd to share his home with another, particularly a stranger, particularly a woman. He felt as if he’d lost his normal spatial awareness. Overnight he’d become clumsy. He couldn’t even calm his nerves with a drink for fear of causing offence. The bungalow seemed to breathe differently with Lena in it, he thought, lying in bed, face staring up at the ceiling, Lena yards away in the room next door.

  The entire weekend was spent steeped in speaking Chechen. His voice was his new instrument—contorting it, creating with it, practising, mimicking, and tuning it to Lena’s. He’d forgotten the sheer mental agility required for remembering a dictionary’s worth of vocabulary. Although Lena was an excellent teacher, by Monday morning he felt stewed, glad to escape to Shobdon.

  Hardly out of the drive, his mobile rang. It was Kumarin. Tallis glanced at his watch: nine here, noon in Moscow.

  ‘My plans have changed,’ Kumarin said lugubriously.

  Fuck, Tallis thought. He said nothing, decided t
o let the other bloke do the talking.

  ‘I intend to fly to London on Saturday.’

  ‘This Saturday?’ Tallis looked at his watch, worked out the date. Marvellous, he thought.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘I’ll arrange transport.’

  ‘And you will confirm?’

  ‘I will.’

  Tallis closed the phone, tapped his fingers on the dash. He looked back at the bungalow and saw Lena’s anxious face at the window. He waved, smiled, stuck the car in gear and tore off up the road to Shobdon.

  Ginny dropped two frisky kisses either side of his cheeks in greeting. She’d done something freaky with her make-up, creating a vampish look that reeked of artifice. He couldn’t decide whether he liked it or not.

  ‘A minor alteration, Kumarin’s arriving on Saturday.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Par for the course, in my experience. Their schedules always change.’

  ‘Having a laugh?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ she said, delicately lifting an eyebrow. You have a lot to learn, her expression seemed to say.

  They went straight to the meeting room. While Ginny made coffee, Tallis ran through his notes. Apparently, Russians liked long and detailed presentations, including a history of the subject.

  ‘Remember,’ Ginny said, plonking a mug of instant in front of him, ‘this is a sounding-out exercise on Kumarin’s part. The whole point of the initial meeting is to determine whether he thinks you’re credible or not.’

  ‘He’s not going to travel all this way just to see whether he likes the look of me.’

  ‘He hasn’t travelled here yet. He may well change his mind again.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  Ginny leant forward, rested her chin in her hand and grinned. ‘Off you go with your presentation. I’ll pretend to be Kumarin.’

  Tallis started with a brief word of welcome, a potted history of Tiger Helicopters, ethos and work practices, and then launched into the history of the Agusta 109, describing it as a multi-role helicopter developed by Agusta Westland in Italy. He ran through its various versions, pointing out that it was originally developed as an ambulance and rescue helicopter for use in Switzerland. After moving on to a complicated discourse on technical specifications, he pointed out its practical applications and versatility.

  ‘Naturally, we’ll be in the hangar and I’ll have the machine in front of me so I can point out the specific advantages,’ Tallis added as an aside.

  ‘Pretty good,’ Ginny said, when he’d finished. ‘Remember, when you pick up Kumarin, he’ll want to be schmoozed. Russians love to chat, to get to know you, to talk about anything other than business.’

  ‘With or without vodka?’

  She broke into a smile. ‘Without for you,’ she said. ‘No fun flying when you’re pissed.’

  ‘Is this the voice of experience talking?’

  ‘It is, and you don’t want to know.’ She flicked a skittish smile. ‘As for Kumarin, there aren’t many Russians who turn down the offer of vodka.’

  ‘Could make things tricky for me.’

  ‘Not if you tell him you’re an alcoholic. It’s about the only way you can refuse a drink without causing offence.’

  ‘How come you know so much about it?’

  ‘Stuff I’ve picked up.’ She shrugged, wrinkling her nose. ‘Something else, the man Kumarin is negotiating for.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Remember that all Russian businessmen are Geminis.’

  ‘You don’t believe that rubbish, do you?’

  ‘Bet I know what you are,’ she said, flirting mercilessly.

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ he challenged her.

  ‘Dark-featured, reckless, very secretive, odds on you’re a Scorpio.’

  ‘Only reason you know is because you’ve seen the date of birth on my CV.’ He let out a laugh. ‘And what the hell’s this got to do with our mythical Russian Gemini?’

  ‘Geminis have two faces. Behind every upright executive there’s a crook.’

  Tallis scratched at an imaginary itch on his chin. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘What are your plans for the rest of the day?’ she said, touching his elbow, steering him towards her office.

  Talking Chechen. Studying more maps. Getting into the national zeitgeist. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to answer my question with another.’ Her voice was low, seductive, and she still had her hand on his arm.

  ‘Nothing in particular.’ He smiled, more to see what she’d actually say.

  ‘Fancy coming to Wellesbourne for the day?’ Wellesbourne was an airfield in Warwickshire. It was fun, friendly and generally a nice place to hang out. Her fingers were unconsciously stroking the weave of his jacket.

  ‘Are you flying there?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Tempting. He looked full into her eyes. They had the same unpredictability as a tiger’s, he thought. ‘Better not,’ he said, watching the smile fade from her face. ‘Another time, maybe.’

  And so he prepared to return to Lena to talk, to repeat, to correct, to learn.

  Tuesday and his meeting with Jack Montague, his friend who worked for the Mine Action Coordination Centre, crept up on him with surprising speed, mainly because he was enjoying the cut and thrust of improving his language skills. He liked the sound of Chechen on his tongue, in his voice. Although there were similarities with Russian, it was quite distinct. Sometimes it felt more akin to an Arabic dialect.

  He’d already explained to Lena that he had to pop out to see a friend.

  ‘This is good. It will give me time to clean up.’

  ‘Clean up what? The place is fine,’ he said, feeling irrationally put out. He didn’t welcome Lena going through his cupboards, tearing down his cobwebs, rearranging his stuff. He didn’t fancy the intrusion. ‘Why don’t you read a book or something?’

  ‘You don’t want me to clean?’ Now it was her turn to look put out.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said as pleasantly as he could, snatching up the keys for the Porsche and making a fast exit.

  Tallis drove to Brindleyplace in central Birmingham and parked, the journey to the international and anonymous Hyatt Regency Hotel a short walk away.

  Monty was bang on time. Apart from losing a bit more hair on top, he hadn’t altered one bit, Tallis thought. Always a snappy dresser, Monty wore a beautifully cut grey pinstripe with a pale pink shirt and ironcoloured silk tie. His shoes shone to army-style perfection. With his dark brown eyes and even features, he was an exceptionally handsome man. Had he been a foot taller, he’d be male model material, Tallis reckoned.

  Monty beamed at him and extended a hand, clapping Tallis on the back like an old mate.

  They sat in the lounge, ordered coffee and, because Monty was on a time limit, got straight down to business. Monty pulled out a sheaf of papers from his briefcase.

  ‘I’ve printed out some stuff, but basically the overview is this: Chechnya, in spite of some mine clearance carried out by a humanitarian demining mission in early 2007, and military clearance by deminers from the federal forces to allow for troop movements, the place still contains a large quantity of both mines and IEDs.’

  Improvised explosive devices, Tallis thought, remembering the jargon.

  ‘Problem you’ve got is that both rebels and Soviet forces are responsible for the mayhem: the military predominantly lay anti-personnel mines with the aim of protecting facilities and places like military installations, power plants, communication masts and strategic high ground. The rebels, anywhere they can thwart Soviet forces.’

  ‘I’m assuming you’re talking about mines laid in large numbers rather than singly?’ Tallis said.

  ‘Yup, the idea is you set off one, you set off a load more. There are three specific types, which I’ve itemised,’ Monty said, pointing at the top sheet. ‘You’ve got your anti-personn
el fragmentation mine or stake mine, as we call them. Basically it functions by pressure on a trip wire. They tend to be placed on the surface, either left visible to create a barrier or camouflaged with vegetation.’

  ‘What’s the lethal hazard area?’

  ‘About ten metres, but fragmentation can be projected out to a hundred,’ Monty said, lifting a cup to his lips and taking a quick gulp of coffee. ‘Then you’ve got your anti-personnel bounding fragmentation mine. Again functioned by tension on a trip wire, or command-detonated by an electrical charge sent to the mine. On initiation, a small charge propels the mine into the air normally to about waist height.’

  ‘Nice,’ Tallis said dryly.

  ‘The joker in the pack is that the main charge then sends out fragmentation, increasing the hazard area.’

  ‘How do you identify it?’

  ‘It’s normally buried with the fuse mechanism visible above the surface,’ Monty said.

  ‘The last type is an anti-personnel blast mine, a PMN. It injures the victim using just the explosive content but it also causes fragmentation from the ground—rocks, earth, stones—resulting in these being driven into the victim by the sheer explosive force.’

  ‘ID?’

  ‘Usually placed on or just below the surface—I’ve included some pics,’ Monty said, pointing at the folder again. ‘At depths greater than 40 millimetres, the fuse may be too well protected by the soil to operate reliably.’ Let’s hope so, Tallis thought. ‘Again, it’s activated by pressure on the top surface of the mine,’ Monty continued. ‘Normally by some poor bastard standing on it. Most are intended to cause serious injury rather than kill, although this rather depends on the size of the charge, but a typical AP will destroy a foot or leg and cause multiple lacerations from casing fragments and debris.’

  ‘Lethal for a child, then,’ Tallis said, thinking of Lena’s daughter.

  ‘Lethal for anyone if you don’t get the necessary medical help in time. You could easily bleed to death.’ Monty drained his cup, viewed Tallis with watchful eyes. ‘None of my business, mate, but are you sure you know what you’re getting into?’