Ghosts - 05 (9 page)

He absently followed her towards the garage. A wrecked, bearded man was slumped against the wall. He looked up as they approached and asked in Russian if they would buy him a bottle of vodka. Anna dismissed him curtly and went inside. Beside the fuel, the proprietor had a ramshackle business selling beer and vodka, stationery, pornography, cigarettes, bootleg DVDs and perfume. The man glared at Milton from over the counter, a baseball bat ostentatiously propped against the wall, and when he came over to the till to accept Anna’s payment, he revealed an empty trouser leg that hung loose between his good leg and his crutch. He wasn’t old enough for Afghanistan, Milton guessed. Chechnya.

“You smoke?” she said as they walked across the forecourt together to the car.

“Now and again,” he said.

“Here.” She tossed him a packet of Winstons.

“Haven’t seen these for a while,” he admitted as he tore the wrapper from the pack.

“Taste like shit and they still sell more here than anything else.”

Milton put one of the cigarettes to his lips and lit it. The tobacco was harsh and bitter and strong and he had to stifle the urge to cough.

“See what I mean?” she said, a half-smile brightening her face.

“It’s a challenging taste,” he said, briefly raising an eyebrow. He mastered it and filled his lungs.

“We’re halfway there,” she said.

“What time will we get in?”

“Provided it doesn’t snow, around ten.”

“And if it snows?”

“Then we’ll sleep in the car.”

PYLOS WAS an enchantingly pretty place. There were onion domed churches and brightly painted wooden houses with ornate carved window frames and zinc and tin roofs, spilling down a hillside to a waterfront of fine former merchants houses and colourful houseboats. The main street was tiny and entirely free of designer shops and even the advertising for Western brands, ubiquitous in every other town through which they had passed. Milton had visited upstate New York on several occasions and the town reminded him of Bridgehampton: deliberately folksy, carefully low-key, yet the signs that it was saturated with money were obvious if you knew where to look.

The dacha was on the other side of the town, just outside the boundary. Large residences started to appear, walled and gated, all with plenty of land and access to the Volga. Milton stared through the window across the vast expanse of water. It was five hundred metres wide and seventy-five metres deep, the moon throwing a rippling stripe of light across the blue-black water. Milton saw the two police speedboats bobbing at anchor and, as he looked further towards the other bank, he saw the discreet signs of military activity. He knew there was no point in asking, but it was easy to guess what that meant: a place like this, with all these big summer retreats, there had to be a good chance that members of the political elite could be found here. Oligarchs, crime lords, high-ranking military officials, all of them swimming in the money that the new Russia showered on the chosen few.

Vladimir slowed and turned off the road, proceeding along a short drive to a pair of gates. There were two armed guards just inside and Milton noticed the CCTV cameras that were trained down on them; after a moment, the gates parted and they continued onwards. Milton concentrated on taking in everything he could. The dacha was large, much bigger than the cabin that he had naïvely expected. They approached it along a short drive that passed through a festive Russian landscape, stands of silver birches alternating with thrusting fir and redolent pines, the greensward between them obliterated by the deep falls of snow. There was an area for parking cars and the driver reversed next to another big executive Range Rover and an army jeep. The snow had been shovelled to the edge of the parking area, revealing the frozen gravel beneath, and as Milton stepped down from the car he stood on a twig and snapped it, the sound ringing back through the darkness like the report from a rifle. That, and the crunch of their boots on the gravel, were the only sounds; everything else was muffled, as quiet as the grave. Milton scoped out his surroundings as he allowed himself to be led to the entrance. To the south was a frozen stream, crossed, if necessary, by two planks which met at a man-made island in the middle. On the other side of the stream, and similarly set out along the banks of the Volga, were other dachas, each of them seemingly larger than the last. Milton saw smoke emerging from the chimney of the nearest one but the rest seemed deserted. The illuminated green roof and golden cupolas of a Church poked through a stand of fir. Icicles hung from the eaves of roofs, icy daggers that shimmied and glimmered. The road that they had entered on was quiet. There were no other people abroad. Anna had been right: this was perfect isolation. It was the ideal place to hold a meeting that no-one else could know about.

Vladimir led the way to the front door. It opened on his approach and he conferred in Russian with the guard who stood behind it. The man was armed: Milton recognised his holstered weapon as an MP-443 Grach, the double-action, short-recoil 9mm that was standard issue Russian service pistol. The conversation was brief, and evidently satisfied, the guard nodded and stepped aside. Vladimir waited at the door; Milton followed Anna past them both and inside.

He took it all in, unconsciously performing a tactical assessment. There was a large hallway, with doors opening out into the rest of the dacha in all three internal walls. A flight of stairs led up to a first floor and, he guessed, to a second and third above that.

Anna noticed him paying attention; she smiled and nodded at him. “It is quite something, yes?”

She thought that he was impressed. Fair enough; he would rather she thought that than the truth, which was that he was working out the best way to breach the thick oak door. “Who owns it?” he asked.

“The federal intelligence service.”

“I saw a lot of big places as we came in.”

“Plyos is special, Mr. Milton. Very exclusive.”

“And why’s that?”

“Have you heard of Isaac Levitan?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

She pointed to the wide canvas that was hung above the fireplace in the sitting room. It was a beautiful landscape, the distinctive bulbs of a Russian church reflecting against the water of a wide river. “He was the most famous Russian landscape painter of the nineteenth century. He worked here. He painted it many times. That is one of his works.”

“I’m not great with art.”

She ignored that. “Repin, Savrasov and Makovsky, too. All of them worked here. It is very beautiful in the daylight.”

“Shame we’re not here to visit, then.”

“Yes. There will be no time for sightseeing, not like in Moscow.”

He ignored the jibe and allowed her to lead the way upstairs. They reached a landing with several doors leading from it; again, he committed the layout to memory. She took him halfway down and pushed one of the doors ajar.

“This is your room,” she said.

Milton opened the door fully and looked inside. It was a large room, dominated by a four poster bed. It was simply but evocatively furnished, with heavy Volga linens and had a brick stove beneath a marble fireplace. A fire had been made, and, as the flames curled around the logs that had been stacked there, they cast their orange and yellow light into the dark corners. It was warm and friendly.

“Please, stay here tonight. There’s nothing to see in the village after dark and there are armed guards posted outside. They have been told to prevent you from leaving. I’m sure you could avoid them but it wouldn’t do you any favours. The temperature up here is colder than in Moscow. If you don’t have the right clothes, and you don’t, you wouldn’t last twenty minutes. Much better to stay here, where it’s warm. Okay?”

“Don’t worry,” Milton said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She nodded her approval. “The cook will prepare anything you like for your dinner. It will be brought to your room.” She indicated the telephone next to the bed with a nod of her head. “You just need to dial 1 to speak to the kitchen.”

He stepped further into the room, sat on the edge of the bed and started to work his boots off.

Anna stayed at the door. “The colonel is arriving tomorrow morning. He wants to see you immediately. We will have breakfast together and then I will introduce you.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Her face softened with the beginnings of a careful smile. “My room is next door. If you need anything, you only need knock.” She said it as she stared into his face; it was meant to be meaningful, and Milton did not mistake the message.

He was tempted, but he did not take the bait. “Thank you,” he said. “In the morning, then.”

If she was offended, she didn’t show it. “Sleep well, Mr. Milton,” she said, closing the door. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

MILTON WAS AWOKEN by the sound of an engine. He reached out for his watch: the luminous dial showed a little after three. He slipped out of bed and, crossing the room quietly, reached the window and parted the thick blackout curtains. Snow was falling heavily outside, fat flakes that had already piled two inches deep against the sill and limited the view to a handful of metres. Milton saw headlights approaching from the road, an amber glow that moved slowly through the blizzard. A large, humvee style vehicle painted in military camouflage drew into the parking space and reversed to a halt so that its rear doors faced the dacha. Milton recognised the vehicle as a GAZ 2975 Tiger: large, heavily-treaded tyres, an armoured cabin and narrow windows at the front, rear and along each flank. Troop transport, for the most part, and rugged enough to make short work of this weather. The engine cut out and the driver and passenger-side doors opened. Two soldiers disembarked, crunched across the compacted snow to the rear and opened the doors. The driver hauled himself up into the back and emerged with a third man. He looked half-unconscious, falling to one knee as his feet hit the ground. The two men put his arms across their shoulders and dragged him into the dacha. Milton’s view was from above and obscured by the wide flanks of the Tiger and the falling snow, but he saw enough of the man’s face to recognise Captain Michael Pope.

MAMOTCHKA KNEW PLENTY about colonel Pavel Valerievich Shcherbatov. He had first been called Pasha when he was a little boy; it was the diminutive of his forename and it had stuck with him ever since. For a man in his position of authority it might have been assumed by his juniors that the formal approach would be appropriate but Shcherbatov’s reputation went before him and he had found that he could afford give the impression of avuncularity; no-one who knew anything about him could have been confused about the consequences of taking advantage of his good nature. He was an amiable man, prone to laughter, and his easy smile had carved deep lines from the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. But he was a cunning man, an operator of the highest order, and those eyes shone with a wary intelligence that was impossible to miss. He was also ruthless and without scruple. It was difficult to advance in the Russian intelligence service without those qualities.

Shcherbatov was sixty-two and in excellent shape. He ran five miles around the SVR’s indoor track in Yasenevo every morning and made it his habit to complete at least one marathon a year; he could still cover the Moscow course in under four hours. His exertions had kept him trim and supple. One of his few weaknesses was vanity, and that he could still turn the heads of the women under his command was important to him. He was not wearing his uniform when he came into the room where Milton and Anna were waiting for him. He was wearing a black sweater and jeans.

“Captain Milton,” he said. “I am Pavel Valerievich Shcherbatov. It is good to meet you.”

He extended his hand and, after a short pause, Milton took it. His shake was firm and Milton could feel how powerful his grip could be; it was a strangler’s grip.

“I admit I know much about you, Captain. You can be sure I will not underestimate you.”

Milton held onto his hand for a moment longer than was necessary and then let go.

Shcherbatov smiled at that, unfazed. “We have Department of Analysis and Information in Moscow. They have attributed many kills to you. I have worked with the most dangerous assassins in Russian Federation and, before that, Soviet Union. You are as dangerous as any of them.”

Milton shrugged off the praise. “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about you, colonel.”

“Call me Pasha,” he said. “Please. No need for formality.”

“That’s alright. I’d prefer colonel, if you don’t mind.”

“Very well, Captain Milton. But I must ask: are you sure you do not know me?”

Milton looked at him again. “No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Your memory is poor, Captain Milton. You do not remember our previous meeting? Surely ten years is not so long that you would forget?”

Now he did pause and Shcherbatov noticed his renewed interest. “Why don’t you help me out?” he suggested.

“In career, how many targets escaped you?”

“Not many,” he said, although he had made the connection now. “There was one, right at the start.”

“I believe I am fortunate enough to say I am only man you were sent to kill who got away.” He smiled benignly at him. “We were going to see your Control. You and another agent attacked car. I escaped. You did not shoot me. Do you remember now?”

“I never knew your name,” he said.

“I am sure you did not. I believe I was SNOW. My companion, Anastasia Ivanovna Semenko, was DOLLAR. She was not as fortunate.”

Milton flexed, sensing the unsaid threat in Shcherbatov’s words.

“Do not concern yourself, Captain. I do not seek revenge––at least not from you. You were following orders. You are soldier. I understand how that works.”

He didn’t relax. “So why am I here?”

“Because I have something for you to do.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, colonel. I’m out of the game. I’m not interested.”

“Then I must ask you––why did you come?”

“I didn’t have a choice.” He turned to the girl. “Your comrade dragged me here. She says you have a friend of mine.”