“Now what do we do?” Rory said, looking apprehensively round the foyer. On one side were automatic turnstiles coping with a constant stream of morning commuters who thrust plastic cards into the slots.
“According to my guide book, we buy a ten-journey ticket for forty roubles,” Lindsay said.
“Ten journeys for a quid? Hey, I could live like a king here. On you go then, Splash. Show me how it's done.”
With a feeling of trepidation, Lindsay crossed to the ticket booth where a slab-faced middle-aged woman in a polyester flowered dress sat glaring out at the world. Lindsay smiled and held her hands up, fingers splayed to indicate ten. Then she proffered a fifty-rouble note. The woman said something in Russian. Lindsay told her she didn't speak Russian and stretched the smile wider. The women grunted, took the note and exchanged it for a card and a ten-rouble note. “Spasibo bolshoi,” Lindsay said, relieved.
Once they'd negotiated the turnstiles, they found themselves on the longest escalator Lindsay had ever seen. “This is bowels of the earth stuff,” Rory muttered in her ear.
“I suppose it's got to be deep, it goes under the river.”
“Hey, so does the Clockwork Orange, but you don't have to penetrate the planet's crust to use the underground in Glasgow.”
The escalator deposited them in a hallway. On either side, there were rows of closed doors that resembled large lifts. The only indication as to which side of the hallway their train would arrive at were two small illuminated signs hanging from the ceiling. “It's got to be the left-hand side,” Lindsay said, frowning up at the station names.
“Hey, you're really good at this funny alphabet,” Rory said, impressed.
“Hardly. This is the second to last stop going north, and there's only one name on the right-hand board. Whereas there's a whole list of stations on the other one. Ergo . . .”
Rory tutted. “You'd never make it in the Magic Circle, giving away your tricks like that.” As she spoke, they heard a rumbling, and the doors on their side of the hallway slid open, revealing carriages that looked remarkably spacious compared to the familiar ones in Glasgow. They boarded the crowded train and grabbed a metal pole as it pulled out of the station.
“How do we know where to get off ?” Rory asked when they stopped at the next station to the accompaniment of an announcement so corrupted by static that even a Russian speaker would have been hard pressed to figure out its content.
“We count. It's the third station. Ploschad Aleksandra Nevskovo,” Lindsay said, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar name. To take her mind off the nervous butterflies fluttering in her stomach, Lindsay practised her reading of Cyrillic on the handful of adverts on the carriage walls. She couldn't help smiling when, after a struggle, she finally deciphered one as being a transliteration of “internet”.
They emerged at the other end of the journey in a courtyard lined with kiosks selling soft drinks and alcohol, flowers, fruit and CDs. Lindsay took her map out of her backpack and pored over it. “I think we're on Nevsky Prospekt,” she said uncertainly. “If we go up here and take a left, then left again, we should end up on the street where the school is.” She looked up at the corner. “At least they seem to have street signs.”
Since this was the less fashionable end of the long street that sliced through the heart of the city, the pavements were relatively quiet. Most of the people who were out and about were walking briskly with a sense of purpose, focused only on their own business. To Lindsay's amazement, they ended up on Konstantinogradskaya Ulitsa at the first attempt. The street was lined with tall nineteenthcentury apartment buildings and shaded with trees. They strolled along, trying to look casual as they scanned the buildings for any sign of an international school. Two thirds of the way along, the
apartments gave way to a walled courtyard with tall wrought iron gates. There was nothing to indicate what went on in the rosepink building beyond the gates and they carried on to the end of the street.
“Do you think that was it?” Rory asked.
Lindsay shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I guess we'll just have to wait and see where the kids go when they start to arrive.”
“We're going to look a bit obvious, standing around on a street corner,” Rory objected. “Look, there's a bar on the opposite corner. With the tables outside. It looks like they're open for business. We could get a coffee and keep an eye open.”
Lindsay looked doubtful. “It's too far away to be sure of identifying Jack. We've only ever seen photos of him. Kids all look the same at that age.”
“Can I have a look at the map?” Rory asked. Lindsay handed it over and waited while Rory studied it. “OK, here's the plan,” she said. “We go to the café and as soon as kids start arriving, I shoot off round the block so I can come into the street at the other end. You give me a minute or two, then you amble slowly up towards the school. Then we bump into each other outside the school and act like we're old friends who've just met by accident. We can stand having a blether and keeping an eye out for Jack. What do you think?”
“It's worth a try,” Lindsay said. They crossed the street to the café, but just as they were about to sit down, a couple of cars pulled up outside the iron gates. Three children spilled out, followed at a more leisurely pace by their drivers. They exchanged glances, each recognising the flame of adrenaline in the other's eyes. Rory took off at a fast pace down the side street that would bring her the long way round to the other end of the street, while Lindsay began to amble slowly back towards the school.
By the time she was a couple of dozen yards away, upwards of twenty children were milling around on the wide pavement of packed earth. As far as she could see, none of them was the right size, gender or colouring to be Jack Gourlay. As another couple
of cars drew up, one of the gates slowly creaked open and the children flowed through, most without a backward glance at their drivers or their mothers.
Lindsay dawdled on, then, a few feet from the gate, with no Rory in sight yet, she stooped to tie her shoe-lace. She was overtaken by three children who looked around eight years old, then by a harassed looking teenager shouting something at them in German. Reassuringly, none gave her a second glance. Lindsay caught sight of Rory in a gap between what was now a steady stream of children, and stood up, surprised by the flash of delight that sparked inside her.
They achieved the planned rendezvous a few feet from the school gates, greeting each other with every appearance of surprise. While they pretended to make small talk, each was keeping an eye out for Jack. It was Rory who caught sight of him first. “Don't look now,” she said conversationally. “But I think that's him walking towards us. Let's act like we're going to walk back to the café.”
Lindsay turned and immediately saw the child Rory had identified. There was really no mistaking Jack. He looked exactly like the school photograph on top of Bernie and Tam's TV except that then he'd been smiling and now he was scowling as he scuffed the toes of his trainers along the cracked pavement. The woman who held his hand in an iron grip had the same dark hair and beaky nose as she'd seen in photographs of Bruno Cavadino. It had to be them.
Lindsay and Rory set off in the direction of the café, passing the woman and boy without a second glance, but Lindsay was close enough to the woman to hear her say in the irritated voice of adults being embarrassed by a small child the world over, “I don't care what your Papa told you, this is not a holiday and you have to go to school.” As soon as they were clear of the school, Rory glanced back. “She's virtually dragged him into the playground. Looks like he's not keen. Quick, let's duck into this courtyard,” she said, yanking Lindsay by the arm and pulling her into the arched entrance to an apartment block.
“What are you playing at?” Lindsay demanded, staggering to stay upright.
“Chances are she'll come back the same way and we can tail her. Otherwise we'll have to stand around on the street corner and she might pick up on us.” Rory's voice was sharp with excitement. Suddenly, she leaned forward and kissed Lindsay. “I haven't had so much fun for ages.”
Lindsay grinned. “Me neither. But I don't think snogging in public is a good idea in Russia,” she added hurriedly as an elderly woman turned into the courtyard laden with a basket of vegetables.
They didn't have long to wait before Maria Cavadino passed the entry where they were loitering. She was walking quickly, as if she had places to go and things to do. “You go first,” Rory said. “I'll follow you.”
Their little procession made its way through the back streets and courtyards, finally emerging on a street about half a mile further up Nevsky Prospekt. The woman was still walking briskly in spite of the humidity. Eventually, she turned into a refurbished apartment block, complete with a doorman who resembled one of those gigantic statues of Soviet workers.
Lindsay carried on to the corner and waited for Rory to catch her up. “No way we're going to get in there,” Rory said.
“Even supposing we knew which apartment was the right one.”
“So what now?”
Lindsay glanced at her watch. “I'll give Sasha a call, tell him we've struck lucky. He could meet as at that nice café, then we can see how the school day pans out?”
Rory groaned. “How I love stake-outs.”
“Look on the bright side. At least we've got a supply of coffee, and a toilet.”
Rory grinned. “And plenty of time for you to figure out the menu.”
“Why do you think I'm going to get Sasha to join us?”
Chapter 15
Andy Gordon and Tam Gourlay were trying to keep hidden from each other their apprehensions about the next stage of their journey. Tam's anxieties had been tamped down on the journey by Andy's calm handling of the boat and apparent lack of concern about navigating the complex route towards Russian waters. But as the day wore on, the thin line of the horizon had gradually swelled to reveal itself as the line of the barrage that cut off Russian waters from the Gulf of Finland. Andy had explained about the massive sea defences the Russians had constructed, which left only a narrow passage for boats to enter Russian waters via the customs and immigration channel at Kronstadt. Tam had understood the principle. But seeing the reality was something else again.
He couldn't begin to imagine the feat of engineering that had gone into its construction. Andy had told him about the plans to turn the vast dam into a ring road for St Petersburg. But as with so many grandiose Russian projects, this had ground to a halt for lack of funds. Even the barrage itself, which was supposed to prevent flooding as well as to funnel all sea traffic through one channel, had stopped a single kilometre short of the shore.
Yet more impressive than the dam was the city of Kronstadt itself, the fortifications unnervingly solid against the sky, their grey stone as forbidding as the steely waves that beat against the
shore. Tam could imagine the daunting impression it must have made on the enemy. Even isolated from the city of Leningrad, its sole source of supplies, it had withstood almost three years of pounding from German guns and still remained in Russian hands, its defences largely intact. Above its grim exterior rose the vast dome of the cathedral, somehow incongruous in so obviously military a setting. “We couldn't have done this a few years ago,” Andy observed. “Because it was a naval base, it was closed to civilian traffic.” He looked at the chart again. “Time to get the sails down, I think.”
He stayed at the wheel, shouting instructions to Tam, who crawled awkwardly around the deck desperately trying to do what he was told without causing any damage. He felt not so much like a bull in a china shop as a carthorse on a tightrope. Boats were definitely not his natural environment. But he managed to lower the sails without mishap and stumbled back into the cockpit, where Andy was studying the Admiralty chart.
“We're aiming for Fort Konstantin. See that unfinished dyke coming out from the south coast of the island? And the buoyed channel? We need to be north of there.” He adjusted the course so that the bows swung round gently. Twenty minutes later, they were tied up on a pontoon, the only pleasure boat in sight.
“What now?” Tam asked, nervously fingering his passport.
“We wait for the customs to come on board.” As Andy spoke, he spotted a pair of uniformed officers walk down the quay with the swagger of petty bureaucrats everywhere. He readied his own passport and the rest of the paperwork, and arranged his face into a smile of welcome as they boarded. They made an odd couple. The first was tall, blond and narrow-shouldered, his cheeks pocked with old acne scars. The other was short and swarthy, a heavy black moustache shot with silver completely obliterating his upper lip, the buttons of his tunic straining over a round little belly. The dark one said something in Russian. Andy shrugged. “Niet Russki,” he said in his best Argyllshire accent. He proffered both passports and the boat's papers. The blond one reached out and began to study them while the dark one continued to ask them something in Russian.
Andy spread his hands in a shrug of incomprehension. The blond man leaned over and tapped the chart. “Where from?” he said with negligent arrogance.
Andy smiled and nodded. He pointed to the chart, drawing their route with a finger. “We came from Helsinki, through the archipelago. Then we stuck to the Sea Channel and crossed the Russian border here, near Gogland Island. That's what we were told to do by the Russian Embassy in Helsinki.”
The two men conferred, the dark one sounding irritated, the blond appearing completely unconcerned. Eventually, the blond one turned to Andy. “My colleague thinks you entered Russian waters irregularly.”