The Case of the General's Thumb (20 page)

And five minutes later it did.

“He was the one who came about a TV aerial!”

That evening Georgiy rang to say that he'd alerted the SVI concerning the minivan, and would keep Viktor informed.

And later there was a TV news flash to the effect that a minivan,

probably a Ford Transit, of Miller Ltd Suspended Ceilings, was being sought in connection with a hit-and-run accident, and that anyone sighting it, or aware of its present whereabouts, should ring the SVI on such-and-such a number.

Just short of midnight Georgiy rang again.

“Not in bed, I trust. We've identified your corpse: former parachute captain turned security consultant. Can't say I'm exactly clear, though, as to what occurred. Has Ira said?”

“She doesn't remember.”

“Look, I'm not playing investigating officer – just curious. It was a militia issue automatic – presumably yours – he was shot with. And it was Ira who shot him. How exactly did that come about?”

“I'll take it up with her as soon as she's herself again.”

“No need. I only wondered whether some other nifty marksman might not have been there. A friend of yours, say.”

“No, she was alone.”

“Not to worry. Take it easy.”

Filled with unease, Viktor threw on a coat and went out.

Complete silence. Not even the clank of a distant tram. Nothing but black sky and a chilly twinkling of stars.

Thinking of London, and Refat and Wojciech, both knowing more than they told, he wished what they knew could be brought together with what he and Georgiy knew. He dialled Refat's Moscow number on his mobile, only to be told, “The number you have dialled is not available”.

Two peaceful days followed, and but for the strain he felt under, he could well have been on leave. At times, however, it occurred to him that for his own peace of mind it might be no bad thing to get away completely from the mystery and menace generated by the case.

The dry, snowless weather invested Pushcha-Voditsa with an almost fairy-tale quality.

He pushed Yana for little walks in the wood that lay between
them and the river, crunching sere oak and maple leaves underfoot. The few locals they encountered were beginning to wish them good day, and Viktor was beginning to know their faces.

So integral to the silence was the faint echo of trams, that when some time passed without it, Viktor became uneasy – not on account of the trams, but because any break in the barely perceptible rhythm of the place took his thoughts back to Kiev, Nik Tsensky and the body in their flat.

Ira was serenity itself, having discovered in the sideboard a dog-eared copy of Gorky's Artamonov Affair. It was not easy going, but in peaceful moments she engrossed herself in it to the exclusion of all else. Looking to see what else the sideboard might hold, Viktor found War and Peace, Crime and Punishment, Chekhov short stories, and Shevchenko's The Minstrel, and wondered how long it would take her to get through that lot.

“When will it all be over?” Ira asked one evening, when Yana was in bed and they were drinking tea.

“Soon,” he promised, “and when it is, we'll go on holiday.”

“Summer's the best time for that.”

“We'll be finished by then.”

At that moment his mobile rang in the pocket of his jacket hanging in the corridor.

“Found your Miller Ltd – in woods near Irpyen. Stripped of equipment, but plainly it's been used for eavesdropping. I sent a bod to check your flat, and he's just reported: two bugs in your corridor, and outside in the hall, there was a mini security camera trained on your door. So all this time you've been appearing on telly. Oh, and another thing. A highly intriguing piece of info. from a neighbour source regarding our German friend. We must meet.”

“When?”

“Not going anywhere, are you?”

“Some hopes!”

“Park yourself where I won't wake the house when I ring.”

It was nearly 1.00 before he did.

“Come forth, listening all the way.”

Viktor crept from the house and out through the gate.

“Cross the road, head straight for the lake … See the life-saver hut?”

“I think so.”

“There's a seat there. Come and join me.”

A seat so sheltered from moonlight as to conceal Georgiy's features, but not the fact that he was a good head taller than Viktor.

They shook hands.

“Switch your mobile off, put it away and listen. Nik Tsensky, it appears, is gunning for ‘our man in Paris' and I – I'm given quietly to understand – am to see that we get Tsensky before Tsensky gets ‘our man'. A bit of a scream, that, coming from a section supposed to be unaware of our doings and our interest in Tsensky. The practical implication is that we are up against someone on our side of the house. Someone in a hurry to knock off Tsensky, now probably hot on the trail of the hoard. Someone smart enough to count on our having a greater interest in finding a live Tsensky to go shares with.”

“So?”

“We've no choice, we go ahead as instructed, but alone and to our own agenda. So you've got your dream. You fly to Paris!”

“But I don't speak French.”

“You got by in London without English. There are times when it's a plus not knowing the language. Takes them a day to find an interpreter if they pull you in, ample time to think up some cock-and-bull yarn about ‘a militia assignment'.”

“Why should they pull me in?”

“You might accidentally kill somebody.”

“With no gun?”

“A state our people will remedy. But keep them at arm's length, that Paris lot. You don't fraternize, just accept what they say, and go.
If they follow, lead them a dance, get them worried, then lose them.”

“Do Ira and Yana stay on here?”

“I think so. We'll move them, if need be. Warn Ira. Tell her, Georgiy will ring.”

“There's no phone.”

“Tomorrow morning there'll be a phone. Your plane's tomorrow evening. We'll send our taxi.”

The week went slowly.

By now Nik had spent three nights in Tatiana's tiny flat. They breakfasted and dined together. Each evening he met her punctually from work, and together they leisurely followed some new side-street route from Aeroflot to Sino-Arab Belleville.

On the Wednesday evening, over Turkish coffee in a Turkish restaurant, he plucked up the courage to ask how she would feel about his giving up his hotel room and moving in.

“Of course, especially as you're not earning,” was her answer.

“I've money enough for the moment, and I can look for a job … I've a German passport.”

“German?” she asked in surprise. “You didn't say.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course not. But jobs are scarce. I'll ask around. You've worked as an interpreter?”

“English, German, French.”

For a while they sat thinking, Tatiana about jobs, Nik about the imminent return of Pierre and the need to resolve things one way or another: give Security at the Embassy the low-down on the billions, rehabilitate himself, induce Security to forget his existence.

As to the money of dubious origin secreted in his case at the
hotel, the sensible thing would be to open an account and bank it the very next day.

On Thursday evening it was a tired, angry Tatiana who came from Aeroflot with no more than the ghost of a smile for her waiting Nik.

“It's been one hell of a day! Let's go for a coffee.”

A whole lot of strange Russians had been phoning and asking for Tereshchenko in connection with some mix-up over a pre-paid joint ticket. Tereshchenko was actually due back tomorrow, Friday, but the story they put out had been “not until Monday” to allow him time to think.

Tereshchenko, like Weinberg, was between a rock and a hard place. Maybe that was the reason for his going to the Midi. It was time they talked.

“How about seeing a film tomorrow?” Tatiana asked, suddenly her old self again.

“Tomorrow I've got to meet someone, I'm afraid.”

“The day after, then,” she said brightly.

At 8.00 a white Volga drew up at the gate.

Looking in on Ira and finding her awake, Viktor kissed her goodbye, and she managed a sleepy smile, her grumpiness about his going forgotten.

“When will you be back?”

“I'll ring.”

Checking that the car's registration was as Georgiy had said, he threw his bag in the back and was about to sit in the front, when the driver, a severe but intelligent-looking middle-aged man, motioned him to join his bag.

They eased their way out onto the tram-lined road. It was
snowing lightly, and for a time progress was slow. Beyond Berkhovtsy Cemetery, where the road was sanded, they speeded up a little. Intent on the driving, the driver spoke not at all.

Wintery dawn was breaking as they drove through Kiev. Lights were going on, wan silhouettes stepping out on the pavements.

Glimpsing the block of flats that was home, he felt a pang of nostalgia. From the flower-bed roundabout at the end of Kharkov Highway, they took the Borispol road, and after slackening speed for the SVI check-point, continued at a steady 110 kph.

At the airport, the driver took Viktor's bag.

“It's staff gate for us, so you won't need your passport and there'll be no record of your departure,” he said, opening an inconspicuous door.

A guard in camouflage combat gear saluted, and pointed to a corridor which brought them out onto the apron.

Drawing up at a boarding tunnel exit was a long squat bus.

“That one's yours,” said his driver, handing him a boarding card.

Viktor's ticket was a single, and only when sitting, bag at his feet, on the plane, looking out of the window, did the implications of that strike him. The Tsensky tip-off, as reported by Georgiy, had the appearance of a specially baited trap, but novice as he was, he'd play it hard, this who-eats-who game.

They taxied to the runway, accelerated, and were airborne.

Breaking with the past and hopeful of a future, he met, looking about him, the stare of a thin-faced man with a birthmark on his right cheek. The man looked away, but Viktor felt unsettled for the rest of the flight.

Having only hand luggage, he went straight through to the arrival hall at Charles de Gaulle airport to a young woman displaying his name, who greeted him in Russian, and whisked him away to the car park and a dark green VW Beetle.

“I'll take you to your hotel,” she said briskly. “On the back seat you'll find a briefcase with money, and all you need to tide you over.”

A silence reminiscent of the dawn drive through Kiev followed.

Dropped at the Etoile de Gallieni, he found his single room modest but comfortable. Sitting on his bed, he examined the contents of the briefcase: a velour-wrapped Beretta, spare magazine, a wad of francs, a street map of Paris, a Russian-language guide, a photograph of Tsensky outside Aeroflot, and another with a cross in biro by the first-floor window of a clearly numbered house in a clearly named street. There was also a visiting card inscribed “Mikhail Zhevelov, Real Estate Consultant”, with a mobile number.

As Viktor stared at his own mobile as if in hope of answers, the old-fashioned room phone rang.

“Got everything?” inquired a crystal-clear male Russian voice.

“The briefcase, yes.”

“Two hours from now, Subject will be at Aeroflot, Champs Elysées – it's marked on your map – watching the door. See you do a good job.”

Tsensky was instantly recognizable, standing behind an Arab chestnut seller.

It was nearly 6.00. Aeroflot was shut, most of the staff had left, but lights were still burning.

Viktor positioned himself at a newspaper kiosk some twenty metres off, from which there was a clear view of both Tsensky and Aeroflot.

Animated voices speaking their beautiful but incomprehensible language were filling the broad boulevard. It was Friday evening, and Paris, shop windows aglow, was in weekend mood.

At Aeroflot the display windows dimmed. A tall man in hat and long overcoat came out, locked the door, and headed off in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.

Tsensky set off after him. Viktor followed.

The street into which they emerged from the métro station was near deserted.

Once the tall man glanced over his shoulder as he walked, almost as if to make sure he was being followed. Finally he stopped to open his gate.

Tsensky darted into the nearest doorway.

Viktor walked boldly on past both Tsensky and the gate.

When Viktor looked back, Tsensky had disappeared.

A man in biker leathers appeared from behind a tree and the glint of his machine, and crossed the road to the gate.

Viktor followed.

The tall man had left the front door slightly ajar, and the biker was now standing with his back to it, listening, until a sudden thud prompted him to investigate, automatic in hand.

A door banged.

Seeing the corridor empty Viktor went in, drawing his Beretta.

“Hands up, Tsensky!” he heard. “Up on your feet, Pierre! You, Tsensky, are dead!”

The moment to intervene had come. Kicking open the door, and seeing Tsensky with his hands raised, Pierre bleeding on the floor, and Biker, swinging to face him, Viktor fired twice.

Biker, dying, tried feebly to turn his weapon on Pierre, but Viktor kicked it away.

Tsensky, having meanwhile retrieved his automatic, now held Victor covered.

“I'm from Kiev,” Viktor said uncertainly, by way of explanation.

“To do what?”

“Assist.”

“Drop the gun, sit.”

Viktor joined Pierre on the floor.

“You were waiting for me, so you know what I want,” Tsensky said, addressing Pierre, and receiving no response, struck him in the face with his automatic.

“We'd do better to search,” Viktor said quietly.