The Oktober Projekt (27 page)

‘You’ll have your ruddy pound of flesh,’ promised Blackmore as
they reached the front door.

‘I’ll have more than that,’ said Nick.

When Blackmore reviewed this oblique statement of Nick’s much
later, he only then appreciated that Nick’s words were uttered more as a
warning, rather than a general observation.

A cab had somehow strayed through the cordon and made it down
the street. Faced by all the police vehicles and the armed presence on the
doorstep, it beat a fast tack the way it had come its engine whining in
reverse.

‘Just keep me informed,’ said Nick.

Squeezing by the armed guard Nick tramped miserably back to the
Range Rover, its driver passing his time with a crossword. Drizzle floated in
front of Nick and the rattle of the generator in the garden mocked his going.
Tomorrow would be another defeat he decided, but for who he couldn’t tell.

Twelve

Points of Closure

London, November

Nick
arrived at the cemetery a good half-hour after everyone else. Paying
off the taxi at the gates, Nick bought a handful of carnations from a wooden
shack with a striped awning bleached pale by different seasons. He stole
through the tall gates, a November mist heavier than sea fog smothering the
high slopes too steep for graves. His nerves no longer relaxed, they were
somebody else’s, on loan and out of tune with his body. He was in a constant
state of readiness, alert and tense, everything became suspect; cars and vans
were a threat, Moscow’s shadow inside every one of them.

Narrow paths surrounded him, stretching out between the
crematorium and a railway cutting going nowhere except the unknown. A crumpled
figure hobbled past on a path of gravel and rotting leaves, disappearing
quickly as if he’d never existed. Nick halted and tried to remember his way
amongst forlorn carved angels standing as glum as sentries, their faces mauled
by age and sepulchral ruins hacked at by vandals. Twice he stumbled in the
gloom over wiry roots erupting on the path. Somewhere a dog was barking and a
harsh voice, girl’s or woman’s, called it to heel. Disturbed by the noise rooks
cried in flight, coming down to hunch sullenly in the high branches. A council
estate peered at him from his right, a sprawl of chintz, lace and satellite
dishes separated by a concrete wall with holes beaten in it. Then he recalled
how the path divided; to the left broad and uphill all the way to the
crematorium, the other, the one he was on ran twisting and dipping towards the
railway cutting. For this last part Nick took to the grass walking between
graves, and sometimes over them glancing at the chiselled names on the
headstones. On one plot a bright marble slab declared eternal hope with a
confident assertion: ‘Resting Where No Shadow Falls.’ Only Moscow’s Nick thought,
gaining his bearings.

Ahead a hearse and its dark cousins pulled up beside a low
island of clay, a clot of mourners gathered around. Family and friends
consoling Angie’s parents, her mother taking centre stage; respects paid,
promises made to be broken. Nick knew there was no point approaching; Angie’s
mother would only make a scene, accuse him of even being late for her
daughter’s funeral, another example if one were needed, of his despicable,
errant behaviour.

Hanging back until they’d all driven off, Nick walked slowly to
the grave where Angie was joining their son. He cast his carnations on a pile
of wreaths with their smudged accolades and depressing clichés the dead always
receive, colour from the flowers proud against a bed of freshly turned clay. He
tilted a couple of damp cards and they left a smear of white paste on his
fingers, biodegradable just like Angie. One wreath outdoing the rest, an
impressive display forming a huge cross of white and yellow chrysanthemums, its
card written in Latin, ‘
Haud vita est attero ut lost obses posterus
,’ which Nick roughly translated as ‘No life is
wasted when lost securing the future’. There wasn’t a name to go with the noble
declaration and Nick tore off the card.

 
Of all roads and
destinies Moscow has ruined mine, he thought. It is a war of attrition and
Moscow is both my enemy and my hope, mine alone. Nick looked around, by the
grave the mist was thinner, wisps of smoky air hovering a foot above the earth,
a surreal impression of a curtain partly raised. Behind him he heard the
reality of the traffic sluggishly pushing up the main road. Heard too the real
fall of feet on gravel, pausing, starting up again. Magwitch come to demand a
file? Or Lubov risen like Banquo for revenge?

‘You’ll make them pay,’ said Rossan, his thin shoulders hunched
towards the grave.

‘Will I?’

‘Isn’t that the plan?’

Staring down at Angie’s coffin Nick wondered if he had a plan,
if Lubov’s treasure wasn’t worth pursuing, its price too high. Not knowing if
he’d be ever able to revisit Angie and Tom. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’

So they set off in a slow procession; Nick a pace ahead walking
towards the cutting where the mist hung in tatters, the ground steaming as a
weak sun stole into the gloom. Once more he had a vague uncertainty about him;
introspective, a man with the answer but no question. A train sped past leaving
the hum of electric current in the air.

‘Found anything on Georgs Lauvas yet?’ Nick asked.

‘Only bits and pieces that conform he was using freelance
photography as cover,’ said Rossan, his warm breath streaming after them in the
cold air. ‘There’s no trace of the other team members from the maisonette, but
they’ve found a tattoo on the one hit by the train. Spetsnaz.’ Rossan looked
Nick square in the eye, started to speak then hesitated.

‘What is it?’

Moistening his lips, brushing his nose with his thumb, Rossan
delved into his pocket removing a small clear evidence bag. ‘Jane found this
when she went through Anastasiya’s things before she interviewed her,’ he said,
having to clear his throat, handing the bag across.

Nick felt a rush of blood heat his cheeks, turn his hand cold
as he stared at the bag. Forcing his fingers to move he opened the bag, shaking
out a Hirsh ring; inside its band a simple engraving bearing Angie and Nick’s
names with the date of their marriage.
  

‘Thanks,’ said Nick, closing his hand gripping the ring tight.

A footbridge with smashed lights suddenly reared up in front of
them. Nick took the rungs two at a time stopping three from the top and
turning. ‘Moscow have used Angie to tie us in knots,’ he suggested, pocketing
the ring.

With Nick leading the way they crossed the bridge. On their
right a crescent of shops curving away, their lights streaking the mist with
golden strands as smudged outlines passed their windows. A hairdresser’s
offered cheap rates for pensioners, but none had been tempted as three stylists
lounged by the door drinking coffee.

‘We do have a means of undoing the knot,’ said Rossan.

‘Enough for me to work on?’

‘They’ve been sweating Brigita Voldes, or whatever her damn
name is, telling her if she cooperates now we can arrange a very swift flight
home for her and the children. Downing Street and the FCO are extremely keen to
buy into it, they have her down with Anastasiya as quick returns anyway,
minimum fuss,’ said Rossan, passing Nick a folded square of paper. ‘You didn’t
get that from me.’

‘She’s giving us the sprats,’ Nick suggested, glancing at the
typewritten details, ‘giving Moscow time to tie off the remainder of the
network.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to follow this up on your own, remember
C’s orders. You’re back, but you’re out. You’re official, but you’re not. You
report to him but you report to Jane.’

‘He’s scheming again, listening to Downing Street and assisting
them to pack their political baggage.’

‘I don’t think some people appreciate you not being top of the
wanted tree,’ Rossan confessed as they stopped outside a betting shop. ‘Hawick,
C, Jane and Roly are continually locked in conference, the atmosphere poisonous
enough to kill a canary stone dead.’

 
‘What they don’t
know won’t harm them,’ said Nick, wondering exactly what they did know.
                 

‘Mind how you go, Nick,’ said Rossan, patting Nick’s shoulder,
walking off.

‘See you later,’ said Nick, lost in thought. Lighting a cigarette
he stood there, watching the footbridge trying to determine if he’d actually
seen a figure loitering on the other side or was it just the mist playing
tricks.

Nick wrapped his fingers around the folded paper in his pocket;
another trail to Moscow waiting to be uncovered he decided trooping off to
Beckenham Junction station. I’ll rest soon he promised himself turning in time
to see Pete Hindon, one of Bailrigg’s loyal surveillance officers – or in
CO8 jargon, a footpad – faithfully in step.

On the train back to London Nick gazed distractedly from the
window counting off the minutes, thinking of Lubov and all those who had died
because of his secret. Of how death stalked him continually, how it always
managed to be there at his side; as though he were tied inexorably to it,
haunted, threatened, never allowed peace. Leaving Victoria station Nick huddled
up his body and walked carelessly into a mean day. At some point Hindon had
called for support from a mobile surveillance team, a Vauxhall Vectra locking
on tight behind him. Very nice thought Nick, as Hindon’s familiar face
cheerfully played follow my leader. But for now Nick concentrated on getting to
Aldwych by bus from Millbank and from there on by foot; variations to a theme
as he collected Danny’s BMW from the car park on Upper St. Martins Lane.

Thin arms of late afternoon river mist started to stretch out
over the city, a wet haze forming on the windscreen. On every precious mile the
Vectra refused to let a car separate them; sticking so close Nick thought he
was towing an old friend. Up to now his life seemed to be moving in tandem with
phases of the earth – light and dark, sun and stars, people living,
people dead. Nick drove into Plaistow parking by Upton Park, home of West Ham
United football club. As he walked away from the BMW he heard the Vectra’s door
click behind him; so you fancy a run for your money, do you? Nick set his eyes
firmly ahead as the river mist thickened, dousing his face.

Glancing back every few yards Nick moved away from the stadium,
a footpad faithfully in step, his very own incubus. Crossing William Morley
Close he slowed to throw another glance behind. There was at least one footpad
with the Vectra maintaining its distance Nick reasoned, travelling parallel
with the river, the streets subdued and silent as drizzle fell. Nick turned
without warning into a doorway of a rag merchants, its windows filled by
coloured layers of clothes. When the footpad drew level Nick came out faster
than he went in. He struck three times. The last combination of his knee and
hand dropped the footpad in a groaning pile.

Impassively watching from the Vectra, the driver kicked the
accelerator in applause. Game on thought Nick, walking off, the car clinging to
his heels as he drifted through hanging bands of mist; his journey determined,
his purpose equally resolute. All the while another footpad loped dutifully
along behind him. Footsteps that we can never call our own, Nick repeated in a
mindless canto, the headlights melting the sticky mist as he pushed on turning
in a wide arc. For this side of the river still held him, here he had business
to complete. Maybe Bailrigg wasn’t interested in his destination but preventing
him from getting there, considered Nick quickening his pace.

The mist thicker now creeping up walls spreading itself out,
reducing everything before him to dim and shapeless outlines. So that when he
came to The Mayflower tavern on Royal Victoria Dock Road, the mist lay dense in
its mock Tudor galleries giving the impression of the stern of a galleon run
aground. And Nick a doughty pilgrim of a different age, snubbed the marmalade
light and laughter of the tourist bar and headed instead into the back room and
a bar much smaller where no attempt to recreate Dickens’s London had been made.
With a whisky in his hand Nick settled at a table by the window. There was a
full five-minute lull before the footpad crept into the bar, uncomfortable,
edging through the solemn drinkers to buy himself a half, positioning himself
by a fruit machine as though absorbed by the whirling skein of coloured lights.

His glass empty, Nick made his way to the lavatories, down a
flight of steps noticing as he went the layout for the emergency exit. Instead
of a stall he chose a cubicle and waited. The footpad with only himself to
blame, followed. Nick heard the outer door close, the footpad’s steps, then
each cubicle door tried in turn. Standing on the toilet bowl his hands on the
greasy top edge of the unlocked door, Nick waited for the pressure. Swinging
the door inwards at the same time as the footpad pushed, and with the full
weight of his knee, he caught the footpad just under the line of his jaw.
 

Nick propelled forward by his own momentum, hit him twice more
in rapid succession. ‘Bloody drunks,’ said Nick stepping over the footpad’s
floored body, as someone came in and headed for the stalls. He heard a quip on
tourists before the toilet door sprang shut, but by then he was through the
emergency exit. Out into the yard he climbed up a stack of beer kegs, balanced
on the rib of wall before dropping into the street. Cutting back away from the
river then changing direction again, his back clean, Nick made his way to
Poplar Dock.
 

Staring at Nick from her
houseboat Ruth Parfrey seemed reluctant to answer his knocks, or grant him
entry. In the wheelhouse her arms folded tightly across her chest, Parfrey
fixed Nick with a fierce glare.
 
 

‘A couple of minutes, Ruth, that’s all I want,’ Nick told her
after his persistence finally persuaded her to open the door.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said belligerently.

From the wheelhouse modified into a sun deck with wicker
armchairs, potted palms and cane furniture grouped in a circle, she led Nick
down to the main saloon. Two long sofas hugged the hull’s walls, a far bulkhead
held bookcases, and in a corner a wood burning stove filled the air with its
thick warmth. As far as Nick remembered Parfrey lived alone, but down here
there was a sense of things being shared, of two people, not one.

‘What is it?’ she asked, dumping herself onto a sofa folding up
newspapers, putting a plate filled with crumbs by her feet. ‘I’m not feeling
particularly well, that’s why I’ve taken a couple of days leave, must be coming
down with something.’