allocated during conception. Her hair colouring, yes. The eyes, maybe. But what else was lurking in his DNA that he’d never been aware of? What genetic predispositions might he be carrying, that he risked passing on to future generations? Both of his parents were part of his nature. And he didn’t regret it. But the feelings stirred up by that thought had become equivocal.
He switched his attention away from the photograph to the Richard Martin print of Win Hill on the adjacent wall. The landscape normally brought him back to earth when he got too preoccupied. Literally back to earth.
Then Ben laughed to himself. All of this anxiety presumed he would ever get married or find a permanent partner. He didn’t have any such intentions at the moment, and maybe that was for the best. He’d really hate to be in Matt’s position, discovering the awful possibilities when it was already too late.
‘This is pretty, but I still prefer cities,’ said Kotsev as they walked by the river after dinner. ‘At ten o’clock at night in Sofia, the streets would be full, even though it’s a Thursday. People would be selling sunflower seeds or salted sweetcorn. They would be buying books from fold-up tables. There would be loud music from stalls dealing in pirated CDs. A few counterfeit Rolex watches or Levi jeans, perhaps. Beggars and street artists, and pickpockets and prostitutes. It would be like a party. Here, there is nothing.’
Fry studied him, wondering whether he was joking. It was difficult to tell sometimes. She could only get a clue by watching his eyes. Then, when he saw her staring, Kotsev laughed.
‘You like living in Sofia?’ she said.
‘In some ways.’
‘It isn’t all one big party, then?’
‘Let me tell you something, Diane. In a suburb of Sofia where I used to live as a young police officer, we were in an old apartment block from the Soviet era. Very grey, very ugly. We had a two-bedroom apartment for the family. But we were lucky. Some of our neighbours had many more children — they had to put mattresses in the kitchen, in the sitting room, on the balcony. Every shop in the neighbourhood had brightly coloured stickers on the door, to show which Mafia protection agency they were insured with. This was normal. It was the way everyone lived, and we understood it.’
‘I don’t think
‘Some people say the power of the Mafia is a necessary phase in the progress towards a capitalist economy,’ said Kotsev, with a questioning tilt of his head.
‘I think that’s rubbish.’
He stopped, teetering on the stone ledge bordering the river. It occurred to Fry that she might be considered foolhardy to be alone at night in a quiet spot with a man she’d met only a few hours ago. But she didn’t feel uneasy at all. Big as he was, she could probably disable Kotsev easily. She hadn’t lost her skills completely.
‘You ought to know how the KGB operated in the old days,’ he said, peering into the dark water. ‘They used the secret service organizations of East European countries as their tools. In Bulgaria, the Darzavna Sigurnost specialized in “wet” operations — contract killings. Do you remember the Markov case? It took place some years ago, at the height of the Cold War. Before your time, perhaps.’ ‘Thank you, Georgi. But I’ve heard of the case. A Bulgarian defector, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes. And after he defected, he was assassinated. In daylight, in a London street. They say he was injected with the poison ricin from the tip of an umbrella. They also say it was the Bulgarian secret service who carried out the assassination. No one in Bulgaria would contradict that report.’
‘Yes, but even so — ’
‘Another dissident was shot in the back with a poisoned bullet near the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Ricin was used in that incident, too.’
‘But — ’
Kotsev held up a hand. ‘Wait. There was the attempted assassination of Pope John Paul II in 1981. You remember? It was alleged that Darzavna Sigurnost recruited the hit men who carried out the shooting — two Turks. When one of them was captured by the Italians, he made allegations against our secret service. But he retracted them after a spell in the Rebibbia jail in Rome, where he was allegedly threatened by Bulgarian agents. Afterwards, he blamed the plot on the Vatican itself.’
‘Even so, Georgi — ’
Kotsev laughed. ‘Yes, you’re right. Even so. Like you, Sergeant, I do not believe our beloved secret service was involved in the killing of Dimitar Iliev.’
‘Who was it, then? Simcho Nikolov?’
‘Well, these killings were probably carried out by a local person, a paid assassin. Someone like Simcho Nikolov, perhaps. But it’s possible they were ordered by a major Bulgarian crime boss, one of the remaining Mafia. A very powerful man, particularly now that some of his leading rivals have been … eliminated. A man with friends in high places.’
Fry fought a brief internal battle between her own ambition and what she knew to be the proper protocol. Finally, she sighed. ‘This is really a matter for Special Branch or MI5 — they’re our lead bodies for organized crime. You’re scheduled to meet with them tomorrow in Chesterfield for a briefing on the Zhivko brothers.’
‘The Zhivkos are not a loss,’ said Kotsev, with a faint air of disappointment.
They had arrived at the point where water poured over a weir and the river formed little wooded islands populated by sleeping birds. Even at this time of the evening there were people by the river, enjoying an oasis of peace under the shadow of St Mark’s Church. Kotsev paused again.
‘We have our tourist attractions in Pleven, also,’ he said, admiring the reflection of the illuminated church spire in the water.
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. If you ever visit our city, you must see our famous Pleven Panorama — the largest structure of its kind in the world. Larger, even, than the Borodino Panorama in Moscow.’
‘Wonderful.’
Fry wasn’t sure she knew what a panorama was. She’d always thought it was one of those views of the countryside from the top of a hill that Ben Cooper loved so much. But that didn’t sound like what Georgi was talking about.
‘The Pleven Panorama tells a great story. The tragic destiny of our people, their dramatic fight, the compassion in the hearts of our Russian brothers. Within the Panorama, the spectator sees a charge of the Turkish cavalry, smoking shells, burning fires in the city, the Russian General Skobelev attacking a Turkish fortification. This attraction causes a great deal of interest in our city.’
‘As you said yourself, we don’t know much about Bulgarian history here.’
‘No, of course.’ Kotsev smiled. ‘But its construction might be of interest to you.’
He looked at her, as if expecting a reaction. But she still didn’t know quite what he was telling her.
‘I don’t think so,’ she said.
‘Ah, well.’
He began to walk on again, but Fry stopped him.
‘Georgi, who should we be looking for? If the Zhivkos and Simcho Nikolov came, then who else is here?’
‘Here?’ He laughed. ‘Here in the United Kingdom? You could start with seven thousand Bulgarian entrepreneurs. Including, perhaps, a one-legged roofer.’
The breeze was turning cool down by the river. Fry shivered a little, wishing she’d brought something warmer to put on. Apart from when she was at the office, she always seemed to make the wrong decisions about what to wear.
‘You’ve lost me,’ she said. ‘It was all making sense, right up until the bit about the one-legged roofer.’
Kotsev easily kept pace with her as she headed along the river towards the bridge. A few minutes’ brisk walking, and she could be back in her car with the heater turned up.
‘You don’t recall?’ he said. ‘A few years ago, your government introduced a so-called visa fast-track system. The purpose was to encourage entrepreneurs from Eastern Europe to come to the UK and set up business. Sadly, this system went badly wrong. Applications were not checked efficiently — many were not checked at all. Seven thousand unskilled Bulgarians and Romanians were allowed into your country on visas meant for entrepreneurs.’
‘Yes, I remember now. But the one-legged roofer?’
