73
Fort Donaldson, USA
Blackburn wasn’t sure what he felt about being back in America. All he had seen of it so far was at Andrews Air Force base, when they transferred him from the windowless plane to the windowless truck. From the stairs he saw a vast expanse of tarmac, those strange-shaped vehicles that only inhabit airfields and an American flag hanging limp in the humid air. Not realising who he was, a woman, one of the ground crew, looked up as a pretty young woman might at a handsome young man, and gave him the sort of winning smile that brought an instant lump to his throat. Would any woman ever look at him like that again?
He travelled the seven hours to Fort Donaldson in a cubicle inside a prison truck. There was a toilet under the seat so he didn’t have to be let out. A letterbox in the door opened once or twice and a hand offered him a Hershey bar and a bottle of water. There was a window but it had been painted out. Already he felt desperate for the sight of just a bit of sky or a single tree.
Once at Donaldson he was escorted straight to the MP’s facility and into an interview room. A small man with a moustache and big black-rimmed glasses sat at a metal desk, head down, peering at a thick file. He whipped off the glasses and stood up.
‘I’m Schwab, your lawyer.’
The hand Blackburn was offered felt cold and dry, but it was a hand nonetheless. No one had offered him a hand to shake in a long time.
His small mouth twitched into a cautious smile. He knitted his fingers together and leaned over the file. His voice dropped to almost a whisper.
‘I’m the only friend you got right now so the more you confide in me, the more I’ll be able to do for you.’
Blackburn didn’t react. He didn’t feel like confiding. He’d said it all — three, four times he couldn’t remember — to a variety of different people, half of whose names or jobs he never discovered. Bleary and jet-lagged from the flight, not knowing what time it was, he gazed doubtfully at Schwab.
‘What is it exactly that you do?’
Schwab looked thrown.
‘I mean — when you’re not defending me.’
Schwab’s mouth twitched. He pushed his glasses up his nose with an index finger.
‘I defend the un-defendable. Someone’s got to.’
It was a joke of sorts, but it fell way short of Blackburn, who didn’t even know whether he still had a sense of humour. Then without warning, Schwab dropped his bombshell.
‘Wanna talk to your Mom?’
74
Schwab dialled and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. He had already been in contact. Blackburn imagined his mother cradling the phone in two hands, as he’d seen her do many times, as if it could bring the person closer.
‘
Her voice was clear and strong, as if she’d been practising what to say for days — which she probably had.
‘
‘
‘
Her voice cracked as she heard her son speak for the first time since hearing he’d been jailed.
‘
‘
He could hear the phone being handed over. A hushed exchange about what to say. After a moment he heard his father clear his throat.
‘
There was an urgency in Blackburn’s voice. ‘Dad,’ he said. ‘
‘
His father sounded like he had aged a decade, baffled by his son’s tone. Blackburn pressed on. There wasn’t much time.
‘
There was a pause at the other end, and a whispered exchange he couldn’t make out.
‘
‘
The silence on the other end of the phone said it all.
Blackburn tried to think of what else to say. Nothing came. The weight bearing down on his soul grew even greater. He passed the phone back to Schwab, who looked mystified.
‘Ok-ay. You done?’
Blackburn nodded. He had long imagined the moment of tenderness he had craved with his father — two men seeing eye-to-eye for the first time. But all his father could be thinking right now was
Schwab let the receiver fall back on to its cradle. Then he put his big square case on the table and took out a second vast dark grey file.
How could so much paperwork have accumulated in such a short time?
‘Let’s get started.’
‘On what?’
Schwab stared at his new client. Here we go, he thought.
‘I’ve already said all I can remember. I’m guilty. I’m as good as dead.’
Blackburn lowered his head until it rested on the desk.
75
Moscow
A little after ten-thirty p.m. they were being wafted towards Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport in Bulganov’s Rolls. Cocooned in the rear, Dima wondered whether the unnatural absence of noise was due to the bulletproof glass, or because his ears had been damaged by all the shooting. Kroll sat up front with the chauffeur, observing every gauge and dial on the dashboard with undisguised pleasure. In the back with Dima and Omorova was Bulganov himself.
He had been a last-minute recruit to the mission. Dima was a marked man. A contract was out on him. Shoot on sight. Getting out of Moscow and into Paris, with an international warrant out for his arrest, all this was only possible with Bulganov’s influence — and his private jet. He lit a fresh cigar and blew two plumes of exhaust from his nostrils, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Bulganov was no friend of the current regime in the Kremlin; Dima knew he had pushed at an open door. But as always, Bulganov had his price. As they were getting into the car he told Dima what it was.
‘I get to go all the way with you, okay? Or there’s no deal.’
‘Of course,’ lied Dima.
Omorova had given him a sphinx-like look which said,
Perhaps Omorova’s presence was fuelling Bulganov’s expansive mood. He was on a roll. ‘You know the trouble with post-Soviet Russia? Everybody can be shown to have stolen something from somewhere.’ He took
