‘OK. Let’s walk.’
The park, built in the mid-twentieth century to celebrate the economic achievements of the Soviet state, is vast and melancholy. Triumphal arches, their columns flaking and weather-streaked, frame empty air. Neo-classical pavilions stand padlocked and deserted. Visitors huddle on benches, staring into the middle distance as if defeated by the attempt to make sense of their nation’s recent history. And above it all, that almost artificially blue sky, and the scudding white clouds.
‘So Lance, when you were here before . . .’
‘Go on.’
‘What were you actually doing?’
He shrugs. A solitary roller skater whirrs past them. ‘Bread-and-butter stuff, mostly. Keeping an eye on people who needed an eye kept on them. Seeing who came and went.’
‘Agent-handling?’
‘I was more of a talent-spotter. If I felt one of their people had potential, and wasn’t being fed to us, I’d pass it on and an approach would be made. With walk-ins, I helped filter out the obvious nutters.’
They’re rounding an ornamental lake, its surface furrowed by the wind. ‘Don’t look now,’ Lance says. ‘Hundred metres behind us. Single gent in a grey overcoat, pork-pie hat, looking at a map.’
‘Following us?’
‘Certainly keeping eyes on us.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘He picked us up when we left the rocket statue.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘That we do what we’re going to do anyway. Go and have a look at the metro station, like good tourists, and make our way back to the hotel. If possible resisting the temptation to turn round and stare at our FSB chum.’
‘Lance, I’m not that naive.’
‘I know. Just saying.’
Entry to the metro station is via a circular pillared atrium. Inside it’s bustling but spacious, and after buying a ticket each they descend by escalator to the palatial underground concourse. At the sight of it Eve stops dead, causing a woman to ram her behind the knees with a shopping trolley before pushing brusquely past. Eve, however, is captivated. The central hall is vast, and lit with ornate chandeliers. The walls and vaulted ceiling are white marble; archways faced in green mosaic lead to the railway platforms. Passengers hurry to and from the trains in swirling cross-currents, a young man is playing a song Eve vaguely recognises on a battered guitar, a beggar displaying military service medals kneels with head lowered and hands outstretched.
Lance and Eve allow themselves to be drawn along the concourse by the crowd. ‘What’s that song?’ she asks. ‘I’m sure I know it.’
‘Everyone thinks they know it. It’s the most annoying song ever written. It’s called “Posledniy Raz”. The Russian equivalent of the “Macarena”.’
‘The things you know, Lance, honestly . . .’ She stops. ‘Oh my goodness gracious. Look.’
An elderly man is sitting on a stone bench. At his feet is a cardboard box full of new-born kittens. He grins toothlessly at Eve. His eyes are a pale, watery blue.
As Eve falls to one knee, intending to touch a finger to the impossibly soft head of one of the kittens, a fluttering wind touches her hair, followed by a smacking sound. The face of the man on the bench seems to fold inwards, grin still in place, as his skull bloodily voids itself against the marble wall.
Eve freezes, wide-eyed. She hears the tiny mewing of the kittens, and as if from a distance, screaming. Then she’s dragged to her feet, and Lance is strong-arming her towards the exit. Everyone else has the same idea and as the crowd presses around them, shoulders barging and elbows shoving, Eve is lifted from her feet. She feels herself losing a shoe and tries to duck down for it, but is swept forward, the press of bodies against her ribcage so unyielding that she gasps for breath. The clamp tightens, points of light burst before her eyes, a voice yells in her ear – ‘Seryozha, Seryozha’ – and the last thing she knows before her legs give way and the darkness rises to meet her is that from somewhere, somehow, she can still hear that maddening, insinuating song.
Catching her, hoisting her up so that her head lolls on his shoulder, Lance carries her onto the escalator. This too is packed tight with passengers but finally they reach the atrium, and he lowers her into a seated position against a pillar. Opening her eyes she blinks, gulps air, feels the waves of dizziness rise and fall.
‘Can you walk?’ Lance scans the area urgently. ‘Because we really, really need to get away from here.’
Her lungs heaving, Eve kicks off the remaining shoe as Lance pulls her to a standing position. She sways for a moment, the floor cold beneath her bare feet, and attempts to order her thoughts. Someone has just tried to shoot her in the back of the head. The old man with the kittens has had his brains blown out. The shooter might at any moment catch up with them.
Eve knows that she should act decisively, but she feels so light-headed and nauseous that she can’t bring herself to move. Shock, a small voice tells her. But knowing that she’s in shock doesn’t dispel the meaty smack of the bullet, the infolding face, the brains tumbling from the skull like summer pudding. Posledniy Raz. The kittens, she thinks vaguely. Who will look after the kittens? Then she leans forward and vomits noisily onto her bare feet.
Immediately outside the metro station, four solidly built men are waiting. Behind them, a black van bearing the insignia of the FSB is drawn up on the tarmac. A fifth man, wearing a pork-pie hat, stands a short distance from the others, making no attempt to disguise the fact that he’s watching the outpouring passengers closely.
Eve’s retching, and the evasive action taken by those passing her, attracts the men’s attention. By the time she straightens up, wet-eyed and shaking, they’re moving determinedly towards her.
‘Come,’ says one of them, in English, placing a hand on her elbow. He’s wearing a leather flat cap and a padded winter jacket, and looks neither friendly nor unfriendly. Like his three colleagues, he has
