Dead Centre

13

An hour and twenty-seven minutes later we turned off towards a village. I’d spent every second of that time trying not to get bounced around in the foot-well, so the small of my back was now as painful as my neck.

Genghis sparked up his cell again.

This wasn’t Navaho or Chelsea. The buildings were timber-framed and exuded an air of history. Enormous dachas, three storeys high with huge, overhanging roofs, stood behind big walls. These were the weekend retreats of wealthy Muscovites, built in the time of the Tsar. Tyre tracks led in and out of the driveways. There was no foot traffic at all. The rich didn’t need to walk and their snow was pure white.

We turned through a massive set of slowly opening wooden gates. I saw cedar tiles cladding a steeply pitched roof. Condensation billowed from modern heating ducts on the side of the old building. It looked like something out of a spy story. The whole village did.

The Range Rover crunched across the snow, flanking the dacha. Huge trees circled a snow-lined playground, gardens and a swimming-pool. I could just make out the little handles round the edge to help you out of the water. We swooped round to the back of the house and stopped behind another Range Rover with red plates. Genghis jumped out and produced an eight-inch blade from a sheath at his hip. My door opened. The blade flashed in the sunlight and the plasticuffs put up only token resistance. As I straightened, he pointed the tip of his knife towards the wooden veranda.

The cold slapped me in the face as I headed up the three steps. Crows squawked in a field the other side of the trees. I touched the swelling on the back of my head. The skin had broken, but the heat of the Range Rover had dried the wound.

Three doors led off the veranda: a bug screen for the summer, followed by a triple-glazed monster with an aluminium frame and finally the hand-carved wooden original.

I stepped into a big shiny modern kitchen, all white marble and stainless steel. It couldn’t have provided a more dramatic contrast to the exterior. I stood on a polished stone floor with the sweet smell of Russian cleaning fluids, that really intense mixture of rose perfume and bleach, assaulting my nostrils. And it was even hotter in there than it had been in the Range Rover.

A small man in his late forties sat facing me at a white marble table. His hair was brushed back. There was a hint of grey at the temples. He was immersed in a Russian broadsheet, the front page full of the Fukushima meltdown. ‘Coffee?’ Without looking up, he pointed to a cappuccino machine the size of a nuclear reactor. ‘Help yourself and sit down over here with me.’

He was wearing black suit trousers, shiny black leather shoes, a grey shirt and V-neck jumper. A white magnetic board hung on the wall behind him, covered with photos and all the normal family shit. A scaled-down red Ferrari with an electric engine was parked beneath it, next to a Tupperware crate containing every shape and size of game ball. The cappuccino machine stood beside a white marble sink large enough to dismember a body in.

‘Relax, Nick. No one else is going to interrupt us, and you’re in no danger. I just want to talk with you.’ His English was precise, but his accent was surprisingly guttural. He sounded like Hollywood’s idea of a Cold War Soviet agent.

‘Please.’ He nodded again towards the dozen or so matching blue mugs that were lined up on the spotless work surface. ‘Get yourself whatever you fancy. Then come and sit down.’

I wasn’t going to turn down a brew. It could be my last for a while. I piled in the sugar in case I needed an energy boost some time soon. I lifted the shiny glass jug from its hotplate and poured myself a generous shot of its contents.

‘Do you know where you are, Nick?’

I reached for the condensed milk. ‘Not a clue.’

‘Peredelkino. A very nice place, steeped in history. It’s known as the writers’ village. Many famous Russians have lived here, Russians who have changed the world with their words and their wisdom. Do you admire our great Russian writers, Nick?’

I stirred the milk into my coffee. It was so thick with sugar I could stand the spoon up in it. ‘I read when I can.’

‘Tarkovsky? Pasternak? Fadeyev?’

I raised an eyebrow. I knew he was taking the piss. ‘The guy who said Stalin was the greatest humanitarian the world has ever known? Good writer, but I wouldn’t trust his character references, would you?’

I didn’t give a fuck what he thought, but I was quite pleased that he was suddenly sitting up and paying attention.

‘We all need friends in high places, Nick.’ He waved his hand at a huge picture window. ‘Every one of these great writers had a dacha here, you know. They’re buried here too. Peredelkino is featured in a le Carre novel — The Russia House.’

I finished stirring. ‘Is that so?’

‘There’s a lot of history in these dachas. If only they had ears.’ A thought struck him. ‘Well, maybe some of them did have ears during the Soviet era, yes?’

The triple-glazed windows slightly warped the view, but I knew that if I had to leg it, I’d head for the door I’d come through and straight towards the swings and the slide. Then into the tree line, even though I didn’t know what was on the other side of it. I’d go and see what the crows were up to.

The small man flicked through the pages of his newspaper with one hand, as he motioned with the other for me to sit opposite him.

‘What are you reading now, Nick?’

‘Dostoevsky.’ I gave him my best poker face. ‘Crime and Punishment. But I’ve got a feeling I won’t be finishing it any time soon.’

‘When you do, you will find knowledge and enlightenment. I came to books late, but …’ He closed the paper and raised his hands. ‘… as we all know, Nick, knowledge — of whatever kind — is power.’

I sat there with the brew. He was playing with me, enjoying the moment, even though he wasn’t showing it. Not a hint of a smile crossed his face. He was like Arnie in Terminator mode.

‘Thanks for the tip. But isn’t it time you introduced yourself? And told me what you want?’

He waved my questions away. ‘How’s Anna? Is she enjoying North Africa? I watch her every day. It’s a little warmer there, I suspect.’

If he was trying to impress me, he’d succeeded.

I put my mug down on the white marble. ‘She in trouble?’ I kept my voice even. It was pointless getting sparked up. I’d know the answer soon enough.

‘This is not about Anna, Nick. No, this is about another of your women.’

My head pounded. I was starting to get pissed off. If he was going to hurt me or offer me something — I didn’t really care which — I just wanted him to get on with it.

He dragged his seat backwards, turned and pulled one of the photos from the steel board. A well-manicured hand spun it towards me. Then he settled back, putting a bit of distance between himself and the table.

A woman and a young boy cuddled one another on the garden swings.

She’d changed the colour of her hair; it had blonde highlights now, and was a lot longer, well past her shoulders.

‘She’s still beautiful.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. And you knew her husband. Knew him well. What was his name?’

‘Montgomery. We called him Mong.’

He nodded, satisfied.

‘So you’re Frank.’

‘Francis. But until we get to know each other better, you may call me Mr Timis.’

‘Not very Ukrainian.’

‘It puts you Westerners at ease.’

‘What’s happened to Tracy? Is she OK? Or is it the boy?’

‘Stefan.’

‘Your son?’

‘Yes, he’s my son. Look closer — you will see.’