A Wild Justice

ONE Family Portrait

He had walked through the last sunshine of the brief afternoon, the leaves brown and crackling beneath his shoes. John Lock’s cheeks were chilly, then almost at once stingingly warm as he entered the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel, shrugging himself out of his overcoat. It had been an invigorating walk from the State Department, pleasant even as the early autumn dark closed on Washington and the streetlights glared out. Aircraft, navigation lights winking, had thundered overhead, but he had been able to hear and see then impassively. He wouldn’t be travelling again for a good while. The city had begun to fit itself comfortably around him, just as his office had already done; as the whole of the State Department had agreeably done.

The barman recognized Lock with the slightest lifting of heavy eyebrows and his favourite drink was silently remembered and served. The olive fell into the martini like a small bird’s egg into clear oil. He toasted himself, then glanced at his watch, smiling.

Just time for two drinks, then back to the apartment to change.

He felt a reluctance that he wouldn’t have time to play even one of the batch of new CDs he had bought during the lunch break. The latest Marriage of Figaro, a new Handel recording, something special in the way of a Beethoven cycle — all very promising. He grinned. It was, after all, Beth’s birthday. Anyway, he no longer had to snatch at hours with the hi-fi or novels or the book he was trying to write. And wouldn’t a while yet. State had given him a tour of duty at his desk in the East Europe Office. Definitely a minimum of travel involved.

Even his answerphone messages, each evening, possessed an unexpected, comforting charm. Fred with tickets for a basketball game; the prim, severe lady who was secretary for the early music group in which he occasionally sang baritone — he was supposed to be editing a performing version of an obscure seventeenth-century opera for them; his dry cleaning ready for collection, which was a statement of intent rather than just a message. He was staying home, staying put. He grinned, shrugging his shoulders as if into an old and comfortable jacket.

The mobile phone bleated in the pocket of his topcoat as it lay across his knees, ruffling his mood like a brief wind. The barman passed him, ice like Latin percussion in his cocktail shaker. He unfolded the phone’s mouthpiece.

‘John Lock.’

‘John-Boy!’ It was Billy, his brother-in-law.

‘Hi, Billy. I haven’t forgotten the party, if that’s what’

‘Your sister wouldn’t let you, John-Boy.’

‘I remember her birthday, anyway.’

‘Sure. Say, is that the second or third martini?’

Lock smiled. ‘So you guessed. But it’s the first.’

‘OK. Look, Beth — me, too — we want you to come out to the house as soon as you can — there’s nothing wrong, by the way.

We just want to see something of you before the guests arrive.

So, drink up fast and get over here. Beth’s orders.’

‘Right. Thanks, Billy.’ He slipped the cellular phone into his topcoat. At once, a hand fell on his shoulder, its grip almost immediately doubtful, as if the hand’s owner wondered whether he would be recognized.

‘John Lock! This still your favourite watering-hole?’ The man was taller than Lock, even when he hitched himself onto the adjacent barstool. Thicker-set and somehow more loosely arranged. Or designed for activity no longer undertaken. ‘I haven’t seen you around here lately.’

‘Bob. Good to see you, man!’ The lobby bar was beginning to crowd with office workers and government people. Bob Kauffman was Company — the other government. ‘How’re things on the farm?’

‘I’m still working.’ A shrug. Bob Kauffman had been a senior case officer in the field. Reagan, Gorbachev and Thatcher lately, Yeltsin and Clinton and Major — had foreclosed on him like realtors, just as on most of his breed. ‘Jeez, I wish State would take me on like they did you. Lucky sonofabitch.’ It was said entirely without resentment. ‘Maybe then I could get away from the sour smell of guys waiting and wondering, kicking their heels … This administration’s gonna dump the Company, man, like it was politically non-correct!’ He clicked his fingers and a bourbon on the rocks appeared magically. ‘Unless you’re a desk-jock, an image analyser or a computer whizz — or you recommend we da nothing about the world — forget it!’ He swallowed at his drink.

Lock, smiling, murmured: ‘I guess things are tight all round.

I’ve just been confined to my desk myself, though I’m not complaining.

What have they gotten you doing. Bob?’

‘When I’m not being bored out of my skull in meetings and committees, I ride shotgun on a bunch of college kids and their computers. Middle East stuff mainly — the ayatollahs and the rest of the bandits. You know the kind of thing-‘ He shrugged dismissively. ‘I’m like their grandfathers. A dinosaur.

You?’

Lock studied their images in the mirror. Kauffman seemed, at that moment, like an unwelcome drunk narrating his history.

And, as he had described himself, out of time and place. Lock’s own slimmer, dark-haired, more youthful form stared back at him, looking like the future, just as Kauffman represented the past gone to seed. Loose-jowled, disgruntled, grey-eyed, while he appeared sleeker, more tanned, like a business executive watching the world from behind sharp blue eyes.

‘It’s mainly trade, investment, that kind of thing.’

‘But you’re still hanging around the old places, the old crowd.’

Kauffman made the Cold War seem like a college fraternity, viewed all the more romantically with twenty-twenty hindsight.

‘The nearest I get to the old action is when my college boys discover our old friends have sold a bunch of tanks or missiles to the ayatollahs. Or a scientist-‘ He grinned sourly. A second bourbon had appeared in front of him, another martini near Lock’s hand.

‘Sell a scientist?’ he murmured to humour Kauffman. He’d heard other, more substantiated rumours echoing around State, and during his own travels in Russia. Scientists were going south and east, a few west. The poorly paid bastards were dribbling out of the former Soviet Union. Bui it wasn’t wholesale, they weren’t shipping them out like books or machine parts.

‘Some crazy theory. College boys! They think our old friends are selling brains now, to whoever will buy. People. All those redundant atom guys, germ warfare experts, you know. Jeez, you wonder why I get nostalgic for Afghanistan or Europe even

‘Nam?’ His glass was empty again. ‘Let me buy you another, John — very dry martini, right?’ Lock paused, his eyes halfway to his watch, listening to the warmth of two dozen conversations on the eternally fascinating subject — power. Hillary’s latest dressing-down of a senior insider, the snub of a meagre Clinton working lunch, the President’s ratings slump, the situation in obliterated Bosnia, those asshole Europeans … The politics of power and the power of politics. It would be churlish to reject Bob Kauffman’s offer. He was the kid with his nose pressed up against this most wonderful of candy-stores. It would be arrogant to demonstrate to him how far outside he was.

Thanks, Bob. Though I must watch the time.’

Kauffman ordered the drinks. The occasional tourist conversation was hemmed in securely by the political gossip. Lock felt comfortable within those verbal walls, just as Kauffman felt shut out.

‘Your college boys are exaggerating. There have been some disappearances — a trickle, no more. The Russians have a very real interest in keeping their top guys at home, and happy.’ He grinned. ‘Look, Bob, a job at State these days is just as much out of the old line. I get to study Russian economics.’

‘Is there Russian economics?’

They both laughed at the joke.

‘What have they turned you into — a salesman or an insurance assessor?’

‘A little of both.’

‘Some brave new world order, uh? Like letting the Bosnian Moslems go down the tubes. The old guy with the Grecian 2000 wouldn’t have done that. Cheers.’ Their conversation rapidly became desultory, as if they were both misplaced among the political chatterers. Lock occasionally waved to people he knew from State and other departments of government. Kauffman evidently wanted to enlist his aid, solicit information and maybe introductions; yet knowing all the time that the State Department would have no interest in a semiredundant CIA case officer. Meanwhile, the names of the great and the good, their deeds and misdeeds, flew about them like paper missiles.

Kauffman became progressively maudlin. Instead of Yanks Go Home, the walls of the world told the spies of the world they were surplus to requirements. Not wanted on voyage. And the Clinton administration told them, with equal certainty, that the w6rld was no longer their playground or their policeman’s beat.

The rest of the planet was not America’s 111th Precinct, and Langley its Precinct House. Instead, the CIA headquarters was a slaveship full of bitter, displaced and betrayed men; a factory making the wrong goods in the wrong age.

Suddenly, he tired oft Kauffman and the scents of their professional past, eager to be at Beth’s birthday party. The memories of other birthdays, mostly spent apart, were easier to shrug off now. His own uncelebrated days — always bleak and snowbound, it seemed, with himself occupying an icy corridor, staring through tall windows at the white fields of the expensive private school. Their years of separation had now thankfully come to an end. Unheated dormitories and the glad escape of sportsfields and music from the brusque, suspicious indifference of boys who were not orphaned. He had found basketball and a singing voice and a fascination with musical scores rather than the printed pages into which Beth, in her isolation, had retreated. She’d discovered books — any books, all books.

He smiled to himself. He had always suspected that her own horror stories of lonely birthdays were fictitious, invented to give him sympathy. She had always generated a strong magnetic field that attracted other people, bound them in orbits of friendship.

She’d never have been alone on any of her birthdays. Just like this one.

He quickly finished his drink, ordered another for Kauffman, and announced:

‘It’s my sister’s birthday, Bob. I’m running late. I still haven’t wrapped her present. Great to see you ‘

He was shrugging himself into his topcoat as he spoke, already a few yards from the bar. Kauffman watched him with a gored bull’s distrustful, enraged eyes. Lock waved his hand and Kauffman returned the gesture, his glance softening.

Lock shook off the man’s infectious world-weariness. He’d never known Kauffman well, he had never been a friend. They’d come into contact in Afghanistan in the ‘80s and hardly ever since. Kauffman was a ‘Nam veteran of the Company, an intelligence field officer who still moved through an imaginary world of inferior races and ideologies.

He was blithely recovered by the time the doors slid back and the street’s cold air struck him. He moved into the lamplit cold, turning up the collar of his topcoat. Leaves rattled like tin along the sidewalk. Gas was sharp on the air. He began to hurry, grinning with childlike anticipation.

Alexei Vorontsycv put down the telephone and announced:

‘They’re sending someone over to the hospital to identify the body. The shock-horror sounded genuine enough. From the description, it sounds like it is Rawls.’

Dmitri, licking his fingers and putting down a second receiver, nodded then said: ‘You’re going to love this.’ He shook his head in the direction of the telephone.

‘What?’

‘By the time Forensic — your pal Lensky — got to the morgue, someone had had the shoes off the corpse. The body must have unfrozen just enough to’

‘Deliberately?’ Vorontsyev snapped.

‘What?’ Dmitri was chewing on another huge bit of something that approximated to pizza. As a breakfast, its prospect made

Vorontsyev queasy. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. No, it looks like opportunism. Probably one of our uniformed buggers taking advantage.’ The office smelt powerfully of pungent, burned herbs, anchovies, tomato. And of their wet boots standing forlornly near the single radiator. The snow flew past the large window. The

‘It’s my sister’s birthday. Bob. I’m running late. I still haven’t wrapped her present. Great to see you ‘

He was shrugging himself into his topcoat as he spoke, already a few yards from the bar. Kauffman watched him with a gored bull’s distrustful, enraged eyes. Lock waved his hand and Kauffman returned the gesture, his glance softening.

Lock shook off the man’s infectious world-weariness. He’d never known Kauffman well, he had never been a friend. They’d come into contact in Afghanistan in the ‘80s and hardly ever since. Kauffman was a ‘Nam veteran of the Company, an intelligence field officer who still moved through an imaginary world of inferior races and ideologies.

He was blithely recovered by the time the doors slid back and the street’s cold air struck him. He moved into the lamplit cold, turning up the collar of his topcoat. Leaves rattled like tin along the sidewalk. Gas was sharp on the air. He began to hurry, grinning with childlike anticipation.

Alexei Vorontsycv put down the telephone and announced:

‘They’re sending someone over to the hospital to identify the body. The shock-horror sounded genuine enough. From the description, it sounds like it is Rawls.’

Dmitri, licking his fingers and putting down a second receiver, nodded then said: ‘You’re going to love this.’ He shook his head in the direction of the telephone.

‘What?’

‘By the time Forensic — your pal Lensky — got to the morgue, someone had had the shoes off the corpse. The body must have unfrozen just enough to’

Deliberately?’ Vorontsyev snapped.

‘What?’ Dmitri was chewing on another huge bit of something that approximated to pizza. As a breakfast, its prospect made Vorontsyev queasy. ‘Oh, 1 see what you mean. No, it looks like opportunism. Probably one of our uniformed buggers taking advantage.’

The office smelt powerfully of pungent, burned herbs, anchovies, tomato. And of their wet boots standing forlornly near the single radiator. The snow flew past the large window. The morning was all but obscured. The frontier town had, for a thankful moment, vanished behind the onset of winter. As had its drugs and gangster epidemic. He heard a truck skid, then collide with something four floors below.

‘OK, let’s assume it was Rawls. Why did someone have him turned off?’

Dmitri hunched his shoulders, wiping his mouth with a large, grey handkerchief. He did his own washing now — not very successfully. Vorontsyev’s laundry was much neater; fastidiously so. Arctic white and aseptic as the flat he occupied. Dmitri’s home was untidy and grimy with grief and neglect. He couldn’t take his washing along to the Foundation Hospital and ask his mad wife to do it for him. He went there just to sit beside her.

Not with her; she wasn’t with anyone any more.

‘Do you think he might have been involved with the local crap — the biznizmen and the mafia?’ There was a tone of fervent, reawakened hope in Dmitri Gorov’s voice, it was a sign of obsession rather than anticipation; everything, for him, had to be to do with drugs and the local mafia.

Vorontsyev shook his head and rubbed his unshaven cheeks with both hands, as if they still retained the chill of the copse beside the highway.

‘There’s never been any hint of an American connection.

Rawls was a senior executive of Grainger Technologies, not even part of the GraingerTurgenev set-up. I can’t see him dabbling in cocaine or heroin as a bit of private enterprise. Seriously, Dmitri — can you?’ Reluctantly, Dmitri shook his head, an intense disappointment on his features. He rubbed one big hand through his thinning, lank dark hair, then around his big-jowled face.

‘I suppose you’re right. Look, Alexei, this murder isn’t going to get in the way of our drugs bust, is it?’ He was all but pleading.

Vorontsyev shook his head.

‘I don’t know why Bakunin didn’t grab it straight away. He will do, though. There’s kudos in dealing with the Yankees, with Turgenev. Security is bound to take it over. After Bakunin’s had his breakfast — and maybe masturbated himself into a better mood.’ Dmitri laughed explosively. ‘No, we’ll concentrate on the drugs — as always.’

Dmitri seemed pleased. He picked up a report sheet from his side of the desk and passed it to Vorontsyev.

‘The Aeroflot flight up from Islamabad arrives at eight tonight.

Nothing’s changed. Hussain is booked onto it.’ Dmitri fidgeted with excitement.

‘The apartment block stakeout’s all set?’

‘All in place. There’s nothing much happening at the moment

— but that’s not unusual.’

‘OK. Tonight, then. The stuff will be on the flight?’

‘That’s what I’ve been told. It’s the usual method of transport, and Hussain’s the carrier — for the Pakistani connection, that is.’

‘The Pakistanis are all we have. We know it comes in from Tehran and from Kashmir, but we don’t have any leads. Hussain from Rawalpindi is all we’ve got.’ Vorontsyev realised he had begun to sound hectoring, a distributor of blame. He added:

‘Yours is the best lead we’ve had so far. We have a flight number and a name — at last. We know it’s coming from down there, the Moslem Triangle, and we guessed it was coming in by air, brought by casual workers on the gas rigs. But we never had a name and a precise flight. Now we have both.’ Suddenly, he banged his fist down on the desk. ‘Christ, the number of shipments that have been brought in under our noses! We’re not going to lose this one, Dmitri.’ He saw Dmitri’s features darken with what might have been some obscene hunger. ‘I promise. This time we’ll gut the bastards, sweat it out of this Hussain, follow the trail we persuade him to give us, pick up the distributors …’ He knew, to his own embarrassment, that he was feeding a sickness in Dmitri. Revenge. But, Christ, the man deserved his revenge if anyone ever did! ‘Planeloads of workers coming back off holiday, and every time a new consignment of heroin. Simple — when you know how.’ He studied Dmitri’s face. He had successfully lightened the atmosphere. Two years ago, Dmitri’s only beloved daughter had overdosed on heroin that hadn’t been sufficiently cut. Revenge might never compensate him for her death, nor make up for the post-breakdown, vegetable state of his wife in the hospital.

But it might help. Two years ago, some of the local pushers hadn’t had the expertise to cut the heroin for maximum profit while leaving their customers alive for more. Now, they did.

The drugs had followed hard on the heels of the Germans, the Yankees, the Japs and the market economy. The local gangsters had discovered distinctly Western ways of making money.

The bad old days might have been bad, but now…? Vorontsyev rubbed his face. The bad old days had been bad. Always remember that, and what you’re supposed to be doing about the new days … despite a corrupt police force, seniors on the take or in the pockets of the biznizmen or the remnants of the KGB and the GRU and the local powerbrokers and the gas companies. Just remember, you’re holding the line.

They had to strike lucky tonight. They’d waited so long for a break. They needed a success — the arrest of Hussain and whoever would be at the flat they had under surveillance, where some of Hussain’s relatives lived. A whole shipment of Pakistani heroin suddenly taken off the streets would dry up supplies temporarily.

By which time, they might have begun to make inroads on the smuggling and distribution organisation. Begun climbing the greasy pole towards whoever ran things.

‘You stay here and monitor the surveillance,’ he announced.

‘I’ll take Marfa over to the Gogol and search Rawls’ suite. We ought to appear to be doing our best when Bakunin takes over.’

He smiled. The answer might be sitting on the bedside table you never know.’

He tugged on his boots, then thrust his arms into the sleeves of his topcoat. Wound his scarf around his neck, donned his fur hat, and opened the door of his office. At once, it seemed, the barnlike space of the Criminal Investigation Department became a scene of noisy indolence; as if a schoolmaster with a Party card had arrived. The duty detectives glanced furtively at him as if he were likely to ask some of them for his cut of their black incomes.” Or simply ask for results; a greater coronary threat than their drinking and their fatty diets. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, but the place didn’t even smell Russian any more, the dark, pungent tobacco having been abandoned in favour of American cigarettes. The only real Russians remaining in the room were a kid who needed a fix and couldn’t pay for one, a whining old peasant woman in black, her face like an eroded rock formation, and the drab, youngish woman being interviewed by Marfa. The younger woman had a black eye and split lip.

The other suspects and complainants in the echoing, smoky, littered room were mostly well-dressed and either relaxed or demanding. One padded neck wore a vivid silk tie, and Vorontsyev noticed an astrakhan collar on a dark coat. He smelt cigar smoke.

He looked momentarily at the beaten, drawn woman, her hands twisting like strangers suspiciously circling each other, then studied the intensity of comfort in Detective Second-Class Marfa Tostyeva’s face. She was leaning her narrow body forward across her desk; her hands seemed engaged in some constant series of military forays of sympathy towards the other woman’s hands. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes glittered. Vorontsyev tapped her on the shoulder. Her reaction was that of someone woken from a deep sleep.

‘Hand this over to someone else—’ She was already shaking her head in protest, but then acquiesced. ‘- I want you with me.’ None of the others in the room would give this victim of domestic violence the time of day, but it couldn’t be helped. It seemed almost his duty to wean Marfa forcibly away from her addiction to lost causes; at least for short, recuperative periods of time.

Marfa patted the woman’s unceasing hands, whispering intently to her. Then she browbeat a junior detective into taking over the interview, before she followed Vorontsyev out into the chill of the corridor. It smelt strongly of disinfectant where the linoleum had been washed down.

Marfa sniffed loudly, repeatedly, as they went down in the lift.

‘Cold?’ he asked, grinning despite himself. Marfa Tostyeva wasn’t a hypochondriac — merely someone always surprised and disappointed in herself at the onset of minor illness. Perhaps, at twenty-six, she still felt immortal.

‘Flu, probably. I expect you’ll get it from me.’

Thanks, Marfa.’ He felt obliged to ask: ‘That woman. Her old man beat her up?’

‘Naturally! Rig worker — when he’s sober. Obviously thought he’s start his two-week vacation with a little exercise. Bastard.’

It was said without malice and without cynicism. Marfa still believed that life possessed oughts and ought nots. Imperatives.

Rules of behaviour. She was the angriest and most passionate member of the CID. Which was why he trusted her.

She sniffed again, her pale blue eyes looking more watery than usual. She would battle the cold or flu or whatever it was as violently and unremittingly as she did domestic violence, theft, drugs, cruelty to animals. Joan of Arc. He masked his smile. He’d have trouble sending her home if it was flu.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked, glancing back at the interior of the lift as they left it, as if she had somehow betrayed the young, drab, beaten woman.

The foyer was a casual litter of humanity that lounged, slumped or moaned on benches and in tiled corners, observed by cynical militiamen or brifshed and mopped around by cleaners.

‘The dead body this morning. It was staying, when alive, at the Gogol. I thought we’d go and see in what style it was entertaining itself before going into the dark. OK?’

Marfa glowered at him. Rich men’s crimes hardly interested her. The Gogol Hotel was another planet, and one whose atmosphere was malign.

‘OK,’ she replied.

His car emerged from the last trees of the avenue that shrouded the climbing drive and his headlights splashed on the Georgian facade of the house. Though splendid, it was too far out along the George Washington Parkway, in Virginia. It overlooked the Potomac and the rushing waterscape of Great Falls. Its twenty-acre grounds nudged the Park. The immaculate mansion whispered of money; owned variously by eighteenth-century landgrabbers, a retired Civil War general, a steel baron — and now temporarily in the custody of Billy Grainger. Of which John Lock approved, since the house had been his sister’s sanity.

Billy’s black Porsche, his company limousine and the cruiser stood marshalled to one side of the house. Floodlights let the manicured lawns creep to the edge of eyesight and greened them. A few last brown leaves — overlooked by the gardeners lay like liver spots on an old hand. There were two other black limousines from the Grainger fleet, parked regimentally alongside Billy’s cars. Billy must have flown in some business associates.

He shut the door of the small Nissan and walked towards the portico, which was supported by four white columns — like the White House. He smiled. Billy’s mansion was slightly smaller. The flagpole thrust up into the starry evening, the flag itself furled. The huge lamp above the doors was gleaming.

Windows glowed with light, welcoming and secure.

And he no longer had to worry what he would find inside, as he had during the months when that facade had been a lie.

He felt no instinctive hunching of his shoulders, so often in the past the reaction he had been unable to avoid on coming to the house, wondering and even dreading what he would see.

Beth’s drugs, her drinking, her breakdown — caused by Billy’s infidelities. He understood it now; they had come through it, his sister had been put back together again, good as new. He smiled to himself in anticipation of her appearance. Now, he could even understand Billy’s behaviour, because it had caused no lasting damage to Beth. Billy had simply cracked under the pressure of marriage to someone cleverer, purer, brighter than himself. The women he chose as mistresses had always been glamorous, they were never intelligent.

Then she was on the steps, as if it were her twelfth or thirteenth birthday, not her forty-first, hovering excitedly beside Billy’s English butler in a silver sheath of a dress that bared one of her narrow, pale shoulders to the light.

‘Hi, Sis-‘ She was hugging him, childlike rather than in the desperation he had seen her through. He held the gift-wrapped present behind his back and felt her hands search for it. Her lips giggled warm little breaths against his cheek.

‘Johnny — I’ she exclaimed in mock disappointment and temper, pouting. He handed her the present and she held it against her girlish breasts for a moment, before taking his hand and half-dragging him into The mansion’s broad, high-ceilinged reception hall.

‘Excited?’ he asked.

‘I got through forty — I’m going to enjoy forty-one!’ A maid offered him a champagne flute. Stillman, the butler, regarded his mistress and her younger brother indulgently, judging them to be adolescents, but acceptably well-mannered. Beth drew him into her parlour.

There was a log fire in the hearth. Subdued lighting glowed on the marble fireplace and the gilded clock on the mantel, and reflected in the pieces of furniture she had gathered to the room.

American and English. Beth thought French too fussy, even vulgar, to the horror of a number of Washington matrons and climbers of her acquaintance. The drapes, and carpets, like the furniture, were her choice, not the diktat of a high-priced designer. Which was probably why he liked the room. Two Sisleys and a small Cezanne were the only paintings; there were books everywhere else., Books by their father, still regarded almost thirty years after his death as one of the best historians of the Civil War — books by Beth, from her doctoral thesis to her last and best-selling volume, the one she called her potboiler. Books on history, music, art, many of them Dad’s library recreated here … and one half-shelf left mockingly empty, or put there as a challenge.

The one reserved for his own books, whenever she finally goaded him into writing them.

Beth let him take the room in, as she always did, just as if she were a tour guide, or perhaps a mother who had kept his old room exactly the way he left it, year after year, waiting for him. She squeezed his arm in shared, silent memory. Then, breaking the reverie, she all but pushed him into a chair, her eyes bright. Not with drink or cocaine any longer, or even with a determined pretence of happiness. Just because — now — she was happy.

‘How was Russia, Johnny? Are things any better, for God’s sake?’ She asked as if she had near and endangered relatives there; the impression she always gave about any place or state or war zone she cared about — and she cared about most of them. Organised, donated, went sometimes … she wanted to accompany him to Russia next time he went. Strangely, she had never travelled with Billy. He would have seen nothing with her eyes, and she required someone to share her perceptions.

‘How were things? Come onV she added, as if his silence teased her.

‘It’s not good — though I met an honest cop.’ He grinned, ‘You were arrested?’

‘No. He interviewed me, over a fight in the hotel bar. Sort of a fight,’ he added quickly as her face clouded with concern.

‘Just an argument, really. Since I was State, I rated the chief of detectives himself. He seemed more amused by me than concerned.

He was about as cynical as you could get, but I quite liked the guy. Other than that, Billy’s investment’s safe, though what the Russian government and people are getting out of it ‘

‘Pete Turgenev’s here, with Billy. They flew up from Phoenix just today.’

‘Has Vaughn come up with them?’

‘No — he’s a little tired’

‘Nothing wrong?’

‘No, he’s fine. I think he overreached, presenting Pete Turgenev and his executives to major stockholders. He’s not Billy’s father in name only.’ She smiled.

‘How was your trip to New York? I get back from Russia, and you’re not even in town!’ he mocked gently.

‘You know. Rich students listening to a debate on the Third World’s hunger— how much can it mean to them?’ She spread her long-fingered hands. Diamonds glittered in the firelight, sparkled at her ears and throat. He did not remark the irony.

‘Well, maybe one or two were impressed by the UN. The others either wanted us to send the Marines or get the hell out.’

Images of her radicalism, her protesting and marching, flickered in his memory. He realised he was still staring at her in a doctor’s searching manner, and that it amused her. Recognising old contempts and angers in her expression was like seeing signs of returned health.

‘So, you’re entrenched as official caring professor at Georgetown, sister of mine?’

‘I’m not politically correct’

‘- so you’re not popular.’ He grinned. Belh held onto her academic tenure because she was dazzlingly bright, Billy had established a professorship in geopolitical studies, and she had written an academic treatise on Eastern Europe’s economies that had fluked its way into the non-fiction best-seller lists. Criticism was silenced by the power of the successful word.

He wondered whether she woukl nag him, even tonight, about his own book — the project that had accompanied him for years like a faithful but ignored hound. At State, they said every good boy needed a hobby, so the brightest and the best turned out monographs, papers, journalism when allowed — arts reviewing was favourite and he’d done a lot of it himself — but books, as he always protested to Beth, were real hard work, at which plea she would wrinkle her small nose with the mild, dismissive superiority of someone to whom the mind was a familiar room.

‘No, I’m not popular, but that doesn’t matter — not any more.’ She sighed, stretching like a small animal in the warmth and firelight. Once, it had mattered. His had been the only approbation she had been able to recognize. Billy’s fooling around had been a rejection. ‘Who did you meet?’ she asked.

‘Just a deputy prime minister — who’s in favour now but might not be by the weekend. Yeltsin’s shuffling them like cards, trying to keep the hardliners fed but not bloated.’

‘Is it all going to hell in a handbaskel?’

‘Maybe — maybe not.’

‘Billy says their economy is coming around.’

‘Billy would — he’s a great guy, but he still believes trickle down economics is enough to keep the peasants happy.’ He raised his palms in a gesture of peace. She would defend Billy like a bear its cub, now that she felt loved again, felt that her stability and happiness were not under threat or siege.

She smiled. ‘GraingerTurgenev must be doing some good.’

‘Some. There are Russians driving Porsches in Novyy Urengoy now. That’s got to mean something — I guess. But you and Billy?’

‘Fine.’ There was no hesitation, no uncertainty. ‘I lost sight of what Billy and I had together — so did he. Everything’s fine now.’

‘Good.’

He sipped his forgotten, tepid champagne. Relaxed in the firelight that threw their shadows together on the wall.

‘Open your present.’ She snatched it up from the arm of her chair and tore at the wrapping. Her eyes widened. The small, gold-framed ikon, a flat, cartoon-like image of the Virgin haloed with stars and heavily painted — like a whore, he thought irreverently — gleamed like the furniture.

‘It’s beautiful.’ She kissed him, and edged herself onto the arm of his chair. They admired the ikon together.

‘Black market, in Moscow. An old woman. She must have kept it under her mattress for decades.’ She seemed to disapprove.

‘I gave her a decent price, Sis, I really did. She’s suddenly rich, and in dollars.’ There was a knock at the door and the imperturbable figure of Stillman, the butler, appeared; an adult come to summon children.

‘Your guests have begun arriving, Madam,’ he announced sepulchrally. Lock, sipping at his champagne, controlled a giggle.

‘Thank you, Stillman — I’ll be right out.’ The door closed behind the butler. Beth sighed, but it was a noise of pleasure, then stood up, smoothing the sheath of her dress. ‘Come to lunch tomorrow. I want time to talk to you …’ Then she smiled, touching his hand with her fingertips. ‘No, just talk. I am going to enjoy my party!’

She glided to the door and he followed her. There were gowned women, black-tied men in the reception hall, where the lights seemed suddenly stage-bright. The grand staircase climbed to the gallery, the chandelier glittered, hired-in maids took topcoats and wraps. A few politically incorrect furs, swathes of silk scarves and bright shawls. Jewellery gleamed as if the bare-shouldered women posed deliberately beneath the flattery of the chandelier. Beth squeezed his hand, then floated forward confidently to greet her guests.

Lock took a cold glass of champagne from a passing tray, relieved and glad. Almost at once, a powerful lobbyist bore down on him and he, too, was drawn into the eddies and whirlpools of power and money and pleasure, the elements of the occasion.

The suitcase lay open on the bed; forlorn in appearance only because Vorontsyev knew what had happened to its owner, lying in his underclothes in the mortuary of the Grainger Foundation Hospital. He had sat on one of the large room’s upright chairs for ten minutes, staring at the suitcase, aware of Marfa’s sniffles and the flatulence of the central heating pipes. Then he knew that the suitcase, packed before Rawls was summoned or taken to his appointment with a professional hit man, had been searched. Expertly, delicately — but searched nonetheless.

There was no briefcase, no Filofax. There was a suit still in the wardrobe, together with a pair of shoes and some underwear, and little else except the toilet bag and its contents in the bathroom. Anonymous. It was too anonymous. There should have been a briefcase, papers, a passport, other things.

He picked up the telephone. Unlit, the room was shadowy with the snowblown day outside the window. He pressed for the cashier.

‘I want to know whether Mr Allan Rawls left anything in your safe — yes, the dead man. Yes, the police.’ His identity had little effect. It was a measure of the passing of an aristocracy. A revolution had occurred and people were no longer cowed by KGB or police. They genuflected before other, imported, gods Amex Gold Cards, money, well-cut suits, fast cars. He was only the police and no longer counted here, in the best hotel in Novyy Urengoy where, uncorrupt, he could not afford a room.

‘Mr Rawls put nothing in the hotel safe,” came the reply.

He put down the telephone. Marfa came out of the bathroom.

‘Found any pills your family can use?’

She frowned, then nodded.

‘He must have had trouble sleeping over here. He got some tablets from the hospital, apparently.’ She rattled them, then put them in her pocket. Marfa’s sister-in-law had trouble sleeping.

The gas company injury insurance and the disability pension paid to Marfa’s brother were inadequate to meet the demands of the town’s new Westernised economy. He’d lost an arm in a rig accident. Soon, they’d have to move somewhere where it was cheaper to live.

‘I have trouble sleeping over here,’ he murmured.

‘Nothing else, sir?’ She slumped into a chair, and then at once was aware that her posture made her appear exhausted and sat bolt upright, leaning eagerly forward. Her black woollen scarf reached almost to the pale carpet, and swathed her throat like the folds of a python. Her small, narrow, pretty face was already clouding with the onset of her cold.

‘No, nothing. Listen, take the next couple of days off-‘ She made as if to protest but he held up his hand warningly. ‘You’ve got a cold coming. I don’t care how much you want to put our drug-smuggling friends out of circulation. One sneeze at the wrong moment and you’d blow the whole thing! So, don’t plead with me.’ She was angry, her frustration that of a child — or someone deeply just. Innocent, anyway. ‘OK? You’ll just have to leave us incompetent males to tie the parcel.’ He smiled.

Eventually, after her face seemed to have wrestled itself into acquiescence, she said: ‘Agreed. Just don’t cock it up, sir.’ It appeared she was about to add a homily of some kind; probably concerning the dead or damaged victims of the heroin operation, their bereaved families. He really needed her on the drugs raid.

How many of his people could he really trust not to fire off a warning shot that would took like an accident or the result of over-stretched nerves — or sound a car horn to warn the pushers and the suppliers? ‘What about this business, sir?’ she added, gesturing at the room. To her, it was a matter of indifference; a crime among the rich with only well-heeled victims.

Vorontsyev rubbed his hand through his greying hair. ‘Who knows? He was searched and stripped of everything by his killer.

The same man must have searched this room and removed his briefcase and any papers. Agreed?’

‘Just a minute, sir-‘ She sneezed, to her own anger. She pulled the telephone off the bedside table and returned to her chair. Consulting her notebook, she dialled a number. Her impatient breathing was loud in the room.

‘Antipov?’ she asked. ‘Police — yes, it’s me. You’re the night commissionaire at the Gogol. I don’t care if I woke you up, I’ve got some questions for you.’ She paused, listening. ‘Good. An American guest at the hotel, Mr Rawls — medium height, dark hair, small build, dark topcoat … he left the hotel around two or two-thirty this morning. Did he ask you to get him a cab?’

She sniffed with exasperation. ‘How many guests are in and out at that time? Look, we know you’re on the take from the whores, do you want me to come around and ask you about that? Right. You remember …? Good. Taxi. You know the driver — what? Noskov. Address? Cab number?’ She scribbled in the notebook perched on her knee. ‘What? Yes, I see. Don’t leave town, someone will be around this evening to take a statement.’

She put the receiver down loudly. Expelled an angry, mucusthick breath at the ceiling.

‘Well?’

‘I’ll check on the driver, sir — after I’ve had a couple of aspirin and a lie-down!’

‘Was there anything else?*

‘Antipov said he thought Rawls was going to get into a limousine.

A black Merc. It had been waiting outside the hotel for half an hour or more. But it wasn’t for Rawls. It just drove off in the same direction, following the taxi.’

TWO An American Tragedy

‘You know what’s wrong? You guys from State — and there’s no offence in what I’m saying, nothing personal — but you should all butt out and let guys like me and Billy Grainger go in there with a free hand!’ The CEO of an oil exploration company had Lock backed into a panelled corner of the vast dining room, so that his head was almost resting against the large splash of a Jackson Pollock. ‘I mean — you guys with your handouts and your Harvard outlook, where’s that going to benefit us or the damned Russians either?’

The man’s tall, blonde, decorously glamorous wife, a lump of polished diamond on her ringer glittering at him like the eye of a snake, appeared bored, hanging on the man’s arm like a cloak to be wafted enticingly in the face of all the bulls in the world.

Lock tried to smile disarmingly, but the woman was proof against everything unordained by her husband.

‘I know what you mean,’ he offered, ‘but it’s just not as simple as that’

‘Simple, hell! It’s not any real problem/ the man replied, and Lock witnessed his tame lobbyist sidling unobtrusively towards them, calculating the worth in nanoseconds of a conversation with a roving junior executive from the State Department. ‘Just let us in there, with a free hand!’

At once, before he could adjust his governmental mask. Lock snapped: ‘I remember a whole bunch of Indian agents used the same argument, Sam.’

The wife’s eyes flickered, momentarily, with amusement.

Before the man could respond, Lock smiled affably and said:

‘Sorry, Sam, we’ll have to debate capitalist ethics some other time. I think my brother-in-law needs me.’

The lobbyist was assuring Sam that Lock was unimportant even before he was out of earshot. Sam seemed to think that Lock had been infected by some of the crazy ideas over there, and then they were gone, and his enjoyment was undisturbed. Any Washington party was a swim in the open ocean where one encountered the expected sharks and suckerfish and octopoid residents of the political deep. He assured himself he had gotten used to it, without any more longing for pot parties where Frank Zappa or The Grateful Dead blared from the hi-fi system, and the world seemed simple, its problems easily solved.

That past life was something still fondly remembered. He recalled parlies in other parts of the world, from his time with the Company as well as his time with State. They marked his gradual maturity with their increasing glamour and formality.

Until the only parties he ever seemed to attend were grand black-tie occasions like this, beneath high ceilings and surrounded by jewellery and painting-cluttered walls. The parties and the world’s problems continued, unchanging.

The noise in the dining room, voices above cutlery and crystal, dinned around him; a coterie. Every Washington party was the same, people came just to find themselves in a coterie, among the familiar, inhaling the incense of power and money. He sidled through lobbyists, businessmen, the occasional hemmed senator or congressman. He queued behind plump, bare shoulders at the buffet, and smelt expensive perfume and cigar smoke as he was helped to caviar, prawns, salad, quiche, salmon and a glass of good claret, before the caterers turned away to the next customer.

Then he moved towards his brother-in-law and Turgenev, after checking Bern’s whereabouts automatically. Her slim arms waved above her head and the heads of those who surrounded her. The pleasure was genuine, not fuelled by drink or coke, the extroversion her own and not implanted by an analyst.

‘John-boy!’ Billy was his effusive self.

He turned to his brother-in-law, whose gaze flinched away momentarily, as if he always remembered Lock’s angry, violent Words when they had finally quarrelled about Billy’s infidelities and the havoc they were wreaking in Beth. While she was having her stomach pumped at Walter Reed, Billy had confessed that Beth was too hard to live with and too hard to live without. Billy had never really held that night against him, but there was always this fleeting shadow of it whenever they met.

The chandeliers dripped diamond glass. Real diamonds on pale, dark and black throats were offered up towards those peculiar, vast, imported ikons suspended from the ceiling. The dining room had a cupola of stained glass.

‘Billy — Pyotr.’

‘It’s Pete here, surely,’ Turgenev retorted with a smile.

‘Fora lot of these guys, Pyotr would require a brain transplant,’ Billy offered as Lock shook hands with the Russian.

‘You’ve been in Phoenix?’

‘Let me tell you, John-boy. We had a presentation to major stockholders — what Grainger-Turgcnev is doing, how we see the next five years, the whole bit.’ Billy had been drinking, though not heavily, and his broad hand patted regularly on Lock’s shoulder.

‘How’s Vaughn?’

‘Dad’s just a little tired. I guess Beth told you, uh? No need to worry, John-boy — he’ll outlive both of us!’

Sharks and smaller fish nibbled at the edges of their group.

Turgenev, who was CEO of GraingerTurgenev in the Novyy Urengoy field, had three or four other Russians with him, vaguely known to Lock. There were two of Billy’s executives, one a youngish woman wearing a stunningly peeled-away black dress sparkling with diamante, as well as himself and Billy.

Billy’s party had moved with the eddies of favour and debt, money and influence, back and forth along the dining room’s length during the last hour and more. Beth performed circles and pirouettes with her friends or amid audiences more academic or more impressed by academe. The activity around her was less intense than that which followed and surrounded Billy like the debris of a comet. For Billy was into Russia, had congressmen and even the occasional senator in hand; Billy had government funding coming out of his ears. Billy was a buzzword.

Turgenev was taller than Billy, less powerfully built. They might have been a double-act for a buddy movie — which, in a way, was what they were; Billy short, dark, broad, Turgenev slim, pale-skinned and pale-eyed.

‘How are you, John? Sorry I wasn’t in Novyy Urengoy when you were last there. But Phoenix is warmer at this time of year — any time of year!’

The tide of the room was already beginning to eddy Billy and Turgenev away from him, and Lock was prepared to let them go. As they moved, away, Turgenev’s face became suddenly intent, as if a mask of affability had been removed, and he bent to say something to Billy; something peremptory and demanding.

There was shock on Billy’s face, as if he had been informed of Vaughn’s death or the collapse of Grainger Technologies’ stock on the Dow. It was the kind of disquiet he had seen on Billy’s slowly comprehending features when he had finally confronted him on Beth’s behalf; as if he had been shown something unacceptable, even despicable, about himself.

‘Something wrong, Billy — Pete?’ he called.

‘No — no,’ Billy replied,waving the matter aside but unable to remove it from his eyes.

It couldn’t be Rawls’ murder. Billy had told him of it earlier, and had been surprised, even shocked. But not moved in the way he was now. He’d just said, The guy spent all those years in Washington only to get himself murdered in God-forsaken Siberia … eaten by a wolf, maybe, but mugged to death? Rawls was replaceable, he wasn’t family.

Billy had still not recovered from whatever he had been told, but Pete Turgenev was smiling and there couldn’t be anything really wrong. Their party, shepherded by pilot fish towards other sharks, drifted amenably, knowing its power.

‘Catch up with you, John,’ Turgenev called.

The noise of the party gusted against Lock as he was left, for a moment, on his own tiny area of carpet. Food had been trodden into it, near his shoe. Beth wouldn’t worry; this was the party carpet, after all, the one put down for such functions.

Normally, the long dining, room gleamed with polished wood blocks, flared with huge old Persian rugs.

Hurriedly, he picked at the caviar and the salmon and sipped his claret. Red wine with fish, dear me, he observed. But it was room temperature and best French. Billy-boy, you’re throwing one hell of a party for my sister’s birthday! Even if it was maybe a kind of belated apology for fooling around and ignoring her for years …

A colleague from State drifted past with a small wave. A lobbyist and his client had the man from State between them like prisoner and escort. Lock grinned back, acknowledging the wave with a waggle of his fork. This was Indian country for civil servants and politicians.

Billy and Turgenev, on the other side of the room, were in close counsel with a Democratic senator who had ambitions to head the Senate Committee that overlooked the administration’s assistance to Eastern Europe and the Russian Federation. Turgenev was affable, as always, while Billy’s face was still clouded with some new and worrying knowledge. Lock realised that he might require a bolthole — preferably in the shape and glamour of a young woman with brains — before he was summoned into the dialogue as the State Department’s resident expert on Russia.

But he could not turn away from the image of the taller Turgenev and the somehow reduced and shrunken Billy. The unflurried, relaxed Russian looked as if he’d been moving in Washington circles for most of his life.

But then he had, in a way. He’d been a young but already senior KGB officer in Afghanistan during the ‘80s. He and Billy had met Turgenev during the last days, when the Russians were about to get out. They’d helped supervise the withdrawal, the prisoner exchanges, obtained guarantees of safe passage from the mujahideen commanders. They’d found themselves comrades-in-experience, the two men from the CIA and the KGB colonel. They’d all liked each other, under the strangest circumstances and in the most unlikely place. He had a snapshot somewhere of the three of them, posed against snowcapped mountains like good ol’ boys on a hunting trip.

It had been the beginning of Billy’s association with Turgenev, and when the Russian had appeared in Siberia, reincarnated as an entrepreneur, he and Billy had set up what had become the behemoth of GraingerTurgenev, the largest exploiter of the vast Urengoy gasfield.

They drifted purposefully out of the dining room, leaving the senator in their wake — just Billy and the Russians; as if fleeing the party. Business? Beth would not be pleased; her liberal credentials did not extend to excusing a lack of etiquette in herself, Billy or anyone else.

His claret was refreshed by a murmuring waiter, moving smoothly as a machine about the room. There was a desultory exchange of greetings with a journalist, but no real conversation.

The man was after bigger game. Russia was unfashionable this month in the Washington Post. Bosnia had the inside track on international news. A department junior introduced his girlfriend, a small-faced young woman hiding behind huge spectacles who gushed her awe of Beth. She’d been one of the students his sister had taken to the UN.

Then he was alone again for a moment, surveying the guests, before a hand touched his arm. His delight that it was Beth was at once tempered by her clouded expression.

‘What’s the matter with Billy?’ she demanded, as if Lock were responsible.

‘What’s up. Sis? Great party ‘

‘Billy’s locked in the study with Pete Turgenev and some other Russians. I want him out here, not ignoring his guests.’

‘Sis, it must be important ‘

‘John, go and drag him back in here, please!’

She smiled at a passing compliment on the buffet and her hair from a blue-rinsed matron who was a congressman’s wife and a member of the same country club, then the affability was gone in a moment.

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Sis,’ he soothed. It was as if her new confidence was the merest facade. She would not interrupt Billy herself, just in case a chasm yawned in an angry or impatient refusal. He nodded. ‘OK, I’ll go roust him out.’

“Thanks, thanks-‘ And at once she plunged into a conversation regarding the current production of La Forza del Destino at the Washington Opera, the young woman from her class nging on her every pronouncement. He was relieved to miss hanp that discussion, because Beth would inevitably want to show him off as her musicologist brother — which he wasn’t, not unless he eventually did finish that damn’ book on Monteverdi …

Beth was severe when he excused it as a good reason to spend time in Mantua and Venice, Sis, nothing more … all of which reminded him he had to return the call on his answerphone from the lady at Washington Musica Antiqua tomorrow.

Tomorrow, definitely — just as soon as he thought up a good enough story for the delay with the performing version of the opera.

There wasn’t too much wrong. He wandered to the broad, dark doors of the dining room and across the hall. At the foot of the staircase, seated on the bottom step of the sweeping flight, an aspiring painter Beth was patronising was insinuating himself with two senior executives of a bank. Like the bank’s profits, the price of his paintings was set to rise. Maybe the bank should invest … hustle, hustle. He smiled, then knocked at the study door.

He could hear raised voices on the other side of the door which was locked, he realised. He knocked again, sipping at his claret. He could distinguish nothing of the conversation — quarrel, was it? Then Billy eased the door open like someone afraid of the cops or the landlord.

‘Oh — John.’ He was sweating and he had been drinking bourbon by the scent of his breath. He was in shirtsleeves, his black tie loosened and dangling on his chest, which heaved as if he had been running. ‘Beth sent you, uh?’ Lock could see Turgenev seated in a leather armchair, long legs stretched confidently out.

The Russian turned his face towards the door. He was smiling, untroubled. ‘Well, did she?’

‘Yes. You know what a stickler’

‘I’m busy, John. Just get lost, uh?’ He manufactured a disarming, reassuring smile. His eyes were drunk, tired and unnerved.

‘OK, OK, I’m just the messenger.’ Lock raised his hands in mock surrender, and Billy nodded, closing the door and relocking it at once.

Even before he had moved away from the door, he could hear Billy’s raised voice again; protest, anger, defiance. He shook his head. A disagreement over profits, what else? He’d have to soothe Beth.

He looked at his watch. Eleven-thirty. He had an early meeting with the Secretary of State, who wanted his face-to-face impressions of the Russian situation. He’d leave soon.

He looked back at the study door, as if drawn to the disturbing eddies and waves of emotion he had sensed as vividly as static electricity during the. moments that the door was ajar.

He yawned. Not your business, he advised himself. Just soothe Beth, nod in the direction of the faces that were important, talk to the people he liked, then make tracks. Pete Turgenev was a hard-nosed bastard, but then so was Billy. It would be an interesting contest It was like the most undeserved and repressive surveillance, glancing through the small square of window in the door to the ward. He could make out only the shape of the wife beneath the bedclothes, her features hidden by a mound of pillow.

Dmitri Gorov sat motionless on a chair beside the bed, staring at the hand that lay unresponsively in his own. It was a scene, Vorontsyev guessed, identical to every other visit Dmitri made. A tableau depicting the aftermath of a tragedy. His wife was evidently sedated on this occasion. There were more awful visits, he gathered, when she wept uncontrollably, when she was conscious but did not know him, when she was a girl again.

He could not understand why Dmitri came so regularly. Was it self-flagellation for the dead daughter? Was it memory, love?

Vorontsyev turned away, ashamed, his boots echoing in the hospital corridor. He had come to collect Dmitri, but the man was evidently not yet ready to abandon the silent, unconscious madwoman.

The pharmacist had confirmed that he had.prescribed sleeping pills for Rawls — four days ago. The executive from GraingerTurgenev had identified the body in the mortuary. Vorontsyev had the autopsy report in his pocket. It told him nothing he did not already know. Rawls had been dragged into the copse, but had not walked any distance. The taxi must have dropped him and headed back to town. He must have been meeting someone he knew — at least, someone he had no cause to fear would do him harm. There had been no sign of a struggle, no physical damage to Rawls other than the single wound to the back of the head. The Russian who’d identified him had no explanation.

He had expected Rawls to leave on the morning flight to Petersburg.

Why would’ he have been killed, except to rob him? the Russian had asked.

Agreed — except … why was he out there, in the icy darkbeforedawn without even overshoes and not a suspicion in his head?

Vorontsyev looked al his watch. Turned back towards the ward and Dmitri. It was time to leave. Rawls was a larger matter, like a drama seen in the shapes of clouds; it was perhaps significant, but also illusory, a trick of the mind. The drugs shipment they were expecting that night was real, part of the world of facts which was all that should interest the chief of detectives in a raw town in Siberia. He tapped on the door, then pushed it slightly ajar. Dmitri, roused from his empty contemplations, nodded, then released the expressionless hand, folding it back under the bedclothes. He stood up, picked up his fur hat, paused for a moment, then hurried to join Vorontsyev.

‘Sorry ‘

‘No problem. But it’s three already.’

‘Anything useful?’

‘On Rawls?’ Vorontsyev shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Where do we go from here?’

Their footsteps hurried along the corridor, echoing ahead of them and behind, as if a platoon of soldiers were quick-marching through the Foundation Hospital.

‘Nowhere, I should think. What can we do? The guy was robbed. Everyone says so.’

‘Except you.’ Vorontsyev shrugged. He had, involuntarily and perhaps while he was unguarded, recalled an early visit to Dmitri’s house for a weekend barbecue in summer. Remembered the vivacity of both wife and daughter, their unexpected ease in front of him, the certitude of their family life. Midges had plagued the patch of garden behind Dmitri’s home on the outskirts all afternoon, but it had not seemed to matter. It had not diminished the laughter.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows what Americans think they’re doing?’

They reached the bottom of the final flight of stairs, and the foyer where the Outpatients Department had created its encampment of people with limbs in plaster or patched eyes, loiterers, children who sniffled and roared and ran around shrieking — and, as if the Soviet ethic could never be entirely expunged, lounging porters in brown overalls. But he had been informed that hospital porters throughout the world were similarly ossified.

The day, declined into late afternoon, was bruised with cloud on the horizon. Vorontsyev pushed open the fingerprinted, smudged glass doors and the cold struck against them with a promise of winter violence. Their boots crunched on the freezing snow as they crossed the car park. Dmitri’s bulk slithered on glassy ice, and Vorontsyev grabbed his arm, righting him.

The cellular telephone nagged in Vorontsyev’s pocket. He opened the mouthpiece and said: ‘Yes?’

‘The flight’s on time, sir. The weather’s OK, they should get in more or less on time.’

‘Good.’ He folded the instrument away like the empty wrapping of a toy, and thrust it into his pocket.

‘Well?’ Dmitri had forgotten his wife.

‘It’s in the air — and coming our way.’ Dmitri’s face was as excited as that of a child. He sensed the same pleasure in himself.

He was warm in the car park’s freezing air. The lock of the Car door opened easily, without his having to heat the key. They bundled themselves into the car, as if setting out for a party, and Rawls and Dmitri’s wife, Anna, had never existed.

The aircraft bringing gas workers up from Pakistan would land in a little less than six hours. They’d be at the airport to meet It, would watch the unloading and the passengers filing, ghostly, in night-glasses across the tarmac. They’d follow the bus or taxi back into town, then wait for the Pakistani called Hussain to walk into the glare of their surveillance at the block of flats. How much heroin didn’t matter, it would be something; a satisfactory consignment. It would be real, unlike the cloudy speculations that surrounded the murder of Allan Rawls.

He started the car. Dmitri, beside him, was now tense with excitement, and guilt at the opportunity to forget his wife for a few hours. The engine coughed, then became an assertive roar.

He had wandered out of some abstract drama which refused to make its meaning clear into the last act of a play that offered a genuine climax. They were going to do something, have something to show The telephone drew him slowly up from a deep, dreamless sleep.

The room pounced familiarly as he switched on the bedside lamp. Four in the morning. He could hear rain against the window.

‘Yes?’

There was a moment’s hesitation, then: ‘Do I have Mr John Lock?’

‘Yes? Is this important?’

‘I’m Lieutenant Faulkner, Mr Lock. I’m calling from Mr William Grainger’s house—’

‘Wait a minute, there. Are you police?’

‘Yes … Mr Lock. Washington PD.’ The man’s reluctance worried him. He felt stunned by a detonation he had hardly begun to suspect.

‘What kind of policeman are you?’

‘A homicide detective, Mr Lock.’

He was silent, hearing the rain against the window, the tick of the alarm clock, the breathing of the man on the other end of the line. A solitary car in the street below.

‘Mr Lock?’

‘Yes,’ he said in a stony, gruff whisper.

‘I’d like you to come out here, sir — to help us identify the ‘

‘No!’ It was not his answer to Faulkner’s request. ‘What’s happened?’

‘There have been some homicides. If you could make it now, it would help us,’

‘Bodies?’

‘Yes. There were servants, I understand?’

The ridiculous spring of hope, broken-winged, was down in an instant.

‘A butler. A housekeeper. How many bodies are there?’

‘You’ve accounted for the other two, Mr Lock.’ immediately, he felt the nausea choking his throat as his stomach churned.

‘Hold on — ‘ he blurted, then staggered across the bedroom to the bathroom.

After he had vomited, retching until his throat ached, he stared into the bathroom mirror at a stranger’s face — white, drawn, dislocated. His mind reeled as if he had been awoken from a drunken stupor. His thoughts raced with images of Beth and Billy and of the house, the gardens falling to the Great Falls, the long drive up which his headlights had climbed, Beth and Billy, Stillman the butler, and Beth and Beth …

There was no escape. He was locked in a padded room where the scream, the only activity left to the stranger’s face in the mirror, wouldn’t be heard by anyone.

Beth had been murdered Twenty minutes late, the Tupolev dropped out of the clouds and rushed towards them, Aeroflot emblazoned on its flanks like the desperate cry of a lost cause. Vorontsyev watched it inspect the runway, wobble, hurry and then settle as quickly as a migrating duck onto the strip of darkness between the lights.

He swept the glasses after it as it rushed away again, not appearing to slow until it turned like a wounded animal, slowly and clumsily. A hundred passengers crammed into it, standing room only as was still the habit of Aeroflot, especially with Iranians and Pakistanis and whoever else had been gathered up in Islamabad to fly into winter. The plane nosed back towards them, once more looking like a shark, sleek and purposeful, nosing the darkness for its appointed parking slot. Dmitri twitched and shuffled beside him. On that plane would be handheld heroin, furtively concealed, nestling in clothing or in toothpaste tubes or talc containers. Just enough to keep the streets of Novyy Urengoy supplied until the next flight, a fortnight later.

The plane came to a halt. He continued to watch it through his night-glasses, staring at him like a ghost-shark.

Iran, Pakistan, Kashmir, the Moslem Triangle, as the press and agencies of a dozen countries called it, had come to Siberia.

Just a small sideline. The Foundation Hospital addiction unit, courtesy of the American conglomerate whose name it bore, was stuffed to the ceiling with the victims of that sideline. The passenger door had opened in the flank of the Tupolev. A collective sigh was audible from the surveillance team. And — and, it was being delivered into his hands, here and now. He sensed shared — the excitement like the freshness of a cold wind.

The passengers began to descend. Whispers identified or rejected them. They were waiting for Hussain, even though they understood that there could be two-three, even six carriers. The plight on the streets had been evident to them for days. A new supply was urgently required. The drugs community was rippling like dead flesh responding to the expansion and contraction of the gases of decay. It hurt — they needed.

The Iranians and Pakistanis and others trooped towards the terminal, while the luggage tractor nosed like a piglet against the sow and the bags began appearing. He glanced at Dmitri beside him, leaning against the other side of the car, his breath smoking in excited little signals of anticipation and desire. The stars were hard in the sky, there were a few grey blobs of cloud, and the airport lights showed a straggle of passengers.

He fitted the night-glasses once more against his eye sockets.

Those bags, they could contain more drugs. There were no searches of returning workers. Everything was done like some parody of Western commercials for holidays — Siberia welcomes you. The operation could, of course, be far bigger than Dmitri’s sole contact — an Uzbek he had charged with sodomising the son of a local government official related to a deputy prime minister — had ever revealed or known.

He admitted to himself that he had almost indulged Dmitri in his pursuit of the drug-pushers who had fed his daughter the heroin on which she had overdosed. It had seemed more con genial than having to watch his best subordinate disintegrate at his desk.

The troop of passengers had entered the terminal.

The town’s addiction problem was increasing like algae under sunlight, covering the surface of the place. The politicians made noises, then forgot, returning to their habitual fawning on the foreign companies who possessed the xeal power. Nobody wanted to know — not really know ~ about heroin.

The R/T, as if to emphasise the insistence of his thoughts, clamoured with reports. Hussain was in the terminal, they were making for the luggage carousel, then customs. Usually, they passed through customs with not even a perfunctory search.

Tonight would be the same.

‘Where’s Hussain?’ Dmitri’s excitement was palpable on the air, like the scent of petrol; something inflammable.

‘Baggage carousel. He doesn’t seem worried.’

‘He wouldn’t. He must have done this trip dozens of times.’

The Uzbek had been a small-time pusher, but he’d pointed them towards an apartment block, rundown and colonised by the families and relatives and hangers-on of gasfield workers.

He picked up his cut heroin there. There was a courier named Hussain, a Pakistani. The heroin originated in the Moslem Triangle. That was it. In exchange for the information, the sodomy charge had been kept from the father of the boy. The boy, an addict himself, fervently desired anonymity.

Vorontsyev glanced at his subordinate, all but envying him the sense of purpose that strained his features like those of a hunting dog close to its quarry.

He shook himself; the nervous tension was infectious, the voices from the R/T a discordant chorus of anticipation. Hussain had collected his luggage — two bags — and was on his way through the customs green channel. No one stopped him, but his exit from customs was reported.

‘Anyone else?’ Vorontsyev asked quickly. Dmitri was puzzled.

‘Get hold of the cabin crew, the hostess or the purser. Find out who he sat with — one of you, get on with it. You’re not needed in customs any more.’

‘Yes, sir.’ ffl There had — now that he really thought about it with stretched nerves — to be more than one courier. Diminish the risk, increase the supply. The addicts had begun queuing at the Grainger Foundation Hospital’s unit for the heroin substitutes, giving their names, addresses … the supply was so overdue.

‘Get me the passenger list — and I want every one of them checked out with GraingerTurgenev and RossiyaGas and SibGas and all the other companies. Wherever they work, I want links between them, if they’re there, uncovered. Got that, all of you?

Tomorrow’s schedule.’

Dmitri, for an instant, laid his gloved hand on Vorontsyev’s arm, a gesture of gratitude. Vorontsyev felt a small, sneaking shame but Dmitri didn’t even resent his elbowing his way in, taking control. Nor did Dmitri’s look remind him that he had shown no more than an occasional — even if fervent — interest in Dmitri’s lead via the Uzbek sodomite. Both of them loathed drugs, badly wanted results. But, Vorontsyev admitted, he had always believed Dmitri more of a crusader than a policeman.

‘He’s getting into a taxi.’

‘Tail-car?’ Dmitri snapped.

‘We’ve got him — don’t worry. Inspector.’

‘Let’s go,’ Vorontsyev said to the driver, and they heaped themselves into the rear of the ZiL.

The car skirted the terminal building and hurried towards the airport gates and the highway, the suspension thudding on rutted, frozen snow. In the distance of the night, the narrow flares from the rigs pricked out like campfires. Ahead of them, the town glowed, the outlying apartment blocks seemed skeletal, pocked with lighted windows. Block after block, retreating towards the centre of the town. Some larger houses, cottages, fenced gardens now under snow, churches, a cemetery, old fronted shops and narrow streets; Urengoy had been the administrative centre of the province, and Novyy Urengoy its suburb.

Now, it housed a hundred thousand people, and maybe fifteen or twenty thousand more lived in trailers, shacks, lean-tos and sheds. Workers from the Urals, the Ukraine, Iran, Pakistan, Soviet Central Asia, imprisoned for two weeks at a stretch for twelve-hour shifts on one of the fourteen hundred gas wells.

They passed a huge hoarding that informed him that Novyy Urengoy produced two-thirds of all Russian gas, fourteen trillion cubic feet every year. The word Soviet had been painted out, and Russian substituted. The place was — as it enlarged before and around them — phantasmagorical, almost nightmarish. Beside the highway was trailer park after parking lot after windswept collection of shacks. Lights glowed fitfully and feebly in the vast darkness, remote as stars from each other and from him. The place was a company town, his enforcement of law tolerated and often ignored. It was like a huge, Tsarist factory complex, except that no one was actually poor here any longer; desperate, futile, greedy, envious, crooked, but not destitute. They chose to live like derelicts and peasants because of the money. Six or seven hundred roubles for a week’s work. A thousand, two thousand a week for anyone with the slightest degree of skill or responsibility.

Stunted larch and birch, and sheds littering the ground beneath their inadequate shelter. Then the sodium lamps flared beside the road, masking the detritus of greed.

‘Hussain’s taxi still in sight?’ Dmitri asked over the car radio.

The canyons of apartment blocks enclosed the car, and Vorontsyev could hear the wind noise above the sound of the engine and the crunch of the snow tyres on the rutted street.

Hunched figures hurried through the icy weather.

‘We’re right behind him’

‘Don’t alarm him!’

‘It’s OK, Inspector, everything’s under control.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Junction of K Street and 14th. We’re both at the lights.’

‘Keep me informed.’ He turned to Vorontsyev, his eyes gleaming.

‘Just on the edge of the red-light district. He’s heading straight there.’

He kept the radio microphone cradled in his hand, like a weapon or a lifeline. The car halted at a set of lights strung above the junction of 9th Street and K. They were five blocks behind the tail-car and Hussain’s taxi. The old town slunk away into semi-darkness to their left, wrapping itself in the night and the twisting, narrow streets and patches of blankness. Ahead, the main street was swallowed in the glare of lights from bars, hotels, clubs, stripjoints, whorehouses, cinemas. K Street was a tunnel of neon.

The car skidded. No one bothered to clear the snow this early in winter. The heaviest traffic was workers’ buses taking men out to the wellheads and rigs, and large trucks moving pipes and heavy equipment. When they wanted to move, the streets were snowploughed. Otherwise ‘What’s that?’ he asked, tapping the driver on the shoulder.

A blue light was struggling to announce itself amid the neon glare and the small, gathered crowd.

He felt Dmitri about to protest.

‘We have time,’ he said. Just make sure the tail-car doesn’t lose him.’ Then to the driver: ‘Pull over. If they’ve picked the wrong situation, they could start a riot.’

It didn’t happen often, but it did happen — drunks who kicked back, or whose friends didn’t want them taken in. A brawl like that had lost them two officers through serious injury and one they’d had to bury.

Ambulance and police car, the former drawn up at the black entrance to a side alley. The patrolmen were watching from beside their car, not quite indifferent but hardly concerned.

Vorontsyev got out of the car and they stood to attention and pretended attentiveness. He nodded.

‘What is it?’

One of the patrolmen pointed to the alleyway.

‘Dead druggie in there — OD’cd, by the look of it, sir. This one-‘ He jabbed his gloved index finger against the rear window of the patrol car. ‘- was trying to get the clothes off the body before it was cold. Says he’s a friend of the deceased and he wouldn’t have minded!’

‘Is the one you’ve arrested an addict?’

‘Looks like it, sir. He’s in a bad way. Really needs a shot in the arm.’ He grinned indifferently.

Vorontsyev nodded and crunched his way over to the two ambulancemen, who had placed the body on a stretcher. The small crowd was already beginning to drift away towards the warmth and expense of clubs and bars. He heard laughter; it wasn’t cruel, merely indifferent and at something else entirely.

The addict had already been forgotten. The wind howled out of the blackness of the alley. He sensed others in there, derelicts.

Huddled in cardboard boxes and drinking anything that offered oblivion. The cold stars were visible above the alley, undrowned by neon.

He turned to look at the body as the ambulancemen hoisted the stretcher. A thin, stubbled face, red-eyed and staring. Probably eighteen or nineteen; he looked Russian. His clothes smelt vilely even in the icy temperature. He watched the stretcher put carelessly into the rear of the ambulance, then saw the other addict, the grave-robber in need of a fix, so badly in need, staring at him with a dead, white, expressionless face.

He shrugged.

‘Go easy,’ he murmured, to the surprise of the militiamen.

‘Just lock him up — get him some of that heroin substitute from the hospital. OK?’ he added as they stared at him, astonished.

‘Yes, sir.’

He nodded, surprised himself. Then, as he got into the car, he saw Dmitri’s face as that of a driven, fanatical monk from Dostoyevsky, battling for the soul of Novyy Urengoy. He’d often employed the image of Dmitri as a religious fanatic; now, it seemed not as risible as before. There were worse delusions in which to believe … though one needed a daughter’s death, probably, to thrust one into a state of mind like that.

‘There’s a call for you,’ Dmitri said, and mouthed, Bakunin.

Vorontsyev took the mobile telephone from Dmitri. ‘Yes, Colonel. What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve decided to take over the Rawls investigation,’ Bakunin announced. ‘Send me everything you’ve got. I take it that doesn’t amount to very much?’

‘Not a great deal. Colonel. Is there a security angle?’

‘I’m upgrading the investigation to keep the Americans happy.

You don’r object?’

‘Suits me, Colonel. I wish you good luck.’

He switched off the phone and put it between them on the bench seat. Shrugged.

‘Bakunin wants Rawls to himself?’

Vorontsyev nodded. ‘Seems so. He’s welcome.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Let’s get our job right.’

‘He’s paid off the taxi. Going in, carrying both suitcases,’ the radio announced.

‘Fine with me,’ Dmitri sighed, his anticipation vivid.

The Maryland countryside blazed with late fall colours. Across the rush and boom of Great Falls, there was a fine day. Virginia and Maryland, peaceful; he in a trance-like state of shock and dammed grief. He stood on the terrace at the back of the mansion, looking over the gardens that sloped down to the Potomac.

His breath smoked no more than the cooling coffee in the mug he cradled in his hands. He felt cold and numb inside his topcoat.

Yes, that’s my sister … yes, my brother-in-law … the housekeeper, yes, the butler, Mr Stillman … and, beneath a tree near the main gates, yes, the security guard …

And that was all there was to do and say. Lieutenant Faulkner was polite, grave, attentive, businesslike. And sensitive enough to let him wander away soon after the identifications, into the kitchen where the crocks and crystal from the party were stacked and ordered, ready for collection by the catering company. There was a scent of abandoned food. He made himself coffee, nudging away the insistent, hundred reminders of her that every surface, utensil, cup and tile seemed intent upon thrusting at him. Beth had looked — just dead; not agonised, not even surprised. Just

— still.

Jewellery, yes … empty boxes and caskets in her bedroom … Yes, a Pissarro, I think yes, quite valuable … Other empty frames and lighter squares on the walls of the library and the main drawing room … I don’t know how much my brother-in-law kept here, in cash or securities … The safe in Billy’s study had been opened with explosives. Silver missing, he thought, some valuable jade pieces, other paintings, ornaments and statuettes …

There were shreds of packing, polystyrene bubbles, wrapping -

professionals. A gang. Maybe even stealing to order. So surmised Faulkner. Did they — usually kill? he had asked. Sometimes.

Not always. In this case, they weren’t prepared to wait until the house was empty …

End of story. End of Beth’s existence. Snuffed out. For things, for damned things! he had protested in his only moment of wildness.

Maybe (wo million dollars’ worth of things, Mr Lock, Faulkner had murmured in response, gripping his arm. Maybe more … I’m sorry. It happens.

The police had found Beth’s guest list, Faulkner had told him.

There’d be no need to trouble him on that … you left when, Mr Lock?

Then Faulkner had moved away, finally, at the door to the kitchen. The downlighters had hurt his eyes. He had fled them

— the house, really, and the memories of the previous evening and of Beth at some pinnacle of ease and beauty and happiness, ready only to fall.

Now, all he could see was the child four years older than himself, forcing herself not to cry when telling him that Mom and Dad had been killed in a road accident. Both dead. It had pressed and pressed on him while Faulkner had talked, however much he had tried to force it back. It was, now, the only real memory of her, and it was awful.

He sipped at his coffee, but it was already cold. Angering him.

He flung the mug away from him, over the stone balustrade down towards the lawn. A squirrel hopped into bushes, alarmed.

The grey coffee streamed through the air like a comet’s dull tail.

His hands were shaking now they had nothing to hold. He stared at them as they ached for something on which to do violence, have revenge …

Oh, Jesus … The vivid, red-gold-green countryside mocked, the bright morning indifferently serene. He heard crows calling, other birds. Oh, Jesus …

THREE Raised Incorruptible

Dmitri was staring through the grimy windscreen, which the car’s heater managed to prevent fogging up, at the blowing snow and the trodden distance of white between them and the dilapidated block of flats.

The car’s interior was hot with their tension. Vorontsyev could make out the humped, whitened shapes of the other unmarked cars. The two vans that had contained the TacTeam were parked well out of sight, the members of the unit crouched in doorways, leaning against pillars, masked, waiting.

He lifted the R/T to his cheek, then bellowed into it and the car radio. ‘Go — goV Icy air as Dmitri opened the door. ‘Go!’

The wind, the taste of snow, the uncertainty of the surface under his feet, all caused him to stagger as he followed Dmitri.

He watched the first members of the TacTeam approach the entrance to the flats. Snowbound steps, a grimy glass door shattered like the image of a star. He could visualise the grubby, graffitied foyer with its thermoplastic tiles in grim grey.

The lifts might not be working, but then that was what the TacTeam trained for. The flat they were interested in was on

— running now, thudding and lumbering across the snowy street — the fourth floor. There were a handful of windows lit, fewer curtained. A block of flats so rundown only the families and hangers-on of the least-rewarded gas workers inhabited it.

Dark shadows flitting up the steps, through the doors. There were lights in the windows of the flat they wanted, burning steadily. No one up there was alarmed.

Dmitri steadied him as he slipped on a patch of ice. Other men in overcoats and parkas. Handguns bristled in fists. There was a heady, collective excitement, something dangerous, communal. Wanting to do damage.

They clumped breathlessly up the steps and burst through the doors. One black-overalled figure was waiting at the lift, others he could hear thudding up the stairs. The porter was not in evidence — unless the ancient, bemused woman huddled against one scratched and filthy wall was the superintendent of the block. He didn’t think so. She was just a terrified old woman ‘Lift?’ he bellowed. The TacTeam officer shook his head.

‘Stairs!’ to Dmitri.

They crowded after the overalled specialists and two younger detectives in wet-stained overcoats. The omnipresence of pistols.

He1 would not be able to prevent shots, fatalities -

they needed, at least, Hussain alive. He’d stressed that, time and again, but all the sober nods and grimaces of agreement in the squad room had been replaced by a mad delight in anticipated, violent success.

First floor. Dmitri was panting like a huge dog, gripping the loose handrail as he lumbered after Vorontsyev. The R/T’s cacophony was uninterrupted, irresistible. Two team members were already on the fourth floor, turn of the stairs, nothing moving up here, their breathing like that of large, fierce hounds. He heard the clicking-off of safety catches. Second floor. A startled child, wearing only a vest that did not cover his tiny penis, was peeing in the corridor, presumably not against his own front door. His eyes were black holes in his dark features.

Third floor. The detective ahead of him had trodden in something that had spilt from an abandoned rubbish bag, and was swearing.

‘Shut that noise!’ he snapped at him. Their boots, still wet with melted snow, slithered like reptiles in panic on the stairs. Still nothing moving, sir. The noise of a radio, a child crying, a deep male voice quarrelling. The noise of a slap. A door slammed.

‘What?’

‘Sir, someone in the corridor. Old man’

‘Get him out of there — quietly!’

Fourth floor. He lunged against the two detectives he had pursued up the stairs. There was staining, rubbish, dogshit on the cracked linoleum flooring. The two overalled Tac-men were bustling a shrivelled, nightgowned old man — Iranian or something like — along the corridor towards them. Terrified eyes stared at Vorontsyev above the gloved hand that was clamped over the old man’s mouth.

He nodded reassuringly, to no effect, and told one of the younger detectives: ‘Take him out of the way. Make sure he doesn’i wander back up here!’

Others crowded behind them now. Three in overalls, another plainclothes detective. He ignored the old man’s continuing terror as he was roughly bundled away.

‘He didn’t come out of the flat we want, sir. Further down the corridor.’

Vorontsyev nodded, listening. Arab music from behind one peeling, flimsy door. The sound of an argument, or perhaps merely an exchange of information. The wet smell of cabbage mingling with more spicy scents, the smell of ordure and decay and mould. The walls were icy with frozen leaks and condensation.

Their breaths whitened the air.

‘OK — positions. Wait till I give the word,’ he instructed in a hoarse whisper, breathing heavily; excitedly. Dmitri stared into the coming moments as into a huge gift-parcel. Try to keep alive, try to keep them alive!’

The TacTeam members moved along the corridor in short, jerky little shuntings, constantly overtaking each other as in the steps of a strange dance, then positioning themselves on either side of the door behind which Hussain, others, and the heroin, waited. Four overalled figures below bright, angelic faces turned to him. This was it. For a moment, none of them was corrupt, on the take, indifferent. This was He nodded and the largest of the overalled men raised his foot and jabbed stiff-legged and violently at the flimsy door. It cracked and folded inwards with little more noise than he would have made stepping on a twig. A small sound -

swallowed, at once, by a roar, a bellow of noise. A sheet of flame engulfed the TacTeam man at the moment he regained his balance. Two other figures fell back, screaming. Then the flame was gone. The man on the floor burned, then simply smouldered. He could still hear screaming — he thought. It was hard to tell in the deafened condition to which he returned from numb shock. Slowly, the screams became louder. Not from the member of the TacTeam. The concussion as much as the flames had killed him. The noises came from inside the flat.

He moved clumsily. The Shockwave had robbed his legs of strength. Someone beside him, as he moved, was muttering. No, no, no, no… it sounded like. It was Dmitri, robbed of his gift.

He imagined that there had been screams; Beth’s protestations against whoever had invaded her life and was about to rob her of her self. He did not wish to do so. His hand closed around a thick-cut crystal glass where whisky swilled with all his barely suppressed grief. He kept looking at the glass and the swilling, gold liquid rather than drinking from it.

He glanced at the answerphone as if it posed some threat. It was almost filled with messages of sympathy. He’d listened to every one, and answered none of them … and the woman from the music group was sorry to bother him again, but … she obviously hadn’t read the newspapers or connected Beth with himself — and Fred who, with a lot of deep breathing and genuine, awkward compassion, still had the tickets for the basketball and wondered what to do with them … the Library of Congress enquired through an austere female voice when he intended making use of the books he had listed before his last trip to Russia … and more expressions of sympathy, the disconnected, ugly, unreal gulping of people who saw him on the edge of an abyss and didn’t know how to save him. He’d unplugged the machine. That way, the voices couldn’t enter the apartment.

Billy had not had time to reach for one of the various firearms he kept around the house. He had been shot in the bathroom, and was found slumped over the basin. His head was arranged as if on the block of a guillotine, twisted sideways, blood from the wound on his cheek streaking over his chin like thin vomit into the white china basin. Beth had hardly moved in the bed

— he was grateful for that, at least — the bedclothes barely disturbed.

Only marked with two black holes that then passed through her and into the mattress. The sheets had looked slightly arranged, too stiff and smooth. That had been the blood sticking them in place like licked postage stamps.

He stared at the window of his apartment’s lounge, into the midday sun, the light splintering through his tears. The nausea becoming onmipresent.

He was preoccupied with anger, hatred; searching for a means and opportunity for revenge. Wanted to know who. He could not have anticipated this sense of being cheated, as if Beth had been some porcelain creation of his own smashed by a stranger’s intrusion. He swallowed the hypnotic drink at a gulp, and choked on it, and fled to the bathroom to vomit.

When he came back into [he lounge, the phone was ringing, seeming to have achieved a pitch of impatience at being ignored.

He picked up the telephone before realising it was what he least wanted to do.

‘Yes?’ His voice sounded strange, as if it didn’t belong to him.

‘John?’ An accent. Not American.

‘Yes — this is John Lock. Is this important? I mean, I’m sorry, but’

‘John, it’s Pete. Pyotr Turgenev … I understand why you didn’t recognize it was me. I rang to say how sorry — how angry I am Lock’s throat was stretched and dry. His mouth was vile with the taste of bile and the hours of drinking. He began to realise he had not eaten, but had not simply stared at the glass, either.

‘I don’t want to talk — V he wailed, shocking himself.

‘John, 1 understand,’ Turgenev soothed. ‘I can’t help feeling it — without intruding on your special grief, John, I feel it, too.’

‘Thanks, Pete.’ He grabbed at the intuitive empathy as if to drag it down into the deep place where he felt himself to be.

There was someone else down there after all, who knew what it meant.

Unlike the Washington Post, lying open on the small table beside the telephone. In its habitually reined-in style, it announced in a subordinate headline the Grainger Slaying, and trickled towards its report with subsidiary heads that acknowledged Arts Patron Among Victims and Dow Slump Expected for Stock in Grainger Technologies. It was all so neat, so encapsulated, meas uring the worth of Billy and Beth on the markets of industry and the arts. What other headlines could any good American wish, having been violently done to death?

‘You still there?’ Turgenev asked, his sympathy insistent now, almost proprietary.

‘Yes, sorry-‘ Beth’s brilliance of mind and her qualities as a Washington hostess achieved parity in the Post’s report. Billy’s dash in intelligence and the market followed as almost equally admirable — now that he was dead. ‘Look, Pete, I really can’t talk right now’

‘I understand. I just wanted to tell you I understand.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Was it robbery?’

‘Oh, yes,’ he answered. ‘Maybe as many as a dozen paintings, all her jewellery, things like that.’ He realised he was repeating Faulkner’s words exactly, as if he had been programmed like some PR guy to give out only so much and no more.

He felt his stomach churn again and squinted against the light burning through the net curtains. Beth had bought them, put them up ‘How terrible.’

‘Yes.’

‘I know … no, I don’t need to say it, John. I just want you to get in touch if there’s anything, simply anything, you might need or want. Even someone to talk to … Should I talk to Vaughn just now?’

‘No, I’ll do that. He’s on his way up from Phoenix.’

‘He must be broken up.’

‘He is — is there something else?’

‘No. Just sympathy, John. Understanding. You take care now.’

‘Yes, Pete.’

‘We all loved her, John ‘

‘Yes.’

Lock put down the receiver with the care he might have expressed in stroking a small, hurt animal. Pete Turgenev, Jesus … who’d have thought the KGB had such depth of feeling …? At once, the small, self-rescuing joke foundered.

The phone call had stranded him farther than before on the reef of his sorrow. Vaughn Grainger’s arrival that afternoon loomed, a species of interrogation and pressure he felt he would not be able to undergo without himself coming apart.

He wandered to the window and stared through the glaze of the net curtains. The apartment was half of the first floor of an old Georgetown house, student lodgings become the necessary domicile of a civil servant. Except for those currently in power who bartered the mansions of the suburb at every election or Presidential whim. It possessed the atmosphere that much of Georgetown exuded, with the bright young men and women who did not have to stray too far from Harvard and Yale and the other colleges when they came home from powerbroking and nudging and lobbying each evening. The couple downstairs were lobbyists for the soft drinks cartels, the guy who shared the first floor a poet who had not written a line since his last National Book Award.

Only rarely had women stayed — slept over, as kids called it, and it was almost as small an occasion as that — and only once had one moved in, taken up wardrobe as well as bed space.

Even changed the drapes and the cologne in the bathroom. For a while, Johanna had been very real. He had surrendered to her, opened all the closets of his privacy and his secret life.

When she had left, because it was still not enough, he had been devastated. No woman had slept in the apartment since. It had slowly reassembled itself as it had been, growing and healing around him like a broken carapace. You have a cold place in you no one can reach — and God knows I’ve tried, Johanna had said, a week before she moved out. Only one person could reach him

— and she was dead. Johanna had been right, in a way. He had never wanted to share, be part of someone else. He had never wanted to give all his secret self to someone who wasn’t entitled, like Beth was.

Had he ever gone into analysis, the shrink would have identified that snow-covered-ice stretch in a Vermont forest where his parents’ car had gone off the road and struck a fir. In its facile way, it would have told him what he already knew, all too well.

The trees were red-gold along the quiet street. There was no ice in the whisky he had thoughtlessly poured. Two kids kicked up heaped, fallen leaves — turned away at once from that image. Too like, too like …

He and Beth, kicking up New England leaves as children. As his older sister she would shower him with them, then brush him down so that Mom would not berate him. He turned quickly from the window, sensing that other, even stronger images, a whole army of them, were on the point of attack.

On his retinae was the image of a car, just beyond the shrilling children and their kicking legs and the flying red leaves. He did not want to turn back, but did so. The image was still retinal, that of a topcoated, hatted, squat man getting into a black sedan, and another man, taller and well wrapped up, getting out; an exchange of guards. He looked down into the street. The car was moving away from the kerb, its exhaust wintrily smoking.

The man who had gotten out of it flicked behind a tree-trunk.

The children played obliviously.

Lock realised he was under surveillance — who, why? The questions came immediately; that instinct that long training had placed there and State had not allowed to fall into disrepair.

Then another realisation. That the void he had been speaking into and imagining while he was on the line to Turgenev — and to Vaughn Grainger, earlier — was not entirely the void of his own grief. The hair on his neck tickled with curiosity, and fear.

It had been that special kind of void, that added distance, that only occurs when a phone is bugged.

Even zipped up in their black bags, the bodies were not less damaged, less shocking. They lay like the victims of a road accident or a war zone, side by side, in the corridor. If Vorontsyev turned his head even slightly, the bags appeared to him like a black snowdrift. He turned his head frequently, such was his frustation and anger; as if blaming the bodies.

Because there was no drug shipment in the ruins of the flat

… no trace of drugs. Maybe a month-old powdering of spilt heroin vacuumed up from a corner of the room by Forensic.

There were two TV sets that might have been stolen, stored in the bedroom where condensation had frozen on the livid wallpaper; there was little food. There were four bodies. The occupants, Hussain, and another man whose face wasn’t quite intact, someone Vorontsyev thought he vaguely recognized though not criminally, not from a mugshot or an arrest.

Hussain had brought nothing with him. That was Dmitri’s all but anguished conclusion. They’d been had, and how. Someone

— maybe even one of the officers in the ruins with them — had provided a tip-off. Hussain would never have thrown the heroin from the taxi. He’d stopped nowhere, except for traffic lights.

He’d been watched closely at the airport. There’d been no switch -

someone else’s luggage? He didn’t actually carry the heroin?

Vorontsyev stamped his feet on the thin, purple carpet, waking his toes back to life in the wet boots. There were bootmarks all over the carpet, superfluous to the exploding cooking fat that had splashed it and the walls and the bodies. That was what Forensic suggested. Cooking on a faulty paraffin heater, spilt fat, explosion — poor sods. They were all burned, scarred by flying fat and paraffin. The heater or stove had gone off like a bomb.

They’d been gathered round it to keep warm.

But there was no heroin, his thoughts insisted like an addiction.

The information was certain, Dmitri persisted, Hussain had been scheduled to bring in heroin. He must have had it with him, mustn’t he?

Which left a switch or a blind. Either way, he and Dmitri had been tricked. It had been a set-up for them, a charade, two raised fingers — probably originating from somewhere at headquarters, someone on the payroll of whoever controlled Hussain.

The drugs had come off the flight in another bag or in the cargo.

He glared towards the open door of the flat and the icy corridor and its black body bags. That containing the TacTeam officer lay alongside the others. He’d get a better burial, with a flag over the cheap coffin. The flat reeked of paraffin and other, unnameable, scorched odours. Cheap carpet, furnishings, fat and muscle He cut off the thought there.

‘We were set up — all the way from the plane!’ Dmitri whined beside him. Vorontsyev glowered at him. Undeterred, Dmitri continued. ‘They sacrificed these poor sods just to cover their tracks!’

And, without doubt, they had done just that. Hussain, who must have been a good courier, the two others who were packagers, cutters, distributors.

‘It could have been an accident,’ Vorontsyev corrected his own thoughts, Dmitri’s words.

‘Like it was an accident there are no drugs here?’

They were standing in the middle of the room, on the most scorched area of the thin carpet, like a couple engaged in some depressing marital quarrel. Forensic fussed at the tag-end of their examination, searching as much for merit badges as for clues.

‘Their stove blew up,’ Vorontsyev tried to insist.

A bright, chilled, young face stood beside Dmitri, smiling as breath clouded around it. Dmitri held up a clear polythene envelope.

‘Lubin here found some of these scattered around the room.

Embedded in the furniture and walls,’ Dmitri announced.

Inside the envelope were metallic slivers, tiny steel diamonds glittering through the clear plastic.

‘What are they — Lubin?’

‘I think they’re from a fragmentation grenade,’ the young man replied, as if suddenly thinking better of a wild, improbable piece of guesswork.

Vorontsyev turned the envelope in his fingers and the steel splinters caught the light. Dmitri appeared to be silently urging the young forensic officer to continue, as if his own conviction was dribbling away like water into sand.

‘There are fragments of what might be a child’s balloon!’

Dmitri eventually and incongruously burst out. ‘Some of them embedded in the victims’ skin — tell the Major, Lubin!’

‘I’ve — er, I’ve seen this kind of thing before, sir. It’s normally a terrorist device.’ The wind gusted through the shredded curtains of the room, making the remnants float like seaweed.

‘Yes?’

Most of the others had left the room, drifting out of the gap where the front door had been.

‘I think the balloon and the grenade were inside the heater, sir. I wouldn’t have guessed, except I’ve’

‘- seen it before. You said,’ Vorontsyev interrupted impatiently.

‘Yes, sir,’ Lubin replied shamefacedly. ‘The balloon would have heated up inside the stove,’ he hurried on, as if successfully overcoming a violent stammer, ‘probably had water in it, enough expansion to pull the pin out of the frag grenade, which would then explode. The heater was old, the metal thin, the fragments would have come flying out — ripping the poor sods to shreds.’

‘Couldn’t these be fragments from the heater?’

Dmitri shook his head. Lubin’s similar gesture was slower in coming, but as certain.

‘They’re too regular — see, sir?’ he offered. Steel needles. ‘A gas or liquid in the balloon, sir, heated up … it’s possible, sir.

I mean, it’s not clever or anything, just messy. It can be done.’

Again, Lubin wound down like a clockwork toy, confronted by Vorontsyev’s scepticism. Or perhaps he didn’t want to believe it, he told himself. Too much like another warning, like Rawls’ single, professional wound? He cleared his throat. Glanced around him, then nodded towards the door of the bedroom.

Dmitri and Lubin followed him.

It was colder than the living room and smelt of paraffin, dirty clothing, soiled bedlinen, stale food. All three of them were engaged in some laughable conspiracy, or a dream. He turned to confront Dmitri. The envelope between his fingers caught the light once more and the steel splinters gleamed mockingly.

‘Your boy’s well coached,’ he murmured.

Dmitri appeared wounded. Lubin said abruptly:

‘I came to Inspector Gorov with the idea, sir. The balloon, the shards of steel, the force of the explosion.’

‘Enough to kill the TacTeam man who kicked the door down?

Why wasn’t it he who triggered the explosion? Or was he just unlucky?’

‘There may have been something wired to the door. I’m not sure about that’

‘Or about this?’

Their breathing smoked like a burning fuse in the icy bedroom.

‘I can’t be certain, sir — at least, not yet. But I’ve seen it done before.’ His hands sculpted the room’s stale air. His parka rustled with the small, intense movements. To find out how exactly, in this case, I’d have to run tests at the lab. If you doctor the pin mechanism, it doesn’t need much force to explode a grenade.’

‘Alexei — I’ Dmitri demanded at once, as if he had been waiting for his cue. He turned Vorontsyev aside from Lubin and pressed close to him. ‘Why don’t you want to believe it? Eh, why not?’

He was tugging at the sleeve of Vorontsyev’s coat like an importunate, wheedling child.

‘It’s too fancy and too pat,’ he snapped back.

‘Lubin saw what he saw. He’s not a fool — and he’s not working to any script of mine! This was a set-up, a false lead!’

He sighed aloud, irritated at surrendering to the nonsense woven by Dmitri and the young, enthusiastic Lubin — who, he remembered, had diagnosed more than one murder as mafiainspired and not the consequences of a brawl. He didn’t need more conspiracy theorists — he already had Dmitri and he was sufficient unto the day.

The thought would not be ridiculed into submission. Rawls’ murder had been an assassination and meant to appear as such.

It was a declaration, a warning … were they connected, then?

That was crazy …

The wind rattled the loose metal windowframe of the bedroom.

He could hear, quite distinctly, the rustle and creak from the corridor as the bodybags were lifted and moved. The TacTeam man, Hussain, the other bodies … one ragged face he had vaguely recognized. He’d have to look at that face ‘You’re certain these slivers are from a frag grenade?’ he snapped with unreasonable anger.

‘I’m — pretty sure, sir.’

‘Then bloody make sure!’ He snatched them away from Lubin’s gaze and carried them into the wrecked living room, still dimly lit by its single bulb. An image of the paraffin stove exploding made him nauseous for a moment. The steel slivers glinted in their clear plastic envelope. Regular, small, needlelike. ‘Bloody make sure!’ he repeated over his shoulder, hearing them follow him from the bedroom.

‘Yes, sir.’

If Lubin’s nonsense was true … as true as his own conviction concerning Rawls’ murder … then someone had gone to all this trouble to eliminate their only lead to the drug-trade in Novyy Urengoy, and to tell them what they’d done.

Lubin was at the door of the flat, examining the charred frame.

He was nodding to himself with intent, silent satisfaction.

Vorontsyev sensed the malevolence and the organisation that could make a deadly practical joke out of an exploding paraffin stove and a bomb-wired front door. You have been warned. We know what you know. We’re untouchable.

He placed his hand on Dmitri’s shoulder, who looked up at him like some faithful and rather singleminded hound. He realised his own features were bleak, as if he had been standing face-on to a storm. The smell of the flat nauseated him and the wind through the broken window carried snow into the room that stained the cheap purple carpet as violently as blood had already done. He shrugged Dmitri’s shoulder with his hand, gripping it fiercely. The warning off made him edgy — and angry.

Very angry.

Lock turned from the door closing behind the bellhop, and saw unmistakable fear in the collapsed posture of Vaughn Grainger.

The old man was slumped into the chair, and his heavy, lined features were quivering. Lock shook his head as if to clear his vision, but the stigmata of fear rather than grief remained on Grainger’s face and body. Then he appeared to become aware he was being studied and roused himself in the chair.

The sitting room of the suite in the Jefferson Hotel was pale walled and draped, the furniture heavily antique. Grainger had been drinking on the flight — too much — but he wasn’t drunk.

It wasn’t the alcohol that blurred his features and made his hands shake. Afternoon light gleamed through the net curtains.

‘You OK?’ Lock asked quietly. ‘You want something to drink?’

Grainger shook his head. ‘I’m all right, John-boy. OK.’ His right hand waved in front of him as if to ward something off.

Was he afraid of his own mortality? Billy’s murder had hit him like a stroke.

Lock poured himself a large bourbon and swallowed eagerly.

He didn’t want to be in the room with Billy’s father. He wanted to be outside, where his own grief could be distracted by other people, things, lose itself in the indifference of the streets. The car journey from the airport had been claustrophobic and now the suite pressed in on him like a migraine. He swallowed more bourbon, his back to Grainger, aware of small, shuffling movements, the creaks of the chair, the aimless, lost slapping of old hands on old thighs, the rub of fingers against stubbled cheeks.

‘You — don’t mind Beth being — being buried with Billy? In Phoenix? There’s no family plot or anything, is there?’

Lock ground his teeth together at the sense of appropriation he felt. He couldn’t say he wanted her to be buried near his parents in New Hampshire, in the country churchyard; not in the burned dryness of Arizona … because it was stupid. She was gone, and that was it and all of it, and it didn’t matter where her — remains lay to desiccate.

‘No, Vaughn. They — should be together, right?’

He vigorously crushed all memories of the many visits he and Beth had made to that country churchyard, deep in leaves or grass or snow. From the first visit, when there had been coffins and dizziness and dislocation and eventual nausea and fainting, to the last, they all reminded him of Beth and his parents and there wasn’t the least thing good about any of them any longer.

‘Thanks, John-boy,’ Grainger murmured. ‘I — maybe I’ll have that drink now.’

‘Bourbon?’

‘Sure.’ He poured two more drinks. Grainger took his with a deliberately firm hand. His eyes were self-aware, concerned with presenting himself in a certain way; masking things Lock might have noticed. Why?

Why do I think he’s afraid — really afraid? Because I’m afraid, unsettled by the car that tailed me to Dulles and then followed me back into the city? Disturbed by the man on the street outside the apartment, the man outside the hotel now? He smiled concealingly at Grainger and sipped his bourbon. Grainger’s face was half-hidden by his hands as he lit one of his long Cuban cigars. Part of the suite’s claustrophobia could be put down to his sense of being under surveillance. And not knowing why.

‘What do the police think, John? Really think?’

Lock perched himself on the edge of the chair on the other side of a deeply polished table. The net curtains were a sheened blankness beside the table, as if both men sat on a bare, modernist stage set, waiting to begin a play.

‘Robbery was the motive. There’s maybe three, four million dollars’ worth of paintings, jewellery, other stuff missing. The lieutenant in charge of the investigation called me, gave me the insurance assessor’s estimate. It couldn’t be anything else’ It was not quite a question, but it alerted Grainger’s body like the sting of a small insect.

‘What else could it be?’ he protested.

‘Billy had enemies — in business. Who doesn’t?’

‘Do they go around killing-?’ Grainger’s reply was throttled by a growling sob. He shook his head, staring at his cigar. A cocoon of ash had fallen onto the carpet. ‘He wasn’t into things that could cause …’ He looked up, his eyes flintily grey, harsh.

‘He ran Grainger Technologies, not some gambling palace, whores, stuff like that. Jesus, it’s so senseless, John — so damned senselessl’

‘I know.’ He swallowed grief, more bitter than the drink.

They will find these animals?’

‘The police department — maybe, they say. If some of the stuff, the paintings for instance, comes onto the market. They may have had a shopping list,’ he added. ‘It might never see the light of day.’

‘You mean people order stuff they want, to fill up their houses, from animals like that?’

‘You — we both know it happens, Vaughn.’ His own unsatisfied need for justice — revenge — was reflected in the old man’s face.

They must have had the place under surveillance — ‘ He swallowed, aware of the window near which they sat, of 16th Street below, of the man on the other side of the street in the sunlight.

‘- for days, maybe weeks.’

‘Then why didn’t they go in when Billy wasn’t at home?’

Grainger all but wailed.

‘The alarm system, perhaps. They must have bluffed their way in — maybe pretended they were caterers, something like that.

It was easier to kill Beth — and Billy and the others. Maybe.’

The ringing of the telephone on the Colonial writing table startled both of them. Lock stared at the spilt drops of bourbon staining his dark trousers, then he got up jerkily and lurched towards the phone.

‘Yes?’

‘Sir, a Mr Turgenev is at the front desk. He says he’s a friend of the family. He’d like to come up.’

Lock placed his hand over the receiver and relayed the information to Grainger. ‘He wants to come up. Are you?’

The fear was back. Grainger was rigid in the chair, the disregarded cigar held loosely between his fingers. The eyes moved rapidly, like wideawake dreaming or as if in search of a hiding place. Lock didn’t understand.

‘Pete wants to pay his respects, express his sympathy,’ he told Grainger as Turgenev came on the line. ‘Can you go through with it — say for five minutes?’

Grainger nodded as if in spasm. The hand holding the cigar was once more fending away something unseen. ‘Sure,’ he said throatily. ‘Pete’s a good guy’

‘Yes.’ Then, into the receiver: ‘Come on up, Pete. Just don’t stay long, OK? Vaughn’s tired out from the flight.’ He put down the telephone and stared into the white-gold blankness of the net curtains. Grainger gradually relaxed. ‘Another drink?’

‘Hell, why not? It isn’t drowning anything but it takes the edge off it.’ He held out his empty glass, his features controlled; reinvested with grief and loss.

Lock refilled the glass and hesitated over his own before deciding he didn’t need another drink. Not just yet. As he handed Grainger his glass, there was a discreet knock at the door. As Lock moved to open it, it was as if the old man was preparing himself for a bruising encounter or a game of bluff.

Turgenev’s good looks were arranged in appropriate, sympathetic lines and planes, his eyes saddened. He took Lock’s hand in his own, murmuring:

‘I’m so sorry, John.’

Then at once he moved into the room, his topcoat over his arm, his Russian fur hat in his hand, and gestured to Grainger to remain seated as he placed his hand firmly, empathetically on the old man’s arm. Bending over him, he made Grainger seem shrunken. Against the window’s blankness, it was an affecting tableau, a frieze that belonged on some classical temple.

Then Turgenev lowered himself into the chair opposite Grainger, hat still in his hand, coat over his arm, his voice low and soothing.

‘There’s nothing I can say, Vaughn, I know that … but believe me, I understand your loss. I feel it myself … just like I feel for John —’ A glance towards Lock, hovering by the drinks tray. Turgenev shook his head at the proffered bottle and turned back to Grainger. ‘You’re not to worry about anything, there’ll be time for everything later. Nothing is urgent,’ he impressed.

Grainger was nodding emptily.

Lock turned away, but the two men at the table remained in the gilded mirror that confronted him. Turgenev leaning forward across the small space between them, his features heavy with sympathy, Grainger hunched into himself in the chair, staring at the smouldering cigar between his fingers. The frieze had altered, suggesting an ambiguous image; grieving old man being comforted — or old man being instructed on his determined future, as if being given news of his placement in a retirement home after the death of his family. The peculiarity and vivacity of the image struck him, but it was more than momentary.

In the car — of course. He remembered now. Vaughn had made some scattered references to Grainger Technologies and its future, after Billy. Turgenev was a stockholder in a major way, there was the suggestion of a buyout. Vaughn ran the Grainger Foundation, the charitable corporation based in Phoenix. Would he surrender that to others now, too? In the mirror, he appeared resigned to a blank future. The impression was too powerful, too personal.

Lock remembered Billy, appearing at the door of his study, sweating, angry and somehow powerless beneath the intoxication.

Just like his father now. Turgenev’s long legs stretched out in comfort. In power. Power over…

He glanced back into the mirror, then away from it again. He wanted to think it was paranoia, but the self-mockery would not quite come. It was in a log-jam, trapped between the man who had gotten out of the car opposite his apartment and skulked behind a tree, the tail-car to and from the airport, the man outside now on 16th Street — and Turgenev. Billy’s cowed, abrupt dismissal of him at the study door, Vaughn’s abasement now even though all Turgenev offered was sympathy. Vaughn making it look like threat.

He disliked the insistent, feral intuitions. They took him back into the field, back to the Company. To the time when he and Billy had met Turgenev, he reminded himself. It had been years since Pete Turgenev and his past had evoked old instincts, habitual suspicion. But now in the mirror, Turgenev seemed to loom over Vaughn Grainger like a great, dark bird.

What the hell is happening here?

FOUR Extremely Old Professions

The desert sunlight struck back from the bright shovels, from the chrome on the funeral limousines, from the cars of dignitaries and businessmen and politicians. The glints of hard light caught at his fugitive glances as he tried to avoid the omnipresence of the coffins and the dark hole into which they would, in another moment, be lowered. The vast, cloudless sky was as high as only desert air could be, but it nevertheless pressed down upon the large group of mourners in black clothing. They were seated in rows as for some college class photograph, facing with fortitude the pastor’s closing remarks. It was the easy bravery of remaining alive in the face of the death of others. Cars could be heard from the noisy highway beyond the cemetery.

A Phoenix morning, already hot. Cactuses like a via dolorosa stretched away towards the mountains. Vaughn Grainger’s weight and the old man’s scents pressed against his side and his senses as Billy’s stricken father rocked slowly, inexorably as a pendulum, on the adjacent chair.

Vaughn Grainger leaned on him now as he himself had leaned on Beth at that other funeral, when they had been made to sit beside their few relations in falling snow in front of the grave into which their parents were lowered. That was when his head had wanted to burst and he had felt dizzy and sick. All through it, Beth had gripped his hand to still his shaking and tears. When she released it, it was numb and bruised inside his glove from the pressure of her own undemonstrated grief. With a pain always easy to recapture, he remembered a neighbour’s comment that Beth didn ‘t seem upset. A strange child. You ‘d have thought she had more feeling …

He felt the tears threaten, and heard the echo of the sounds he had wanted to make then, but could not. You don’t know anything1. You don’t know my sister at all!

He blinked the tears aside. The desert light had begun to prism through them. He pressed away the memories with strong, practised, mental hands.

Most of the mourners were unknown to himself and Beth.

The state governor and his dumpy wife. Phoenix celebrities, receivers of Grainger Foundation charity, businessmen, some people from government, the state senator and his retinue, a few faces from Grainger Technologies he had seen at the Virginia house — rows of strangers’ faces, as if they had been hired to make it some funeral of the year, something worth putting in the local society magazine.

Sunlight flashed semaphore from windscreens climbing Camelback Mountain, and the city’s high-rises watched the cemetery from an assured and lofty distance. He felt displaced here, separated from his own grief, from any sense of connection with the bodies in the two trestled coffins. Three days ago, the contents of one of them had been his dearest knowledge, his best companion. She had been a great distance away when he had seen her in the police mortuary, grateful amid the formaldehyde and clinical steel that she had been shot in the torso and the sheet had continued to conceal the wounds. Even so, memories of bodies had come back, from Afghanistan and other places, his mind eager to substitute a brutal reality for the quiet detachment of the place. The images of the coffins being loaded aboard Vaughn’s Learjet brought back more formal, uninvolving times, coffins draped with the flag arriving from distant wars with which he had no connection.

Vaughn had crumbled like an old adobe wall, staring at Billy’s dead face. Just as he now leaned against Lock’s shoulder and arm, a scarecrow no longer defying a wind.

Beth’s coffin was raised by professionally gentle hands the ropes arranged, then it was lowered into the dry red earth. The old man tried to straighten himself for long enough and Lock scooped earth feverishly and cast it onto the disappearing lid.

The silver nameplate mocked in reply. Then Billy’s coffin. The old man’s body pumped like a feeble heart, nothing but rushing, thin blood under ricepaper skin. Lock pressed some fragments of earth into Vaughn Grainger’s hand and the crumbs feebly followed Billy into the grave. The pastor murmured like an insect. Then it was done and other murmurs converged on them, the whole place a whispering, breeze-like enclosure of sympathy from which he wanted to flee. Earth began to rattle drily as he turned away, holding Grainger’s elbow; holding him upright, steering him towards the cab-rank of black limousines.

Lieutenant Faulkner had called, just before the funeral cortege had set out. Some of Beth’s jewellery, he thought. They were sweating the guy who’d bought it — a record going way back to the Flood, he’d talk for sure … Yet there was a lack of expectation in the police officer’s voice. The paintings and the really valuable stuff — and thus the killers — remained as remote as

… Beth, now they were filling in her grave. As isolated as his own fantasies of being watched and followed. Were these some grief-crazed projection, maybe, or an attempt to escape his present into the weird certainties of his intelligence past? Fantasies that couldn’t survive under a desert sky in a temperature in the thirties.

He guided Grainger’s boneless, motiveless body through the shower of murmured sympathy and proffered hands, into the rear of the leading limousine, then climbed in beside him.

Leather squeaked, the air-conditioning purred. He felt his forehead prickle with sweat. His eyes were dry.

He wanted to be alone and a long way from Phoenix. Way beyond the Superstition Mountains, beyond the desert, out from under that immense sky that even the tinted windows could not keep at a safe distance.

The limousine pulled out, made a slow, respectful turn on the gravel, and headed for the cemetery gates. Beside him, Billy’s father was sunken in a dumb rage and fear. Maybe it was as if death had bullied its way into his study or bedroom, or appeared beside his pool — threatening and immediate in a moment of relaxation. Was he thinking of his own death? Billy’s? Beth, of course, fulfilled some kind of consort role in Grainger’s universe.

Billy had been married, his wife should properly be buried beside him; very little more than that. No … perhaps it was the possi bility of his own violent death that Grainger seemed to fear.

He rubbed his eyes as the car drew out into the traffic of mid-morning. It was as if death was infectious. Vaughn Grainger seemed terrified that death would come for him soon.

‘You OK?’ he murmured.

Grainger shook his head. His skin was ancient and grey, loose about his jowls like a poor disguise.

‘Scum killed him.’ Lock winced at Beth’s unimportance. ‘In his own house …’ He saw the brutal side of the old man’s nature, the one that had suited him to Special Forces in ‘Nam.

The nature that Billy, too, had possessed and revealed in Afghanistan. His gnarled hands strangled something invisible on his dark lap. Yet the hands were defeated now, with no known enemy; without authority. He couldn’t burn their homes, raze their village — whoever had killed his son.

He heard a stranger’s voice ask: ‘What do I do? What’s left for me, now?’

Vorontsyev stared down at the dead features caught in the glare of a flashbulb, shunting the enlarged photograph between his ringers. Then he looked up.

‘So, he leads nowhere?’ Dmitri shook his head glumly, once more the cheated child. It was becoming his habitual, frozen expression. ‘A male nurse at the Foundation Hospital. We know everything about him, you’ve checked his room at the hostel, you can account for his movements, habits, friends, sexual inclinations — everything except why he should have had an interest in meeting Hussain?’ Dmitri nodded with a shamefaced expression.

‘He wasn’t even an addict?’

‘No.’

‘And there’s nothing in his room to suggest he was a pusher?’

‘Nothing.’

Vorontsyev sighed, shaking his head. His eyes were still gritty with sleep. Beyond the window, the day seemed reluctant. Frost starred the windows.

‘OK — so, finding no heroin in Hussain’s possession or in that flat, we’ve checked every suspect, every lead … to come up with precisely nothing.’ At once, he sympathised with Dmitri, who wriggled like a boy on his chair. Vorontsyev could not excoriate failure more than Dmitri himself was doing. Mea culpa. ‘Look, I’m not blaming anyone,’ he insisted. ‘Except whichever bastard on the take tipped someone off in time for them to set the explosives! But not you, and not Lubin, who spotted it was deliberate.’ Lubin grinned, rubbing his hand through his thick hair, then at once assuming a lugubrious expression which he evidently felt suited the discussion. ‘So — what do we do? It can’t actually be terrorists, can it, Lubin? I mean, some group from outside? Raising funds for weapons and bombs by smuggling heroin?’

‘It’s one of the usual sources of income, sir — do you think so?’

‘No. The only terrorists around here are the Yankees and the Russian entrepreneurs.’ He smiled with a scowling, cynical relief.

‘It’s too neat. Terrorists wouldn’t have warned us off quite so obviously — would they?’ Lubin shook his head. ‘Which means this is a properly run business.’

‘Part of something bigger?’

Vorontsyev shrugged. The sun was climbing tiredly above the car park’s close horizon.

‘I hope not. But terrorists — no. They’re out of the picture.

They’d not have resisted blowing up a gas well or a length of pipeline, just to keep their hand in. Who would they be, anyway — Arctic Reindeer Freedom Fighters? This country’s full of shit, but they’re crooks, mafiosi, gangsters, not political. Who cares about politics?’

‘We — we have to go back to the hospital, then,’ Dmitri said.

‘Grill some of the poor bastards in the Addiction Unit ‘

‘- or the knocking shop. Everyone’s favourite brothel?’

Vorontsyev offered in response. ‘We had it under surveillance, before Hussain’s little trip got us all excited. Worth putting a team back on it?’ He tried, too late, to suppress a yawn. ‘Not a comment,’ he added. Sleeping was often impossible in the neat flat to which hardly anyone ever came. When the music palled and the books failed to interest and his thoughts were as sombre as the face that reflected back from the uncurtained windows there was nothing to like, nothing to expect.

‘We weren’t acting on any hard information.’

‘I know that.’ He got up and crossed his office to the coffee percolator. Black-market coffee. He filled their cups, then his own. Coffee might aid the sense of conspiracy that he needed almost as much as Dmitri did.

He was angry. Very angry.

‘We thought we had something four months ago, when those two addicts overdosed on heroin smuggled into them — thai dribbled away down the drain. We thought the knocking shop could be a distribution centre, since it caters for the R & R requirements of the gasfields, and the outworkers were the means of getting the stuff into Novyy Urengoy — that, too, drained away into the permafrost.’ He leaned towards them over his littered desk, his knuckled hands resting on two untidy heaps of files and reports. Abruptly, he sat down. Lit a cigarette.

Relieved, Dmitri and Lubin scrabbled for cigarettes. The fug of collusion, of planning their way through frustration, filled the office.

‘So? Which is it? The cleaners, orderlies, nurses at the Addiction Unit — or the girls and their clients at the best whorehouse in town?’ He blew smoke expansively at the ceiling.

Lubin beamed. Welcomed aboard, unofficially promoted into confidentiality — trust.

‘We could try a raid on the brothel — before word of what we are up to gets-‘ Dmitri hesitated, rubbing his round face with both hands.

‘It’s all right. We need to remind ourselves — ‘ He looked darkly at Lubin. ‘- they have a source inside this building, maybe a dozen people on their hook. Fact of life.’ He drew on the cigarette.

Marlboro. Cowboys smoked them. He coughed. He smoked too many of them, through the sleepless nights, the impotent days. ‘OK. We’ll raid the place tonight. After all, we’ve looked everywhere eJse for the bloody heroin — it can’t all have been cut, — sold, injected already, in two days. So maybe it’s there …’ He opened the first file that came to hand, then a second, a third. Names, dates, suspicions … hospital orderlies, cleaners, working girls, gasfield workers coming in for R &Ś R; to get drunk, pay for sex, fight in the streets … smuggle heroin back to the gasfield, or into town when they came back from the God-forsaken places where they’d originated.

He dismissed the files with a gesture.

‘What about the TacTeam, sir?’ Lubin asked. ‘Aren’t they on our side?’

‘No. They just blame us for getting one of their boys killed.

And demand we find whoever did it. But as to helping —? Forget it.’

‘So we’re on our own?’ Dmitri seemed pleased at his realisation.

The sun was losing its blood colour now, still low over the car park.

‘Looks like it. What was that male nurse doing there? He had to know what was expected. He wasn’t related to the flat’s tenant, didn’t know him as far as we can discover. Drugs and a hospital — better cover than a brothel.’

‘But it’s more or less run, as well as funded, by the Yankees.

More dangerous to use that than the knocking shop,’ Dmitri offered.

‘Teplov owns the brothel, but he’s not into drugs. We’ve established that.’

‘There’s nothing from the passengers on Hussain’s flight, not so far. Or from the crew. Most of the workers are out on the rigs now, anyway. Company buses collected them.’

‘And your contact — our only contact?’

Dmitri shook his head mournfully. ‘He’s keeping away. Or trying to. Or they’re keeping away from him.’

‘OKr then we’ll raid. Brief a team, but don’t tell them where.’

There was a quick knock at the door and it opened before he could speak. Marfa Tostyeva entered, dragging her woollen hat from her head, unwinding the long scarf from her neck. Her eyes appeared blurred and her nose reddened.

‘You better?’ Vorontsyev asked.

She slumped on a hard chair, breathing stertorously.

‘Fine. I’ve just caught up with the taxi driver, Noskov. Want to hear what I found out?’ She drew her notebook from her coat pocket and opened it, oblivious of Vorontsyev’s puzzlement until she once more looked up.

‘What is it?’ she asked, shrugging.

‘Taxi driver?’

‘The man who picked up Rawls, the American, just before he was murdered. Remember — sir?’ The sarcasm was obvious.

Vorontsyev squinted against the sunlight streaming across his desk. The frost glittered on the windows.

‘It’s not our case,’ he offered. ‘It’s been taken over by GRU ‘

‘Do you realise how much effort it was, with a stinking cold, tracing that driver? He was never at home, I couldn’t get Traffic to help I’

He held up his hands.

‘AH right. Make your report. I’ll pass it on, with your compliments.

By the way, we’re raiding Teplov’s place tonight.’

‘I heard about the other raid.’ She looked gloomy. ‘I’m sorry it feJ] so flat,’ she offered to Dmitri, who shrugged in response.

Then she looked at once at her notebook and announced:

‘Apparently, this Noskov ferried Rawls around for most of the week … unusual. Rawls didn’t use a GraingerTurgenev limousine, or drive himself. Noskov has one of the newer taxis, I’ll admit, but it isn’t a big ZiL or a Merc’ She cleared her throat, not looking up. ‘Rawls made most of the calls you’d expect, around the GraingerTurgenev headquarters, other companies

— twice up to the rigs, five times to the hospital, in all … must have had the trots.’ She smirked.

‘Anything important?’ Vorontsyev asked impatiently.

‘Sorry — not sleeping again, sir?’ Marfa replied.

‘Don’t push it.’

‘Sorry,’ she replied stiffly.

‘I’ll pass that on to Bakunin.’ Marfa closed her notebook audibly, to the accompaniment of a strained sigh. ‘Right. Tonight.

We know Teplov’s made money on the side renting rooms, cupboards and outside privies to illegal workers on the field. He’s hidden them, fleeced them, covered for them, even supplied papers … perhaps he thought he would dabble in heroin, after all!’ The empty glasses littered the tables around the pool. The evening breeze off the desert was warm. Napkins blown from the tables lay like jellyfish at the clear bottom of the pool. The last guests had long gone, flitting blackly in the afternoon sunlight, away from the intensity of grief Vaughn Grainger had been unable to conceal. Or perhaps from his own reticent, intense quiet, repelling as surely as an electrical field. A guard fence.

John Lock sat down at one of the tables, the umbrella above his head crackling like a flag in the breeze. Phoenix was emerging from the darkening desert in strips and gobbets of neon; as if the contents of a foundry ladle, some incandescent metal, had been spilt on the desert floor. The mountains were distant, like barely cowed great animals waiting for the night. He shivered unaccountably. Poured a glass of champagne, the bottle slithering in the melted ice of the bucket. The house behind him threatened insistently. He had no idea, nor possessed any wish to know, where in the house Grainger was. The housekeeper or the butler could see to him, for the moment.

He had, out of habit rather than the remotest interest, paged his answerphone at the apartment. More messages of sympathy

— so that he wished he had not reconnected the machine — the early music group, the woman’s prim voice grating on him like that of a disliked teacher, the Kennedy Center regarding reserved tickets he had ordered for himself and Beth as a late birthday surprise … and Johanna, diffident and awkwardly offering a pinched, embarrassed sympathy — I’m realty sorry, John — but all the messages seemed like indecipherable signals from distant galaxies, meaning less and less.

He wished — Christ in Heaven, how he wished — not to feel as he did. But there was nothing to fill up his emptiness. The place he inhabited was devoid of everything, and he didn’t have the ability, the will, to refurnish it. It would remain empty.

He swallowed the barely cool champagne and poured himself another glass. The city brightened in the dusk, spread out below Camelback Mountain. Grainger’s estate was perched amid new trees and a security fence on the mountainside, proprietorially overlooking Phoenix. An aircraft drifted towards Sky Harbor airport, its lights against the first stars. A napkin hurried across the tiles towards the pool like a bird to the water. The hummingbirds had disappeared with the sun.

He had to get away. Vaughn had the servants — and there was nothing he could do to alleviate the man’s mental distress. He could only be another servant in the house — the house which oppressed him with illusions of peace, with the suggestion of a place outside time. He needed to get back to Washington, back into some kind of numbing routine. But the old man clung to him, as tightly as a blind man stranded on a crowded freeway.

The maid appeared at the open windows, and he waved her enquiring look away. She disappeared. The patio’s Italian tiles gleamed palely in the gloom, the great hacienda-style house glowed with curtained lights. The doctor had promised to sedate the old man before he left.

The telephone rang, startling him, his hand automatically reaching out for it. Someone must have asked to make a call earlier, and the phone had been brought out to this table. He picked up the receiver before remembering that one of the servants could have answered it.

‘Yes? Sorry — this is the Grainger residence.’ His servantlike tone caused him to smile.

‘I wish to speak person-to-person with Mr Vaughn Grainger.

Please put me through.’

‘I’m sorry, he can’t take your call right now’

As if another and entirely different conversation had begun, he heard: ‘I wish to convey my sympathies, condolences … I have read about the death of his son.’

‘I’ll convey your message, Mr?’

‘I wish to convey my sentiments personally to Mr Grainger.’

‘I’m afraid he’s under sedation at the moment. I’ll get your message to him as soon as he wakes. It’s Mr — ?’ Someone Asian, he knew from the sibilants, the slight slitherings around consonants.

Then, as if it were a third conversation, one from another context altogether: ‘Tell Grain — Mr Grainger that it is urgent I speak with him. Soon. My name is Nguyen Tran.’ Vietnamese then. ‘You will tell him.’ It was not a question.

‘I’ll tell him. He has your number?’

‘I am here in Phoenix at the moment, on business. I am staying I at the Biltmore.’ A deliberate softening, then. ‘I am an old friend of Mr Grainger.’ But an old friend who didn’t come to the funeral. Lock thought. Then the abrupt demand of: ‘Nguyen Tran. I know he would wish you to wake him. I suggest you do so. I’ll be waiting for his call.’

‘Goodbye,’ Lock offered to the hum of the receiver.

He put down the phone, outraged on Grainger’s behalf at the insensitivity of the Vietnamese man. Some business deal, some document or loan or investment — Jesus! The guy evidently wasn’t a Buddhist … He grinned. Then either the breeze or the chill of the words made him shiver. Nguyen Tran was … threatening Vaughn Grainger. He had power over him, his impatience would unnerve the old man. The substance of the message was that Grainger couldn’t afford to keep the Vietnamese waiting for an answer.

Someone else, he reflected, just like Turgenev — someone Vaughn Grainger is afraid of, or is expected to be afraid of…

The house seemed insubstantial now, and perched in an act of madness or hubris on the mountainside. And the breeze was colder. He could explain neither disconcerting impression.

‘Look, Noskov — my chief wasn’t impressed with your story. I’m back to make sure you make it sound better.’ Marfa Tostyeva grinned at the taxi driver as she slammed the door of his cab.

It was third in the rank outside the Gogol Hotel. Other drivers stamped in the morning air, slapped their hands against their arms, breaths fuming.

‘I gave you the whole story. There’s nothing else — officer.’ He swept his hand along the dashboard behind the steering wheel, as if removing dust. The three-year-old French saloon was without smells, its heater worked, its upholstery was unstained.

But why did Rawls use it? He had access to a gas company limousine, a Merc or a stretched ZiL, which GraingerTurgenev used to impress their Russian credentials on officials from Moscow. He’d taken the Renault on an exclusive-hire basis.

For less money, he could have hired a better car from Hertz.

‘What’s the American done?’ Noskov asked slily.

‘Got himself killed. Don’t you read the papers?’ She relaxed into the passenger seat, luxuriating in the warmth of the heater.

Noskov looked as if he was contemplating broaching the subject of a bribe, the universal currency.

‘I saw that— you told me, anyway. But you sound as if you’re after him, not the killer?’

No, she thought. And I’m not supposed to be here at all. Off limits. But she was — because the major had rubbed against her enthusiasm with his indifference, and the use of the taxi for the whole week of Rawls’ stay in Novyy Urengoy intrigued her.

‘Just be more expansive, Noskov.’

‘Or what?’

‘I can make trouble for you — small trouble, maybe, but irritating.

OK?’

‘OK/ he replied sourly. His clothes smelt of stale sweat in the warm interior. Why would Rawls, with his manicured hands, want to sit behind this man in his old, stale donkey-jacket for a whole week?

‘You took him to the hospital, you drove out to one of the nearer rigs, you took him to the helicopter for his other trip oui.

Tell me everything about the last evening, when you picked him up from here and took him out there to be killed.’

‘I didn’t have anything I’

‘Well, tell me, then. Maybe I’ll even believe you.’

‘You bloody cops!’

‘That’s right. Shame you aren’t being questioned by one of your pals from headquarters … All right, all right, I’m not making enquiries about whoever you pay or do favours for or who’s got some hold over you. Just Rawls. That evening.’

He shunted the cab forward to second in the rank. One of the expensive whores had disappeared into a battered American saloon, a chiffon scarf trailing from the shoulder of her mink.

High heels, slim legs. Made you envious just to look Noskov, watching her, was grinning with insight.

‘That evening,’ she announced like a threat.

‘Like I told you, I drove him out there and he said it would be all right, just to head back to town. He’d be in touch in the morning.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

Marfa sighed. ‘What time — here, I mean?’

‘Afler midnight. I was going to bed. He rang me.’

‘You came — he was waiting?’

He nodded, rubbing his stubbled, pointed chin. ‘He was talking to Antipov, the commissionaire. Like I told you before.’

‘He got straight in?’

‘Yes.’

‘What mood was he in?’

‘Pleased with himself. He usually was. Why not? He had plenty of money, a big job. I was just a peasant.’

‘But the tips were good.’ She looked at her notebook, thumbing back through the pages. ‘Did you see the limo waiting outside here when you picked Rawls up?’

‘Where was it?’ Noskov asked quietly.

‘Antipov, the night porter, says on the other side of the street, perhaps forty metres away — over there,’ she pointed, twisting in the seat.

‘Maybe.’

‘Did you notice it following you?’

‘There was still a bit of traffic. I didn’t notice anything specially.’

Marfa stared at him. Natural shiftiness, she decided. He’d say only what he had to. She nodded.

‘You must have seen it come to a halt, out there — when you dropped Rawls off.’

‘There — well, maybe. I didn’t think about it much. Just wanted my bed.’

‘And you didn’t think it was odd, dropping him in the middle of the tundra?’

‘He was paying. He got to say. He said he’d be all right, someone was picking him up. Confidential meeting. That’s what he called it. Out of sight, out of earshot. He wasn’t worried. I don’t think he thought he’d be kept waiting long.’

‘He wasn’t, was he?’

‘I didn’t know-!’ Noskov whined. ‘Do you think I’d get?’

‘Don’t give yourself a coronary. Did you see him get into the limousine that followed you?’

‘I didn’t say it followed us.’

‘Did you see him get into any limousine?’

‘No. He was standing beside the road, the last I saw in the mirrors.’

Marfa flicked through her notes once more. Pondered, then asked: ‘Was there anywhere else you took Rawls — anywhere unusual?’

‘Like the knocking shops? No. He had a whore delivered. Not that night, though.’

‘You picked her up?’ He nodded. ‘Name?’

‘Vera — that’s all I know.’

‘Where did you pick her up?’

‘Cocktail bar of the Sheraton. I don’t know where she lives.’

Marfa scribbled. ‘Anyone else you brought to see Rawls?’ she asked with little enthusiasm.

‘No — oh, only one of the doctors from the hospital. One of the Yankee doctors they have there.’

‘Was Rawls ill?’

‘No. Maybe he had the trots. I took him up there enough times!’

That’s the same joke as last time. My chief didn’t laugh, either.’

‘The word is he doesn’t laugh at anything much.’

‘Would you, policing this dump? Dealing with people like you?’ Then she added: ‘What was the name of this Yankee doctor?’

‘Beats me.’

‘I will, unless you remember.’

‘Smith?’

‘Try again. Why do you like being so obstructive?’

‘Normal behaviour towards the cops — in this dump,’ he retorted. ‘His name was Schneider. Dr David Schneider. Is that it?’ He pulled the cab forward to the head of the rank. ‘I have got a business to run.’

‘And I’d be bad for business? Yes, that’s it.’ Marfa wrapped her coat around her, tightened her scarf, and opened the door.

The comfortable warmth vanished in a moment. ‘Don’t let me catch you on any yellow lines, Noskov!’ He scowled as she shut the door, then mouthed an obscenity behind the window. She grinned and shook her head in mock reproof.

Another well-dressed tart, wrapped in expensive perfume, passed her without a glance. Taller than she, well made-up, but the face was hard and the eyes incapable of illusion; or disillusion.

Suddenly, she felt better at the momentary proximity and the comparisons it suggested. She waved to Noskov and headed for the coffee shop of the hotel.

An American doctor called Schneider, and the black limousine that Noskov had evidently seen and wished to forget. Not because he knew anything, simply because it wasn’t his business and he wasn’t being paid to remember, only meekly threatened.

Vorontsyev wouldn’t like it. If he found out …

… he’d have to. Schneider was the deputy director of the Addiction Unit. Why would Rawls want to see him? At his hotel, as if it was a house call? It was worth asking Schneider — but for that, she’d need Vorontsyev’s permission.

‘You’re all going to catch something nasty in here!’ Vorontsyev yelled at the top of his voice.

‘For God’s sake. Major — I’ Teplov, the brothel’s owner, tugged at his sleeve, his habitual unctuous expression replaced by one of — what? A sense of bad taste?

They were crowded in the narrow hallway of the old house, Teplov and his head girl and the two minders confronting Vorontsyev, Marfa, Dmitri, Lubin and the uniformed men behind them. Like two groups rushing in opposite directions, late for trains. The icy night air had hurried over and past them, as if intent upon a raid of its own.

‘Don’t blow the whistle, please, Major!’ Vorontsyev had the instrument at his lips to taunt the brothel owner. The minders seemed perplexed, like the head girl who was carmined, heavily made-up, a mock-silk wrap dragged around her vast proportions.

Vice were usually so much more polite, that much was obvious.

But then, they usually only dropped in for payment in cash or kind.

‘Just make sure no one jumps out of the windows without their trousers, Teplov — it’s brass monkey weather out there.’

He leaned down towards the tiny, effete, bearded man whom it was hard to dislike; impossible to place in strict moral parentheses.

Maria evidently found it easier to summon contempt towards Sonya, the girls’ shop steward and — Vice enjoyed the rumour — the tiny Teplov’s demanding lover. ‘We’re not here to collect, little man, so just let us go about our business without interference, and we’ll try to be as quiet as possible. OK?’

Sonya appeared inclined to debate, but Teplov said:

‘You’ll try not to upset the clients — or my girls, Major?’

Vorontsyev laughed. Lubin was grinning like a child in a toyshop.

Dmitri appeared merely impatient.

‘I’ll try, Teplov — I’ll try.’ He could hear doors opening and closing upstairs. Anyone who took to the windows would be brought back inside by the uniformed men stationed around the house. ‘OK, let’s get on with it. You know what you’re looking for — no lingering, no pilfering.’ Teplov appeared relieved, as if Vorontsyev were some gentlemanly client inclined to sadism but prepared to pay to keep matters quiet.

The uniformed men begafn climbing the stairs. It was difficult to maintain gravitas. He heard someone squeal with pain outside somewhere, and raucous laughter. He grinned.

‘None of the local bigwigs in tonight, Teplov? At least, I hope not…’

Teplov shook his bald head with fervent denial, then seemed to recollect something that contradicted the assurance — which he at once masked beneath compliance, fatalism. Sonya shrugged massively and turned away after visiting Marfa with a withering, superior glare.

‘Hurry it up, we haven’t got all night!’ Dmitri bellowed, mounting the stairs to the first floor landing, where tousled, half-dressed girls were beginning to gather to watch the embarrassment of their clients and to taunt the police.

‘What are you looking for. Major?’ Teplov whispered, as if selling something on the black market. ‘You know I keep my nose clean — and my girls,’ he offered by way of ingratiation.

‘None of your business — unless we find it.’ He slapped the tiny man on one narrow shoulder, turned him around and hustled him towards his office at the rear of the ground floor.

They passed the open doors of the two rooms off the hallway, garishly decorated, red-lit — why always red? — crammed with couches and sofas. Musak played softly. Then the kitchen, where an Iranian-looking man in an apron was slicing vegetables, undistracted.

TepJov’s office was small and neat, like the man. A huge safe that might have been made in the Tsarist period, like the house itself, occupied one corner. His desk was against the wall beneath the window — which, in daylight, looked out over a weedstrewn, dilapidated graveyard and its moribund, stunted church. The rest of the room contained an old, rich Persian carpet and two armchairs, with a low table between them.

Teplov lit a cigarette and coughed at the smoke. Vorontsyev accepted the one he was offered, and the gold lighter, which he weighed in his hand like a grenade.

‘You won’t say keep it, will you?’ he said. Teplov shook his head reproachfully, his brown eyes soulful, misunderstood.

‘Good.’

‘Have a seat, Major.’

‘Thanks. Meanwhile, open the safe.’ Teplov seemed puzzled for an instant, then realised he was not being asked for a bribe in a novel and indirect manner.

‘There aren’t any drugs here. Major. At least, not what you’re looking for. One or two of the girls enjoy cannabis, and who can blame them after a busy evening … one or two of the clients may, unbeknown to me, be in possession. But not dealing.’

‘You’ve heard, then?’

‘That your last effort fell flat — yes. Major.’

‘What else have you heard?’

Teplov was shielding the combination of the massive old safe from him. Then he reluctantly swung the heavy door open.

Vorontsyev squatted on his haunches beside him, riffled the papers, flicked the heaps of notes in their elastic bands, found a photograph of a younger Teplov and a slim Sonya, but made no comment on them or the child the woman was holding; touched chequebooks, account books, ledgers — nothing. He wasn’t disappointed because he had no real expectations. Something might come of interviewing the snatched clients — then again, something might not. He felt lassitude returning, his habitual lack of concern.

‘Close the door.’

He returned to the chair.

‘A drink. Major?’

‘Why not? Scotch.’

Teplov poured the drinks, then sat behind his desk. The whisky was good, expensive.

‘I heard you lost a man the other night. I don’t play those games, or in that league.’

‘You didn’t, that’s true. Perhaps you’ve become ambitious?

People do, when the cops are so bloody useless.’

‘Are you?’ Teplov murmured.

Vorontsyev looked up from his tumbler, startled. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, even resentment.

‘Watch it,’ he muttered. Tepiov shrugged the moment away.

‘If there’s nothing physical here, there’s stuff inside your head.

I ought to take you in and sweat you.’

Teplov appeared unnerved, then said: T make it my business to know nothing.’

‘Why?’

‘You need to ask, when one of your men got blown to pieces?’

‘You’ve been threatened?’ There were footsteps and voices above them, some protests from the hallway and outside the house. Floorboards creaked from the pressure of heavy boots and bullying excitement.

‘No. I just keep away from it. It isn’t here, your conduit or whatever it is you’re looking for. Major.’

‘You’re a clever bastard.’

‘You need to be, in this town. Perhaps you’re not using your intelligence. Major — making waves?’

‘The American who got himself killed — did he ever come here?’

‘No. He’d use one of Kropotkin’s girls, the high-class numbers who hang about the hotels. Special order, personal service.’ He sighed. ‘I had ambitions in that direction, once. Sonya persuaded me not to step out of my league.’

‘And drugs would be—’

‘Stepping out of my league in a big and very dangerous way.’

He leaned forward. ‘Just be careful, Major. You’re tolerant as far as my business is concerned, and Vice asks no more than a reasonable slice’

‘Who?’

‘You don’t really want to know.’ Vorontsyev tossed back the last of the Scotch. ‘But everything I hear — and I have no names, no details, whatever you think — tells me this is big and organised.’

He spread his hands. ‘I don’t think you realise how’

His face became disappointed, as if he had stepped into a muddy ditch while negotiating a narrow path. The shouts were urgent, and from outside. At once, Dmitri was at the door, his face red with intense, exhilarated passion.

‘-jumped out of the window, first floor!’ he gasped. ‘Arab looking — he’d been waiting his chance to have it away!’

Vorontsyev saw knowledge cloud Teplov’s features for an instant before weary indifference masked it. Cognition of something or no more than suspicion, perhaps. He joined Dmitri at the door.

‘Which way was he heading?’

‘Across the graveyard, past the church. We haven’t got enough lights I’

‘Get the car started — I’ll go after him. Meet me on the other side-‘ A collage of angry, nervous, outraged and guilty faces, the painted mockery of the girls’ features, then they were out of the door, their shoes crunching on frozen snow.

Dmitri broke off and made for the car. Vorontsyev bent low, to catch a fleeing figure against the glow from the town. He could see nothing. His breath clouded around his face. A uniformed constable knelt beside him and he heard Lubin clumsily arrive.

The church’s stubby domes appeared like well-used pencils against the nightglow.

‘He was definitely heading for the church, sir,’ the constable explained. ‘I didn’t fire. You said’

‘It’s OK. Come on, let’s get after him.’

The tussocky, frozen ground was awkward, hampering.

Vorontsyev’s foot slipped on the rime of ice on a flat gravestone and he snapped: ‘Constable, use your torch!’

The beam flicked ahead of them. There were black marks on the icy grass, the quarry’s footsteps.

‘What did he look like?’

‘Dark overcoat, small. Arab, I think, sir.’

They reached the church and paused against the wall. Their breathing. Nothing else as Vorontsyev’s heart quietened. He nodded.

‘Keep that torch on the footprints.’

The wall of the church glistened with icy moss and stone.

Their breathing and footsteps echoed like curtains rustling in a breeze. The footprints they were following had not halted with uncertainty, not once. Behind them, the engines of the two arrest wagons were starting up. Protests floated feebly after them.

Why was this man running? Difficult to imagine a member of the town’s executive committee, married or not, suddenly afraid that he couldn’t bribe or bluster his way out of an arrest at Teplov’s brothel. Or a policeman or a company executive — anyone, in reality, would be more concerned at their coitus having been interruptus than the round-up of the usual suspects.

He heard a car engine start; deep, big engine. A screech of tyres.

The churchyard led onto a narrow, twisting street of the cramped old town, little wider than an alley. He saw headlights spring out — where the hell was Dmitri?

‘Quick!’ he urged as they crunched down the weedstrewn gravel to the drunken gate. The big car was pulling away, taillights flaring. ‘Shit!’

‘— tyres?’ he heard.

‘Fat chance! Where’s Dmitri?’

The big car — black Merc? — turned a narrow corner out of sight, its headlights flashing out like distress signals from gaps in the houses lining another narrow alley. Then his own car screeched into view, bucking towards them. He heard a dog barking. He was caught in the headlights as he crossed in front of the car, then dragged the door open as he reached the passenger side and the car halted. Lubin bundled himself into the rear but the constable was too slow. Dmitri screeched away, leaving him bemusedly watching their disappearance.

Which way?’

‘Left!’

The car banged against a dustbin or perhaps a low barrow left in the alleyway. There was no sign of the Merc’s lights — it was a Merc, he confirmed. Dark coat, Merc, not wanting to be questioned — who? Why?

The old town pressed about them, narrow, shrunken houses, picket fences marking off plots of snow that sparkled in the headlights, in front of dachas and other low wooden buildings trapped within the loom of the surrounding high-rises. Russia’s past flared in a series of half-images in the car’s lights.

‘Left again!’

He wouldn’t have gone this way, it was too narrow, perhaps he wouldn’t know it… must be heading for one of the well-lit, busy streets, to lose himself. This was quicker, if he’d guessed right. A terrified face in a dark doorway, headscarved and wrinkled. A dog skittering away from the headlights and the front wheels. They ran over something that made the car buck.

Lubin was leaning forward between them. Dmitri wiped at the fugged windscreen.

‘Next rightV

The car slewed into a twisting sidestreet, careering across unmarked snow — hadn’t come this way, then, good — scraping its flank along a dilapidated fence that gave way and fell into the snow. A few scattered lights from the low bungalows and dachas, and from broken, still-inhabited houses -

lights, traffic.

‘F Street!’ Dmitri exclaimed. ‘Near 17th.’

‘Wait!’ Vorontsyev snapped.

The car nosed out of the old town like a hungry urchin dog.

Vorontsyev craned forward in his seat, peering each way along F Street. Offices mostly, some blocks of apartments. Neater, quieter than most of the grid of streets and avenues of the artificial town. Pedestrians, homegoing traffic, mid-evening busyness.

Black Merc? It should come out of He sighed.

There he is,’ he murmured triumphantly.

The black limousine turned out of Mockba Prospekt, a block away from them, at once hurrying into the thin traffic, skidding then righting itself on the gritted thoroughfare. The driver, invisible behind the windscreen, accelerated towards them.

‘Get out in front of him — no bloody chase, just stop him!’

Vorontsyev yelled. He fastened his seatbelt and Lubin dropped back into the safety of the rear seat.

Dmitri accelerated violently out of the sidestreet and the Merc seemed to pause in stunned surprise. Dmitri slewed the car across the street, trying to corral the Merc onto the opposite pavement. Suddenly, the black limousine came on, seeming to hurtle directly at Vorontsyev. He tensed against the impact, leaning away from the door as much as he couJd. The Merc swerved, but was still coming on as Dmitri held it in a narrowing perspective, channelling it towards Collision.

The door buckled inwards, against his thigh, tearing his trousers. The car shied away from the impact with the heavier Merc. Lubin was cursing in the rear, Dmitri’s forehead was bleeding from impact with the windscreen, which was smeared but not shattered”, he realised. Merc?

It had collided with a brick-faced pillar, one of a row forming an archway over the pavement, making more elegant a row of discreet, expensive shops where gangsters purchased things alongside oil and gas executives. Spoons for cocaine sniffing, Burberry scarves, Gucci shoes, lace underwear, English cigarettes.

He pushed at his buckled door. His thigh throbbed but wasn’t bleeding.

‘Bloody thing won’t open!’ he bellowed, enraged. The front of the Merc was rearranged, sunken. The windscreen was starred into opacity. He heaved again at the door and it gave. He thrust it open and climbed shakily into the icy night, then crossed gingerly to the limousine. ‘Come on!’ he yelled over his shoulder.

The heavy driver’s door clicked smoothly open. The man was dead. He felt the disappointment envelop him for a moment.

Then he pushed the light torso upright in the seat. Blood from the man’s head and mouth was on his hand, darkening it in the light from the nearest streetlamp. He looked up. Lubin was waving on the traffic that had slowed to gawp. Dmitri, a bloodstained handkerchief held to his forehead, groaned beside Vorontsyev.

Vorontsyev switched off the engine. Put the automatic gearbox into park as smoothly as a car salesman. Then he studied the dead man’s narrow, dark features. Arab, possibly Kazakh or Uzbek. Unshaven. The coat fitted him but didn’t seem right.

Cashmere, by the touch of it. He patted his hands around the man’s pockets, withdrawing a wallet from the breast pocket of the overcoat. Burberry scarf, he realised. That didn’t seem right, either, somehow — dirty fingernails, unwashed hair — the man didn’t belong in.the car or inside the coat…

He flicked open the wallet. Large denomination bills, in dollars, the real currency. Nothing Russian. Hundreds of dollars.

The man’s ID … He opened the folded piece of card.

‘What is it?’

‘It says he’s a fitter — a grease-monkey — on one of the rigs.

Iranian.’ He stared at the overcoat, the man’s dead, anonymous face. He searched the pockets again. An Iranian passport. The man came from somewhere he’d never heard of. An unskilled worker. Hundreds of dollars. The companies paid Iranians in roubles. He handed the wallet to Dmitri and reached across the body, keys in his hand, and unlocked the glove compartment.

A large package, closed by an elastic band. Gold rings, he saw, on the unmanicured, dirty-nailed fingers. He tore open the package.

Passports. A dozen of them. American, Swiss … Austrian, one British … He shuffled them Jike cards, the street seeming empty and quiet. Entirely at a loss.

The man’s dead face stared up at his sightlessly, but somehow mocking, despite the blood that stained it; knowing, almost smug.

He looked again at the passports. American, British, Swiss, Dutch … hundreds of dollars. A cashmere coat and gold rings.

All in the possession of a minimum-wage gasfield worker from Iran.

‘Get this car back to Forensic,’ he said quietly, straightening up, closing the door on the dead man and offering the bundle of passports to Dmitri’s uncomprehending expression. ‘I want it taken apart, gone over inch by inch …’ He turned back to the dead man, lolling against the side window. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

FIVE Watching Ripples

The Vietnamese had telephoned twice more. Each time Lock had informed Vaughn Grainger, it had been like administering poison in dosages sufficient to make him ill without killing him or rendering him senseless. Nguyen Tran’s mood had been sharklike beneath the deceptive calm of his tone. Grainger was terrified of the man — and silent, aggressive and enraged at the merest question or offer of help.

The old man was growing more ill before Lock’s eyes — ill rather than drunk, despite the amount of alcohol he seemed intent on consuming. Billy’s murder was a barrier to intrusion.

What else could it be? Drunken grief explained everything … except that it didn’t. It was Tran, and the fact that Vaughn couldn’t find the courage to call the Vietnamese.

Lock stared from the panoramic windows of the huge lounge down at the glittering city. His hands were closed into fists in his pockets. Grainger’s mood and the mystery surrounding him pressed palpably against his back like a mounting, undispersed charge of static electricity. There was nothing he could do, and he wanted nothing but to leave. He didn’t even want to help, not really … because he sensed dark water, a whirlpool that would suck him down if he so much as reached out his hand to Grainger’s assistance. During the day, Grainger’s fear had communicated itself like a virus, so that even driving around Phoenix or out towards the Superstition Mountains still left everything unresolved. He wanted, more than anything, to walk away from it all. Everything had pressed close around him like the noon heat beyond the tinted windscreen and the air conditioning.

He heard Grainger move to the cocktail bar, clumsily pour himself another drink, then shuffle back to the leather chair in which he had sat hunched for most of the evening. The small noises scratched on his nerves like chalk on a blackboard. He rubbed his hand through his hair, tugging at it. He’d spoken to Faulkner in Washington that morning. The guy they’d arrested for trying to fence some of Beth’s jewellery had named two small-timers. The police lieutenant had sounded falsely optimistic.

The trail would lead no further than / didn’t know his name, he was just some guy in a bar. They’d never find who’d murdered her.

The telephone blurted, shocking Grainger into attention and then a cowering pastiche of fear. Lock watched him almost with contempt, then hurried to the extension before the housekeeper or the butler answered it.

‘Yes?’ he snapped.

It was Tran, no mistake.

‘Mr Grainger has not called me back, Mr Lock.’

‘I told you, he’s unwell. He can’t come to the phone right now —’

‘Then take the phone to Grainger, Mr Lock. That’s my advice.

Or perhaps I should come over in person?’ It was an evident threat.

Grainger’s features were flinty and drawn, as if he was very cold.

Lock’s frustrations snapped like something stretched too far.

‘Sure — why not?’ he said, then thrust the phone towards the old man. ‘Why not?’ he repeated to Grainger, who crouched back from it as if from something that would brand or electrocute him. ‘Talk to your Vietnamese friend, Vaughn, then maybe I can be on my way.’

He dropped the receiver into Grainger’s lap, where it was inspected with one shivering hand, and turned away towards the door. He closed it behind him with an emphatic noise, intending — paused.

He’d intended to walk out, to allow his frustrated anger to propel him, not even thinking of — picked up the receiver in the hall, very gently, very slowly.

He held his breath, held the mouthpiece away from his lips, hand over it, heard his heart thudding. What the hell was he?

‘- been ill,’ he heard Grainger protesting, unaware that he was being overheard. ‘My boy was killed. Scum killed my son,’ he insisted.

‘My old friend, my sincere sympathies. Do you think I would have intruded on your grief if matters were not urgent?’

Silence, for a long moment. Lock heard the housekeeper rattling crockery in the kitchen, the murmur of her voice and the butler’s reply. Felt exposed and cheap hanging onto the hall telephone. The silence went on, broken only by the old man’s ragged, slow breathing. Then:

‘What’s happening?’

‘I do not understand, my friend. You must know why we have to talk. Why I have had to come personally to Phoenix?’

‘Billy —’ Grainger breathed, with a kind of appalled suspicion.

‘It is now your problem, now that Billy … You understand that? I have given assurances — I was given assurances. I wish I could delay, but there are firm commitments to be met, and no sign of the red horse. I must have satisfactory answers, my friend.’

Menace floated like an oil-slick on the words, giving their rhythm an ominous calm. Then Grainger’s breathing was the only sound; quicker, lighter.

‘You swear to me you had nothing I’

‘Come, my friend, let us not indulge in fantasies!’ Tran said quickly; so quickly that Lock knew he suspected an eavesdropper. You swear to me you had nothing …?

He felt nausea churn in his stomach, bit at the back of his throat. You swear you had nothing … Beth’s composed, bluish features, staring up from the deep metal drawer in the police mortuary. No — no, he told himself.

‘What of the red horse?’ Tran asked. ‘When can I expect delivery?’

‘I don’t know’ Grainger wailed. ‘You know I don’t know these things!’

‘Then find out, my friend. Find out quickly. I am under a great deal of pressure. There are pledges to honour. I do not wish to lose face. You understand?’ Grainger did not reply. ‘You will find out — soon?’

Eventually, through agitated breathing: ‘Yes, damn you, Tran yes’

The receiver was thrust down and Lock, startled into old cunning, put his down quickly. He had no doubt that Tran knew that he had been overheard. But had not been concerned.

He stood in the wide hall, staring at the paintings on the wall

— American primitives and impressionists — his head whirling, his hands clenching and unclenching. Teeth noisy in his head, anger like a migraine at his temples. He glared at the telephone as if to blame it for his situation, wanting above everything not to have heard, not to guess, not to know…

Red horse. Delivery. Commitments. You swear to me you had nothing …

He blundered angrily into the lounge. Grainger was hunched forward on his chair, the extension still in his lap, his hand across his chest; his breathing stertorous until Lock’s anger masked it. ‘

‘Vaughn — what the hell is going on here?’ he yelled, rigid in front of Grainger. ‘Who the hell is Tran — what is Tran? What the hell have you got to do with horse?’

Grainger was waving one hand feebly towards him, the other gripping the front of his slack shirt, twisting the green silk into a rag. His eyes were protuberant, his cheeks ashen. He seemed to be trying to ward someone off, someone he sensed behind Lock, someone stronger.

‘Billy? Billy and heroin?’ Lock bullied, leaning over Grainger, their faces almost touching. The old man’s breath on Lock’s mouth was moist and urgent. ‘Red horse? Coming out of — Jesus, Vaughn, you? You and Billy together?’ He could not, could not, add the next terrible link … Beth’s murder. There was a reason for her death and it was called heroin. He rubbed one hand across his damp forehead. He seemed to be burning with a fever.

‘No!’ Grainger groaned, his mouth crooked. ‘Not Billy, not me-!’ He winced with pain. Lock was unconcerned; the old man was faking. ‘Nothing to do with it … Billy was going to put everything right, he was — was looking into it, going to stop it — people in the corporation, we didn’t knowY

He attempted to rise to his feet, hand pressed flat against his chest, eyes wide, his other hand grabbing at Lock’s shirt, twisting it into belief in his words, knuckles grinding against Lock’s breastbone.

Then he fell; awkwardly, heavily, striking the carpet before Lock could grab at him. His hand was still pressed against his chest, his eyes stared sightlessly.

The police garage was icily cold, even at mid-morning. Vorontsyev wished he’d brought down his fur hat as he stamped his feet, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his fur-lined parka.

Forensic seemed dilatory and unenthusiastic amid the toylike disassembly of the Iranian’s black Mercedes. He suspected the windscreen wipers, the radiator grille, the badge, maybe most of the car, would eventually disappear, cannibalised. For the moment, however, it lay around him like the shells of long-dead sea creatures thrown by waves onto a concrete, oil-stained beach.

A patrol car pulled out from its parking spot and growled up the ramp towards the street, its noise hardly distracting him.

Lubin, limping exaggeratedly, shuffled around the chassis, then the front seats, the other two overalled detectives smoking as they dusted the windscreen and windows for prints. The setting might have been a backstreet garage and their task the respraying of a stolen vehicle.

Vorontsyev looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. A dozen hours since they’d raided Teplov’s brothel and put this bird up into the air and towards their guns.

There were no drugs in the Merc — though that had been Dmitri’s fond, concussed hope in the shocked, excited aftermath of the collision, before Vorontsyev had had him taken home.

The passports meant nothing. He’d locked them in his desk drawer. The Iranian had no address in Novyy Urengoy, but neither did he stay at one of the R &Ś R hostel blocks when enjoying his fortnightly breaks from the gasfield. He stayed at the Gogol, in a suite … three hundred dollars a night, hard currency only or credit card, preferably American. Vorontsyev had taken a photograph around the best hotels as a joke — and the joke had been on him.

‘Anything yet?’ he called out, impatient with cold.

Lubin looked up, his cheerful obsessiveness undiminished.

And shook his head. Vorontsyev shrugged himself deeper into the parka, stamping his feet more militarily.

He’d had to send Marfa, with a junior detective she said she could trust, up to the gasfield to check the Iranian’s — well, it was a cover story now, wasn’t it? To check his background, length of employment, acquaintances … to check whether he was even Iranian, since it was what his passport alone asserted, and he had a dozen of them available …

… and one, only one, with a picture already in it. A Caucasian face, a Dutch name, and an innocuous occupation as an accountant. Who was that man, for God’s sake?

Teplov had known little or nothing of the Iranian. Vorontsyev almost believed him. He rubbed his numb, weary face with his gloved hands as if to imitate the wash he had missed that morning, not having returned to his flat. He’d dozed in his swivel chair at the office. Teplov had said he thought the Iranian had had a racket, but he hadn’t wanted to know and hadn’t asked.

The girl who’d served him knew him as a regular. She believed he was Iranian. He didn’t want anything unpleasant or rough or back-to-front or upside down, so she had no complaints.

He’d paid in dollars, always welcome, with a satisfactory tip for the girl.

What would the post-mortem tell them, anything or nothing?

He yawned.

If the Iranian was into something, then he’d have known it was drugs the police were interested in, and if that wasn’t his racket, why had he run? What panicked him if he wasn’t linked to Hussain?

‘Sir!’ Lubin called, waving his hand urgently as he bent over a microscope balanced on a rickety folding table beside the wreckage of the dismembered limousine. ‘Sir!’

He stamped over to Lubin’s table. The other two had already lit new cigarettes and taken their relaxed places on the detached front seats of the Merc.

‘What is it? Pond life?’ Vorontsyev grumbled. ‘A biology lesson?’

Lubin grinned. His good humour was — almost — infectious; would have been at a more reasonable temperature and after proper sleep.

‘Fibres. From a coat. I can’t swear to it, sir, I’d have to check it in the Lab’

‘He had a coat on. I saw that.’

‘No. These fibres — foreign, like his cashmere, granted, but not his. Don’t get too excited, sir, but I think that they’ll match Rawls’ overcoat. The one he died in.’

What?’

‘There’s no blood, sir. Only his. Rawls didn’t die in the car if he was in it — nor was his body carried in the rear or the boot.

But he sat in the passenger seat at some time, if these fibres match. Expensive wool mixture, colour, weave — they match, I’m sure.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Fingerprints. Perhaps we’ll find Rawls’ among them.’

‘Or some of the local mafiosi, maybe?’ He grimaced. ‘OK, get back to the Lab with the prints and the fibres. Confirm Rawls was in the car and who else was with him if possible …’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I’ll get out to the Grainger Hospital and check on the post-mortem. Or hold the pathologist’s ballocks until he does finish!’

Lubin grinned. ‘Is Dmitri coming in today, sir?’

‘I told him not to — I don’t suppose he’ll listen. Good work, if it works. Call me when you have anything. On the mobile.

And don’t go yelling this all over headquarters.’

‘Sir.’ Lubin appeared offended. He added: ‘You ought to check up on Dr Schneider while you’re there’

Vorontsyev glowered. ‘I will!’ he snapped.

Vorontsyev hadn’t wanted — still didn’t want — to think about Dr David Schneider. He hadn’t told Dmitri what Marfa had found out from the taxi driver. Perhaps he should have let her talk to Schneider. It was sensitive, but a junior officer’s blunder could be apologised into insignificance. Once he spoke to the deputy director of the Grainger Foundation Hospital Addiction Unit, about his connection with the dead Rawls, then he …

… might trip alarm bells, he admitted. Rawls’ death was a warning. That much had been obvious. He’d been warned off, too, by Teplov’s pleas of ignorance and veiled hints, by the murder of Hussain and the others in the block of flats. Alarm wires.

He’d been blundering into them all the way along the path he’d been thrust on.

He stared at the Iranian’s meatlike corpse on the stainless steel bench. The blood had gone, leaving only its smell, the organs had been removed, the breastbone and ribs parted as neatly as on a chicken served for lunch. The top of the head was missing.

There was still the faint scent of bone heated by an electric saw, like the smell of teeth being drilled at the dentist.

All for nothing.

‘He hadn’t laboured much at all, and probably not recently,’ the pathologist, Lensky, muttered, his voice gravelly, his grey eyes protruding above his glasses. He was wiping his hands on a towel. Beneath his robe, patchily stained, was the knot of a broad silk tie, vividly patterned. Lensky was well paid by the Foundation. ‘The musculature is soft. The man’s lifestyle was cushioned. You said a rig worker? What’s the matter, Alexei losing your touch?’

‘That’s what his papers say.’

‘Expensive dental work. A neat, private-clinic scar where he’d had an appendectomy — sometime ago, by the look of it. He’s been well off for a long while now, 1 imagine-.’ He sighed and scratched at his wiry grey beard, then adjusted his bifocals, at once studying Vorontsyev intently. ‘I take it you haven’t any idea who he is?’

Vorontsyev shook his head gloomily.

‘There was alcohol in the stomach and the bloodstream. Not a very devout Moslem, was he?’

‘I’d imagined not. Mr Al-Jani, from a village outside Tehran, is not at all what he seems. He stayed regularly at the Gogol, in a suite, he tipped generously, he threw parties, he met a great many people … all of whom, apparently, hadn’t a name between them!’ He snorted with a kind of weary disgust; or defeat. Lensky’s expression indicated that he was unsure.

‘Where will you look — for the real him?’ he asked, gesturing towards the tidy, aseptic remains on the steel bench.

‘Powder?’ Vorontsyev suddenly blurted, staring down at the sightless eyes. ‘Traces of anything on his fingers?’

‘Explosives, you mean? No. Why?’

Vorontsyev was recalling the man’s flight, his escape in the Merc, the sense he’d had of purposefulness rather than panic as the big German car had been coming at him.

‘Just — like a double exposure on a snapshot, I keep remembering, seeing something professional… Never mind.’

‘No,’ Lensky murmured. ‘You sleeping well?’

‘Well enough.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘What about the bodies from the flat that blew up?’ Vorontsyev asked hurriedly, as if resisting the pressure of something closing around him.

‘Your young man, Lubin, was right. Fragments of rubber from a balloon, shards from a fragmentation grenade. They were murdered.’

‘That nurse who was there?’

‘I didn’t know him. As I told you, he wasn’t an addict. He must have been a friend — or a pusher. Or both.’

‘I’ll take the autopsy report, have a look at it.’

‘As you wish. What’s the matter with you, Alexei? We don’t even play poker together any more. You’re hiding yourself away ‘

‘Don’t start, Ivan — not that tack again, please.’

‘You used to be a good officer, Alexei. Too good. Just as I was once an idealistic doctor. Now …’

‘Now what?’

‘Something tells me this is looking as if it’s too big for you.

Forgive my bluntness, Alexei. If it made you happy hiding away, I’d say nothing. It doesn’t. Me — I quite like the quiet life, the routine and the good pay in US dollars. But not you. You’re sitting on your hands and you don’t like it!’

Angrily, Vorontsyev growled: ‘What are you — my mother or my priest?’

‘Just your friend. Your oldest friend in this frontier town. As I said, forgive my intrusion into what is a private grief.’

‘Grief?’

Lensky’s eyes were wetly sad. Irony sat strangely on his short, dumpy, comfortable form.

‘The town’s got away from you, Alexei, and you can’t forgive it or yourself.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘It is. You’ve got a good team of people — not like the riffraff in Vice or the dozens on the take in other departments. Lubin, for example. You should cherish him. And the girl — Marfa?

Sharp as a knife, shines as brightly. And poor old Dmitri, the faithful borzoi … And you. The man who’s lost his purpose ‘

‘Have you been saving this homily for just such an occasion?’

Lensky grinned through the hedge of his beard, his teeth displayed like white eggs in a nest.

‘Maybe. But once you’d have been twitching like a bloodhound on a lead, badgerjng me for every detail, climbing up the walls because you couldn’t solve a mystery! Now look at you!’

‘You’re a fine one to talk. How’s the latest bimbo?’

‘I don’t need to be just, Alexei. Something in you does. That’s the difference between us.’

‘And if you’re right? If I have this hunger for justice? What do I do — confronted with this town, which is just a microcosm of the whole damn country anyway?’

‘You’d better pull the whole temple down, then, Samson — if that’s what it lakes.’

‘You think I can?’

‘Be a middle-aged idealist — before it’s too late. You’re fated to be a visionary of some kind, after all.’

‘Am I?’

‘Take my word for it.’

They stood in silence, for perhaps a minute, as if confronting one another, the Iranian between them like a wasted career, a spent life. And beyond him and the mortuary was Dmitri’s daughter, Dmitri’s ruined wife, the dead Hussain, the murdered Rawls … and the unspeakable, corrupt town.

‘Jesus — you don’t want much from me, do you?’ Vorontsyev breathed.

‘It’s what you want — really want. After all.’ Lensky smiled like a patriarch; then at once like a comfortable, lazy, clean-nosed, eye-on-the-pension friend who could be easily ignored.

‘What do you know about Dr Schneider, Ivan?’ Vorontsyev snapped out, grinning.

‘Of the Addiction Unit? Not much. Young, idealistic, energetic

— very Ivy League American. Or how I imagine such people to be. I quite like him. Pleasant company. Why?’

Vorontsyev shook his head.

ŚNothing special. He was a friend of Rawls, the dead Grainger executive.’

‘Perhaps they went to school together.’

‘Perhaps. Where’s that autopsy report on the dead nurse?’

‘Oh, over on my desk — that table in the corner. One of those in that pile. Sort through them, will you? I’ll just get changed — lunchtime, by my stomach’s protests.’

Vorontsyev nodded and wandered across to the littered trestle table. Dismembered lives, just like the steel bench. A full ashtray, the remains of a sandwich meal, dozens of files. He flicked through one of the neater heaps, preoccupied with the chill of Lensky’s analysis of his current self; the specious, indifferent, lazy, corrupt-by-omission minor bureaucrat he had become.

Never put your head above the parapet, never volunteer, never suspect, never dig beneath the surface. Mottos to keep a man alive and sane in Novyy Urengoy. The place was full of steamrollers and crushers, waiting for the unwary.

He found Rawls’ autopsy report. Bakunin must already have the GRU’s copy … He spread the files under his long fingers.

It’s too late for ideals, he reminded himself. Lensky was whistling to himself as he re-entered the mortuary. The noise seemed like a warning from a bird rather than a tune. Hussain’s dead face, the dead nurse’s face, Rawls’ face — the Iranian carved for inspection like a joint. His hand idly opened another file ‘Found it?’ Lensky asked, slapping him on the shoulder.

‘Who’s this?’ Vorontsyev asked in a quiet, halting voice.

‘Who?’ The pathologist adjusted his bifocals and studied the photograph and the report. “I remember. Cardiac arrest. Died in his hotel room, without even being on the job or full of drink.

Congenital heart condition, almost certainly. Why? That was a week ago now. Ambulance got there too late. No suspicious circumstances.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Need glasses, Alexei? Yuri Maximovich Pomarov. See? From Kiev. A minor subcontractor to the gasfield — to GraingerTurgenev.

It’s all here.’

‘Where’s the body?’

‘Flown home for burial, or so I understand. I don’t collect them, Alexei!’ He laughed uproariously. ‘When I told you to light your inner flame again, Alexei, I did mean you to be selective in your enthusiasms! What can this man be to you? He died of a heart attack.’

‘Maybe. But why was his picture in a completed Dutch passport, in the possession of Mr Al-Jani of Tehran? If he’s from Kiev, why is he a Dutchman — and how does he come to know our jointed friend behind us?’

He stared at Vaughn Grainger. The old man, face masked, symbiotically existed with the machines and leads and drips that surrounded him. The nurses paused, checked, passed on — as if already imitating peasant women queuing past an open coffin containing the body of a national hero or dictator. Lock felt separated by more than glass from the faint rise and fall of the sheet over the old man’s chest, from the hidden features and the neatly brushed hair. As distant as he had been as a child from the bodies of his parents.

He turned away from the window into the private room in the Grainger Wing of the Mountain Park Hospital, hands in his pockets, his features set in appalled, determined planes and creases.

He had ridden in the ambulance with Grainger, while the paramedics kept him alive. The old man had been cautioned not to move, talk or even think when he came round after his collapse.

His heart had been damaged, they said. Lock had kept him warm and still until they arrived. But when he opened frightened, knowing eyes in the hurtling rear of the ambulance, he could not be prevented from protestation, as if he had merely been hypnotised during his heart attack. He continued his monologue directed at Lock the moment he regained consciousness.

He’d held Vaughn’s hand and tried not to squeeze or crush it in his rage and fear at what the old man had to tell him; it had seemed more important than going on living. Stay away from this, John-boy, for your own good … look what happened to Billy, your own sister ~ God’s sake … nothing, do nothing …

On and on, over and over. Do nothing … people dangerous, ruthless, dangerous people … The pieces shone in the lurid, hard lighting in the rear of the ambulance — shone in his mind like gold become bloodstained. People within Grainger Technologies were engaged in smuggling heroin — incredible to believe, certainly true, the old man’s strain and desperation to convince him showed that. The paramedics hardly attended, except to attempt to quieten Grainger, who would not be silent until Lock promised not to act, to forget, leave it alone …

He hadn’t, of course. He’d let them put Grainger out again, once he was certain of what he had heard, had his violent, horrified suspicions confirmed. Billy and Beth had been murdered by people inside Grainger Technologies because Billy had uncovered their racket.

He left the room adjoining Grainger’s and entered the quiet, aseptic corridor. Helped himself to a paper cup and water from the dispenser. It was insipid, stale-seeming in his dry constricted throat. He threw the cup into a wastebasket, and thrust his hands into his pockets.

Beth had died to conceal evidence of a drug racket. A Russian drug racket, There’d been no names. He wondered if Vaughn even knew them — just what they’d done, what they were capable of doing. He had been unselfishly afraid, in the chaos and fear of his own heart attack, for Lock. He was touched, even indebted … feelings that his rage consumed every time Beth came to mind.

Billy told me, Billy was dealing with it, Billy …

… was dead. Like Beth.

Dead, Vaughn. To keep him quiet and just because she was in the house, just because she was there-Ś!

He wiped viciously at his eyes, clearing them. A nurse paused as if to speak solicitously, but his features must have repelled her. She hurried away and out of sight around a turn in the corridor, with images of Beth and Billy flickering over her retreating form like pale flames.

Tran, the Vietnamese … He looked back at the door he had closed on Vaughn Grainger. The old man knew nothing more than he had desperately communicated. There was nothing to keep Lock in the hospital, in Phoenix. Vaughn would live or die according to the doctors’ skills, not his presence or absence.

He glanced up as he heard noises along the corridor, only then realising he was leaning against the wall like someone in a queue. A gaggle of men in dark suits, women power-dressed, thrusting a nurse and a doctor ahead of them like a snowplough.

Grainger Technologies executives. He recognized one or two of them, though none of them as much as glanced at him as they passed like a train, urgent and oblivious. The business would be taken care of. Since Beth’s stock would have returned to Billy, it would now return to the company. To Vaughn, if he lived.

There were other, treasured things in her will for himself. There was nothing to keep him here -

except Tran. Nguyen Tran, staying at the Biltmore, less than a mile from the hospital. He glared around him. The Grainger executives were in a football huddle with doctors and nurses outside the door of Vaughn’s room. There was a fierce, communal, sharklike concern about them, with a conflict of loyalties present on only one or two older faces. Otherwise, it was the beginning of a designer-clad acquisition of power within Grainger Technologies that was happening in the quiet corridor.

It nauseated him.

The doctors wouldn’t let the suits in.

Tran. He needed a telephone. Not to ring the Vietnamese, not just yet. First, he needed to know the man. He pushed himself away from the wall and along the corridor, away from Grainger and the crows at the banquet. More quiet corridors. He descended a flight of stairs and found a public phone. Visitors passed as he dialled the Washington number, with armfuls of flowers and an air of reluctance; tike a funeral.

The duty man in the East Europe Office at State answered the phone.

‘Lock — is that Ed?’

‘Security identity code, please.’ It was Ed. Lock gave his number and his password. ‘Hi. John,’ Ed said easily.

‘You knew it was me, right?’

‘It always pays to be security conscious,’ Ed replied, imitating one of their seniors.

‘Ed — I want you to check some files for me, and fax me copies of what you find, to …’ He paused, then recollected Vaughn Grainger’s fax number and gave it. ‘Tonight. The subject is Vietnamese — no, don’t ask why, just do this. It isn’t top security, just top curiosity. OK?’

‘OK, John. I go down to East Asia ‘

‘No, I don’t think you do. The guy’s name is Tran, Nguyen Tran, and I think you’ll find a file under Special Immigrants.

You remember? I’m guessing he came over sometime in the mid-‘70s, and was set up in a business, probably without a name change, though he’ll be filed under both old and new identities, if he has changed. Got that?’

‘This is Vietnam, right?’ Ed made it sound like the War of Independence, a subject purely historical, somehow mythical.

Da Nang equals Valley Forge. Unfortunately, it never had.

‘Sure. But then, you majored in history, right?’ Lock, despite the still-draining rage, accepted the office banter welcomingly.

‘Tran. Tonight. I need to know everything about him, Ed.’

‘OK, John. Will do.’ He repeated the fax number, then added acutely: ‘Be careful, uh?’

‘How did you—? No, don’t worry. Just background.’

‘Did he know your sister’s husband and father-in-law over there? They were in ‘Nam, weren’t they, both of them?’

Shocked, Lock stared at the receiver. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

‘Yes, both of them. Thanks, Ed.’

He put down the receiver as if it burned his hand. It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. It couldn’t mean anything.

Coincidence?

He smiled awkwardly at a child almost enrobed in a huge bouquet of flowers. The child smiled hesitantly back, though the father appeared truculently suspicious of him.

As Tran would be, when they met. Once he knew about Tran, he realised he would have to confront him. For Tran — alone could lead him to Beth’s murderers. Which was all that mattered to him, all that had ever mattered. Tran could bring them into focus, show him behind the nonsense that they were art or jewel thieves. Show him the truth.

When he knew who they were, he would kill them.

He breathed in deeply, grinning ferally in the direction of a young woman with a baby slung across her breasts like a papoose. It was a papoose, he realised. The woman was Apache.

The Grainger Wing treated anyone, without question of income or insurance. Heroin was soiling that ideal just as surely as it had killed his sister.

He’d get back to Vaughn’s house and wait for Ed’s results.

Tran was there in the files of State somewhere. If he was into heroin, he’d have had the capital of a wealthy man. Usually, wealthy Vietnamese had grown rich on the seed-corn that State and the Company had provided to those who had helped the US during the war.

The young Apache woman passed on up the gleaming, aseptic corridor, diminishing with distance. He nodded to himself, accepting the mood of dark elation which filled his body and thoughts. He wanted revenge for Beth — not justice, except in its most primitive form. They’d killed her, he’d kill them.

And Tran might have done it, or had it done … Tran, who was less than a mile away at that moment —

‘This was his cot, his locker?’ Marfa Tostyeva asked, sniffing as the warmer air unblocked her sinuses. Goludin, the young detective Vorontsyev had sent with her like a nursemaid, hovered beside her like an idiot, lumpen and unaware. The rig’s assistant manager nodded, his beard sparkling with melted snow. ‘And everything he possessed is still here?’

‘We don’t have pilfering up here,’ the bearded man replied.

His Russian was peremptory and acquired; he was Norwegian.

‘Can I have the key?’

The Norwegian instead unlocked and opened the locker, then stood to one side. The dead Iranian was no one; unless the Norwegian’s luxuriant beard hid emotions Marfa could not identify.

She rummaged gently through the soiled clothes, the few possessions. It was a perfect cover story. Except for one silk shirt.

She unfolded it and held it up.

‘Liked dressing well, didn’t he?’ she murmured. The Norwegian inspected the shirt with seeming surprise.

‘Up here?’ he asked eventually after his fingers had identified the material. ‘Why?’

‘That’s what I came to find out.’

‘He wasn’t anyone — wasn’t paid well.’

‘He had hundreds in dollars — credit cards, a cashmere coat.’

‘Not up here he didn’t. What’s going on? The guy was lazy, unreliable. Should have been fired off the rig-‘ He hesitated, remembering something.

Marfa stood up, as if in his shadow. The Norwegian bulked over her.

‘Well?’

‘He was fired once, I think. Months ago. I’d have to check. It was reversed — the decision.’

‘It wasn’t your job?’

He shook his head. ‘Personnel. Or his foreman. You want me to check?’

‘Yes.’ She thrust the shirt back into the locker. ‘Pull the blanket back, Goludin. And the mattress.’

‘Nothing here.’ Goludin peered under the cot. There were five others in the cramped room. Bare walls, the minimum of comfort; a windowless segment of the accommodation block.

‘Nothing under there, either.’ He smiled like a dog expecting a pat.

She had told Vorontsyev the trip would, in all probability, be a waste of time. Seventy miles from town, out on the tundra where the last, sparse, dwarf trees straggled north, she felt isolated and uncomfortable. Rig 47. A man had worked here, but for the sake of establishing anonymity, a cover story. But why here? What he was really doing was focused on the town. Why would he be up here at all? When he was sacked, or about to be, why hadn’t he just left and taken up residence in the Gogol, as he did when on R & R?

The wind banged against the accommodation block, making it seem flimsy, constructed of cardboard like an itinerant’s shelter.

She shrugged.

‘What the hell was he up to?’ She studied the Norwegian assistant manager. ‘Check his file for me, would you? Find out, if you can, who stopped the sacking and why. It’s not difficult to get people, is it?’

‘Any arsehole Third-World country has them queueing up.

That includes Russia.’ He grinned within the nest of his beard.

‘Just a joke.’

‘Not really.’ She looked at the now unkempt cot, the small locker. In a gap in the wind, she felt certain she could hear the endless rush of gas through huge pipelines. ‘Can you do that now?’

‘Sure. There’s no hurry, though. There’s a blizzard on the way — you won’t be out of here before tomorrow.’

She shivered. ‘Hell.’

‘We’ll make you comfortable.’

‘It’s all that bloody space out there. I’d forgotten it.’

They left the dormitory, their boots sucking on the thermoplastic tiles of the corridor. The wind struck at them as they left the accommodation block, snatching away the smell of the evening meal being prepared in the kitchens. Marfa ducked her head into the wind. There was heavier snow on it now and the low sun struggled against fast-moving cloud. She squinted around her. Gas flared from distant oil rigs as it was burned off.

Rigs like Gulag watchtowers pressed along the horizon. Closer around them rose scattered buildings — administration, stores, vehicle sheds, accommodation. There were orderly rows of dilapidated trailers and caravans away to her right, where the overflow of workers bunked during their fortnights on site. A tracked crane lumbered out of the flying snow, startling her. The wind howled across the Hat, empty tundra, making Rig 47, its flimsy buildings, skeletal towers and network of pipes raised about the tundra not merely inhospitable, but alien. She felt herself shaken by utter dislocation. Isolated, of no significance. If it was agoraphobia, it seemed to empty her.

Then, in another moment, the doors of the administration block had slammed shut behind them and she could hear, in frozen ears, blaring music rather than the wind or piped gas.

Marfa felt her whole frame shivering. Goludin’s puffing relieved breathing at her shoulder seemed an inadequate commentary.

Dear God in Heaven, it was appalling out there … The Norwegian was clambering up open stairs and she followed him as if fleeing the tundra outside.

He closed the door of his outer office behind them. Marfa, still icily cold, refused to hand him her parka or gloves and he smiled in superior amusement.

‘Bring the file on Al-Jani through,’ he asked the narrow-faced male secretary as he led them into his office.

Marfa slumped into a proffered chair, arms wrapped tightly around her. Goludin studied her in a not unkindly manner even if she felt it was somewhat patronising. God, what a bloody place … After a few moments, during which the secretary deposited the file and left, she raised her eyes and looked through the long window. The sun was lost except for a reddish smear along the flat horizon. The clouds rushed towards the rig’s fragility in the last of the daylight. The window was wormed with wet.

‘There’s nothing here about his being fired,’ the Norwegian offered, passing the file across his desk. T was back home on leave at the time,’ he added. ‘I heard about it later.’

‘Who dealt with it?’

‘Maxim — him outside — I expect. At least with the initial complaint. He’d have passed it on down, not up to Gustafsson, the manager. Maybe to Personnel. Perhaps he just forgot about it — it happens. We get a lot of people who don’t come back, or get ill or injured, or can’t stand the loneliness … If he wanted to work, maybe Maxim decided he couldn’t be bothered to find a replacement roughneck.’

The telephone rang.

‘Is it OK if I talk to Maxim?’

‘Sure,’ the Norwegian murmured, his hand over the mouth piece. Then: ‘What kind of fucking trouble have you got on that stretch of pipe?’ He was nodding them out of the room.

Marfa opened the office door, glimpsing Maxim arranging his features carefully into blandness. Above his narrow, highcheekboned face, his black eyes were suspiciously alert.

You know something, she thought with a pang of excitement.

You know why we’re here and what we want to know.

John Lock sat in” the neat, aseptic emptiness of Vaughn Grainger’s study, its large window overlooking the lights of Phoenix. He was staring at the silent fax machine. The housekeeper and the butler had retreated to their bungalow in the grounds and the maid was ensconced — probably with a man in her flat over the garage. He was alone in the house. The barely tasted beer and the uneaten sandwiches that had been prepared for him sat beside his elbow.

The large house was silent, funereal, in the late night. It placed a deadness on his nerves, dulling his anger into a deep gloom.

Tran filled his thoughts. There were no features he could employ to personify the object of his stifling rage, only a Vietnamese name.

The ample room contained two TV sets, the fax machine, a broad oak desk inlaid with green tooled leather, a typewriter, numerous telephone extensions, a VDU and keyboard. But the place seemed hardly used, as if a film of desert dust covered its surfaces. There were some photographs, measuring the passage of time. He avoided the one of Beth and Billy at their wedding.

There were pictures of Vaughn, one of him in uniform which must have been taken in Vietnam, but the majority of the snapshots, colour or monochrome, were of Billy Grainger. Lock himself was in one of them, taken in the field in Afghanistan, he and Billy posed in front of a wrecked MiL helicopter gunship, laughing, ringed by cold and alien mountains.

His anger ate at him cancerously, as he cursed the fax machine’s silence. The large second hand of the clock on the wall measured time in strained, faltering movements, and the slow ticking of the English longcase clock was as ominous as distant thunder.

Lightning flickered among the Superstition Mountains beyond the city, walking on the hilltops. He closed his eyes heavily on the image …

… then jerked awake at the signal from the fax machine. He stared at it, then at the clock on the wall; slowly realising that he had slept in the swivel chair for almost two hours. There was the faintest colouring along the horizon. It would be dawn in an hour. The page began sliding as smoothly as oil out of the machine, which chattered its satisfaction with itself.

He lifted it up and began reading, even as the pages continued to ease themselves into the room.

Tran hadbeen a Special Immigrant, as he had guessed. Arrived in May ‘75, from a screening camp in the Philippines. Flown in on a CIA flight — he recognized the code-numbers of the flight.

No innocent civilians had gotten themselves flown Stateside. Lock read on. Nguyen Tran, described as a retail trader in Saigon, had been born in a village to the north of the capital … Left Saigon in late April ‘75, as part of Operation Frequent Wind, the eighteen-hour airlift that had taken the remaining Americans and their most valuable Vietnamese allies from either the embassy roof or the Tan Son Nhut pick-up point. He’d have been flown in an H-46 out to a waiting ship.

He glanced ahead of himself, at the succeeding sheets. Copies of documents, mostly. He was disappointed. Tran had obviously been valuable — must have worked either for the Company, the Marines or Special Forces in some capacity or other. Tran was no simple, above-board retailer, he was a Company man or close enough to it. whisi

He caught, as the fax stopped after the fourth sheet and whistled in self-satisfaction, a glimpsed snapshot in the corner of eyesight, Billy Grainger’s features, grinning into strong sunlight.

Billy had been airlifted out of Saigon during that same operation.

He’d been CIA in Saigon for over a year when the final invasion came and the Viet Cong forces raced for the southern capital.

As Billy had always said, laughing, every time they were in a tight spot in Afghanistan — or even when Grainger Technologies had looked like it might run into the buffers in the late ‘70s, after the oil-price hikes by the Arabs — he’d already been in the tightest possible spot and gotten out alive. While he and his people were still on the embassy roof, waiting for the last helicopters, the Viet Cong were already looting the lower floors of the building. Billy could hear the childlike rapture of Charley and the occasional single, executioner’s shot before the rotor noise drowned them. So don’t talk to me about tight spots, he would always conclude after recounting the story.

Lock sniffed loudly in the again-quiet room.

Tran was set up* Stateside, with Company slush money, in a laundry business in Sausalito. Slowly, he had expanded the business into a chain of laundromats … Which is where. Lock realised. State lost interest in him, just as the Company would have. Tran fulfils the American dream, becomes a US citizen in

1981, and vanishes from official records. He glanced again at the other pages of the fax. Documents, including the green card, the citizenship, Tran’s address — out of date by maybe three million dollars — and other trivia.

Tran, however unimportant he had become to State and Langley, had prospered — by means of heroin — on the West Coast.

Red horse — Russian-derived heroin, made in Russia, grown in …? Wherever the gasfield workers came from — the Moslem Triangle, for sure. It came up from there, was refined in Novyy Urengoy, and smuggled out by means of GraingerTurgenev.

Using the company’s flights, maybe even using the company’s people on the ground. And the executives Billy had discovered running the operation were in and out of there all the time. It was perfect. A frontier town thousands of miles from anyone who might care lo stop them or investigate what was really going on.

Tran, however, was only the distributor on the Coast, or one of them. All he’d have would be names … but prominent names, really important — noise of a window breaking somewhere in the house.

Lock looked around the room, as if he expected to find he had broken a piece of porcelain. He strained to hear other noises beyond the heavy silence of the study. Nothing. The second hand of the clock moved jerkily as a crab’s claw, limping the seconds away. Nothing —

— for almost a minute, then something creaked like old wood, something else sounded as if snapped like a fragile bone. His hands were spread on the desk in front of his body, empty. Then the right one jerked out towards the small console and switched off the lights in the room. The darkness immediately brought rustling noises, like cloth breathing against skin. Gently, very slowly, he opened the top left-hand drawer of the oak desk and touched the Colt automatic Vaughn always kept there. Withdrew it and, as it caught the glow of the city dully, he slid the ammunition clip into the butt after scrabbling it from the same drawer. The noise as he eased a round into the chamber seemed betrayingly loud. He could hear his heartbeat.

And footsteps, soft and coming towards the study. From the lounge, the rustle of drapes being automatically drawn. Then a strip of light showed beneath the study door. He sat in the darkness, his heart loudening, a fine line of perspiration springing out on his forehead, the gun quivering in his grip. He could think only that it was Tran. Or his people. It wasn’t accidental, casual — it was too like Beth’s murder. He shivered. The footsteps paused outside the door — voices, whispering? He’d forgotten to put on the alarm system and remembered that Billy could not have done so at the Virginia house. He was as exposed as Billy and Beth had been.

Door handle being eased. He sensed the city behind him, beyond the window, outlining him, but could not move. Beth had been as helpless, asleep. Gleam of light, shadow beyond it.

He saw the door open a few inches from where his less-helpless body had now placed him. He’d ducked behind the oak desk, his head peering over its rampart. The shadow bulked in the doorway, made neat by the foresight on the Colt. Made vulnerable.

A gloved hand reached in beside the door, searching for the switch, its black fingers moving like a spider’s legs. He squeezed the trigger and there was a scream and the black spider withdrew, hurt. Voices and groaning. Lock swallowed the saliva of excitement. A quarrel, then the inevitable returned fire, a gun gleaming in the doorway for a moment, fired blindly into the room. He fired back, twice, at the already retreating footsteps and the muttered curses speaking a foreign language that might have been Vietnamese.

A door slammed. The study reeked of explosives. There was a hole in the window behind him, a gouge in one of the upholstered chairs. Lock rose to his feet, shaking with exhilarated nerves. Then he stumbled to the door of the study and looked out into the corridor leading to the hall. A scuffed and disturbed Indian rug, a patch of blood on the pale wall near the door. The noise of feet on gravel coming through the open door as he reached the hall.

He thought he caught the voice of the butler, ihen lost all other sounds in the noise of a car engine. He ran onto the gravel drive which sloped up to the country road that wound past the house. Headlights moving off. His adrenalin pumped more fiercely than his heart, making his imagination wild, his body taut, invulnerable. He heaved open the door of the Toyota Vaughn had put at his disposal, fumbling in his pocket for the ignition key. He started the car, seeing the maid’s bemused features at a curtained window above the garage just before he squealed the car around to face the slope and accelerated in a scream of gravel towards’the road.

He reached it and turned out. Their car was already out of sight around a bend in the road as it descended the mountain.

He knew, with utter certainty, that they were heading for the Biltmore Hotel and Tran. What was ridiculous, but which magnified in his thoughts even before he took the first bend with a scream of tyres, was the idea that the men ahead of him had killed Beth and Billy. Ridiculous … but compelling.

His heart jumped as he saw the glare of brakelights at another bend in the road, less than a quarter of a mile ahead of him. If they’d killed Beth, if if…

He had to force himself to decelerate, keep his distance.

I don’t like you, Vorontsyev thought as he smiled in imitation of David Schneider’s open grin. But he wondered if it was because he mistrusted Americans in general, or because it was Schneider. Perhaps innocent Americans, especially if they’re idealistic doctors, possess ready smiles and casual good manners, together with a supreme confidence, even when confronted with a senior police officer enquiring about a friend’s murder?

He didn’t know. Instead, he sipped the good Dutch coffee that Schneider had offered him. The American had asked him not to smoke out of deference to his intolerance, but it was no hardship and did not irritate Vorontsyev. It was the smile that did that, its readiness, breadth, warmth.

Or perhaps the spaciousness of the office created envious dislike, or perhaps the leather chair in which he sat or the rosewood desk …?

He’d had to wait most of the afternoon to interview Schneider, but had spent that time investigating the Russian who had claimed to be a Dutchman on the false passport and who had died in the Gogol Hotel of a heart attack. A Dutch accountant.

A Russian, from the Ukraine, who was a minor subcontractor to the gasfield companies. He’d talked to Kiev. There was no Pomarov who owned or worked in an executive position for any such company. He’d faxed Kiev Central CID the photograph of the dead Pomarov and the more animated passport photograph.

By that lime, Schneider had been free to see him and he had all but lost interest, absorbed by the identity of the dead man who had pretended — or was about to pretend — to be Dutch and who was, perhaps, not even Ukrainian Russian. He had died of a heart attack. Lensky was certain of that … no, not poisoned, Alexei, I swear, nor bludgeoned or stabbed to death… Laughing as he assured him.

Yet now Schneider, too, intrigued him. Another distorted impression in a hall of mirrors.

‘I really am sorry I can’t help you. Major. Jesus, I’d like to, Allan Rawls was a good friend, a college friend … But what can I tell you?’ Variations on that theme had occupied them for the entire ten minutes of the interview.

Schneider raised his large, long-fingered hands, gesturing at the room and the Addiction Unit beyond it. Where Dmitri’s daughter had been brought, OD’d and dead on arrival …

Schneider was a busy, important man in the Foundation Hospital.

His manner suggested he felt piqued by the unspoken suggestion that his idealistic nature might have any connection with something as sordid as murder. Even the murder of a friend.

And the man was well qualified, Lensky assured him, and could be making a great deal more money back in America. The Addiction Unit was lucky to have him, everyone said so.

Schneider had been in Novyy Urengoy for more than a year, a long tour of duty at the unglamorous end of the hospital’s business. He lived in one of the largest company apartments in the most luxurious block. A succession of young women nurses, a singer, a cocktail waitress, a businessman’s daughter

— Lensky knew most of the lubricious details — had preoccupied or distracted his leisure time. All partings had been amicable.

‘So, Mr Rawls came to see you, and for no other reason did he attend the hospital during that week?’ Vorontsyev summarised stiffly, as if reading from a notebook.

Schneider laughed. ‘Sure — if you want to put it that way. He came to see me — out of friendship and because he was charged with writing 2 report on our work for (he head of the Foundation, the older Mr Grainger. He takes a personal interest in the work of the Unit. And he demanded good briefings from people like Allan. That’s why Allan was being so meticulous. Major why he came up here so often!’ His grin faded and his features adopted seriousness reluctantly but properly. ‘As to what happened to him, what he was doing out on that road in the middle of the night, I have no idea.’

‘I see. You visited him at the Gogol?’

‘Sure. For a drink-‘ He looked ostentatiously at his gold watch. ‘Is there anything else. Major? I guess I’m bushed. Time to go home, get some sleep.’

Vorontsyev put down his cup and stood up. ‘Of course. Thanks for your help. Doctor’

‘Sorry I couldn’t tell you anything helpful. It’s a terrible business’

‘Thank you. I won’t detain you any longer.’ He shook Schneider’s cheerfully proffered hand, returned his ready smile, and went.

It was another ten minutes before Schneider left the hospital.

Vorontsyev watched him cross the car park, his tall, angular frame leaning into the bitter wind, the sodium lighting catching the blowing snow and the lanky, easily recognisable figure.

Vorontsyev wiped the windscreen clear of the fug and switched on the wipers. They squeaked against the sprinkling of snow.

He started the car’s engine as Schneider reached and unlocked a small, dark BMW. Vorontsyev rubbed his stubbled chin and sensed himself as a creased, morose, awkward figure seated opposite Schneider in his warm, well-lit office. Then the doctor started the BMW’s engine and he was merely a suspect being tailed and the authority of their encounter passed to himself.

The snow chains ground across the parking area. Schneider had more expensive studded tyres fitted to his car. The BMW pulled out of the hospital car park and turned towards Novyy Urengoy, which gloomed out of the snow like the wreckage of a metropolis, lights fitfully gleaming from a few of the tower blocks. The traffic was light. There weren’t many cars in the town, despite its being awash with foreign currency and drug money and gangsters’ profits. Cars were for show or shopping.

To go anywhere you had to fly — for long hours if you wanted to arrive anywhere that pretended to civilization. He slotted in behind a light van which was fifty yards back from the German saloon. Schneider was going home, in all likelihood … well, it’s not out of my way, is it?

He just wanted to be sure, to still the nagging toothache of doubt; quell the cynicism, he admitted, that could not accept someone so patently good as Schneider. Perhaps it was a national rather than an habitual failing in him.

The town closed around them, the caravans and dreary, decaying tin huts and wooden dachas growing as monstrously as the tower blocks and squat factories and shops. The smell of bread on the icy air from a bakery, its windows glowing out over the patient, immobile queue. Then he turned into the neon glare of Mockba Prospekt. Slowed quickly enough to cause the car to skid as the BMW pulled into the kerb. Schneider got out.

Vorontsyev steered across to the far side of the prospekt and hauled on the brake. Schneider was paying a thin, stunted youth to watch his car while he entered the blaring lights of the McDonald’s. Vorontsyev wound the window down so that he could make out the tall figure inside the restaurant, then wound it back up and lit a cigarette. The youth sat proprietor]ally on the bonnet — probably as much to keep warm as for any reason of security.

The place was filled with people, as it was every day. The pavement was especially widened to accommodate the queues.

Money rattled its gold chains and flaunted its foreign clothing at the bright windows. Outside, there was a hot potato stall with its own smaller, imitative queue. The faces were mostly darker or more peasantlike there. An ancient woman — he’d seen her before — was selling vegetables outside the restaurant.

Vorontsyev settled down to wait.

Rubbed his eyes and roused himself quick as an alarmed dog.

The BMW was moving, the youth watching his source of heat and money retreating. Vorontsyev’s engine fired a third time and he skidded out into the middle of the prospekt a hundred yards behind Schneider.

He wiped furiously at the fuggy windscreen, then settled to tailing the other car. Along the Mockba Prospekt, through two intersections, then into 1c Street. The tunnel of garish neon assaulted Vorontsyev as it always did; blatant, gaudy, tasteless.

The BMW was moving easily on the cleared snow and new ice.

The tail of the ZiL threatened to escape his control at every moment, despite the snow chains. Stripclub followed bar followed cafe followed cinema followed stripjoint along the street, their doors like dark mouths beneath the vulgar promise of their neon eyes.

The BMW turned into an alley and Vorontsyev slowed the ZiL until he was opposite the entrance. A sign for car parking, Patrons Only it insisted in green neon, for the Cafe Americain.

He tossed his head. Even a Russian understood the allusion w Casablanca and Humphrey Bogart. This Cafe Americain, however, wasn’t owned by a soldier of fortune trying to forget Ingrid Bergman but by a real-life, made-in-Russia gangster. Valery Panshin.

Vorontsyev hesitated, then turned into the alleyway and then the car park. He pulled into a parking space. Then locked the car and walked towards the entrance. A light over matt-black rear doors. The uniformed doorman recognized him. Had cause to. He’d narrowly evaded trial on two charges of malicious wounding with a knife. Vladimir — Vlad the Impaler as he liked to be known.

‘Hold the door open, there’s a good peasant,’ Vorontsyev murmured, stamping his snow-laden boots on the carpet as the doorman did so.

The warmth of the place struck him and he removed his fur hat and gloves. The carpet was stained and lumped with snow.

The cloakroom girl appeared offended as if by an unpleasant smell until she, too, recognized him. He moved towards the main bar and restaurant. There was a jazz group playing.

Perhaps that was why Schneider came, for the jazz? It was why Vorontsyev himself came and why Panshin could be forgiven some small things because he hosted the best jazz in western Siberia; even American and British bands, not just Russians or the more obscure French units.

He entered through the open doors and confronted a dinner jacketed bouncer. One of Panshin’s customer integration executives, or whatever he was calling them now. A hand was placed on his chest for a moment, before a waiter shook his head vehemently and mimed the taking of a warrant card from his pocket.

‘Sorry,’ the bouncer murmured.

‘Accepted-‘ He was about to ask for the man’s name, just for the pleasure of unsettling him, when he saw, seated in his usual place at the side of the small stage, Panshin himself.

And the tall figure of Dr David Schneider, about to seat himself at Panshin the gangster’s private table.

SIX Tidal Waters

Lock turned the Toyota off Camelback Road and the glare of the desert sunrise slid off the windscreen as he entered the dawn shadows between the buildings on 24th Street. Ahead of him, the green Lincoln nosed into the grounds of the Arizona Biltmore. The Lloyd Wright-in spired, blocklike building glinted in the early sunlight. The car emerged into the sun once more.

He slowed and drew into the sidewalk, his chest tight with satisfied tension. They were Tran’s men, the three shadowy heads he had been able to see through the rear window of the Lincoln — they were. The thought that they had to be Beth’s murderers shut out almost everything else except his awareness of his temperature, his nerves itching and jumping just beneath the damp surface of his skin.

He eased the car forward to the hotel driveway. The green Lincoln was dropping its nose, nuzzling into the underground garage of the Biltmore. As it vanished, he moved forward, parking the Toyota beside a dry lawn already thirsty for the sprinklers whose water caught the sunrise. He left the car and crunched on gravel towards the entrance to the car park. His right hand touched at the lump of the Colt in his jacket pocket as he walked.

He sidled down the slope, slid beside the automatic barrier, and entered the garage. Cool and petrol-scented. Limousines and smaller cars stretched away like racked groceries, neat as a supermarket.

Silence. Hard striplighting. Then a muffled groan and the sigh of the lift, as if it was shocked by evidence of pain. He saw two black-sweatered figures beside the green Lincoln, fifty yards away. Another man, clutching his one hand with the other, was leaning against the bonnet, the other two men clustered around him, arguing in high, trilling voices, arms waving, as if they had entered the garage to find their car stolen. Then the lift doors opened and another Asiatic in a white silk shirt and fawn slacks emerged, hurrying at once towards the Lincoln. His arms, too, semaphored distress and anger. Lock watched from behind the flank of a red Porsche as he moved closer. The silk-shirted man’s voice was immediately authoritative, his arms offering superior signals that quelled the others. He seemed oblivious to the bloodstained wrapping around the injured man’s hand.

Tran.

Two GM saloons, then a big estate car, then a European hatchback. He was twenty yards from them, his breathing calm.

Tran — it had to be him — was gesturing angrily in denial. Berating them. Then the noise of his hand on the face of one of the intruders, who had dared truculence and excuse. Tran gestured towards the garage entrance — so violently that Lock ducked out of sight, suspecting he had been seen — and shouted what seemed like the same injunctions again and again. Lock cautiously raised his head.

The doors of the Lincoln were open, they were helping the wounded man into the back of the car. Then, nodding with furious, automaton energy, the driver and the third man got into the car. The engine fired. Tran had already turned his back on them, his broad features enraged. Lock’s face assumed a similar mask in grotesque imitation as Tran walked towards the lift doors. The tyres of the Lincoln screeched and then the car heaved itself sullenly towards the daylight and the barrier.

Lock watched it as it passed him, then rose from his crouch and hurried towards Tran. The noise of the Lincoln surging to the top of the slope faded away. He saw and heard nothing but the small, compact Vietnamese and his diminishing distance from the lift. Tran reached it and pressed the button. The man’s face was thoughtful, still angry. Lock was fifteen yards from him as the lift doors clunked open. Fifteen — running. He saw Tran’s face turn towards the source of the echoing footfalls, saw his surprise and then his instinctive jab at the buttons inside the lift. Eight, six — doors beginning to close, Tran’s face nakedly expressing shock and the vulnerability of being unarmed and alone. He seemed to stare for a moment towards the sun-spilling entrance after the vanished Lincoln, as if to recall it. Two —

His arms blundered between the closing doors, springing them back. He lunged into the lift, thudding against the far wall. Tran began moving away from him. Lock thrust the gun against the man’s ribs and jabbed over his shoulder at the Door Close button.

‘Which floor?’ he expelled like a winded breath. ‘Floor?’ He jabbed the gun into Tran’s ribs. ‘Come onV

Tran, arms raised to the level of his shoulders, his eyes blackly calculating, then quiescent, reached out and pressed a button.

The top floor, where the suites were located. Stupid not to know that. Lock told himself. He motioned Tran back against the wall of the compartment, leaning himself on the opposite wall, breathing heavily, his head hanging like that of a wounded bull.

The gun was, he realised, remarkably steady in his hand. Tran’s eyes flickered as if he was viewing a high-speed series of still pictures projected on a screen. He didn’t know who Lock was, was trying to locate him in some mental file — and was afraid because of his anonymity. Until-

‘Mr Tran?’ he said.

‘You are Lock?’ Tran replied, his eyes now inspecting Lock like the fingers of a blind man, quickly and thoroughly. There was an imperceptible nod, as if he had salisfactorily answered his own question.

‘You guessed it,’

‘My — business is not with you, Mr Lock, nor yours with me.’ Lock was shocked into attention at the prim, demarcating remark. Tran had regained an impassive composure that unsettled him.

‘Your guys tried to kill me,’ was all that he could find in reply.

Even to himself, it rang hollow with complaint.

‘My — guys?’

‘The blackshirts in the green Lincoln — the ones you just sent away to find a doctor who won’t ask questions about a gunshot wound.’

The lift stopped and the doors opened onto thick-piled carpet and the hot, airless scent of a hotel corridor. He gestured with the Colt, and Tran looked at his steady hand. The man’s black eyes rose to his face, and slowly became unnerved.

‘Out,’ Lock said. ‘Anyone else up here with you, Tran? I mean, people like those who burglarised the Grainger home — ‘ Tran stared as the words choked off, and he saw the Vietnamese realise his assumption of a destructive recent past.

‘I — am sorry concerning your family tragedy, Mr Lock. I know nothing of it.’

They had paused outside the door to Tran’s suite. The Vietnamese, neat and small in his silk shirt and fawn slacks, had casually taken the keycard from his breast pocket. ‘Inside,’ he murmured. Tran shrugged and inserted the keycard. The lock buzzed and he pushed open the door.

‘Please come in, Mr Lock.’

Lock nudged the door wide. There was no one concealed behind it, no one in the suite’s large sitting room — or the bedroom or the bathroom. Tran wandered through the open windows to the balcony, the white net curtains stirred by the early morning breeze.

‘Come back in here, Tran.’ His voice lacked authority, as did the gun.

Tran re-entered the living room, gestured to two chairs on either side of a table, and seated himself. Angrily and impotently, Lock sat opposite him, the gun cradled in his lap.

‘Why do you feel it necessary to interfere in my business affairs, Mr Lock?’ Tran lit a cigarette in an ebony holder. ‘Your distress at your family’s murder is evident. I understand.’ His voice was as bland as that of an analyst. ‘But, as I said, those unfortunate events have nothing to do with me.’

‘Vaughn — Grainger’s in the hospital-‘ Tran nodded. ‘You put him there. It’s drugs, isn’t that right? Red horse, I mean?’

‘Shall I call room service for some coffee — tea?’

‘No!’ Lock snarled. Beyond the net curtains, the day was heating rapidly under the blank sky. ‘They must have died because of the drugs,’ he insisted. The people you deal with, Tran inside Grainger Technologies-‘ There was the slightest flicker of surprise and satisfaction in the black, stonelike eyes. ‘— they wanted Billy silenced. They were covering up.’

‘Ah, a cover-up. I see,’ Tran murmured.

‘You admit it?’ Why was Tran at ease, suddenly more relaxed?

‘What’s happening here, Tran?’

The room’s air-conditioning stirred the exhaled cigarette smoke.

Eventually, Tran asked: ‘What did you expect to learn by coming here, Mr Lock — by following my people from the Grainger house?’

‘I want to know the truth, Tran. I want to know who murdered my sister.’

‘I don’t know who killed your sister.’ Were his eyes shaded with apprehensions of his own, for an instant?

‘But you know names. You know who your suppliers are.

Those names will do.’

‘I do not think I can supply those names. It would endanger my investments, my business.’ Tran glanced through the barely moving net curtains, down towards the gardens of the Biltmore and the peacocks’ tails of the fountains and sprinklers scattered geometrically across the lawns. Patches of gravel were wet.

‘I need those names, Tran. You’ll give them to me. There are people inside Grainger Technologies, right, who supply you with heroin from Siberia … maybe it’s even refined over there. It originates, I would guess, in the Moslem Triangle. The Russian mafia has to be involved, too, I imagine …’ The numbers of people involved, the size of the operation, the power of each unknown person, retreated into the shadows of his imagination.

Tran, sitting impassively, wasn’t even frightened of a Colt. ‘Am I right?’ he insisted.

‘I take delivery of an assured supply. There is no need for me to either know or speculate, Mr Lock.’

‘You take an awful lot on trust, Tran.’

‘It is sensible to do so.’ Once more, the Vietnamese glanced down into the grounds of the hotel, like someone anxious for the arrival oi the postman, or a plumber.

‘Don’t give me that garbage, Tran. You have the names. Don’t worry, I won’t be indiscreet. What you tell me won’t be traced back to you.’

Tran smiled. ‘Very reassuring.’

Again, he glanced towards the windows. The air coming in was hot now, the air-conditioning protesting against its intrusion more loudly. Tran lit another cigarette and stood up. The gun jerked out of Lock’s lap uncertainly, almost convulsively. He realised the strained state of his nerves.

Tran sighed, cutting off the slight noise almost immediately.

He sat down again, crossing his legs.

‘You see, Mr Lock, however sympathetic I may be towards your tragedy, business ethics prevent me from being indiscreet.

I am afraid I cannot help you. There is no benefit for me in doing so.’

‘Then I have to kill you, right?’

‘Then you would learn nothing.’

‘Then tell me!’ Lock raged, leaning forward on his chair, his facial muscles taut, his neck stretched like a child in a furious, blind temper. ‘Tell me who’s behind it, who killed my sister, damn you!’

Tran uncrossed his legs. He gripped the arms of the chair, as if to raise himself. Yet his attention was somehow beyond Lock.

‘I do not know who killed your sister, Mr Lock.’ Tran’s voice was louder. ‘If, as you suspect, they were killed by associates of mine — that their deaths had anything to do with the people with whom I deal — then I am sorry, I have nothing I can tell you. / do not know, Mr Lock.’

And then he realised he had his back to the door. Window, door, corridor, window … Tran had kept looking towards the windows, waiting for something, something he expected to see — just as he was talking loudly now, expecting someone to hear … Tran’s people must have returned, Tran had seen their car or them out front.

Lock rose to his feet, brandishing the gun like a club. Tran flinched, but his eyes remained confident. They were close, almost there He turned away to the door. Opened it. The corridor was empty. He felt panic rising in him like choking water. Take Tran, get out He turned back to the Vietnamese. The man’s body was disappearing into the bedroom of the suite. He heard the door lock.

The situation had reversed in an instant. There was not time to break down the door, turn Tran into a shield He looked out of the door. A shout. The sight of a raised hand.

The figure of one of Tran’s people, still dressed in black. Lock looked wildly around him.

He blundered through the doors and down the echoing stairs.

‘You think he’s covering something up,’ Goludin remarked, his hands around the thick white coffee mug, his shoulders hunched against the palpable suspicion and dislike of the few gasfield workers with whom they were sharing the canteen.

‘Yes, but I don’t know what,’ Maria confirmed. ‘It doesn’t seem to lead us anywhere or even to make any sense.’

The canteen’s high windows were thick with snow. The blizzard outside bullied against the flimsy buildings of the Rig 47

“complex. The barracklike canteen was all but empty. There was rock music from loudspeakers, murmured voices, the deep distrust as obvious as the smells from the kitchen. Probably everyone in the room had something to hide, some fiddle, some shady past.

‘Have you finished?’ she asked with impatient enthusiasm, suddenly wrapping her long scarf across her throat, bunching her woollen hat in her gloved hands. Goludin appeared reluctant to move. ‘I want to check all the supplies that have come in since the explosion in the flat.’

‘You think someone else brought the drugs — ‘ He was leaning forward and whispering now. ‘- up here in place of that guy Hussain?’

‘The Major does. I do as I’m told.’

‘Why up here?’

‘I don’t know. Just till things die down a bit, maybe. The Iranian worked here, he must have had something to do with the drugs-?’ The statement ended interrogatively. She felt the gap between theory and instinct like a rush of cold air through an opened door. It was just theory. The wind howled in a short silence between pop songs. ‘We can’t find them in town, so maybe they’re here. Who knows?’

‘Where do we start?’

‘You take the food store, I’ll cover equipment and spares. OK?’

‘It could be,’ Goludin admitted. ‘Hussain worked here, just like the Iranian. Doesn’t seem they knew each other, though, does it?’

She rubbed her forehead. Hours of fruitless questioning came back like a headache. Al-Jani had no friends, no close acquaintances on the rig. Just another roughneck despised by the Russians and Ukrainians and Europeans, and ignored by his fellow Moslems, apparently. Hussain had friends here, though. A search of their quarters had revealed nothing, except resentment escaping like a leak of gas.

‘Let’s just check the latest shipment of supplies and hope this bloody weather improves by the morning.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, Goludin.’

She watched the men that watched their departure from the canteen. Sullen or merely weary, it was difficult to tell.

Unkempt, bearded faces with split lips, red eyes, chilblained hands. There wasn’t even energy for lust in their eyes and bodies. Just suspicion; dislike of the cops.

The blizzard tore the outer door from her grip and flung snow in their faces. The snow seemed so violent and solid she had the sensation of being trapped against the tunnel wall of a metro as a train hurtled past her only inches away. It blew through the garish floodlighting that illuminated the compound of the rig She could see nothing, not even the other buildings.

Pointing, she shouted: ‘I’ll be over there! The equipment store

— got that?’ Goludin nodded. ‘Whoever finishes first comes back here. We’ll compare notes!’ Goludin nodded once more, his face masked by his scarf and the hood of his parka.

She hesitated, then launched herself into the blizzard, sensing at once that she had already disappeared from Goludin’s sight.

The wind cut through her as if she was naked and the sense that she was invisible after her first two or three steps unnerved her. She was blundering through an endless series of heavy white curtains, trying as in a dream to thrust them aside. She thought she heard a door slam, the growl of distant machinery.

She huddled her arms about herself, straitjacketed by the wind and snow, trudging forward with her head down. The place was a bloody Gulag!

Cold — God, it was so bloody cold… She lurched into a wall, shocking herself upright and breathless, as if she had been attacked. Icebound metal under her gloved fingers. If she hadn’t walked in a circle, this was the largest of the vehicle sheds. The equipment store, another large, hangarlike block, was next to it. She wiped the snow out of her eyes and mouth and moved along the wall until she encountered the corner.

A gap in the snow, momentary as it was, revealed the equipment store twenty yards away. Then it vanished like a snowy mirage. She rubbed her arms and body, hesitated, then plunged once more into the blizzard, hurrying towards what would be a welcome collision with the other building. Her hands, stretched out before her, found only cold rushing air, and a faint sense of panic began before she touched icy corrugated steel.

She despised herself for her churning stomach and the feeling of alienation. The storm threatened her in a manner she could not explain, which could not be stilled by reason. The blizzard was like a shroud.

She felt her way along the building until she found the corrugated main door and the control panel beside it. The building sheltered her from the worst of the wind and flying snow, so that she could hear her own ragged breathing loud with relief.

Silly bitch, she told herself. The Norwegian assistant manager of the rig had given her a passcard and she fed it into the slot and stabbed out her temporary number. The control box hummed and she pressed the Up button. The corrugated door groaned with its weight of ice, crackling like frozen clothing as it rolled up. She pressed Stop and ducked beneath it, lowering the door behind her. It clanged in the sudden, unexpected silence of the darkened building.

Marfa heard her own breathing, felt her breath cloud around her. She fumbled along the wall and threw the main light switch.

Suspended striplights flickered on, greyly, dustily it seemed. Her breathing smoked in the icy air. Her body shivered with the aftershock of the blizzard, but gradually became calmer.

The store was huge, maybe seventy metres by fifty. The ribbed, whalelike roof was all but lost above the suspended lighting.

Half of the building was high rows of storage shelves, the remainder an open area of palleted crates and boxes. A line of forklift trucks stood against one wall like intent men in a urinal, their batteries being recharged overnight. The building was empty except for her intrusion. And baffling. What was she looking for? She should have brought the Norwegian with her. She fished inside her snow-covered clothing and pulled out a sheaf of photocopied dockets the assistant manager had supplied. She remembered the secretary, Maxim, bent over the photocopies, his dark eyes aware of her. He had been afraid of her, but there seemed no urgency to his apprehension. She couldn’t see how he was connected with Al-Jani or with Hussain. Yet both of them had worked on Rig 47, had been billeted here in the compound

… there had to be some connection between them, surely?

She began checking the invoices against the crates on the nearest pallets. Only luggage had come up on the flight from Tehran with Hussain — and halal meat and other Moslem food.

Goludin would check that out. Spare tractor parts, valves, pumps, drill bits … She became absorbed, moving through the crates like a small, intent rodent, glancing occasionally at her watch. Nine-thirty, ten, ten-fifteen… The huge naves of storage shelving encompassed her. Silence, except for her footsteps, her breathing, her gradual frustration. And the wind baying outside the corrugated walls.

Opened crates she checked more carefully. The noise of bolts rattling to the floor and rolling away was like gunshots in the cavernous store. She didn’t bother to retrieve them. Occasionally, the skittering noise of small, clawed feet. Some animal life that had wandered in off the tundra, lemmings or rats.

She yawned. Ten-forty. She’d wasted an hour and a half, almost. If the drugs were here, she wouldn’t find them. If drugs were ever stored at the rig, they’d only stumble on any evidence by a miracle. Without a special reason for suspicion, it had been made clear to her that she wouldn’t be allowed to access the computer. It would be easier to break Maxim — who knew something for certain but which might have nothing whatever to do with Al-Jani or Hussain.

In the silence after her yawn, the sound of footsteps, quick, hurried, furtive. She was startled fully awake. Then the noise of the wind increased and she lost their sound. Where? That way? She felt hot as she stood, completely still, between two great cliffs of shelving, crates stacked almost to the roof, their perspective stretching away to either end of the building.

She could hear nothing but the wind, and shivered. Then hurried.

He was darkly dressed, small, thin-framed. She saw that much. His face was hidden by a balaclava, melting snow glistening on the wool and shining in droplets on his narrow shoulders.

Then he hit her across the temple with something and she fell back, the great columns of the shelving like the pillars of a cathedral drunkenly tilting, then lurching. His masked face appeared above her own, then he struck her again across the head as she tried to roll away from him, kick out.

Then she felt herself, dimly and woozily, being dragged from the intersection where he had ambushed her, along the concrete floor, his hands beneath her armpits, her head filled with pain and sickeningly spinning. Then she blacked out -

door being raised with a groaning clatter. Blank once more.

Then the blast of the wind and the drenching of the driven snow woke her. She felt her hands seized. Blank again. Hands somewhere behind her, numb. Her coat was open, hands were pulling at her sweaters. Her terror at the prospect of rape. Then she blacked out again.

‘Excuse me one moment, Val,’ Vorontsyev murmured, taking the insistent mobile phone from his coat pocket. Panshin seemed amused, yet well aware of the tension between himself and Schneider; and of the latter’s nerves. ‘Vorontsyev.’

It was Lubin, almost breathless with excitement; his habitual manner.

‘Sir, Rawls’ fingerprints match! He was definitely in the Merc with the Iranian at some time. They’re tied together, sir!’

Vorontsyev retained a casual, indifferent manner, smiling at Valery Panshin and his companions as he stood a matter of yards from their table.

‘That sounds fine, Lubin. Good work. Just type up the report for me, will you? I’ll be in touch.’

‘But, sir—’ Lubin began to protest, then said: ‘You can’t talk freely, right, sir?’

‘Just so.’

‘Do you need help, sir?’

‘No. No problem. ‘Bye, Lubin.’ He cut the connection and returned affably to the three men around the table; Schneider, Panshin the jazz club owner and gangster, and Panshin’s chief lieutenant, the small, neat, dangerous Dom Kasyan. His nickname among the small-fry, the parasites and the runners and hustlers was Mack the Knife … which, of course, was an interesting thought. Kasyan certainly had the skills to have despatched Rawls neatly and quietly — as did perhaps two hundred other people in Novyy Urengoy. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised mockingly. ‘Pressure, pressure — a policeman’s lot is not a happy one, with so many suspicious characters in the immediate neighbourhood.’ He grinned.

Kasyan scowled, but Panshin shook his head. A waitress brought Vorontsyev the imported beer he had ordered. He placed a twenty-rouble note on her tray, to which she was on the point of objecting when Panshin waved her away. Vorontsyev’s joke and custom was to pay in Russian currency. The club accepted only hard currencies or credit cards.

He sipped his beer. The house trio had just finished ‘Stella by Starlight’ and he applauded politely, as did one or two others in the room. Schneider seemed obligated to tap his big hands together for a moment or two. The man was discomfited yet somehow reliant upon Panshin’s presence, the room; even on Kasyan.

T didn’t know you two knew each other. You come for the jazz, Dr Schneider?’

‘Just the same as you do, Alexei,’ Panshin intruded. Schneider flushed with relief. Panshin wreathed his smile in cigar smoke, his broad, open face pleasant, direct, concealing nothing.

‘Of course. Who’s up tonight?’

‘Scandinavians.’ The house trio bowed and departed the tiny stage. ‘My booking manager tells me they’re very good.’

‘The club’s filling up nicely, Val — people must have heard of them. But then, you pay only top rates.’

Panshin shrugged, holding his cigar beside his jowl.

‘I like people to enjoy themselves, Alexei, you know that.

Why else would I welcome the chief of detectives unless I was broadminded and public-spirited?’

‘Especially as I’m not on the payroll.’ He turned to Schneider at once and added: ‘And how do you come to know Panshin the gangster, Dr Schneider? I’m quite jealous that you’re also a table guest.’

‘I — just through the music,’ Schneider muttered. Like hell it is, my young friend, he thought.

‘I see. One thing I wanted to ask you, Doctor. Lucky you’re here. I forgot at the hospital.’ Panshin’s mouth flickered at the corner, just once. His eyes, creased in fat like those of a Mongolian, might have been a fraction narrower for a second. He suspected that Schneider was there to tell him what Vorontsyev had just revealed.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Has your unit admitted any new cases in the past two days?

I mean, people who have OD’d, or are sick on badly cut heroin

… even into withdrawal because they’

He was leaning forward across the table to Schneider, who could therefore not so much as glance at the two Russians.

‘I don’t recall any’

‘Even anyone begging at the door, perhaps?’ Vorontsyev smiled, his hand over Schneider’s wrist. The pulse jumped like the heartbeat of a captured bird. / can check, Vorontsyev’s touch informed the American.

Panshin brushed a fat hand across his superbly cut grey hair and said: ‘Do you have to turn my club into an annexe of police headquarters, Alexei? Dr Schneider is here to relax!’

‘I thought he was dead beat and on his way home. Well, Dr Schneider — any new admissions, any sense that there are drugs on the street, suddenly?’

The Scandinavian drummer had begun putting his kit together and was making tiny tapping noises, like some forgotten prisoner, on the snare and the hi-hat. It seemed further to unnerve Schneider, whose gaze Vorontsyev held, diminishing the presence of Panshin and his lieutenant.

‘I was — was suspicious of two new admissions. I didn’t run any tests, but they showed the usual reaction to new-cut heroin.

Especially one of them, who’d been hanging on by means of methadone. You suspect that a new shipment has arrived?’

‘We think one might have. Your information tends to confirm it.’ The bass drum was tapping ominously. March to the scaffold, Vorontsyev thought. ‘It’s helpful, anyway,’ The bass player had arrived on the stage and thrummed quickly through scales and chords. The sound, too emphatic, was threatening. Schneider, Rawls, Panshin. It was too neat, even as he thought it. ‘Maybe I could send an officer up to interview any new admissions tomorrow?’

‘Sure.’

Panshin was not into drugs. Even Dmitri, at his most obsessive and dogged, had had to surrender to lack of evidence months ago. Extortion, protection, prostitution and gambling; most of the mafioso criminal pursuits, in which he had excellent, postgraduate qualifications, but not heroin. There wasn’t a shred of evidence …

… nor was there against Schneider, or the dead man, Rawls.

Then there was the Iranian with the cornucopia of false passports, who was linked to Rawls in some way. Yet nothing tangible connected them, beyond acquaintance …

… though he was certain that Schneider had come running to Panshin to inform him he’d been questioned by the police about Rawls.

He finished his beer and smiled. The pianist was running through scales, loosening his touch.

‘You haven’t branched out recently, have you, Val?’ he asked meaningfully.

A momentary glare, difficult to recognize in the dim lighting of the club, then Panshin shrugged and laughed.

‘Not me. Why should I, Alexei? You’d know where to come at once.’

Vorontsyev turned to Schneider. ‘Did you bring your friend Allan Rawls to the Cafe Americain, Doctor?’

‘I–I m not sure. I think maybe we came once.’ He glanced at Panshin. Kasyan was becoming contemptuously impatient.

‘Your American friend who works for the gas company? You introduced him,’ Panshin replied. ‘I don’t think he liked the singer.’ Panshin laughed.

‘She was good. I must have caught her on a different night.’ He stood up. ‘Enjoy the Scandinavians, Doctor.’

‘You’re not staying, Alexei?’

‘No. I am tired. I thfnk I’ll have an early night. ‘Bye, Valyosha.’

The diminutive signifying friendship fell between them like a card thrown down on the table. Panshin stared at him, unblinking.

‘Kasyan,’ he nodded. The little man twitched at the sound of his name, as if being read a charge sheet.

He passed the bouncers and the manager hovering at the door, tramped almost blithely along the corridor and pushed his way out into blowing snow. The doorman was stamping his feet and clapping his hands for warmth.

Vorontsyev used his lighter to warm the lock of the car door, then opened it. He dragged the mobile phone from his pocket and dialled Lubin.

Xubin, are you busy?’

At once: ‘No, sir. What can I do?’

‘I want surveillance on the Cafe Americain — from outside.

Dr Schneider’s BMW. I just want to know when he leaves and whether he’s alone — and whether he goes home immediately.

OK?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll come right down.’

‘Anything from Marfa?’

‘Nothing.’

‘I’m not surprised — it was a slim chance. The action’s here.’

‘Is Panshin involved? I thought he didn’t do drugs.’

‘So we thought. I’m not sure.’

‘Why is Schneider there?’

‘Claims he likes jazz. He showed not a flicker of interest. He knows Panshin well, apparently. I think he came by to tell Panshin I’d been asking questions about Rawls.’

‘Why?’

‘Why would Val Panshin be interested — quite.’

‘We could turn Panshin over’

‘We could never organise a raid without Panshin being tipped off. He must have a dozen people in CID on retainers of one kind or another … But-‘ He paused, then murmured: ‘We could check on Schneider’s Addiction Unit. More drugs than anything else except swabs pass through a hospital.’

‘The hospital, sir?’

‘I’m suspicious of young, idealistic doctors who know gangsters.

It’s a personality failing of mine. Get down here as soon as you can. I’ll hang on, parked on the street.’

He switched off the phone and started the engine, turning the car gingerly around and easing it into the alleyway. He parked on K Street beneath neon mammaries the nipples of which winked on and off, one red, one green. The outlined female form behind the giant breasts was nude and leering.

He dialled Dmitri’s number, at once imagining the silent untidy rooms of the house, the noise of the television. Heard the set as the call was answered. Dmitri’s voice was tired but sober.

‘Dmitri — how’s your head?’

‘Alexei. OK. I’m coming in tomorrow, whatever. It’s too quiet here.’ After a moment, he added, ‘Sorry. Is there something you want?’

‘Panshin.’

‘Yes?’ Eager.

‘He’s friendly with Dr David Schneider, of the Addiction Unit

— no, wait a minute. Tomorrow for that. When I spoke to Schneider, he admitted there’s a new supply on the street, possibly, so that bastard who got blown up brought the stuff in after all. Can you get hold of your contact and check that?’ T’ll try. It shouldn’t be difficult. Where the hell did it go?’

‘You checked the manifest for that flight. What else was in store at the airport, just at the same time?’

‘Christ, Alexei, you want Mr Memory, not me!’

‘Get your notebook, jog your memory.’ He watched the play of neon over his hands and clothes as he waited for Dmitri to return to the phone. The impression was of disease.

‘The freight hangars were stuffed to the roof with the usual

— mostly to go up to the rigs by road or transport helicopter.

Machine parts, pipe, pumps, the whole ragbag. I didn’t bother to take special note of anything. Meat, restaurant supplies, vegetables.

It smelt of cabbages in there, I remember. And whisky, needless to say. A crate got accidentally broken open. You wouldn’t believe it was half-empty, would you?’

‘I would. Anything else?’

‘Just the whole town’s diet and desires, crated up. What were you looking for?’

‘Medical supplies.’

‘Yes, of course there were. You think the hospital’s something to do with it? Schneider?’

‘I don’t know. I think we should find out, don’t you?’

‘I’ll get onto it. I’ll get someone down to the airport. Check what supplies, when they were collected — and see if there’s horse on the streets. Leave it with me.’

‘I will. ‘Night.’

He put the phone on the seat beside him and folded his arms across his chest, attempting to warm himself as he waited for Lubin’s arrival. It was worth checking — oh, yes, it was certainly worth checking more closely on Dr Schneider.

Her head ached, but the throbbing she anticipated seemed muffled. There was a thong of cold tight around her temples, like whatever held her arms behind her back. She had no sensation in her fingers.

Marfa struggled with her thick, numbed senses, attempting to move, even feel, the body that seemed separated from her by a vast, blank distance. Something penetrated the numbness, near where her face, nose might be — something that stank of rotten meat, decayed vegetables … then that clarity whirled away, spinning in the darkness.

When near-consciousness returned for a moment, she had no idea when or how much later, she was vomiting, stretching her neck like a tortoise as she retched. She seemed to be shivering — something was shivering, anyway, a great way below the isolated, dim pinhoie of light in which she was aware of herself.

Her body seemed to have been anaesthetised. The faint light winked like a distant star, then went out …

… conscious again, the noise of wind and rushing snow. She was certain of the sounds. Also knew that she could not move her arms, and that her upper torso was naked. There was a dim, orange light and she could see, actually see, for a moment. Her breasts and stomach looked white and dead, as if she were lying in a morgue. Her stomach churned. Corrugated tin rattled in the blizzard. She was no longer shivering. Though she could see, there was no other sensation, no feeling. Just the immensely slow and difficult realisation of her immediate surroundings.

Filth. She was covered in filth. She could smell it everywhere around her. She — stank. The dim light was retreating to a pinhole again. She — had — been … left — to … freeze — to … death…

… garbage bin. Huge garbage bin. She was freezing to death at the bottom of an enormous garbage bin, half-buried in the rubbish, hands tied … her mind was at once exhausted by the effort of realisation. She opened her cracked lips to scream, but either no sound would come or she was unconscious again before a noise could emerge from her throat.

Vorontsyev lay in the dark, staring at the flicker of headlights passing along the street outside then glimmering and dying on the ceiling. The bedroom was cold, making the cigarette smoke acrid and sharp as a wood fire. The tip of the cigarette glowed —

— like my conscience, a fitful thing at best, he admitted, staring at the stub before grinding it out in the glass ashtray on the bedside cabinet.

It was late in the night and the old house was silent. His flat was on the first floor, comprising the best rooms of the Tsarist building. The window rattled with the passing of a truck. He could have had a more modern flat, more furniture and better carpets, even more rooms. He could have shared a fairly luxurious modern block with senior officials, government people like his chief, who had just left. He simply preferred this place, isolated among more modern blocks as if it had strayed out of the dilapidation of the old town and lost its bearings forever.

The roof leaked, the exterior needed repainting but the other tenants hadn’t the money to spare — and he had nothing in common with them: a minor civil servant; the mistress of a prominent local businessman who was an ex-colonel in the KGB, and her new baby, in the smallest apartment at the back; and a young couple on the top floor above him. She danced in one of the clubs … danced? Took off her clothes, while he played the piano in pander relationship to her. Still, he liked jazz …

He favoured the place above anywhere else in the town. He listed its faults, and isolated himself from it now only because his chief had brought his official life into the house and somehow corrupted it. He had invaded his privacy.

An uncertain and corrupt man, he had shifted on his chair as if dodging the frequent assault of invisible projectiles, the entire ten minutes he was in the room. His fur hat had been clutched in his hands all the time, as if he were attempting to wring it dry of something, or strangle the small animal it had once been. You are being careful, Ale&i, aren’t you? Over and over, like a maiden aunt. Almost as if he must be sure he employed a prophylactic when dealing with the town. Not an unnecessary precaution, he thought, smiling despite his irritation. No real penetration, nothing really done, just playing at it… his relation to crime was sex wearing a condom. No one would feel a thing, just as long as he was wearing his indifference.

The chief of police for the district of Novyy Urengoy had come to ensure he wasn’t treading on any toes, especially those of Bakunin. Perhaps someone had been unsettled by the raid on the brothel; hadn’t been there, but expected to pay a call before too long and didn’t want the police embarrassing him! The chief carried little messages like that. At times, it seemed his only function — his exchange for the kickbacks and the presents and the nice dacha and new car, and the jewellery displayed by his plump wife. It was difficult to despise him … he was a gentle, timid, sensitive man overwhelmed by the town, by Russia since the bad old days, and by his wife. His corruption saddened him as much as it did Vorontsyev.

And it wasn’t much worse, he admitted, lighting another cigarette, than bearing silent, ineffectual witness lo the corruption of others. Being good, doing right, ought to be more than keeping your nose clean and not touching pitch!

As Lensky, the pathologist had remarked …

He sighed. His stomach rumbled from the cheese sandwich he had made and eaten on his return. And the beer. He felt no more than discomforted by his self-analysis tonight, no more than impatient with his insomnia. Almost reconciled. His chief’s quiet desperation rendered Vorontsyev a certain complacency, a higher place in the moral pecking-order of Novyy Urengoy.

And besides, the gate had been left open — just enough. The drugs business had moved its epicentre, to Schneider and maybe even Val Panshin. Kasyan might have been Rawls’ murderer, and he could continue to oversee the Rawls case because Rawls was now linked with Dr Schneider. There were drugs on the street, and Schneider might well be involved.

He continued to smoke, feeling sorry for his chief and agreeably indulgent of himself. The old house creaked around him in the wind, the occasional car passed, and once a child cried.

Vera Silkova’s new baby in the smallest apartment, or one of the civil servant’s children — didn’t the boy have earache or something? He sniffed, drew on the cigarette.

He was still awake, at two-thirty, when the telephone rang.

‘Vorontsyev.’

The line was filled with distance.

‘Sir, it’s Goludin, sir-!’ someone was shouting, his voice removed and faint. ‘Goludin, sir!’

‘What is it, man? It’s two-thirty in the morning!’

‘- Marfa, sir,’ he heard. ‘We can’t find her. She’s disappeared, sir!’

‘What?’

He felt very cold.

‘- blizzard \ She went out in it, sir, to check the store sheds.

Hasn’t come back. They’ve got search parties out, but there’s no trace of her!’ Goludin was hysterical.

‘Find her!’ he snapped. ‘Do what you have to, but find her!’

He slapped the receiver down, hunched on the bed with sudden stomach cramps. Blizzard or not, it was enemy action, not accident. She wasn’t lost, she was gone. She’d been removed.

The reality of it emptied him of his complacency, leaving only a stark and raw fear in its place. Marfa, in all probability, was not simply missing, she was dead.

Noise. Penetrating, deafening. She seemed to be listening underwater.

It was like the roar of a retreating tide. Her eyes opened, and she fuzzily saw a corrugated tin roof. She could not hear the wind, but could see the haziness of blown snow through her own grogginess. And cold. She was so cold. She stared up at the slanting tin roof and saw a shadow creeping across it like an eclipse of the sun.

Terror, like a dark wind, made the pinhole of light that was her awareness flicker like a candle flame. Then she saw the sides of the garbage bin and remembered where she was. And that she was smeared with filth. Her memory, as much as the present, reminded her of the rank smells of rotting meat and vegetables.

She fought against the failing light from the pinhole, against the dull dark which seemed to well up again. The noise was louder, as if her head had surfaced from water.

She knew the sound now …

… slowly — terrified. It was the noise of the grinding, crushing mechanism of a garbage truck. She had been dumped in the bin with this in mind. She would be — tipped — into the — crusher … buried on the tundra … she finished, as the thoughts whirled and blew like the snow coming in under the corrugated tin roof where the bins were stored. She moved her lips. She didn’t seem to be gagged, but something filled her mouth so that she could make no sound. Her jaw was frozen like the huge, gaping mouth of a dead sturgeon she had once seen. She could not feel her hands, her limbs, her torso. There wasn’t enough of her left alive to scream.

Darkness… shadow. Shadow of… the garbage truck moving under the tin roof, banging against the sides of the huge bin.

She was aware that the bin was being jolted, then tilled.

Shifted on its base, angled. Tipped blank once more. Awake. The bin seemed more angled, her body, to which she no longer belonged, had moved to the circumference of the bin, was hard against its filthy metal. She was huddled against the side of the bin as it was hoisted at a steepening angle. She heard hydraulics soughing like the blizzard.

She felt the dark coming on again, and tried to move in protest against it. The bin tilted more steeply, and she could see snow and darkness, the distant glow of dim lights. StiJl her mouth refused to scream.

Teeth. The maw of the truck. She was staring into the jaws of the garbage truck.

She seemed to scream. The organism had to scream, and did.

She screamed again.

Perhaps it was only in her mind. The bin continued to move through its hydraulic arc, tilting her and the rubbish towards the truck. She was in a huge, foul cup tilted towards an enormous mouth and teeth.

Screamed. Screamed.

Something like a face — woollen mask, just eyes really, looking at her as the bin came level and she began to slide towards the grinding jaws of the truck. A face terrified in shock, above a body as unable to move as her own.

The maw. Blank.

He knew that they wouldn’t wait much longer, that they’d be coming for him.

Lock stirred uneasily in the swivel chair, glancing once more out of the big windows of Vaughn Grainger’s study down towards Phoenix. They would come soon … yet his dazed and ragged nerves would not move him from the chair, from the room or the house. He’d had lo return to Vaughn’s house, after losing the prize that Tran represented, despite the danger that they would suspect his hiding place. There had to be something for him to find, some explanation, some clue, some evidence to tell him what in hell was happening …

But there was nothing, nothing at all. Not in the safe or the filing cabinets or the desk drawers. No records, no details, no plans and no hints. He yawned with nerves and dull weariness.

GraingerTurgenev had become a conduit for heroin, and all he had to go on were Tran’s threats and an old man’s desperate, sick words in the rear of an ambulance rushing him to intensive care. There was nothing else, not even a suggestion of the corruption of Grainger Technologies.

There were only the photo albums, which now lay strewn on the big desk. Snapshots filed neatly in cellophane slips which unfolded under his hands like the images of an old What-TheMaidSaw machine at the end of a seafront pier. Beth, Billy, himself, Vaughn, his parents in one or two, hundreds of others.

Vaughn, in most of them, always a dominating, stern figure who seemed to be in uniform even when relaxing in shorts beside a pool or hunched over a smoking barbecue.

Lock glanced at his watch. Four in the afternoon, and still he remained there, his hands playing over the snapshot albums like those of an amateur conjurer. There was no rabbit out of their hat. Nothing to tell him what had happened in the past — and how it had led to Billy’s murder. Beth’s murder. He lit a cigarette and the smoke tasted stale on his tongue and raw in his throat.

He had told the butlef not to report the burglary. Not yet, at least. The man had accepted his temporary authority with a shrug. The housekeeper had made him a sandwich lunch. Otherwise, they ignored him. At that moment, they were dutifully at the hospital, visiting Vaughn, whose condition was stable, according to the doctors.

He was alone in the house. The maid had retreated to her quarters above the garage. The poolman had come and gone, and the gardener was around back, hoeing at stubborn desert weeds among the flower borders.

He stared at the photographs as if willing the captured faces to speak, tell him what had happened. The sun burned in through the long windows. The air-conditioning purred. Tran’s people had expected to find something — the drugs, just a lead to the drugs — what?

Which, meant Tran knew very little. He’d stirred a hornets’ nest for the sake of nothing. Tran would inform his contacts… if he knew who they were -

Grainger’s face staring up at him from a photograph. Tran had believed Grainger knew about the heroin, he’d gone straight to what he thought was the top when his supplies didn’t arrive.

Why? If Tran didn’t know who to contact, then Lock still had a little time, a small window through which he could squeeze in order to break into the case. From Washington. He had to get back. He had to know more about Tran, more aboutTurgenev.

Pete Turgenev, of whom Vaughn had been so scared in that suite at the Jefferson Hotel. Scared almost to death, dominated and cowed by the Russian. GraingerTurgenev. That had to be when it had happened, the corruption of Vaughn’s company, Billy’s company … when they went into Siberia and found Turgenev as a partner. Who in turn had found greedy men, men he could use … Had to be, surely?

Pete Turgenev knew. Whatever part he played, whatever he had done or ordered to be done, it had to be Turgenev who was behind it. Not just his people, but him. He had frightened Billy at the party, frightened Vaughn at the hotel. It was Turgenev against whom Vaughn had tried to warn him in the ambulance.

His hands closed into impotent fists, again and again. Then he drew deeply on the cigarette, expelling the stream of smoke towards the ceiling, his face stretched in pain and dull rage. He’d wasted a day, or almost a day, and alerted the enemy. Stupid …

He closed his eyes and at once saw Turgenev’s face, with all the power and mass of a dense star controlling the orbits and motions of the other faces in his head — Vaughn, Billy, Tran and finally Beth.

He and Billy and Turgenev — Lock opened his eyes and stared down at one of the albums. There they were, the three of them, in Afghanistan. The big, real-life adventure for daring boys, the clean war — in its way — after the ethical mess of Vietnam. He and Billy working for the Company, supplying the mujahideen with Stinger missiles to shoot down Mil gunships in the mountains and around Kabul. He and Billy and Turgenev, after the announcement of the Soviet withdrawal, drawn together to negotiate the wind-down in weapons supplies, the safe passages, the prisoner exchanges. Companions-in-arms. The three of them, the way they were, dressed in headscarves and baggy trousers, unshaven, thin, laughing.

Drugs had been overflowingly abundant in Afghanistan. The Russians had smuggling operations. The KGB and the army had been involved — just like the Company men who were doing the same. It had obviously been then that Turgenev had begun heroin smuggling. Lock slapped his forehead. It was then that he had acquired the capital to turn himself into an entrepreneur by the time Grainger Technologies arrived in Siberia! He grinned shakily. It fitted. It had to be so.

He stared at Turgenev in the snapshot.

Billy had left the CIA after Afghanistan, to run Grainger Technologies.

Vaughn had wanted to spend his time exclusively with the Grainger Foundation, the charitable arm of the company.

Lock had returned to the State Department. And then, under the skin like a tumour, it had begun. When GraingerTurgenev had been established, it was gradually corrupted.

A snapshot of Vaughn Grainger, in uniform, lay beneath his hand. ‘Nam. 1974 was the date on the reverse. Vaughn had re-enlisted, even though Grainger Technologies needed him, the company having limped along ever since the mid-‘60s, when it had stumbled on Wall Street. It got by on handouts, small work, shuffling its loans. It looked as if the company would go under, and Vaughn seemed not to care, wrapping himself instead in the flag and heading for Vietnam. He’d eventually risen to command a Special Forces unit.

Then the oil-price hikes of the mid-‘70s made companies like Grainger necessary once more in oil exploration. When Vaughn came back from ‘Nam, with all a soldier’s ruthlessness, he’d turned the company around inside a year. A series of night attacks and dawn raids had put Grainger near the top again, poised to go into Siberia when the Soviet Union collapsed.

Vaughn, staring out from the photograph, posed in full uniform in front of a fuzzy C-130, medal ribbons vivid on his chest.

All that — just to end up in an intensive care facility, terrified and broken, an old man with the ground cut from beneath his feet, his son murdered, his daughter-in-law dead, too. Because of heroin. Red horse.

Lock got jerkily to his “feet, aware of his vulnerability before the windows. Phoenix was hazy in its heat and smog. A distant, high aircraft winked like an early star. He needed to get back to Washington. Company records … he needed to check on Turgenev. He thought of Kauffman, Bob Kauffman whom he’d met in the bar of the Mayflower the day Beth was killed. Kauffman was still CIA, he could persuade him to let him see the files. There was material at State, too, he could use. He needed to know — did know. He wanted proof, before he went after

Turgenev.

Before Turgenev came after him …

SEVEN Free Enterprises

The wind howled across the concrete, whipping the snow into the open door of the helicopter, and over the stretcher onto which Marfa was gently strapped under a red blanket. Her face was the colour and texture of grey plasticine. His own face, if her staring confused gaze could focus on it, would be bitter, culpable. And she would see, in his squinting glance, the gleam of guilty relief. The doctors said she would recover. Physically, that is. He had no notion of how Marfa’s psychology would cope with what had been done to her.

He supposed it would help that there had been no rape. There had been nothing sexual, no degradation or personal hatred in the attack. Its whole aim was to get rid of her, because she was police and asking questions about the dead Iranian.

Which meant she was very, very lucky to be alive.

He shivered in the blown snow, hurrying alongside the stretcher on its trolley, across the garishly lit apron in front of the terminal building where the helicopter from the rig had landed.

Her vision was clouded. Shadows flitted at its peripheries like ghosts, keeping pace with her, with the sense of movement that was so like her inexorable slide towards the maw of the garbage truck. Her hands had been tied behind her, she now understood.

She still did not remember the hands that had grabbed her, or even the voice that had been screaming from the mouth-hole in a balaclava for the truck to stop tilting the garbage bin. She had been seen, just in time. She remembered the man’s eyes.

The same shocked eyes that had looked down at her, as she rustled and rattled like something for the oven in the crackling foil in which they had wrapped her.

Then it had been nothing but hands, rubbing, banging, pulling her like malevolent children playing with a cheap doll. After that, she had begun to burn, and scream …

Then figures around her, dark or light, but flickering like candle flames. Soothing noises, as if they were addressing a child or a simpleton. More burning and screaming … Then the wind and the cold and the rotor noise — now Vorontsyev, hurrying beside what must be a stretcher.

She was … alive. Wind, snow, cold, then warmth striking her numbed cheeks like slaps. And a ceiling above her, Vorontsyev clearer, and something stinging on her cheeks. Tears?

Vorontsyev watched her crying helplessly. His guilt returned in a churning of his stomach. He bent over her, scuttling like a crab to keep up with the stretcher, as he patted her hand which lay beneath the blanket. Her face was less grey now, but somehow urgent, like the face of someone unable to speak who was desperate to communicate a great secret. She opened her mouth and at once her teeth began chattering. The tears continued to flow, beginning to embarrass him.

Then they were on the other side of the cramped terminal and the blue, revolving light on the ambulance was gleaming through the driven snow. He continued to pat her hand as she was shelved into the rear of the vehicle. Mid-morning gloom shrouded the town, all but obscuring it. He clambered into the ambulance and sat beside her, with the two paramedics and the doctor who had accompanied her — at his guilty, enraged demand — from Rig 47.

That same doctor had told him over the telephone that the heat from the decomposing rubbish had kept her alive. It had been that close. He looked back at Goludin’s sombre, frightened face as the ambulance doors were shut. It hadn’t been Goludin’s fault, but his self-reproach had had to berate someone, put someone else in his own place.

Something was tugging at his arm. He looked down. Marfa’s face was alive with an idiot’s intent vacancy. Her voice, when she spoke, was no more than a crow’s rough croaking.

‘Moscow Centre,’ he made out. He nodded comfortingly. The pale hand gripped his sleeve. The doctor made to interpose and Vorontsyev’s glance warned him. Whatever it was, it was urgent to Marfa.

‘Send — picture … Iranian’.’ she shouted like someone deaf.

‘MBRF — Dmitri Oberov — Oberov. Say you want ID that face, now!’

He nodded, understanding. Got up and banged open the doors of the ambulance, glaring at the paramedics and the doctor.

Oberov was an ex-lover. Vorontsyev knew the name, casually dropped by Marfa in a confidential moment, as something that was past and meaningless. A colonel in the SVR, the new Russian Intelligence. He’d survived the coups, had even prospered from them.

Goludin looked as hopeful as a dog expecting forgiveness.

‘Get back to the office!’ Vorontsyev snapped. ‘Send a faxed picture of our dead Iranian to Moscow Centre, attention of Colonel Dmitri Oberov. Most urgent. ID immediately required.

Got that?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Get on with it, then. I want an answer today!’ Goludin hurried towards Vorontsyev’s car, after catching the keys as lightly as in a game. One could almost see his tail wagging.

Vorontsyev climbed back into the ambulance, at once assuring Marfa that he had carried out her instructions.

‘Let’s go!’ he snapped at the paramedics.

He was still angry as he joined the Dolly Madison Boulevard, after leaving Langley. Just as he was certain that he was being tailed. Tailed away from CIA headquarters? He was sure the Georgetown street had been empty of surveillance when he started the car, certain that he was not being tailed on the George Washington Parkway on the outward journey.

Almost certain … But the grey Lexus was there now, as he headed back towards Washington. Two cars and a big Mack truck behind him, but there, and maintaining exactly his own speed — accelerated, then dropped back, just to check. Beyond the spray thrown up by his tyres, the Lexus fulfilled the small test he had given it.

Then the Mack truck pulled out and began overtaking him.

The spray from its wheels blinded the windscreen. He flicked the wipers to rapid, and his anger was focused on the truck and the rain for a moment before it returned to Bob Kauffman. The guy had refused to help him … the files were either shredded or reclassified, he couldn’t authorise access, sorry, fella, but this isn’t any business of yours, is it?

Et cetera, et cetera … Lost your memory, John? Kauffman had grinned at his own joke. Why Pete Turgenev? You already know the guy … finally, Kauffman had said heavily, ‘If you won’t tell me why, I can’t help you.’

Lock pulled out to overtake the truck. The windscreen cleared, becoming no more than a house window down which the rain slid. Then the truck, as if jousting with him in the driving rain, pulled out again and the windscreen was blind. In the rear view mirror, the Lexus maintained its distance, two cars behind him.

He felt the nerves jump in his wrists as he gripped the steering wheel. He was still a dozen miles from Washington — should he lead them back to the apartment? Who in hell were they?

He recalled Kauffman’s face as Lock left the Langley complex.

Intense in expression, heavy and almost foreboding. He shook his head and slowed the car to let the truck pull away, to escape its blinding spray. The traffic was light. The fall-coloured trees beside the highway were drab and drenched, stretching away into the Virginia countryside. The truck seemed to tug the spray after its bulk and the windscreen lightened, as if a door had been opened from a darkened room. The Lexus was content to remain two cars behind.

It couldn’t be a tail Kauffman had put on him. Not because of Turgenev … or Tran —? Kauffman’s eyes had flinched at the name, then he had denied knowing the man. When he had gone to check the files, he had found Tran’s shredded, Turgenev’s reclassified, and suddenly there was no access. But Kauffman had known Tran; the name had brought an instant recognition and the sharpness of suspicion to his eyes.

Why?

The truck was too slow pulling ahead of him and he considered overtaking on the inside lane. The rain had begun before daylight. He had hardly slept after the flight from Phoenix. There had been no one tailing him there, or from the airport, he was certain. He moved into the inside lane.

In the Washington Post there was a rumour that Vaughn Grainger might be selling the family holding in the Grainger group, in the aftermath of the recent tragedy, as the columnist put it.

How much did Turgenev want that? How much did Turgenev already own, through dummy corporations, investors and banks which helped him circumvent the rules on foreign ownership?

The wheel slipped angrily in his grip as he gestured his rage to the tyres. The car seemed to float for an instant, then recover itself. What — exactly — were the links between Grainger Technologies and GraingerTurgenev?

He drew level with the Mack’s huge rear tyres, the side window now blinded like the windscreen, the noise and weight and momentum of the truck sensible inside the car. The Lexus, wipers working vigorously, slipped into the inside lane a hundred yards behind him. The bulk of the truck was alongside now and Lock pressed his foot on the accelerator.

Who could Vaughn be selling to, if the rumour was true? He had to talk to Vaughn. He could see the rain-filled air brighten beyond the truck. Then the Mack seemed to lurch sideways towards him, a dark, vast bulk, looming inside the rain. He stepped on the brake pedal, but the truck continued to veer across the inside lane. Too late, he realised the Lexus had been a blind, distracting him — the truck was all purpose now. The brighter air disappeared as the truck’s flank caused the door and wing panels of his car to scream in protest. Spray flooded the windscreen, extinguishing everything. The door buckled against his thigh and the window shattered. The Mack’s noise was a rumble like that of a collapsing office block. His car left the road, dropped over the verge, careered downwards, the wipers waving frantically like drowning arms. The steering wheel bucked, trying to escape him. The truck. The damn’ fucking truck was trying to kill htm.

He glimpsed the Lexus in the rear view mirror, as it slowed, then his car lurched out of control, its head swinging like that of a wounded bull seeking its tormentors. It overturned, the roof buckling inwards on impact as he hung helplessly upside down in the restraint of the seatbelt. The car slewed like a skater in slow motion. He saw dark, inverted pines, red-leaved birches, still at first then rushing towards him. The car’s metal protested in a drawn-out cry as it collided with a slim birch, snapping it like matchwood. The car lurched a final time, onto its side, wheels spinning in the rain-filled air. His head revolved like the front wheel he could see.

Eventually, through the broken windscreen, he heard the rain. Heard his breathing. Saw his breath, clouding around him in puffs of distress and relief. His arm ached and his thigh seemed on fire. He moved his head gently, as if taking a priceless ornament from a high shelf with numb hands. Looked towards the road. An inverted image of the grey Lexus and two figures standing beside it, seventy or eighty yards away.

His hand fumbled with the seatbelt release and he tumbled sideways, hurting his hip on the steering wheel. He thrust at the door above him, to find it jammed. He gripped the doorframe through the shattered side window and heaved himself into the drenching rain. His head swam and he felt nauseous. He fell onto churned mud and torn grass. The noise of the traffic on the highway was very distant.

Lock staggered upright, leaning against the car. The wheels were slowing into stillness. No cars except the Lexus had stopped. The truck had disappeared. The two occupants of the grey car were coming down the slope as if following the crazed track his car had made. Groggily, in rising panic, he pushed himself away from the wreckage and staggered towards the trees. From behind him, he heard a shouted command to stay where he was, to come back.

He stumbled further into the crowding trees, slipping on pine debris and mud, his legs weak and treacherous, the panic in his chest making it difficult to breathe. They intended to kill him.

He blundered on through the trees.

Vorontsyev shrugged at Dmitri, his features darkly angry. The mobile phone, clamped against his cheek, seemed like a weapon wielded by his caller — GRU Colonel Bakunin.

‘No,’ he announced once more. ‘We’re taking no interest whatsoever in the Rawls murder. Colonel. I can’t imagine where you might have picked up that idea’

‘Are you waltzing me around, Vorontsyev? You think I’m stupid?’ Bakunin bellowed into the phone with unmasked, brutish authority.

‘Nothing of the kind,’ Vorontsyev murmured.

Dmitri was gesturing innocence with spread hands and arms, hunched in his overcoat. Beyond the window, cloud hurtled raggedly across the face of the moon. It had stopped snowing.

Dmitri was shaking his head, as if accused of a schoolboy theft.

‘You have no interest in the Rawls business. It’s a GRU matter.

I made that clear. Do you want me to make it clearer still?’

Vorontsyev scowJed at Dmitri. Goludin, who seemed to anticipate that the anger was directed at himself, seemed to cower in his chair like a small marmoset that had already suffered cruelty at his hands.

‘No. It’s already very clear. Colonel.’

‘Then keep your nose out. Understood?’

‘Understood.’

The phone clicked in his ear like a pistol shot. He closed the mouthpiece and thrust the instrument into his pocket. His littered desk, inconclusive and shapeless in image of his investigation, enraged him. He banged his fist onto the scattered files and papers.

‘How the heJl did Bakunin find out we were stiJl interested in Rawls?’ he barked. ‘How do I find myself being ballocked by that ox? I told you to be careful, Dmitri.’

‘I was careful — sir.’ Dmitri added the respect for Goludin’s sake. ‘I combed a couple of the files, that’s all. Rawls’ previous visits, stuff we had here, nothing else …’ He grimaced. ‘How on earth did the GRU find out?’

‘You mean, apart from whoever they have inside CID who would have told them?’ Vorontsyev threw his large hands up as if juggling with something explosive. ‘I tell you something, both of you — this isn’t funny. It’s sinister. The GRU’s the bureaucracy of Russia, same as always. More powerful now, perhaps. But that bruiser on the other end of the line has just told us that we’re not wrong — apart from telling us he’s somehow involved. He’s not being a bureaucrat any more, but an interested party. Do I make myself clear?’ he added, staring at Goludin, before growling; ‘You’re in it up to your neck, sonny.

I hope you realise that?’ Dmitri appeared pained on behalf of the young detective.

Goludin was silent for some moments, before he nodded and said:

‘Yes, sir — and thanks.’

It was a small comfort. Not a restorative by any means, but the scanty kind of reassurance that was available to Vorontsyev.

Another of the few reasonably honest young officers on whom he could depend. Up to a point.

‘OK — then off you go. You haven’t got time to go home and shave and shower, get yourself down to the hospital and relieve the man on guard outside Marfa’s room. I’m making you responsible for her safety. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Goludin replied, apparently grateful that what might have been regarded as his dereliction up at the rig was not to be mentioned again. He exited noisily, inflated with the renewed trust Vorontsyev had in him.

Dmitri grinned at Vorontsyev’s smile and said, once the door was closed: ‘Like Lubin, he’s a good lad.’

‘You sound like his mother.’

‘Don’t you need some children you can trust, Alexei? I do my best.’

‘I — know. Sorry. But how did that shit know?’

‘Any one of a dozen ways. We’d better be more careful than ever — if we’re …?’ The question faded into silence.

‘We are,’ Vorontsyev replied. Dmitri seemed both unnerved and excited. ‘Oh, no, we’re not putting Mr Rawls on the back burner. He’s connected with the drugs, through Schneider and through our dead Iranian, Mr Al-Jani. He’s ours.’

‘What about Marfa’s theory?’

‘That her old boyfriend in Moscow Centre will be able to identify the Iranian — give him a name and a rank? Maybe.

She was convinced. She insisted we did it, until the doctors smothered her in the best of expensive, charitable care. She thinks he’s definitely professional.’

Vorontsyev lit another cigarette and blew smoke at the dark square of his office window, where the moon was emerging like a dazed prisoner from behind rags of cloud.

‘So are the mafiosi, the biznizmen, Alexei. And if you think Bakunin’s somehow close to this, then it has to be for money, not politics — and that probably means the drug connection.

Have you thought about that?’ Vorontsyev rubbed his face. His eyes looked bleakly at Dmitri.

‘We’ve retreated about as far as we can go. Onto the last beach. Feel the cold water round your balls, Dmitri? What do we do? Ignore everything? We’re the cops, for God’s sake.’

‘We are.’ Dmitri was nodding, his smile embracingly understanding, compassionate, like that on the face of an ikon. ‘So, what’s next?’

‘If the Iranian was a professional, why was he here — other than the drugs? Maybe he collected Tehran’s ten per cent, or worked for a minister or mullah who grows the poppy? Let’s see if Marfa’s friend in high places has an answer. Unless he’s too busy keeping his own arse doused while setting fire to other people’s trousers — which is about all those Moscow Centre bastards are good for these days.’

‘I heard that’s all they’d ever done. What about Kiev? That dead guy you were interested in?’

‘The man with his picture in the Dutch passport?’ Dmitri nodded. ‘He doesn’t exist. Kiev are still checking. But there’s nobody of his name and description working for any such company in the Ukraine.’ Vorontsyev shrugged.

‘Then why was he here? Is that drugs, too?’ Dmitri’s private war seemed to be expanding too rapidly for even his comfort. He was puzzled, unsure. ‘Some other mafia business?’ He seemed almost hopeful of an affirmative.

‘Protection, prozzies, smuggling, currency fiddles, arms deals, murder — take your pick.. They’re trawling missing persons for me now. We must wait and see, old friend — wait and see.’

‘And Schneider — the American doctor?’

‘He’s hanging there like meat, Dmitri — all the muscle and gristle softened, the flavour just right … We only need one thing, one link with Panshin other than association/

‘So, Val Panshin’s decided to go into the drugs business?’

‘Beats the profits from a Siberian jazz club and a sideline in pimping and contraband. He must have been tempted.’

‘Their team seems to be putting extra players on the field all the time, Alexei…’ He was troubled, then he blurted into the silence he had created: ‘Can we cope with this, Alexei? I mean, have we got the resources?’

‘— and the resolve? We’d better have. Hadn’t we?’ Eventually, in a room (hat seemed to have become hotter and where the light seemed dimmer, Dmitri nodded.

‘Yes. We’d better have,’ he murmured.

Turgenev’s back, by the way,’ Vorontsyev remarked. ‘The social column of Novyy Urengoy Pravda will no doubt inform you of that fact in its next issue. I saw his private jet at the airport when they flew Marfa in.’

‘Pyotr Leonidovich Turgenev, the town’s richest man …’

Dmitri’s face narrowed. ‘Oh, no. Not him, Alexei. He’s out of our league. Even if it is GraingerTurgenev that may be involved, we don’t want anything to do with Turgenev himself.’

Vorontsyev grinned. ‘Just joking. If Turgenev were involved — ?’ He shrugged. ‘He doesn’t need to be. Even if people like Rawls and Schneider are part of it, they’re just salaried monkeys. Turgenev owns the world — at least, locally. He can make billions just being legitimate.’ He grinned. ‘Forget about Turgenev. We’re not going to have to worry about finding him under one of the stones we turn over ‘

He turned his head, as if alarmed, at the ringing of the fax machine in a corner of the office. Then the high, singing tone warned of a transmission. Dmitri, too, turned to watch the grey looking paper slide out of the fax machine’s slitted mouth. One page, then a second … the impression of a smeared monochrome photograph. Then the peremptory, whistled announcement that the transmission had ended.

Vorontsyev tore the sheets from the machine and smoothed them on the desk as Dmitri got up and stood at his shoulder.

Eventually, Vorontsyev murmured: ‘Clever girl. She was right. This boy’s been everywhere in his short life.’

The smudgy photograph from an SVR file was of the man who had died in the Mercedes. But his name was not AlJani, as his passport had declared. It was fake like the others he had been carrying. His real name was Vahaji, Mostafa Vahaji.

‘Rank of major in Intelligence — Office for the Protection of the Islamic Revolution,’ Dmitri muttered excitedly. ‘Their elite foreign intelligencedepartment. Mostafa Vahaji … hello.’

‘And goodbye, Mr Al-Jani, gasfield worker. Look at his record.

Bright lad, travelling far and fast.’

The file was brief. Vahaji, whose life had ended in a Siberian gas town, had been sighted by the old KGB, over the years, in Egypt, the Gulf, then London, Paris and Moscow. There were unconfirmed rumours of activities in the central Asian republics, post 1989. And most recently he had been posted to Washington.

‘Until April last year,’ Vorontsyev read aloud. ‘Then nothing. Suspected recall either for disciplinary hearings or special assignment. Then suddenly he turns up here as a roughneck on a rig, someone who’s supposed to be barely literate, with no qualifications …? Until last year, Moscow Centre was rating him four star. Likely to reach the top or very near it. What happened?’

‘Damn,’ Dmitri muttered with impotent, nervous anger.

‘What if this was his special assignment? Us — here? Oh, ballocks, that bloody big picture again!’ He seemed anguished, as if a joke had turned into the drowning of a friend. ‘Why couldn’t it have remained small?’ he wailed.

There was a bleakness in his eyes. Major Vahaji’s real identity had snatched away his illusions, his comforts, just as the drugs had snatched away his family. Vorontsyev, watching the moon once more smothered with cloud, felt their inadequacy, too. The thing was growing like a rampant tumour, spreading, infecting, killing. It was too big.

‘It hasn’t!’ he snapped. ‘It’s what it is, no bigger, no smaller.

Right?’

‘You’re worried, too.’

‘You’re bloody right, old friend. But we can’t do anything else but go on with it. if only one of us knew, we could hide it from the other. But we both know. We can’t lose face — can we?

We’re landed with it, and that’s that!’

Dmitri said after a long silence: ‘He’s just someone who helped kill my daughter. Something to be stepped on.’

Bob Kauffman owned an apartment overlooking the Potomac in the Watergate complex on the Rock Creek and Potomac Parkway.

In the wet afternoon, the cars swished through the falling rain and the river was dull and chill under low cloud. Lights were already springing out in the complex and its surrounding hotels. Office buildings blazed with light, as if it were already evening. Headlights sprang out across the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.

Lock sat in the hire car and watched the frontage of the Watergate complex, or studied the rain-puckered water of the Potomac. His thigh and knee hurt, as did his bruised hip. And he seemed still to possess the chill of his flight as he sat, engine running, heater on, hunched towards the steering wheel.

He had, somehow, evaded the two men in the Lexus — or they had given up. Eventually, after more than an hour, he had stumbled onto a minor road and hitched a ride back into the city. From his apartment, after he had showered and two bourbons had begun to calm him, he had called the police to report the accident. No, he didn’t think he could prefer charges … no, he didn’t know the number of the truck, maybe it was green, or blue … no, fine, I’ll have the wreck towed away, sure …

A third bourbon had allowed him to begin to form a resolution.

His two pursuers had been Caucasian, not Vietnamese. Not that that ruled out Tran, nor did it rule in Turgenev … but Bob Kauffman’s unhelpfulness and suspicion kept returning to him, flashing on a huge screen in his imagination, so that he could minutely inspect the expression. And the earliest embodiment on Kauffman’s face was the recognition of Tran’s name. Kauffman had served with the Company in ‘Nam. He could have known Tran then …

There was only Kauffman. For the moment. Turgenev had checked out of his hotel and flown back to Russia in his own jet. He was temporarily out of the game. Perhaps he had left orders concerning Lock and it had been his people in the grey Lexus and one of his men driving the truck … but Kauffman knew Tran and that link was much more direct than any cloudier speculations concerning Pete Turgenev and the way in which he had frightened both Vaughn Grainger and his dead son. So, he had to talk to Kaulfman.

Almost as important were his memories of his apartment. It had been as if he had occupied a hotel room in a new and strange city. He had showered, poured himself a drink, then another, called the police, changed his clothes — all as if the place had been rented for the afternoon and he was engaged on business that had nothing to do with the place as his home. He had neglected even to switch on the hi-fi, play some music. It was a recognition of something that was cold, even icy; as if he had passed from one stage of his life to another with only an amnesiac interlude that blotted out all sense of change.

He had refused to check the answerphone, as if it was nothing more than a learning tape for a foreign language, spoken in a tongue which he would never require, not now. That part of him, and of his life, was finished with, meaningless. He had glanced into the small study, seen the scattered stave paper, the various printed scores of that obscure opera on which he had fitfully worked — and the music’s paged deadness had been too akin to his ordinary life; an unperformed work, grown musty with JacJc of use.

He knew he had changed. He just hadn’t seen it in the mirror in the bathroom or the cheval mirror in his bedroom or the mirrored wall in the hallway. Only seen it now, sitting in the rented Chrysler in the downpour, watching the lights across the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge as if assessing the worth of a double string of glowing pearls. Cars hissed and susurrated past him, sounding like waves on a beach. A tide raging but going out, leaving him stranded. He was changed. His apartment had been nothing more than the bones or carapace of someone else, a chrysalis he no longer needed.

Sea change. Into a past self. The boy who had fought other boys who insulted or teased his sister, the young man who had fought the Russians ~ helped to fight them — with the same innocence as the boy had done. The field agent given an assignment. That was who he was. His mission was to find and deal with Beth’s murderers, who had tried to kill him, twice.

And he had no other avenue to explore outside of Kauffman

… whose proximity to Tran and Vaughn and maybe Billy in

‘Nam tormented him now like something he was attempting to remember in a half-waking dream. He had to go down that mean avenue, whatever he might find at the end of it He looked at his watch. It was almost five in the afternoon, and the light was beginning to drain away above the cloud, darkening the rain. It made the river glitter with reflected light from the bridge and maybe fifty buildings along the parkway.

Kauffman probably left his office early these days. He was just serving out his time. He hoped Kauffman wasn’t on his way to the Mayflower or some other bar … because he was impatient now; however reluctant something deep in him was about facing the worst, he wanted to begin. His body was shivery with anticipatory nerves, not fear.

Turgenev — awful, dark irony — was almost his creation. His and Billy’s. He’d pointed Billy in Turgenev’s direction, he’d checked the man and his companies out…

He shut out the creeping guilt that clung like seaweed to the memory.

Watched a Ford pull off the parkway towards the Watergate complex. As its cloudy windows passed beside a streetlamp, he recognized Kauffman. Lock swallowed. The car moved through an archway towards the entrance to the underground garage.

He knew the apartment number. He would give Kauffman ten relaxing minutes that would make him comfortable, off guard.

He flicked off the wipers now that he had recognized Kauffman.

Rain streamed between himself and the scene, all but blanking it out, like the dead screen of a TV. The minutes passed precisely in his head.

He got out of the car into the downpour, shrugging his raincoat across his shoulders, bending his head as he scuttled towards the Watergate complex. The pistol, in the raincoat pocket, bumped ominously against his thigh as he hurried.

Vorontsyev yawned, with impatience as much as sleeplessness, as he leaned on the counter of the hospital’s reception desk.

The plump, heavily made-up woman, her skin crow-walked beneath the orange foundation, studied the photograph from the forged passport he had found in the dead Iranian’s glove compartment.

‘Did anyone enquire after him or visit him — even come with him in the ambulance after he had his heart attack?’ His forefinger tapped the enlarged snapshot.

‘I don’t know, Major — when exactly was this?’ There was at least a minimal, ingrained respect for his rank and office in her manner.

‘I gave you the date. He was admitted to Emergency, he was in Intensive Care — then he died. Try to be helpful.’ He could have consulted someone in hospital records. But Bakunin seemed already aware of his every move in the direction of Rawls, and the Iranian was linked to Rawls. Better the oblique approach — even if it didn’t seem to be leading anywhere.

The hospital foyer whispered with the voices of the central heating and the occasional nurse or doctor. The warmth and luxury numbed.

She squinted again at the photograph, her nose creased with assumed concentration. She’d been on the day shift, changed two days ago to nights and didn’t enjoy the change. She’d been on duty when the dead man had been admitted; she’d have supervised the form-filling.

‘I think there were two of them who came with him in the ambulance — or in a car following the ambulance.’ She shrugged.

Her grey eyes looked up. ‘I didn’t take much notice.’ Her white uniform was tight on her plump body. ‘They seemed concerned about him, of course.’

‘They evidently knew him.’

‘I think they said they were friends of his.’

‘Staying at the Gogol, like him?’ Dmitri was on his way to the hotel now to question the porter, the night staff, anyone who would know who was booked in at the same time as the dead man.

‘I don’t know, Major. They sat in the foyer — over there — for a while, then went away. One of them came back the next day, but the patient was dead by then.’ She nodded. ‘I remember telling the one who came back his friend was dead. He seemed upset.’

Vorontsyev sighed. ‘And that’s all you can remember?’

‘That’s all there was.’

‘Thanks.’ He put the photograph back in his wallet and turned away. ‘Goodnight.’ He walked towards the lifts. He ought, to assuage any remaining guilt, to look in on Marfa. Tell her she was a clever girl, that they’d identified the Iranian as an intelligence officer.

His mobile phone peremptorily summoned his attention as he waited for the lift. In an instinctive, anxious hurry, he went out of the sliding glass doors into the icy wind, where the stars seemed to wobble and dance. Whatever the call, security needed to be paranoid because of Bakunin’s suspicions.

He answered the call. The moon was a cold knifecut in the black, starry sky. Beyond the town, the rigs glowed like enemy campfires surrounding Novyy Urengoy. He crunched on the ice of the car park as if maintaining a hopeless patrol, awaiting an attack.

The line crackled with distance.

‘Major? Inspector Vlad Botchkov, Kiev Militia. Your office told me your mobile phone number — eventually.’ There was what might have been a laugh, or just an exasperated exhalation of air. ‘Lazy bastards, your people.’

‘Isn’t that what you Ukrainians always say about Russians, Inspector?’ There was a kind of shallow camaraderie. ‘You’re bad tempered because you’re on the graveyard shift, is that it?’

‘Too true. Major, your enquiry was dumped on me by Criminal Investigation. They couldn’t be bothered with it.’

‘I’m sorry ‘

‘That’s all right. Missing Persons was the right place to come, as it turns out.’

‘Oh.’ He felt a tickle of excitement. ‘You’ve identified the man in the photograph.’

‘He wasn’t very well when it was taken, was he?’

‘Sorry again. He died of a heart attack.’

‘You had him on a false passport, is that right? That’s the other picture of him?’

‘He was calling himself a supplier to one of the gas rigs. Name of Pomarov at his hotel and on his papers. But there was a Dutch passport with his photograph, in someone else’s possession.’ An Iranian intelligence officer.

‘I’ll fax you the’details — but he was neither Dutch nor a businessman. He’s from Kiev, all right. At least, his family is. He moved back a year or so ago. His only daughter reported him missing fairly recently. He’s a widower and she and he didn’t get on. Nearly three weeks ago now, she called at his house, only to find the place locked up and deserted. She went back a couple of times, tried calling. But eventually she reported it. No trace of him anywhere. Now he’s dead/

‘Yes.’ While his daughter had been looking for him, he had been a thousand miles away, in another country. ‘What’s his real name?’

‘His name actually is Pomarov. That’s why we didn’t have too much of a problem.’

‘Who was he — what was he?’

‘A redundant research scientist. There’s a lot of them about.

Like so many of them, now the arms race is over, there was no job for him any more. He was bitter about it, his daughter said.

Pride hurt, I suppose. He worked at Semipalatinsk at one time.

Anyway, the girl said he was depressed, which was why she was worried. And that’s about it. Any help?’ Carefully, having recovered his breath, Vorontsyev said:

‘Doesn’t seem to be. I can’t see how that background fits in with my problems. Looks like a dead end. Thanks, anyway, Botchkov — I owe you.’

Vorontsyev switched off the phone, newly aware of the wind’s howl, the distressed moon and stars. He felt cold, icily chilled to his marrow. Semipalatinsk, where they He cut off the thought, even as it threatened to grow like a nightmarish weed in a speeded-up film sequence, flowering hideously. He hurried back into the hospital foyer, his feet uncertain on the icy tarmac. The receptionist he had questioned hardly remarked his return. He pressed for the lift. Mostafa Vahaji, alias Al-Jani, of the Office for the Protection of the Islamic Revolution in Tehran … and a scientist from Semipalatinsk who was to leave Novyy Urengoy on a Dutch passport.

With others. The lift doors opened and he pressed for the floor of Maria’s ward. He shivered. Vahaji had a permanent suite at the Gogol Hotel, Pomarov had booked in there, with friends. He had travelled from Kiev under the cover of a connection with GraingerTurgenev.

It wasn’t just drugs. It was some kind of trade in people scientists.

It was smuggling knowledge, maybe exchanging intellect for heroin, who could say? Dangerous knowledge; the knowledge of men who had worked in Semipalatinsk.

The lift doors opened and he hurried into the aseptic, hot corridor. He pushed open the door of the ward, and the duty nurse looked up, recognized him, and returned to the report he was writing.

Vorontsyev saw Marfa sitting up in bed, her nightlight on, arms folded across her breasts, glowering at the foot of her bed.

Then she saw him and her features brightened. It was as if he were her father, come to take her home. Yet, as he neared the bed, her eyes seemed pale and cold, retaining the terror she must have felt. She looked older, fragile. Her hands were pale on the coverlet, and her freckles looked like liver spots, as if she was made up for the part of a much older woman.

‘Where’s Goludin? I told him’

‘Gone to the toilet.’ She peeled back the coverlet, revealing a gun. ‘He left me this. He’ll be back—’

Vorontsyev heard the doors open and the breathy hurry of someone approaching them.

‘Sorry, sir-‘ Goludin began apologetically, but Vorontsyev waved him into his chair at the bedside and sat down himself on Marfa’s other side.

‘You all right now?’ he asked awkwardly.

Marfa shivered. ‘I think so …’ She nodded. ‘Have to be. They say I have to stay in for at least two days, for observation. Nothing’s fallen off — so far.’ The attempted humour was leaden, false. Her eyes were wide with remembered fears and her skin more ashen than when he had entered. He felt deeply guilty, profoundly angry.

‘Good. I’ve some interesting news.’ Goludin leaned forward.

‘Your Moscow Centre boyfriend came up with Al-Jani’s real name and rank. You were right — clever girl.’

‘Intelligence?’ She asked the question reluctantly, as if she were being made to relive something she wished profoundly to forget.

‘Yes.’ He withdrew the faxed sheets from an inside pocket and handed them to her. Goludin scraped his chair forward in order to look over her shoulder and she held the pages so that he could read them. Like two children with a romantic story, an adventure … which it wasn’t. Pomarov. Semipalatinsk. It was appalling. He wouldn’t tell either of these two, perhaps not even Dmitri, of his growing concern. Not at the moment. ‘Interesting?’ he asked with forced lightness.

‘You think he’s connected with the heroin, sir?’ Goludin asked eagerly.

Marfa snorted derisively. ‘Obviously,’ she mocked.

They could continue down that road — at least for the time being. As they resumed reading, Vorontsyev looked around the four-bed ward. Two of the beds were empty. The one opposite Marfa contained a resigned old lady — her skin was yellow and her body shrunken — yet she seemed somehow overwhelmed by the warmth, the clean sheets, the silence. Unsettled, he looked away from the old woman who emanated worlds and experiences he could not define.

He turned back to the ridiculously young-looking Goludin, with his eager, dumb dog’s expression, and the ill, frightened Marfa who looked up and, as if catching the shadow of his interest in the old woman, nodded towards her.

‘She’s dying of cancer yet she likes it here. Never been so warm and well fed before. Poor old soul.’ She sniffed, and seemed more herself, recovered from her recent experiences, if only for a moment. Her compassion was instant and embracing. ‘It’s warmer than my flat, too,’ she added.

Vorontsyev smiled, then said quietly: ‘Listen to me, both of lU you.’ It might be endangering them once more, but he was able to shrug that idea aside as his own speculations made all other elements and risks of the investigation minimal. ‘Dr Schneider.

I want to know for certain whether or not the heroin comes through this place.’ He was whispering, as if the nurse or the old woman had been planted in order to spy on them. He felt his nerves ripple. ‘Schneider, as Goludin already knows, is friendly with Val Panshin. Who may once upon a time not have dealt in drugs, but now I’m not so sure. I’m going back to have a word with that old pimp Teplov at his knocking shop. He knows more than he’s letting on; meanwhile, I want you two

… are you up to it?’ She wanted to confess that she was not, but couldn’t allow such weakness or lack of duty and enthusiasm in herself to be admitted. She nodded slowly, her eyes big.

‘Good.’ He was setting them up, like two inquisitive chimpanzees, with a stick with which to poke at a termites’ nest. ‘A shipment of medical supplies — remarkably — came off that flight from Tehran, the one carrying our dead friend Hussain. Tehran is, as you know, the epicentre of advanced medical research … so, what was in the consignment?’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Dogged Dmitri turned it up, and checked it out. Medical supplies, the crates said — but not off a US or Moscow flight but one from Tehran. Keep your eyes and ears open, and see what you can learn, or what you can find. You sure you can do it, Marfa?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. The crates arrived here, in this building, two days ago.

Usual manner of collection, by hospital truck. See if you can find out what was in them. And be careful.’

He stood up.

‘Watch out for each other this time,’ he warned Goludin, who appeared gloomy in an instant. Vorontsyev was aware of the old, dying woman at the edge of eyesight. ‘Be extra careful.’

He nodded to both of them and left quickly, as if a sudden bout of nausea or the temperature of the place threatened him.

In the corridor and the lift, he felt stifled by his own suspicions.

He blundered across the foyer and out into the wind.

The moon was down, the stars more unsettled in the cloud rags and the wind.

A scientist named Pomarov. A place called Semipalatinsk.

The heroin was becoming as insubstantial and unimportant as black-market cigarettes or denims. Dear God, what in hell could he do about it?

EIGHT Little Knowledge

‘I’d like these registration forms,’ Dmitri Gorov murmured, yawning. Unlike Vorontsyev, he did need sleep; at least he could occasionaliy find it, sometimes without the help of the bottle.

He tapped his finger on the creased papers, hardly larger than rouble notes. ‘You admit they left suddenly, booking out together, at exactly the same time.’

The assistant manager of the Gogol Hotel nodded. Night duty dragged at his eyelids and he had smeared, dark marks beneath his pale eyes. Blond eyelashes, a receding hairline, a stiff approximation of aloofness borrowed from hotel staff in the West.

‘They paid their bills — at least, their bills were paid. There seemed nothing suspicious about them.’

‘Who paid their bills? Suite 12, by any chance?’ The night manager appeared startled, his eyes open for a moment in admission before they became officially blank once more.

‘That’s hotel business.’

Beside Dmitri, Lubin grinned at the manager across the reception counter. Obviously, his anger at being dragged from bed and wife and child had evaporated, Dmitri realised.

‘Thanks for the information,’ Lubin said.

‘I said nothing.’

‘Were these two collected, these friends of Mr Pomarov? What transport did they have?’

The night manager clicked his fingers by way of reply and a man in a porter’s uniform ambled towards the hotel desk.

‘Ask Antipov here. He’s the member of staff who summons taxis.’

There was a gust of icy air and the noise of the wind and warm laughter as a sleek individual and a high-class hooker entered the lobby. They headed for the lifts. Dmitri watched them with what might have been a child’s puzzlement.

The night manager said: ‘These officers want to ask you some questions.’ He smirked, unsettling the porter. Dmitri remembered the name, Antipov. The man Marfa had interviewed over the telephone, at the beginning of this business.

‘We know all about you, Antipov,’ he snapped. ‘Quite the little whoremaster, aren’t you?’

The night manager avoided any complicity or embarrassment by moving to the other end of the long counter and fiddling with a sheaf of receipts. Antipov’s face crumpled into abjection, solicitation, worldly cunning.

‘It’s not harming anyone. It’s a public service, more or less.’

‘Christ!’ Lubin laughed. The porter winced at the noise. ‘You’ll be telling us you’re saving us work next!’

‘I might be.’

‘We’re not interested — at the moment — in your part-time job. Nor are we interested in the dead American. It’s about the companions of the guy who had the heart attack. Remember him? i hope he wasn’t a client of yours, didn’t ask you for a girl too frisky for his heart condition?’ Antipov scowled, his eyes ferreting after something he might have mislaid amid the pattern of the thick carpeting of the lobby. Lubin sniggered. Antipov rubbed his long nose and chin with a dirty-nailed hand, shaking his head continually.

‘I didn’t have anything to do with him,’ he finally protested.

‘The other two. Friends of his, we presume.’ Antipov shrugged. ‘They were together, weren’t they?’

‘Dunno. I saw him with them, yes — but they didn’t seem friends. Not close or anything. They didn’t arrive together. They met up here.’

Dmitri recalled Vorontsyev’s insistent warning to tread carefully, and said casually: ‘Did you ever see them with the American — you — know which American? Or with anyone local?’ Suite

12, the Iranian, had paid their hotel bill. The porter shook his head, his eyes darkening and filling with slow, bland cunning.

‘No.’

‘He’s lying,’ Lubin offered.

‘I’m not I’

‘You are,’ Dmitri affirmed.

‘Look, I don’t know what it is you want to know, do I?’

Antipov whined. ‘Tell me what you want to know.’

‘Did you ever see all or any of them with Mr Al-Jani? You know, one of your best clients,’ Dmitri added, guessing — correctly. Antipov blanched.

‘Maybe,’ he admitted slowly, ‘just a nod and a wink, sort of thing. I didn’t know what they had to do with one another honestly.’

‘Good. Now — when they left, did anyone collect them? When they left in a hurry?’

‘Hurry?’

‘This is like pulling hen’s teeth, sir!’ Lubin growled, understanding what was required of him. ‘Let me take the little shit outside and kick some sense out of him!’ The assistant manager seemed to have discerned a smell from the drains. ‘Come on, you — I’ Lubin roared, grabbing for Antipov’s collar.

‘I didn’t seel’ the porter roared back. ‘I saw them go out, get into a taxi. They were in a hurry, yes, but I don’t think there was anyone with them!’

‘Not Mr AlJani?’

‘Why do you keep on about him? I didn’t know him! Just the occasional girl, always blondes ‘

‘All right. Calm down. Slop whingeing. Go on, sod off — for the moment.’ Dmitri, still grinning, turned to Lubin. ‘Let’s take these registration forms back to the office. Our beloved, insomniac chief should be back by now. After he’s been to Teplov’s knocking shop.’

‘Where do you think these two disappeared to? Have they disappeared?’

‘God knows. They must have been on false papers, like Pomarov, mustn’t they? It’s too coincidental otherwise. But why the hell were they here, anyway, and associated with Major Vahaji of Iranian Intelligence? Mr Al-Jani, as was, with a fistful of false passports? I hope our revered leader’s come up with more than we have!’

‘I want you to tell me about ‘Nam,’ Lock announced, as Kauffman handed him a bourbon. ‘I want to know about Tran, how he fits in, what he was over there.’

Kauffman sat opposite him in a second leather armchair. His features had retained surprise, as if photographed with that expression, for some moments after he had answered the door to Lock. Now, there was a specious bonhomie that had no effect in stilling the quick, sharp eyes. He raised his glass in salute, then swallowed at fiis martini.

‘You waited outside all afternoon just to ask me about a Vietnamese?

I told you, John, the files aren’t available or they no longer exist. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.’

‘Is it, Bob? Is it really?’ Kauffman’s eyes narrowed, then he was at once expansive, warm.

‘John, what can I tell you? I understand — you need to do something. What happened was awful. But I just don’t see what this guy Tran has to do with anything.’

‘You said this morning you couldn’t help me unless I told you why. Does that mean you can help me. Bob?’ His raincoat lay across his lap as he sat hunched in the chair, and he was angrily aware of the gun in the pocket. ‘I got run off the road by a truck on my way back from Langley, Bob. I mean, run off the Dolly Madison, it was no accident.’ Kauffman was shocked and disbelieving.

It was the latter reaction in his eyes that convinced Lock he had nothing to do with the attempt on his life … but there was worry, too, deeper in his expression, like someone catching an old, dangerous scent. ‘Someone ordered that. Bob.

I think it was Tran.’

TraŤ? The guy’s in Calif-‘ Realising his error, he swallowed at his drink. ‘The guy went west, years ago.’

‘You remember. Why?’ Lock hunched intently forward. The draped raincoat let the gun’s weight nestle against his calf. ‘Why do you remember one special status immigrant, Bob?’

‘I remember the name, that’s all. You reminded me I knew the name. There isn’t anything else to it, John — on my life.’

‘Now I know it’s important. Bob,’ Lock murmured.

They sat facing one another. Lock suppressing his excitement, while Kauffman studied him, weighing the danger he represented. He evidently regarded him as a threat. Which probably meant what he knew was old, he was no longer involved

… but he knew something, that was all that mattered at the moment.

‘It’s nor important,’ Kauffman said eventually in a level, almost schoolmasterish tone. ‘It hasn’t been important for a very long time. Believe me. Whatever you think happened to your sister and Billy Grainger, it had nothing to do with Tran or Vietnam.

That’s ancient history and it’s — it’s better left buried.’

‘Like My Lai, Bob?’

‘Don’t be smart. You weren’t over there — count yourself a lucky man.’

‘Who is Tran, Bob?’

‘Tran is nobody.’

‘He tried to kill me — in Phoenix. I can’t be sure about today, but there, I’m sure. I met him. He believed I was a threat.’ He said nothing of the heroin, of Vaughn’s fear of Tran, of the red horse. How much did Kauffman know? ‘You want to know why I would threaten him? Because of some connection between himself and Vaughn Grainger.’ He paused abruptly.

Kauffman’s features were paler under the downlighters of the bright, modern apartment, he was certain of it. His eyes narrower.

Beyond the blinds, the rain continued to slide down the windows and car headlights flashed on the darkening air outside.

‘What connection with Vaughn? I told you, Tran wouldn’t have had anything to do with Billy and your sister.’

‘How can you know that. Bob?’ Lock felt angry tension stiffen in his jaw.

Kauffman raised his hands in a gesture of calm. ‘I just know it. There’s no connection.’

‘Then why did Tran ring Vaughn and threaten him? I heard him, Bob. I have to know all about Tran.’

‘There’s nothing I can tell you, John. Really, there isn’t.’

‘Tell me about Vietnam. Tran worked for the Company, that’s kind of obvious by his special immigrant status. He was bankrolled by the Company after he got here.’

‘OK — my memory’s hazy, it was a long time ago, but all I recollect is Tran was a messenger boy. We used these guys all the time, running errands, informing, setting traps… you know the kind of thing that went on then. He was no more important than that. Someone just looked after him when we got out.

That’s it, all of it, as far as I can tell you, John.’ There was the faintest trace of special, insistent pleading in his last sentence.

But there didn’t seem to be much more behind it than a man backing away from a past the Company now regarded as unsavoury.

‘He worked for Vaughn’s Special Forces unit, right?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

Lock remained silent. Kauffman was only in the slightest degree edgy.

‘Another drink, fella?’ Kauffman asked. Lock shook his head.

Kauffman made himself another martini, his back to Lock.

There was no mirror on the wall that would reveal his features.

Then he returned to his seat, raised his glass, and settled himself.

‘I ought to see about dinner,’ Kauffman announced eventually.

‘You eaten yet?’ Lockshook his head once more. There was no invitation in the question; rather the opposite. He sensed himself as he appeared to Kauffman, someone thrashing about in the dark, begging for information like scraps of food. Someone stumbling about, banging into the furniture of the past and unable to recognize any single item for what it was. ‘I — have a dinner date,’ Kauffman added, which was evidently a lie.

Lock looked up. ‘I’ve been trying to recollect Vaughn’s stories about ‘Nam. He didn’t talk often, and Billy only ever talked about his own time there …’

‘Yes?’ The nervousness of a cat unexpectedly stroked.

‘His group worked up against the Ho Chi Minh Trail, at first …’

‘Did they? Maybe you’re right. Like I said, ancient history, John.’ An effortful shrug of Kauffman’s large frame which failed to convey ease.

‘Then, later, in Military Zones Two and Three, further south …’ It was only now, facing Kauffman, that he could recollect with any clarity. The modern apartment, with its tubular steel and smoked glass, had the anonymity that rendered memory easy. It was like a debriefing room. He debouched Vaughn Grainger’s past, as he knew it, as if he were the one undergoing interrogation. ‘Further south,’ he repeated. ‘But they were always near the Cambodian border. Tran was from just outside Saigon. What use was he to Vaughn — what local or specialist knowledge would he have?’

‘You’re worrying at a rabbit that’s already dead, John. Died of natural causes.’ Kauffman grinned, as if Lock’s recollections were childish dreams that could be safely indulged.

‘I remember something else’

‘What?’

‘Vaughn talked, once or twice, about some scheme for putting people back on the land … I remember — yes, I remember one afternoon, by the pool, a bright, hot day, and he was angry about that movie. Apocalypse Now. It wasn’t all like that, he said. Really angry. We did good things, we tried. What did he call it? I can’t remember the name he gave the project!’ His sudden outburst of rage seemed to unsettle Kauffman. He stirred in his chair. The gun dropped from the raincoat pocket onto the pale, thick carpet, lying there between them.

‘What in hell — ?’ Kauffman began. Lock snatched up the pistol, embarrassed. ‘What is this, fella?’ Kauffman barked angrily, frightened. Lock held the pistol in his hands, cradling it and staring at it as if he had outraged hospitality. ‘What in hell do you need a gun for?’ Kauffman hissed.

Lock looked up. There was perspiration along Kauffman’s hairline and his forehead was coldly pale. He almost gestured with the pistol, to signal harmlessness — then he turned the gun on Kauffman. In his head, something echoed away like a stone down a deep well. Anger surged in him like nausea, filling his throat.

He growled: ‘You know something, Kauffman. Stop being an asshole and tell me about Tran and Vaughn and Vietnam!’

‘I know nothing!’ Kauffman shouted back at him.

‘You know, dammit!’ Lock raged. ‘You know the connection between Vaughn Grainger and Tran!’ The pistol waggled dangerously in his hand, as if animate. The truth about Beth’s murder was in the room with them. ‘Tell me, Kauffman, or by God I’ll blow your head off!’

The threat was real. Kauffman believed it, his features venomously afraid.

Then, in a quieter voice. Lock said: ‘Tell me, Kauffman. Tell me all of it. About the drugs … everything. I want to know because nothing else matters now. Not you, not me. Tell me …’

Vorontsyev stood looking at the onion domes of the church, sombrely heavy against the hard glow from the town. The wind cried in an empty pla’ce, which might almost have been inside him, and he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets and hunched into the hood of the parka.

After some time, when his irresolution and fear had subsided, he turned from the church and trod carefully along the path to the door of the brothel. Two scientists were missing — they had to be people who were to use other fake passports, they were at the Gogol with Pomarov — and he hoped to God they were

“still in Novyy Urengoy … hiding out in a place like Teplov’s brothel, which Mostafa Vahaji had used.

There was a grubby light at one of the windows, behind thin curtains. It was an hour before dawn, early or late enough for Teplov to feel vulnerable; invaded and violated by his arrival.

He ignored the doorbell and banged on the wood, yelling out Teplov’s name. A light went on somewhere far back in the hall.

The stained glass panel of the door threw liver spots of light over his face and hands. He felt icily cold in the wind.

The door opened on a safety chain. Sonya, eyes bleared with sleep, had the magnificence and size of a ruined monument as she stared suspiciously at him. Then, when she snarlingly spoke, she was just an ageing whore and even the soft glow from behind her was too much betraying light.

‘You — what do you want now?’

He pushed past her. The stuff of her vast wrap rustled against the parka. ‘Just a chat — another talk.’

“Why don’t you leave him alone, Major — he doesn’t know anything,’ Sonya protested, her slippers flapping heavily behind him as he moved down the hall towards the stairs. ‘You know him, Major.’ Her voice was rough, coarse, yet neither whining nor pleading. Sonya was dealing in statements of fact. ‘He walks a fine line, but he walks it. People like Panshin leave him ‘

He turned on her and her face told him she sensed her own indiscretion.

‘Val Panshin — what’s Panshin to our mutual friend? To the respectable, tightrope-walking Misha?’ He grinned.

‘Nothing, Major. I was just going to say he doesn’t move in such circles, not Misha. They leave him alone. You know all this!’ she concluded.

‘What is it, love?’ Teplov called from the top of the stairs.

Vorontsyev looked up and Teplov saw him. ‘Oh — yes, Major?

To what do we owe the-?’ He was galloping down the stairs, his silk dressing-gown flowing about him.

‘It’s not a friendly visit,’ Sonya warned, folding her arms across her huge breasts. She stood at the foot of the stairs, protecting Teplov.

‘I’m not going to beat him up, Sonya — or arrest him. At least, not yet. You can stay, if you want. Make us some coffee. Come on, Misha — along to your office, I think.’ He put his arm around the man’s narrow shoulders, almost hugging him to his side.

‘Let’s talk about Val Panshin, for one thing.’

‘Nothing to do with him,’ Teplov protested in a tired, uninflected voice, unlocking the door of his office. Sonya hesitated, then made for the kitchen. ‘Come in. Major.’ The church gloomed in the darkness beyond the window before Teplov switched on the light. ‘What is it now?’

Teplov sat down, pulling his thin dressing-gown closely around him. He lit a cigarette. Vorontsyev helped himself from the box and they smoked in silence for some moments. The office seemed almost warm to him.

‘Have you ever been asked — by Mr Al-Jani, our late lamented Iranian friend — to put people up here overnight? Or for longer?’

He studied Teplov through the smoke he exhaled. He had — but hadn’t complied, Vorontsyev guessed.

‘Never.’

‘But you were asked — he asked you if you would?’

A long silence, into which Sonya galleoned with a cafetiere and two china cups and saucers, a sugar bowl and a milk jug.

The mockery was evident, as was the taste that had acquired the china. She poured Vorontsyev’s coffee, murmuring:

‘People don’t ask people like us to do things like that, Major.

They just come here for a good time.’

‘Good coffee,’ he replied, then added: ‘You won’t be mentioned, or this place. I just want to know.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘No raids for two months, I guarantee. Just so long as you don’t take too much advantage. No under-age giris—’

Teplov looked affronted, Sonya malevolent.’- no drugs, no SM beyond the usual whips and scorpions. No raids for two months

… Really good coffee.’

‘You only bully us because we’re not connected!’ Sonya observed caustically. ‘Why don’t you raid Panshin?’

‘He’s really under your skin, Sonya — why?’

‘Because he’s a fat bastard!’

‘Have you had trouble with him — Misha, have you?’

‘If we had, what would you do?’ Sonya challenged, arms folded, positioned behind the chair like a bodyguard.

Vorontsyev adopted a gloomy expression. ‘Not much, that’s true,’ he admitted. ‘But enough to look after you two.’

Sonya appeared sceptical, but Teplov’s pinched, chilly features seemed warmed, as if by the idea of heat rather than an actual fire.

‘Well?’ he added. ‘Do you want to talk about Panshin, or not?

The bastard’s into drugs, correct?’ Teplov nodded involuntarily before Sonya’s arm descended warningly on his thin shoulder.

‘What’s the connection between Panshin and the Iranian exactly?’

‘There isn’t one,’ Sonya replied quickly.

‘There must be. Why else was Al-Jani here? He was Iranian Intelligence, by the way.’ Teplov was startled. ‘It’s true. No tricks.

He has to have been the main supplier, right?’

Teplov said slowly, carefully: ‘From what we heard. Overheard … the heroin you’re interested in came in under his supervision.’ He glanced up at Sonya’s clouded features. His hand touched hers as it lay on his shoulder. ‘We mind our own business. Even the Iranian understood that. He didn’t abuse it.’

He puffed furiously at his cigarette. Sonya’s grip remained firm, but relaxed. She’d squeeze his shoulder if she thought him too compliant. ‘Panshin became interested about a year or so ago I think.’

The Iranian hooked him?’

‘I think so.’

‘And the American doctor, Schneider, was connected — and the hospital?’

They were genuinely puzzled, without knowledge. Vorontsyev was disappointed.

‘We don’t know about that.’

‘OK. Did the Iranian ask you to put up people who didn’t come for the fun and games — any time?’

‘Once.’

‘When?’

‘Four, five months ago. I — we — said no. Pushers with the heat underneath them, were they?’

‘No. Nothing like. Did it seem important to the Iranian? Really important?’

Sonya said. ‘He tried to make it casual, nothing much. It didn’t fool me — or Misha,’ she added. Teplov looked glum and guilty.

‘But he didn’t explain?’

‘No. He left it at that.’

‘Would he have asked Panshin?’

‘I doubt it. He didn’t like Panshin. He thought he was a greedy bully — the girls he used all had tales of his mockery of Panshin with his haircut, cigars, rings and big gut!’ He smiled, shrugging at Sonya’s withering contempt. Vorontsyev grinned.

‘Poor old Val — he couldn’t bear it if he knew we didn’t think well of him!’ He spread his hands. ‘OK. Four or five months ago, there were people the Iranian wanted to hide. Not more recently?’

Teplov screwed up his narrow face, but the effort at memory seemed no more than politic. ‘I don’t remember.’

‘He might have been in a panic. A couple of weeks ago? Was he here? Did he have to do something in a hurry — come down from the rig unexpectedly?’

‘All right, so you know already!’ Sonya snapped. ‘It wasn’t four or five months ago, it was the week before last! We said no.’

‘Good. How many people, for how long?’

‘Two, he said. For a couple of days, till he got something else sorted out — what’s the matter now?’

Vorontsyev had stood up.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’ He yawned, ‘Thanks for the coffee, Sonya. No raids for a couple of months

— even if you weren’t going to volunteer the information! I’ll keep my side of the bargain.’ Sonya’s expression was dismissive, and relieved. Teplov smiled weakly. They didn’t want to know more, hadn’t wanted to at the time. Like himself, he reflected dully. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he muttered. ‘Take care, both of you.’

‘Why, Major? You’re not going to do something, are you?’ Sonya snapped.

Pained, he replied: ‘I think I may have to, Sonya. Tell me one more thing. Any idea who the Iranian would have used to hide these people? You say it wouldn’t have been Panshin. Who else?’

‘There are Iranians and other wogs all over town. Major, or hadn’t you noticed?’

He shut the door behind him. Any decrepit flat anywhere in the town. One of the dachas outside, a hut, a shed …? The wind howled and the sky was lit only by the lights from the town and the menacing breaths of flame from the rigs. Ice sparkled on the onion domes and crosses of the church.

He had to involve Dmitri. Didn’t want to, but it was necessary, now. The two men who had been with Pomarov had disappeared, Vahaji was dead. Rawls-? Connected or not, he was dead … he had to find those scientists

She had waited until the end of the night; just before dawn when the nursing shifts changed and while the corridors were still only anticipatory of the smells of the first meal of the hospital day. Yet her vulnerability did not diminish. It was partly reaction from the way she had nearly died up at the rig, but also her own bodily weakness, however much despised, and the sense of herself in slippers, pyjamas, dressing-gown. The hospital clothing refused to become a disguise, a declaration of harmlessness.

And then there was Goludin, ten paces behind her, his hand furtively inside his jacket, hovering near the butt of his pistol.

There was an element of farce in the situation that Maria could not help feeling was the prelude to error or discovery. People had already died, she had almost died, on this same journey. She halted at a turn of the long, aseptic corridor and Goludin caught up with her.

‘Is this it?’ she whispered hoarsely.

Goludin’s face was solemnly certain. ‘Yes. The door’s at the end of this hallway. I double-checked,’ he all but pleaded. It would be the easiest of things, to ask him to die protecting her, such was his guilt at what had happened at the rig. She shrugged his sentiments aside.

‘Right, let’s have a look at the locks.’

He remained beside her now. The silence pressed behind them as palpably as if the corridor were being bricked up, entrapping them. She reached the door and began at once to study the lock.

The warning notice, in Russian and English, forbade entry to any but authorised personnel. Otherwise, it was simply a general storeroom.

‘Stiff plastic should do it,’ Goludin offered.

‘Do it, then.’

He seemed reluctant to damage his credit card from a German bank, but began to insert it beside the lock. Maria listened behind them and heard only the heating pipes grumbling and the sough of the air-conditioning and dust extractors. The Foundation Hospital wasn’t even cluttered and rat-infested and unsafe below ground level — God certainly blessed America. She sniffed, and was afraid of the sudden volume of the noise in the oppressive silence. The lock’s click was quieter. Goludin, beaming and red faced, opened the door for her like an escort. She switched on the lights — and shuddered.

It was nothing like the hangarlike shed where she had been caught, knocked unconscious and dragged to the garbage bins

… but the shelving and the orderliness made it seem like a doll’s house image of the other place.

‘All right?’ he whispered, his breath tickling her cold ear.

‘Yes,’ she snapped back sternly.

‘I just thought —’

‘Keep quiet.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re sure this storeroom is the most likely?’ She pushed the door quietly to behind her, leaning back against it. Reaching out, she touched Goludin’s hand for the reassurance of the cold barrel of the pistol he was holding.

‘It’s the least used. Look over there — linen, bandages, toilet paper. Reserve supplies — ‘ More doubtfully, he added: ‘I thought it seemed the most likely, if it wasn’t used very much.’

‘Let’s get on with it — you take that side. Go on.’

She began to pace along the farthest shelving on the left-hand side, as if measuring the ground for planting. She could hear Goludin’s footsteps, as deliberate as her own, and his breathing, artificially steady. Toilet paper, sanitary towels, swabs, bedlinen, bandages … almost immediately, it seemed a ridiculous waste of time to be investigating this storeroom. No drugs, just the mundane. Disinfectant, cleaning fluid, toilet paper … She turned on her heel, almost losing her slipper in her impatience, and began the next valley of shelves.

‘Anything?’ she called out in a hoarse whisper.

‘Nothing yet.’ His disappointment was as evident as her own, mingled with a growing embarrassment.

She completed the second defile of shelves, already inattentive, her nerves beginning to mount, her sense of time exaggerated, the seconds hurrying much more quickly than her breathing. Nothing, nothing’Goludin!’ she snapped angrily. Bloody waste of time. The shelves were closing in, claustrophobically. ‘This is-‘ She glanced upwards, feeling hot and constricted, trapped by futility and anger. The downlighters in the low ceiling were like the eyes of infra-red cameras — were there cameras? She hadn’t even checked.

He appeared at the end of the rows of shelves which enclosed her.

‘You all right?’ he asked.

She must have looked ridiculous, standing there, like someone in a drought area amazed at rain falling on her face. She continued to stare at the downlighters and the top shelves. Then she pointed.

‘Up there.’ Her throat was tight.

‘What?’

The top shelves. No one ever looks up in a storeroom. They’re difficult to reach, too.’

‘Yes?’

She shook his arm, gripping it with both hands.

‘The bloody shelves are full of boxes! Climb up and have a look!’

He nodded eagerly as a puppy and handed her the pistol. Then he gripped the shelving and shook it. Dust rose slowly.

‘Solid enough,’ he muttered and began climbing, grunting as he did so. His feet scrabbled past her, then stilled. He was raised above the top shelves like someone looking carefully over a parapet.

‘Well?’

‘Lots of boxes — Medical Supplies they — all of them say. Just that.’

‘Country of origin?’ she snapped. ‘Brandnames? There must be brandnames.’

‘USA, it says on this one — and that one. Looks like most of them are Yankee’

‘And?’

‘And what?’ He seemed breathless, impatient and disappointed.

‘Who manufactured them?’

‘Doesn’t say.’

‘It must!’

‘Well, it doesn’t! Do you want to climb up and have a look?

It just says General Medical Supplies on plain cardboard boxes, except USA. Otherwise, they’re anonymous. Wait — ‘ He grunted, leaning out across the top shelf to which he clung. She heard the scrape of cardboard on dusty metal. ‘This one says Grainger Foundation, Phoenix, Arizona — what you’d expect, isn’t it?’

‘Vorontsyev says the delivery came from Tehran, not Phoenix.

Come down from there. You’ve wasted our time —’

‘Sod that! I’m opening one while I’m up here. No one will know.’ She heard grunting and ripping, the screamlike tear of masking tape being tugged free.

‘Come on, we haven’t got time—!’

‘Bugger off, Marfa! I’ve said I’m sorry — said nothing else, ever since you were brought here. But you’re not my superior officer, so bugger you!’ She wanted to laugh at his ridiculous, pompous protestation.

‘Hurry up!’ she barked in lieu of amusement.

‘It wouldn’t say Heroin, a Present from Iran on the boxes, would it?’ His breathing was ragged, the tearing noises somehow more desperate. ‘Oh, bugger this-!’ he growled. The box continued its struggle against his efforts, seeming to back away from him along the top shelf with gritty, grumbling steps. ‘There!’

Silence. Eventually, maddened, she barked: ‘Well?’

‘Catch,’ he replied and his hand dropped a package. Brown paper tied with string, as unadorned as some of her Christmas presents as a child. Those had usually been knitted mittens, a repainted doll, a scarf or balaclava.

‘Have you —?’ She cleared her throat. ‘Do you know what it tastes like, heroin?’

Unwrapped, the parcel contained a cellophane block of compressed whiteness which could as easily have been soap powder or talcum as ‘Yes,’

Goludin breathed, reaching the floor.

She watched him as she might have watched a careful parent lighting a candle for her, so that she would avoid all hurt. He opened a penknife, slit the package at one corner, dipped in his finger as if into sherbet, placed the powder on his tongue, tasted — and spat.

‘Yes!’ he sighed orgasmically. She felt her cheeks hot with excitement and admiration. Goludin’s whole face was a beaming grin. ‘Yes!’

‘What about the rest of it — is there more?’

‘If we get a warrant, now, we can search the whole place from top to bottom, with this as evidence. Come on — I’

Marfa clutched the cellophane package against her breasts like a long-desired baby or some other cherished dream.

‘Come on!’

Then he paused and caught her hand. She, too, heard the footsteps coming along the corridor.

Lock could not have planned it. It had been nothing like his anticipation. The conclusion of a waggled pistol and enraged threat — the collapse of Kauffman before his gaze. Nor had he anticipated how committed he would be on the other side of a singular accidental moment when the pistol slipped from his raincoat pocket. It had been like some desperate hand in a high rolling card game, that had changed the whole atmosphere of the apartment and their relationship.

Yet even that was not quite all of it. There was Kauffman’s insistent, abstracted confession. His unburdening.

Yes, Tran had been recruited … Tran had been a shopkeeper outside Saigon, attached himself to Vaughn’s group, or so I was told, but his family had come from a border area and his local knowledge was vital … he was on Vaughn’s staff, unofficially but importantly …

Kauffman talked to an exact spot on the pale rug, where the last of his second martini had been spilt and was now drying.

The rain ran down the windows, the headlights flowed like pale mercury against the open blinds and the tyres swished like stiff skirts outside on the parkway. Kauffman had had little to do with Vaughn’s Special Forces group, but he knew the story; or could now reassemble it into a narrative. Lock sat opposite him, watching the man’s bent, middle-aged, sagging shoulders, feeling himself filled with a creeping, pitying horror at the confirmation of all his most appalled speculations.

I just ran into Tran from time to time, or news of Grainger’s project… Tran had undertaken trips to Saigon, to My Tho and Vung Tou on the Mekong Delta. Tran was a good friend, that much was obvious to a blind man — the kind of passes the guy had, the protection he was given …

Lock rubbed his forehead insistently as he listened, as if to ease a headache; in reality it was because the nightmare threat ened to burst out of his head, so great was the pressure inside.

Kauffman’s hands were together, reminiscent of prayer.

Why was Tran important? Lock wasn’t certain he had even voiced the question, but Kauffman seemed to answer him almost at once.

Putting people back on the land … Project ReGreen, you wouldn’t remember it, you weren’t there… Right in the border areas. Resettlement, providing an economic and human bulwark against Charley, the Viet Cong. Lock had vaguely heard of it.

A naive and noble ideal, to turn the south into a prosperous agrarian region and bolster it against the north. Making capitalism on the hoof, what the Communists in Vietnam were doing now — ironic, that. They replanted fields, gave grants, machinery, repopulated abandoned villages, grew a new harvest, a new hope …

That’s what Vaughn had been angry about when he saw Coppola’s vision of Vietnam and had had to endure the scorpion of Robert Duvall’s line about the smell of napalm on the morning breeze … but that couldn’t really have been it all, could it?

Lock felt concussed and nauseous, as if he had survived a car accident … only to realise that the accident was happening again and again, as it would in a nightmare.

The trial scheme for Project ReGreen had been established under Vaughn Grainger’s command only for a matter of a year and some months before the Pentagon decided that large-scale resettlement would be impossible. Kissinger’s apparent diplomatic successes suspended the resettlement programme before it had really gotten started … Lock nodded.

It was the original trial scheme, Kauffman said, that Vaughn used. It had been set up in the Da Dung river area of the central plateau, a sparsely populated region of scattered tea plantations.

It was nothing like the main rice-growing areas of the crowded, chaotic delta and the Cambodian border. And it was easy, man, it was so easy … Lock flinched and swallowed.

The CIA’s own airline, variously nicknamed Gremlin Airlines, Poltergeist Pan Am or Thin Air, had flown in the supplies, machinery, equipment, money — for camouflage, build-onsite greenhouses and warehouses, silos … The flights came into Vung Tou on the coast, Tran was overseer for their shipment upcountry to Tho Da Dung… Lock swallowed painfully. It was like watching the slow, painful death of a beloved older relative. Kauffman’s words were changing Vaughn Grainger’s identity, it was becoming its own opposite. The granite, frontiersman image that had always somehow accompanied Vaughn Grainger was gone.

/ clerked the docketing out at Vung Tou for a few months, that’s why I had to be bought off… Kauffman did not look up for sympathy, or to assess reaction, even at that point… The money was good, it was a lot of money. I turned my back… The project and the trial sites were finally abandoned in 1973, late in the year. Vaughn and whoever eJse — Tran — had had almost eighteen months before the trial project was closed down. Two, three harvests?

He realised that he was sweating. The rain on his hair had long dried, but his collar was again damp, his forehead chilly.

ReGreen, Thin Air and its C-130s and medium haul Boeings, a couple of Starlifters … He remembered the rumours that the CIA was smuggling heroin in Afghanistan, to offset the costs of the Stinger missiles and the other weaponry. In that war, everyone had wanted to deny it and believed the denial. The mujahideen had grown heroin, the Russians had used it, bought it, smuggled it…

Kauffman’s narrative continued.

They had harvested the heroin at Da Dung, the heroin the Special Forces and their Vietnamese allies like Tran had grown, and the CIA’s airline had flown it Stateside. Kauffman and people like him had assisted, or turned their backs, for the right price. Vaughn and Tran … no wonder Vaughn had turned around the fortunes of Grainger Technologies in the ‘70s, he had the money from the Vietnamese heroin to invest… maybe that was why he had done it?

It didn’t matter. He had done it. And had gone on doing it … Vaughn had claimed he and Billy were trying to stop it, but they had been the ones behind it. And … been killed for it.

He stood up. Kauffman, still contained by the aura of prison or the confessional, did not look up or pause in his rambling narrative. Lock stumbled to the door and let himself out of the apartment. His stomach lurched with sickness.

Beth had been killed because of Vaughn and Billy, not for any other reason on earth … The rain lashed against his hot face, chilling him. Ran into his collar, his eyes, soaked him. He blundered across the parkway, amid the glare of headlights and the noise of tyres, towards the hire car.

He had to see Vaughn, make him tell him … and, if it was true, then he would kill Turgenev. He had to see Vaughn.

The dawn was leaking into the eastern horizon like a lighter slain as Vorontsyev stopped his car beside the crumbling, leaning picket fence that marked the boundary of Dmitri’s dacha. The leafless trees drooped under their weight of snow. A solitary bird croaked and hopped amid the skeletal branches. There was a bird table, but it had not been supplied that early in the morning. There was a light on in a side room; probably the bathroom., Vorontsyev got out of the car and shut the door quietly. The town was a silent glow a couple of miles away, like the scene of a nuclear meltdown, and the flames from the rigs were less real in the growing light. He pushed open the gate and stumped up the trodden but uncleared path to the low wooden home.

House. It had ceased to be a home when the daughter had overdosed. Now, he was about to heap a greater burden on Dmitri’s broad, drooping shoulders. It could not be avoided. He couldn’t carry it alone, and he couldn’t act alone.

He rang the bell. It sounded echoingly in the house, as if there were no rugs or furniture inside.

The door was opened by Dmitri, dressed in trousers and a greyish vest. There was shaving lather on his right cheek and chin, the left already scraped clean. Their breaths mingled.

‘Alexei! I’ve only been home an hour or so — couldn’t sleep

— come in.’ He gestured Vorontsyev inside. The narrow, pine walled hall opened into the large sitting room. Dmitri, waving the razor, said: ‘Won’t be a minute, Alexei — is it important?’

He did not wait for a reply. ‘Sit down,’ he called, ‘I’ll make some coffee when I’ve finished.’

As Vorontsyev sat himself on the sofa, amid the scattered newspapers and the plastic plate stained with Dmitri’s last meal in the house, Dmitri called out:

‘Lubin and I got the registration forms for the other two they’re on the table there … Probably not their real names ‘

Vorontsyev heard the splash of water, then the doglike splutterings of a wet animal as Dmitri towelled himself. ‘What did you find out?’ he heard in a muffled voice.

Vorontsyev picked up the forms from the Gogol. He noted the names and the professions neatly filled out. The addresses some place in Georgia, another in Byeloruss. His hand, he realised, was quivering. Dmitri re-entered the room, towel in one hand, shaving soap lingering on an earlobe. His eyes looked as if he habitually wore spectacles, his shoulders sagged like his paunch; he seemed dogged and ineffectual.

‘Pomarov. It was his real name, apparently. I had a call from Kiev …’ His voice tailed off.

‘Good. What else — who was he?’

‘Make some coffee, old friend.’

Dmitri looked anxiously quizzical, and then shrugged compliantly, vanishing into the kitchen. A noise of drawers and implements, and eventually the boiling of water and the smell of coffee. Vorontsyev looked at the registration forms as if willing them to reveal their subjects’ whereabouts, or to render themselves meaningless. Both men dealt with the gas companies, the forms claimed. With GraingerTurgenev.

‘Learn anything at Misha’s knocking shop?’ Dmitri asked, handing him a brown mug. ‘I take it there weren’t any unexpected guests?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t be so gloomy, Alexei. I’ve combed quickly through the routine passenger manifests the airlines deliver to headquarters — left Lubin to go through them more carefully — and there’s been no one on a Western passport on any flight to Tehran or points south. I take it that’s where they would be heading, whoever they are? Maybe they were just in town to pick up supplies, and returned to wherever they came from …?’ He studied Vorontsyev. ‘What’s the matter? They can’t be important, can they? Stands to reason. Just couriers?’ Vorontsyev shook his head. ‘What, then?’

‘They — unless I’m wrong, and I wish to God I was, they’re nuclear scientists.’

‘What?’ Dmitri breathed after an interminable, oppressive silence.

‘Pomarov, the dead one, worked at Semipalatinsk. He suddenly and mysteriously disappeared from Kiev, left no message, didn’t even say goodbye to his only daughter. Our Iranian friend had his Dutch passport ready for him, and a job ‘

‘~ in Tehran. Jesus … you’re certain about this?’

Vorontsyev nodded. ‘There’s a trade in brains. In scientists who’ve worked on advanced nuclear research, on lasers maybe

… on bombs, weapons. On the Bomb, Dmitri … It’s almost too terrifying to think about, isn’t it?’ He looked up at Dmitri, as if he felt himself exaggerating. Selling the means of making the Bomb to the fundamentalists, the unstable regimes, the expansionists. ‘Christ, every tinpot dictator, every ethnic or religious psychopath — could end up having his own bomb.

Doesn’t that frighten you, old friend?’

In the silence, he sipped his coffee, watching Dmitri absorb the information and its implications. Eventually, Dmitri said:

‘Did they get out before Vahaji got himself killed? Are they still here?’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘Then we’d better find them, Alexei. We’ll need the whole team for this, and quickly.’ There was no shock, no creeping sense of disaster. Just the practical, the narrow perspective of immediate action. ‘Don’t look as if you’ve stumbled on something unique, Alexei, like the secret of the universe — that it will end tomorrow, at precisely three in the afternoon! Come on — you know we’ll sell anything these days for hard currency.

They took a dozen of these people off a plane in Moscow last year.’

It was true. A hamperful of nuclear and biological warfare scientists on. their way out of Cheremetievo airport, bound for Iraq and Pakistan. Bought and sold as simply as any other export, any other product of Russian origin! There were as many poorly paid and redundant scientists in the Russian Federation as there were tanks for sale.

‘Agreed,’ he replied heavily. ‘Were they paying for them in heroin — was that it?’

‘That might be too neat. Right, what time? I’ll get the people we can trust organised.’

‘Ten. My office.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks, Dmitri.’

‘For what? Not being terrified at the prospect? Come on, Alexei, it’s not the end of life as we know it — not yet!’ There was almost a grin on his shabby, worn face. Nothing was real for Dmitri, nothing except the people who killed his daughter and rendered his wife a vegetable. This was little more than a distraction, incredible though that seemed.

For himself, he had no distractions, there was no lessening of his fear. Anyone who wanted it, who could pay — cash or kind

— would have their own nuclear arsenal, their own nuclear threat, in five years or less. Russia was selling these people the means of her own destruction. It was a suicide note. Dmitri sensed his foreboding and added with deliberate cheerfulness:

‘We’ll find the buggers, don’t worry. We’re getting close, Alexei, I can feel it. These scientists could be the way in. We’re nearly there!’

‘Yes, they’ve just reported back. It’s been taken care of … No, I wouldn’t have ordered it if it hadn’t been necessary. They were getting close to the other business, not the heroin … Good. No, without him, the others won’t make a move. Why did he wake up? I’ve no idea, but he did. Sadly for him. I did warn him off, I took the investigation out of his hands — he should have realised, gone back to sleep … yes, all right, I underestimated him. But it’s been taken care of. What? Yes, I’ll call you when I hear the result. Don’t worry — all right, you’re not worried.

My people know what to do. You think no GRU training sticks?

Yes, I’ll call you just as soon as ‘

The call was ended abruptly. GRU Colonel Bakunin put down his receiver with a grimace. Bastard … The sky had lightened now. His people had a tail on Vorontsyev, and the policeman was doing exactly what was required of him to become a victim.

Stupid bastard. He was so ineffectual, like a daydreamer; an intellectual, a moral posturer who never actually did anything.

Until now -

and without him, his team would subside like an old wall being knocked down.

Vorontsycv locked the car and warily crossed the rutted, ungritted row of parking spaces outside his apartment house. He could smell petrol fumes on the cold air as a delivery van pulled away onto the street, into the noise of traffic heading into the town or out towards the rigs. He had picked his way across the treacherous surface of the investigation just as warily. Always the intellectual — had been for years, he mocked himself. Tut-tutting the state of the world from some ethical pinnacle made only of sculptured ice.

Dmitri’s commonsense and eagerness had upbraided him, justly so. He did not feel resolve, merely less depressed, shaking his head at vices as if they were follies.

Most of the still-curtained windows in the large, dilapidated old house were lit. Shadows hurried across one, then another as his neighbours stumbled towards their jobs or their children’s schools. Against a rear curtain, no doubt Vera Silkova was holding up her new baby — the one that kept him company during his sleepless nights, voicing simpler protests than his own through the bedroom wall. He smiled. His eyes were gritty with tiredness, but his body, though cumbersome, was satisfied, lacking any edge of nerves. Dmitri’s plain man’s attitude had done that much for him. The men they sought could well still be in the town … it was a simple manhunt. If one forgot that they were nuclear scientists being sold to Iran.

He unlocked the front door and entered the house. Isolated amid the newer blocks and shops, it was as if it had become lost in its present unfamiliar surroundings, a building suffering from senile dementia or amnesia. He had nothing in common with his neighbours, despite his momentary lapses into fellow feeling.

They liked him living there; the police didn’t bother them, they felt safer from thieves.

He closed the door behind him, hearing the noises from other apartments, as innocuous and unsuspicious as ever; the way ordinary people registered their lives. He always felt, coming off duty, as if he had arrived with a search warrant. He climbed the stairs towards his own door on the first floor. On the ground floor behind him, Otzman the civil servant’s door slammed as he hurried to work. Vorontsyev yawned and fished out his key.

It was after eight. He’d try for an hour’s sleep, then shower and shave before the ten o’clock briefing.

‘Major?’ He winced, hearing the voice of Otzman’s wife, Nadya. His key was in the lock and he half-turned it as she called out: ‘The gas fitters said they’d repaired the leak you’d reported. They didn’t—’ He had turned the key in the lock -

was blown backwards, upended, then crushed against the landing wall by the fragmenting door. He understood that much.

Understood, too, that there had been a bomb, that walls were crumbling, that his body was hurt, badly hurt … and that he was beginning to scream.

Then, nothing