Quiller Balalaika

14: SHADOW

Lights flashing, sending waves of colour through the snow as the emergency lamps circled on the roofs of the police cars. The chains bit as I hit the brakes. It was the third crash scene we'd come across since we'd left the Entre'acte Club.

An illuminated baton made motions, and I put the window down and looked into a raw face buried under a hood smothered in snow. 'This street's blocked! Take the next left, then right, then left again. Get a move on!' The baton swung in practised arcs. Sirens were fading in behind us and the lights of two ambulances flooded the street as I made the turn.

I glanced down at Natalya. We hadn't spoken since we'd got into the car, and I'd left her to her tears. She said at last, 'Of course it was my fault.'

'What was?'

'Marius being sent to the camp. He couldn't help trying to protect me, you see, at first in small ways, and it began to annoy Vasyl. And there was the other thing: for a long time my brother had been worried about the killings.'

'The ones Sakkas ordered?'

'Yes.' She pulled her legs up and rested her chin on her knees, and I reached across and checked the seat-belt for tension. 'There were so many.'

'Did he start objecting to them?'

'After a time, yes. I once heard voices raised, and my brother saying he was getting sick of it, that business was business, there was no need to kill people. You know? It really worried him.'

'So Sakkas broke off the relationship?'

A short, bitter laugh. 'You could put it like that. What actually happened was that the Ministry of the Interior sent a squad to arrest my brother as he was coming out of a cafe on the Ring one night. The next day there were charges brought and he was summarily convicted of murdering a judge and sentenced to a life term at Gulanka. These days the Ministry can do things like that under the emergency legislation, with so much crime to deal with. It happens a lot – they herd the convicted prisoners out on trains.'

'You've been to a lawyer?'

'Of course, secretly. But I've no money, and it's so dangerous to do anything against Vasyl.'

A huge black Zil came at us through the blizzard with its lights blinding and I swung the Mercedes across the pavement and clouted a sand-bin and ripped away the front wing and got a shout from the limo, then it was gone like a shark in white water.

When I'd straightened course I said, 'You told me your brother knows everything about Sakkas' "empire".'

'Of course – he ran it. I'm talking about an international network, world-wide, with offices and warehouses right across Europe and even in America. Last year Vasyl made more than one billion dollars. My brother also knows every one of his major contacts in the government and the Russian army, all of them very high up and all of them paid either to keep their mouths shut or steer "business" his way. Marius has the whole picture, and Vasyl would have had him shot if it weren't for me.'

It didn't sound right. 'You mean out of his feelings for you?'

Natalya swung her head to stare at me and her voice was harsh. 'His feelings for me? He doesn't know what feelings are. But he wants to keep me with him, to show off to the other mafiyosa – they vie with each other over their possessions.'

'So Marius is a hostage.'

'Of course. That is why I'm trapped.'

'Did you ever try to leave Sakkas, before your brother was sent to the camp?'

'Twice. But Vasyl is uncanny, you know? His goons found me within hours, even though I kept away from my friends.'

I didn't ask her what the punishment was when the goons brought her back, didn't want to know. If she tried it again it would be infinitely worse: Sakkas would have her brother's body sent from the camp to Moscow for her to identify, while he savoured her grief. I was beginning to know him.

I turned left along the Boulevard Ring, going east, looking for a plush hotel. 'I'm going to put you into a taxi,' I told Natalya. 'Is that all right?'

'Of course.'

If I dropped her off at the house I could get shot at, afterwards, or tracked through the streets. 'I've got the number of the stage door at the theatre,' I told her. 'I might need to contact you again.'

'That would be dangerous. If one of his goons saw us tonight -'

'They didn't,' I said.

With a shrug. 'Then we were lucky. They're everywhere.'

I slid the Mercedes alongside the first taxi in the rank outside the Moscow Waldorf. 'If I can do anything to help your brother, I'll let you know.'

She looked at me. 'No one can help him. No one.'

Perfectly right, he was in Gulanka for Christ's sake, in northern Siberia. But for what it was worth I would tell Ferris, see if he could do anything through London.

'All I can hope for,' she said bleakly, 'is that one day, somehow, he might escape.'

'Let's pray for that.'

She unclipped her seat-belt, turning to face me. With formality: 'Thank you for your hospitality. And it was kind of you to take so much interest.'

'You should talk more to your friends.'

'They all know my story. I needed a stranger to listen.'

I got out and spoke to the driver, giving him a $50 bill. 'Take good care of her, my friend, on a night like this.'

Natalya slipped off her right glove and I kissed her hand and closed the door of the taxi and watched it away, the rear lights slewing in the snow as the Zhiguli bounced across the ruts.

I was halfway to my hotel when I picked up the tick.

There had been three vehicles behind me from the moment when I'd watched Natalya's taxi driving away to the present time, but now the scene had changed: two of them had peeled off and the third was still behind me, but now it had pulled back a little and its lights were doused.

Present time: 11:43.

I switched off the dashboard displays and left the retinae to accommodate. I didn't think it was a tracker, the other car. I thought it might be a hit team checking on me before it moved in for the strike or decided I was the wrong target. He'll be leaving his office before midnight and going east on Pogrovskij Boulevard. Take him before he reaches his apartment. A banker or some brave chief executive holding out against the pressure to buy protection, or perhaps simply a rival mafiyosa who had started getting in the way.

The snow was coming almost straight down from the sky now, making a curtain instead of a maelstrom: the main force of the wind had dropped in the past hour and the big flakes drifted until the slipstream of the Mercedes caught them and whirled them behind in the mirrors.

It couldn't be a tracker because I'd checked three times on my way from Sakkas' house this evening, doubling and making loops and watching the mirrors. There had been no one behind me when I'd pulled up near the Entre'acte Club, no one of any interest.

I made another loop now, gunning up as far as the ice permitted, using the drifts to sling the rear end straight when we lost traction, a plume of snow flying upwards from the front tyre where the wing had been ripped away.

Shadow.

Still there and quite large, another 300 SL perhaps. All I could make out was its general shape as it passed under the street lights, their reflection flashing for an instant across the bodywork before it became dark again, almost invisible. The driver was trained, could hang on to the target without any trouble. But he couldn't be tracking me specifically, because -

A shrinking of the scalp, the nerves firing and the brain suddenly alerted as it ranged over the possibility that I'd made a mistake at some point after I'd left Sakkas' house.

Correction, yes: at some time after I'd arrived at the Entre'acte Club with Natalya. And we can do that. We can make mistakes, even the most experienced executives, especially the most experienced, because familiarity with the field can make us cocky, over-confident. And we're talking now, tonight, suddenly, aren't we, about one of the most basic and effective methods of concealing anything.

Or anyone.

Hide them in plain sight.

It's all right – Natalya – I know that man – he's just one of my followers, that's all. He never comes up or pesters me.

Of course not. He was a Sakkas man.

Take another loop and do it faster this time, don't worry about ripping some more wings off, go for it, get the chains dug in and use that wall to break down the swing and get me round, first left, first right, first right, with the lights flooding the narrow streets and bouncing off windows, the drumming of the engine bringing echoes from the buildings as the rear wheels sent waves of snow in our wake so that I lost sight of the tracker, could see only whiteness in the mirrors, take another loop and blow the chains off if we have to, push this bloody thing to the limits of the conditions and swing… bounce… swing in a series of tangents, one of the chains snapping and its loose end hitting against the wing with the beat of a mad drummer until I was back in the main street and gunning up for the next intersection in a final attempt to break clear, watching the mirrors.

Watching the shadow.

Time off for review: there would be two of them – at least two – in the car behind, and they would be armed with assault rifles, the weapon a la mode for Moscow. I had sent them the distinct message that I didn't want them on my tail, but it had been a calculated risk: I might have got clear with all that busy driving just now. If I stopped, all I could do would be to sit and wait for them to make their approach on foot. I would not get out of the car, on the principle we teach the neophytes at Norfolk: never leave shelter if you've got any. There could be a chance, however remote, of gunning up again while they were making their approach on foot, though if there were more than two of them they'd leave a driver behind in case I tried exactly that. If they didn't leave one there and I made the try, they would both start pumping a long-sustained burst, one at the tyres and one at me, unless I could get the chains to bite soon enough and make distance. Those were the options.

I don't like this.

Shut up.

For the moment just keep driving, normal speed for the conditions, fifty kph, sixty, as the snow spreads lace over the headlights and the adrenalin begins flowing out of the glands.

You're in a trap. You -

Oh for God's sake shuddup.

Take a left, head for the short, narrow streets where there was no late-night traffic to get in the way and where I might get a chance to make a right angle and douse the lights and reach the next turn before they closed in.

Never forget, I would tell them, the neophytes, the technique of hiding things or yourself in plain sight. Never forget that the opposition might also do it at any given time – I ran into this one in Moscow last year, and… if I were there again in Norfolk to tell them at all, if I didn't end the night as just another corpse found in a Mercedes with the driver's-side window gaping to the fusillade of shot and the head blown away, but then we mustn't be morbid, my good friend, we must remain, must we not, stout of heart.

Take a right, judge the distance, gun up and hit the next street, douse the lights and keep going, the snow coming up in dark waves across the mirrors, take more chances, don't pussy-foot this bloody thing through, the loose chain hammering, filling the streets like cannon fire, keep going, keep -

Then I was hitting the brakes and swinging left and right as the anti-lock system broke the momentum and the Mercedes reared on one side as we met up with a packed snowdrift and I avoided a roll by letting the wheel go slack to give some equilibrium to the front end, then we were halted, so close to the other car, the second one that was blocking the street, that I could see faces through the windscreen.

The tracker had used his phone, that was all, and called in a backup; I should have known he might. But this was academic: there would've been nothing I could have done.

The scene very bright now, dazzling: both cars had their headlights on and mine was trapped in the middle, throwing its oblique shadow against the walls and across the ruts in the ice. There was just the sound of engines running as the snow came floating down, big, heavy flakes from a swollen sky.

I waited.

Voices came in, I think from one of their radio phones. These weren't the callow, athletic jocks the Cougar ran; these were professionals, calling in a backup and contacting base and shutting me in without a chance in a thousand. These were Sakkas' men.

Acid in the mouth as the adrenalin hit performance levels in the bloodstream; sweat coming out; a feeling a lightness, of poise, the muscles craving release, taut as a bowstring.

A door clicked open and faint backlit shadows formed on the walls as two of them came on foot from the car behind, their boots crunching over the snow. No one got out of the car in front: they would stay where they were, riding shotgun.

I put the window down.

'Show me your papers,' one of them said. The other man was keeping back, his AK-47 aimed at my head.

Showed him.

'Import-Export. What does that mean?' He was interested in my expensive astrakhan coat and black sable hat, my expensive 300 E, wanted to know if I was in the mob, was perhaps a rival to his boss and therefore expendable.

'I ship things in and ship other things out.'

'What sort of things?' Hadn't given my papers back.

'Nickel, furs, jewellery, gold, whatever's available.'

He had a pale, doughy face with an eagle's nose and heavy eyebrows, a man of forty, perhaps more, cynical, seasoned, nobody's fool. His eyes hooked themselves onto mine and stayed there until he was through with his thinking.

'Get out.'

'I'd like my papers back.'

'Get out.' Didn't raise his voice.

I snapped the door open and stood on the snow, feeling it sink under my weight.

'Open your coat.' He frisked me with methodical expertise, his breath clouding in the glare of the lights. 'Get into the car behind.'

'Look, I want to know -'

'Get into the car behind.' The other man swung his gun as emphasis.

'Who the hell are you people? Are you from the RAOC?'

The man with the gun stepped up smartly and drove the muzzle into my back and I tilted the pelvis forward an inch to diminish the shock. Then the two of us crunched across the snow to the car, the gun prodding. I couldn't hear the other man's footsteps.

'Get in.'

I opened the rear door. There wasn't in fact a driver at the wheel, just this one man in the immediate environment, and a scenario for the instant future flashed across my mind, but the plot didn't stand up: I could deal with one man, especially with an assault rifle because they're even more useless than hand guns at short range – you can't swing that much weight a tenth as fast as you can bring down a hammerfist to the wrist. But the other car was there and facing this way and they'd shoot for the legs when I started running.

Smell of new hide and a good cologne, Jesus, these were just his security people. I looked through the windscreen but couldn't see much against the glare. The other man, the one with the eyebrows, must have gone to talk to the crew of the backup car.

A clock was chiming in the silence with deep, authoritative tones, an ancient custodian of the night, of man's affairs, announcing the witching hour. I listened to it with a Buddhist's attention, finding in it a reminder of how steady one must be, how unhurried, if one is to survive the blows of unkind fate.

How is Mr Sakkas?

Rehearsed it a couple of times but decided against saying it aloud. On the one hand it could be useful to pretend an acquaintanceship, as I'd done with Natalya Antanova; on the other hand it could make things worse because I'd have to follow it up, tell them how I'd met him, what sort of deal it had been. People of this calibre would have computers filled with a massive amount of information at their base, and they could access them from here. Berinov? There's no entry of any deal with any Berinov on that date, or any other.

Better to play it straight, as an innocent caught in the cogs.

The other man was coming back as the car behind him pulled out and went rocking past us over the churned surface, its chains jingling like the harness of a troika through the snow. He climbed into the rear and slammed the door and got out a heavy Korean DP51 9mm Parabellum with a double-stacked magazine holding thirteen shells as he sat back in the corner to face me. White, manicured hands, perfectly still.

'Where were you tonight?'

He had the patient, almost bored voice I'd heard before so many times in the interrogation cells. This could be a former KGB officer: his attitude bore the stamp. Later he might start yelling in the traditional style, then cooing again to confuse me, but I didn't think it would come to that because he wouldn't have the time, or need it. My story wouldn't merit intense grilling: he'd have to take it at face value.

He knew where I was tonight.

'I went to the ballet. Giselle. Look, you've obviously mistaken me for somebody -'

'What did you do after the ballet?'

'I went to a club. The Entre'acte. I'd had the luck to meet Antanova, the soloist.' Went through it for him, the taxi, so forth. And waited for the question.

'Do you know who Antanova is?'

Not that question. What had happened to the other one? Did you go straight from the theatre to the club? So at least I was right about one thing: they hadn't tracked me from the Sakkas house tonight.

'I've just told you, she's one of the soloists in the -'

'You've just told me, yes. I know.' But I hadn't given him the answer he'd been probing for: She's Vasyl Sakkas' mistress. 'What did you discuss,' he asked me, 'at the club?'

'Ballet, of course. Her performance tonight. It was an honour for me to talk to her at all.'

'What else do you know about her?'

Still probing.

'She said she was only three when she was first given -'

'What else, aside from her career?'

In a moment, 'I can't think of anything, frankly. It's all they can talk about, those people, and it was all I wanted to listen to. Tonight she gave one of the -'

'Yes, she is very talented.' Switch: 'When we began following your car, why did you try to evade us?'

'I was a bit scared, if you want to know.'

'Why?'

'There are so many people getting killed. It's all in the papers – a car comes up from behind, especially at night, and before you know anything's wrong -'

'You have been followed before?'

'Well, no, but -'

'Did Antanova name any of her friends?'

'What? No.'

'Acquaintances?'

'No. I've told you, she just -'

The telephone sounded and the driver pressed for Receive, didn't pick up the handset because there was an open mike system.

'Yes?'

'We've found no Berinov, Dmitri, doing any major import-export business in Moscow. The only two businesses under that name are a car dealership and a brothel.'

'And the Mercedes?'

'It's rented from Galactica Lease and Rental, on the Garden Ring.'

'Okay.' The driver pressed for End.

'So what do you say?' the man beside me asked.

'I work mainly out of St Petersberg and Tashkent. My suppliers -'

'The business card reads Moscow.'

'It always sounds better. More central.'

'Why do you rent your Mercedes?'

'Convenience. I'm abroad a lot. Galactica looks after it for me till I get back.'

'She didn't seem depressed? Antanova?'

Definitely KGB, kept switching the subject, watching for my reaction.

'Antanova? No, I don't think so. A bit tired, maybe, after the show. I suppose that's understandable.'

'So when you left the club, you drove her home?'

'Not all the way. She -'

'Why not?'

'I was expected back, and it was already -'

'So how did she get home?'

'I put her into a taxi.'

'Even though you said you were honoured to talk to her, and no doubt found her very attractive.'

'I needed sleep.' I looked at my watch. 'I'm on a plane for New York in the morning, if they've got a runway cleared.'

Then there were suddenly no more questions. He settled further back in the corner, keeping the gun in the aim and not moving his head or his eyes beyond ten degrees or so from my body. The safety catch was off and his finger was inside the trigger guard: the bullet would be in me before I could even prepare for the strike.

In the silence I sat listening to the soft hum of the heater fan.

The driver's eyes were in the mirror, watching the other man, waiting, I thought, for orders. The heavy snowflakes were steadily deepening the blanket on the bonnet of the car, jewelling it with a rainbow scintillation; some of them eddied, touching the windscreen and melting there, to leave water trails. A vision of Christmas flashed through my mind, robins and holly and candles on the tree in the firelight, reality seeking shelter.

Then the man beside me was speaking again in a monotone, watching my face now, his eyes moving from one of mine to the other. 'I don't like your story. It has many gaps, many inconsistencies, many… improvisations. I have listened to stories like yours before. I think -'

'But look, I've answered every -'

'I think you may be dangerous to certain associates of mine, and so we will remove the danger.' Flicking his eyes to the mirror, meeting the driver's. 'You know where to go.'