Sleepers

65

Komsomolsk had two airports due to the presence of the Sukhoi factory. Milton looked out of the window and saw the city laid out like patchwork below him. The city and its suburbs stretched out for over twenty miles along the left bank of the Amur, a large watercourse that looked particularly wide as they circled above it at five thousand feet. Milton had read the Wikipedia entry for the city during their layover; the city was spread out in two distinct sections: the central area, which housed the shipyard and the Dzemgi, an area that had coalesced around the Sukhoi factory. The central, older area featured the Stalinist architecture that they had nominally come to photograph, while the area around the factory was composed of modern, bland apartment blocks.

Their flight was scheduled to land at Khurba airbase, the second of the two airports. The pilot came over the intercom and delivered an update in Russian that Milton did not understand.

“We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes,” Ross translated for him.

The flight attendants started to pass along the aisle to prepare the cabin for landing.

“Any other ideas how we’re going to play this?” Ross asked him.

Milton had been thinking about that. He knew that tomorrow was going to be difficult and dangerous. They would be operating in a city where they would have no consular assistance, and they were not travelling under a diplomatic passport. There would be no immunity if they were arrested. They would be alone and vulnerable.

“She wants to meet at midday,” he said. “We’ll scout the area in the morning and, if it looks safe, we’ll wait for her like she asked.”

“And then?”

“We get her out,” he said.

Milton thought that she was going to ask him how they were going to do that, but, instead, she checked her seatbelt and looked out of the porthole window as the ground rushed up to meet them.

She turned back again. “But that’s tomorrow,” she said. “How about today? What are we going to do?”

“We look around the city and take pictures,” Milton said, “just like we’re here to do.”

66

The embassy had booked them a room at the Hotel Voskhod, on Prospekt Pervostroiteleya. It was a new building, seven storeys tall and soulless. It had not been chosen for its amenities, but rather for its location: it was within walking distance of the railway station, and well placed as a hub from which to explore the rest of the town. There was a supermarket on one side of the building and a nightclub on the other.

They went into the reception area and Ross went up to the desk. A clerk was fiddling with a computer and looked up disdainfully when Ross cleared her throat. The conversation proceeded in Russian and Milton understood none of it; he heard the surname of their legends—Burns—and waited as the clerk took Ross’s credit card for incidentals and then printed off two keycards for them.

“Fourth floor,” Ross said once the process was complete.

She led the way to the elevators, summoned a car and stepped inside. Milton followed.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Ross said. “It all checked out.”

“Two Westerners in a place like this,” Milton said. “We won’t go unnoticed.”

“Probably not. She asked me why we were here. I told her we were taking photographs. She seemed to buy it.”

Milton guessed that the hotel would be required to alert the local FSB office that they had two Westerners staying with them, and wouldn’t have been surprised if they were checked out, perhaps even put under light surveillance. He was relaxed at the prospect. They were a long way from Moscow now, and even the FSB, with all its manpower, wouldn’t be able to bring a big team to bear on them at short notice. He doubted that they would see it as a necessity, especially once they established their legends, and even more so given that they would be leaving town in the next day or two, depending upon when and if Anastasiya Romanova made an appearance.

The lift stopped and Milton made his way to room 404. He opened the door with his keycard and went inside. The room was pleasant enough: there was a double bed, a large bureau and two cheap leatherette armchairs. The curtains and carpet were burgundy-coloured and the ceiling seemed to have been made from vinyl; the room was reflected in the polished white surface. Milton had no idea whether the FSB’s reach would extend to being able to bug a room like this, so far from anywhere Westerners might be expected to visit, but he had no wish to take chances; he went over to the radio, turned it on and then went to Ross.

He leaned in close, as if to kiss her on the cheek, and whispered, “It might be bugged.”

She nodded and, before Milton could react, she twisted her head and kissed him on the lips. Milton could taste the mintiness of the gum that she had been chewing. He kissed her back, thinking about the possibility of bugs and cameras, telling himself that he was just playing the part that had been asked of him. She disengaged first, laying the palm of her hand against his cheek. She trailed her fingers across his stubble and gave him a wink. Milton was reminded how attractive she was. Pretty, but, more than that, she had an unruliness to her, an edge that made her different and interesting. This was just business, he told himself. It was all for show.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

Milton collected the camera bags and held them up. “Shall we go and take a look around?”

They decided to walk. The city was laid out with a central hub that was then surrounded by a number of spokes that radiated out from it. Ross bought a guidebook and led the way to the unofficial symbol of the city, the ‘house with a spire’ near Lenin Square. They visited the Cathedral of the Holy Prophet Elijah, stopping in its wide square to take photographs of the five golden bulbs that sat atop its tower. They made their way along Lenin Avenue and Mira Avenue and took pictures of the buildings constructed in the style of Stalin’s neoclassicism. They visited the History Museum, the Exhibition Hall of the Union of Artists and the Zoological Center. They took a taxi to Silinsky Forest, five hundred hectares of virgin pine, spruce and larch within the city limits.

They took photographs as they travelled, both of them carrying the Nikons they had been supplied with on straps around their necks. Milton kept an eye on their surroundings, looking for any sign of surveillance. There were no cars following them, either directly or on parallel streets; no leapfrogging surveillants; no watchers salted ahead of them to pick up their tail; no one with cameras trained on them; nothing. He glanced at Ross, who was seemingly absorbed in her surroundings and either didn’t notice Milton’s occasional distraction or didn’t comment upon it.

Milton led the way to the railway station, heading across a wide parking lot to the main building. It was large, with a central section and two long wings, all of it painted an incongruous pink and white. There were rows of neatly planted trees, a paved area and then a wide space where cars had been parked. Milton had timed their arrival for midday so that he could get a sense of how busy it would be tomorrow. It was quiet, with just a handful of people waiting for their trains.

“What do you think?” Ross said.

“I’d rather it was busier. We’re going to stand out.”

“She’ll be able to find us.”

“And so will the FSB.”

“You think they’re following us?”

Milton looked out into the parking lot. As far as he could tell, they were alone. “I don’t know.”

They walked back outside and set off again toward the river.

“Have you thought how we’re going to do it?” Ross asked him.

Milton looked again; there was no one near them. “We passed an Avis near the hotel,” he said. “I’ll hire a car later and we’ll use that. If she’s here tomorrow, we’ll pick her up and go.”

“Where? How are we going to get her out?”

“We’ll drive south, back to Vladivostok. It’ll take a day—when we get there, we’ll take the ferry to Japan.”

They came upon the embankment. It was the most scenic part of town. The ferry terminal was here, and there was a park laid out around it with a fountain and statues. One statue stood out: four workers holding hammers and shovels and waving their hands as if greeting the party apparatchiks who might have visited to inspect their work. The official story was that a town had first been constructed here by patriotic members of the Komsomol—the Soviet youth league—who had landed on the shores of the Amur and set about building a communist utopia with wide avenues lined with trees, a modern transport system and comfortable housing for all. Milton knew that it was all lies. The region had been turned into one of the most voracious of the gulags during Stalin’s purges, and it was the tens of thousands of political prisoners and Japanese prisoners of war who had really laid those first foundations. It was a city of lies, built atop thousands of unmarked graves.

They took pictures of the statue and then climbed the steps to the ferry terminal. It was an ugly building and was next to a brutal concrete pier that jutted out into the water. The view from the top was impressive, a broad panorama that took in the river—half a mile wide at this point—and the snowy hills on the opposite bank. The embankment itself was a grey and pink stone walkway, and they followed it to the east. They passed an area that was under construction, with large LED screens showing images of the river during winter, with locals wrapped up in heavy coats skating on the ice. It was warm today, as it had been for the duration of Milton’s time in Russia. Steps led down to the water where a stretch of sand had been revealed by the retreating tide, a space for children to splash in the shallows while their parents lay back and enjoyed the sun’s warmth. The temperature would plunge by forty or fifty degrees Fahrenheit between now and the winter; it was difficult to credit.

“My legs are killing me,” Ross said. “How far do you think we’ve walked?”

“Ten miles?” Milton offered. He was tired, but the fresh air had done him good.

She took out her phone and looked at the time. “It’s five o’clock. Can we go back to the hotel?”

Milton could do with sitting down, too, and he was happy that they had wandered enough so that anyone who might have been watching them would be able to report that they had behaved as might have been expected from their legends. “Yes,” he said. “I think we’re done.”

She linked her arm through his. “What are you doing tonight, Mr. Burns?”

He looked over at her; she was smiling mischievously back at him. He remembered the kiss. “Not much,” he said. “Why?”

“Want to get dinner with your wife?”

67

They took turns to freshen up. They had each been provided with the kinds of clothes that travellers might carry in their packs, but, in both cases, the clothes had been chosen for their utilitarian qualities rather than for a night out. Milton showered first and, while he waited for Ross, he dressed in a pair of jeans and a black crew neck. He regarded himself in the room’s mirror; he didn’t care much about how he looked, and this outfit was never going to do him any favours. He went back to the bedroom.

“All yours,” he said.

Ross regarded him. “Very nice, Mr. Burns.”

Milton shook his head and smiled. “I’m going to get some ice.”

“Don’t mind me,” Ross said. She went to the bathroom, allowing the towel to drop before she closed the door. Milton caught a glimpse of her in the mirror, turned his head away and went to the table. He collected the plastic ice bucket, left the room and walked along the corridor to the ice machine. He placed the bucket beneath the chute and pressed the button for ice; the machine chugged and grumbled and, eventually and rather resentfully, ejected a few dirty-looking cubes.

Milton took a moment for himself. He couldn’t drink tonight. He wanted to, very badly, but he knew that it would be unwise. He needed to be careful with Ross and, more than that, he needed to be on his game tomorrow. He was wired tight, all the usual nerves and anxieties amplified now that they were close to the moment of action that might bring the affair to a close. He was as confident as he could be that his planning was good. He had done his best with limited information and an abbreviated timeframe, but their reconnaissance today had been satisfactory and he had discovered no threats that would give him cause to abort.

He knew why he was more nervous than would normally have been the case: it was Ross. He had grown to like her despite—or perhaps because of—her spikiness and unpredictability. He didn’t know how much he trusted himself, and tomorrow was going to offer another, bigger challenge.

The receptionist recommended L’Gold Star, a restaurant that specialised in Russian food with Chinese influences. It was on Ulitsa Alleya Truda, a mile and a half from the hotel, and, on Ross’s insistence, they took the hire car that Milton had rented when they had returned to the hotel from their day’s reconnaissance. The place was small, with fifty covers and basic decoration; it wasn’t much more than a café.

“You take me to the nicest places,” Ross said after the waiter had rather peremptorily shown them to their table.

Milton looked around and saw that there was only one other occupied table. The couple sitting at it had been there before them and, judging from the fact that they were enjoying dessert, it seemed that they had been there for a while. They couldn’t have been FSB surveillants. Milton was satisfied that they were not being watched.

The menus were in Russian, and Ross offered to order for them both. The waiter came back and, without looking up, scribbled down the items that Ross selected, collected the menus and disappeared.

“What did you pick?” Milton asked her.

“You don’t trust me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She grinned. “Cantonese pork ribs and crispy sea bass. We can share. You want a drink?”

“I do,” he said, “but I’m going to pass. So should you. We need to be clear-headed in the morning.”

“Spoilsport,” she complained.

The waiter came back with a tray and two bowls. He grunted something as he deposited the bowls before them; Milton looked down and saw borscht. There were spoons on the table. Milton’s was dirty, but he decided it would not be politic to complain and wiped it on the back of his sleeve. He spooned up a mouthful of the soup.

“Good?” she asked him.

“Very good,” he said, spooning up another mouthful. They hadn’t eaten properly today and he was hungry.

Ross gazed at him across the table as she ate. “How much of what you’ve told me about you is the truth?”

“I can’t remember what I’ve told you.”

“I know the military liaison thing was a line.”

“No,” he admitted. “That’s not strictly true.”

“So what is true?”

“That almost everything is classified.”

“And the bits that aren’t?”

He paused, wondering how much he should tell her. “I was a soldier for a long time.”

“That’s obvious.”

“It was years ago.”

“You can still tell. Did you see any action?”

He smiled weakly; memories flickered like distant flashes of lightning. “Enough for me,” he said.

“Special forces?”

“Eventually. Royal Green Jackets first, then the SAS.”

“And then whatever it is you can’t tell me about.”

Milton nodded, keen to move the conversation away from himself. “What about you? How’d you end up working for SIS?

“None of it was very unusual,” she said. “I’m not that interesting.”

The self-deprecation struck a bum note. Milton guessed that she would enjoy the opportunity to talk about herself. “Go on,” he said. “Tell me.”

She ran through her career highlights, including her recruitment and early years. Milton remembered what he had read in her file and found it more interesting to see which parts she omitted. He wasn’t surprised that she ignored the disgrace of her affair and her child.

“You’ve got secrets too, then?” he said when she was done.

“What do you mean?”

“You left some of it out.”

She eyeballed him. “Meaning?”

“You didn’t say anything about when you got into trouble.”

“You know about that?”

“I’ve seen your file.”

If she was irritated, she did not show it. “Yes,” she said. “I ended up making a series of catastrophically bad choices and sleeping with the secretary to the minister I was responsible for briefing. That was probably the biggest one.”

“But you’re still here,” he said.

“Because I’m fucking good at my job. And who else has got the sort of messed-up private life where no one cares if they jump on a plane to go to a dump like this at the drop of a hat?”

“And there I was,” Milton said, “thinking you were having a good time.”

“Are you kidding?” she said. “This is about the most fun I’ve had since this whole sorry mess got started.”

The waiter collected their empty bowls and replaced them with their main courses. Milton took the sea bass and Ross took the ribs.

“You make any mistakes?” she asked as she chewed on a forkful of pork.

“Too many to count,” Milton said.

“Any like mine?”

“With a woman, you mean?”

She nodded.

“I was married once. It didn’t last long. We were both too young and my career meant too much to me. I was a bad husband.”

“Same,” she said. “Career comes first.”

“Things would’ve been different now,” Milton said. “I’m different. My priorities are different to how they were back then. I’m older. Seen more.”

He stopped. He hadn’t meant to be so frank. He rarely mentioned his ex-wife; it was so long ago that he hardly thought about his failed marriage at all, and, whenever he did, it always triggered a moment of wistfulness.

“Go on,” she said.

He took a drink of water. “Life is all about choices. Every now and again, we have a decision to make that determines how things might look further down the line. The jobs we apply for. The people we meet. I was married before I got into the thing that I do now. I think if I had chosen her instead of my work, I would have been a very different person today. Life would definitely have been different.”

“You wouldn’t have been here?” she said.

He shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“And you wouldn’t have met me.”

She looked at him as she said that, and, as Milton looked up, she held his eye and reached her hand across the table. She slid it over his and left it there for a long beat. Milton found that he was holding his breath; he exhaled, moved his hand away and forked another piece of fish, sliding it into his mouth. He looked up and saw that she was still looking at him. She held his gaze again, her eyes sparkling, and then smiled.

Milton smiled, and then looked down at his plate. He started to think about tomorrow.

Milton knew that he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself. They kissed in the car as soon as he parked it in the lot next to the hotel, both of them hungry for the other. They hurried inside, running their hands over one another in the lift, their mouths pressed together, each drinking in the smells and the tastes, oblivious to the impatient buzz as the elevator reached the fourth floor. They reached the room and tumbled onto the bed, tearing at their clothes, their hands clasped together as she rolled atop him, then sliding underneath the crew neck and pulling it up and over his head, revealing the litany of scars that covered his body.

“Jesus,” she breathed, her nails tracing the raised edges of stab wounds and bullet holes, injuries that told the story of Milton’s career. She laid her palm on his mouth, stifling his retort, and then leaned down and kissed the point where a thug in Macedonia had shivved him. She kissed the burn beneath his left breast and the puckered entry point of the 9mm slug that had just missed his liver. She kissed down and down and Milton closed his eyes, loathing himself, knowing that he was betraying her and hating what he knew he was going to have to do.