The Ice House (17 page)

27

The sky was bruised black and grey, the ground colours dreary shades of the same, the trees brown bare lines poking broken fingers at a washed-out suffusion of light lost behind the cloudbank. Carl sat in the wicker window seat and watched a slow, desultory rain streaming across the panes. This was why he had left Finland, he thought, or one of the reasons: there was a short and glorious summer, usually no more than a month of good weather; a winter consisting of four months of unremitting darkness and cold; then this – greyness, everything grey and chill. The light had a fuzzy, diluted quality, like they were living under the sea. It wasn’t surprising the suicide rate was so high.

He turned from it and looked at Rebecca, standing at the next window along, leaning an elbow on the long, wooden, curved sill, smiling at him. He smiled back. She looked like she wanted to jump up and down with excitement. ‘That’s great,’ he said. She had just told him that Viktor had informed her that her mother had been found safe and measures were in place to get her here.

‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait to see her. I tried calling her but her phone’s still not working. Your brother says she’s probably already on a plane.’ The face creased up again in a grin which for a moment eclipsed the grey view across the water behind her, the lowering day. He let his eyes stay on the freckles across the bridge of her nose, then put a hand out and touched the top of her head. ‘I’m very glad,’ he said. ‘It will all work out. I told you it would.’ She bent her head slightly and laughed, said something like ‘thank you’. He saw the clean parting of blonde hair running away from her scalp and for the first time realised that the hair must have been dyed, not originally blonde. He could see the roots, about a centimetre of her natural colour. He turned in the chair. ‘You have red hair? I didn’t notice before.’

She nodded. ‘You mean ginger. I hate it. It’s dyed. I need to redo it.’

He stared at her, stared at the freckles and the hair, tried to see her with hair completely red, but couldn’t.

‘I like this house,’ she said. ‘It’s massive. My mum will like it too.’

I hate it
, he thought, but said nothing. Ten years ago, when he had finally returned from the States to Europe, around Christmas of the same year he had first met Liz in Viktor’s London home, it had been in this house that they had met again. There had been, by agreement, no contact at all between them in the four months he was away, but that hadn’t been any use. It had all just started again the moment they saw each other, behind his brother’s back, under his nose, in
this
house. And when she had left without warning, that too had been from here. He could remember all too well the miserable, tense time that had followed. Viktor had set people looking for her – though it had quickly become apparent that she had left of her own accord – and they had waited here for news. Just the two of them. It had been a weird period, Carl’s relationship with Liz a desperate secret. His brother’s reactions to her departure had been public and extreme. He had been sobbing and crying about it, telling Carl that he had planned to live here with her, have children with her, that this was ‘their’ place, the place they had agreed would be their family home. It was the only time he had ever seen Viktor like that. It had been like watching someone he didn’t recognise.

‘I’m sorry I woke you,’ Rebecca said, ‘but I just had to tell you.’

He nodded. ‘It’s great news. And I wasn’t asleep.’

They were in the wooden tower at the western end of the house, on the top floor in a circular room with 360-degree windows and views across the inlet and the forest. Once he had slept with Liz in here, whilst Viktor was out on a boat. The whole house was full of snapshots like that, bristling with electric richness, laced with guilt. There – behind him – was the actual pine lounger they had used, the same one. The cushions and blankets would be different. The table, the new fireplace, the bookcase with a selection of reading material someone on Viktor’s staff had doubtless been paid to pick – none of that he recalled.

He had been sprawled on the lounger for most of the morning, in a fresh set of clothes which were now as crumpled and creased as those he had taken off. He looked at his mobile again. It was just before two in the afternoon. He had slept for nearly four hours, without disturbance, without dreams that he could recall. That would have to do.

‘I’m glad this is almost over,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well.’ He grinned at her and held a hand out in the air for her to high-five. She slapped it then grabbed his palm and held on, smiling at him. He nodded, half to her, half to himself, acknowledging the feelings. A short time ago she had meant nothing to him, but something had changed that. They had been through things together. They had a history. ‘I was in the army,’ he said. ‘Did I tell you that?’

‘You told me.’ She was still smiling, still holding his hand, looking right into his eyes.

‘Me and you – we have a bond now,’ he said. ‘A bond that doesn’t go away.’ He pointed at her heart, then at his. ‘I only ever got that feeling before when I was in the army, with people in my team. It’s unique. It only happens when you’ve been through that kind of thing – the stuff we’ve just survived. What you’ve seen now has been terrible. Like combat. No different.’ He tapped his temple, held eye contact with her. ‘It’s in your head now. When it pops up in future – as it will, all these scary images – you can choose what you think about it. You can choose to remember what it gave us, this positive thing. It gave us this permanent bond.’ He put his free hand on his chest, over his heart. ‘We went through it and we survived. We
know
each other.’ He laughed awkwardly. She laughed back. Her face was more serious now – she was listening – but she was still holding his hand. ‘It’s hard to explain …’ he said. ‘I’m not too good at this.’

‘No. I get it,’ she said. She smiled again, then winked at him.

He let go of her hand. ‘Good.’ He took a deep breath, then stood up. ‘I might have to go out later,’ he said. ‘I have to talk to Viktor now to find out.’ Viktor had been ‘communicating’ with Zaikov. Things weren’t working out quite as smoothly as anticipated.

She frowned. ‘When will you be back?’

‘I don’t know. As soon as possible.’

The smiles were gone. She was frowning.

‘Until then,’ he said. ‘Until I get back, or until he gets your mother over here – you’re with Viktor. OK?’

He found Viktor in one of the lounge rooms downstairs, finishing a mobile call, the earpiece in, pacing around the room, in another suit now, the jacket thrown across a chair. He ended the call as Carl came in.

‘You found the mother,’ Carl said, but immediately Viktor pulled a face, looked behind Carl to see if Rebecca was following.

‘She’s in the round room, in the tower,’ Carl said. ‘
Did
you find her mother?’

Viktor shook his head. ‘I just told her that,’ he said. ‘Sorry. She seemed really worried. I couldn’t get anything done because she kept asking me about her mother. You were asleep and the fucking staff still haven’t got here. I had to play kids’ games with her, or try to.’ He shrugged. ‘So I told her we found her mother. It worked. She cheered up, left me alone.’

‘She’s really excited.’

‘What else could I do?’

‘You shouldn’t lie to her.’

‘Like you haven’t?’

Carl frowned, but let it go. ‘Have you spoken to Zaikov?’

‘Yes. He wants to see you.’

Carl sighed, sat down on one of the chairs. ‘What for?’

‘It’s the right way to do things.
A question of pride and ­honour.
’

‘Fucking bullshit.’

‘I agree. But that’s the way he thinks – he’s old, it’s the world he’s come from. Will you do it?’

‘What’s the point?’

‘To show respect. To apologise. Because you took four ­hundred thousand euros of his money and fucked up.’

Carl looked up at him. ‘Because I didn’t kill an innocent kid?’

Viktor sat down opposite him, shrugged. ‘I’m not judging you. I would have done the same. But these are the consequences. He comes from a long-disappeared age when there was nothing but promises between crooks. No law, no state. I’m talking about the nineties, when the Soviet state collapsed.’ He smiled wryly. ‘So he thinks that way, maybe? Or maybe he just wants to sound you out? I have no idea, really. But I thought it was a small concession to make, something we can easily do. So I’ve arranged a meet at three. Will you do it?’

‘I say sorry? That’s it?’

‘Go and meet him, show respect, say sorry. Like in a movie. Imagine he’s Sicilian….’ He laughed, but Carl didn’t find it funny.

‘Do you come with me?’

Viktor shook his head. ‘I have other things to deal with. I’ve spoken to him, set it up. Your safety is guaranteed. You’re my brother.’

‘Do I take
anyone
with me?’

‘You seem worried, but there’s no need. This is being done on trust, as a favour to me. You can go in alone, as my brother – that’s all the protection you’ll need.’

‘So I go in alone and I apologise. Then what? He gives us a price?’

‘No. And then we move on. The apology is the price. We repay the fee, of course – all four hundred thousand. Compared to the amounts we’re set to gain from this alliance it’s a drop in the ocean.’

‘And this is not about his son? You’re sure of that?’

‘He has never suspected you of involvement in that—’

‘I wasn’t involved—’

‘—because I protected you from suspicion. You know I did. As far as that goes the danger was always to
me
. But no longer.’

‘Because you told him it was the bodyguards that killed him?’

‘Because of the money involved. It will make both of us as strong as Mikhael Ivanovich. That’s a powerful incentive for Zaikov. And for me.’ He smiled. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

Carl sighed. The money. It was nothing to do with honour or connections, he thought, everything to do with the money. It always was. ‘Did you find out the reason he wanted Rebecca’s family dead?’ he asked.

‘That’s his business. I didn’t ask.’ He stood up. ‘Obviously, I would never wholly trust Zaikov. But I trust what’s at stake here. Believe me, the money will mean more to him than the life of a little girl.’

28

Julia stood in the steadily moving queue of people waiting to go through UK passport control in Heathrow, with Drake just behind her. She had in her hand the passport he had given her. It had got her onto a plane in Seville without any problems, but now she was more worried. She turned back to Drake and whispered quietly into his ear, ‘They will have some electronic checking device – they will check it against my face.’

He put a hand on her elbow and smiled, ‘They don’t.’

The passport, he had told her, was valid and real, not stolen. She didn’t know how that worked, but the picture in the back bore only a very superficial resemblance to her. ‘It was issued ten years ago,’ Drake said, when she pointed that out. ‘You are bound to look a bit different now. They take that into account. If they notice at all.’ He seemed unworried.

He had been a model of calm, controlled efficiency since she had got into his car, nearly five hours ago. Places had already been booked on a flight out of Seville and to get through the gate in time he had driven far in excess of the speed limit once they got onto the motorway. When she had asked him what might happen if the police stopped them he had simply said, ‘I’ll get a ticket,’ and shrugged.

‘You don’t think they’ll recognise me?’

‘You clearly don’t know how useless they are. Besides, the information I have is that they’re not even looking for you.’

She had told him what had happened with Molina in a kind of desperate confessional rush which she had later regretted, because when he had it all he had simply commented, ‘OK, that’s way more information than I expected. More than you ever need to say again, to anyone. For future reference don’t ever tell anyone the knifing bit. Not ever. If you have to give an account of it, say he went out to make a call and you ran, stole his car. That’s a safer version.’

There had been a long silence between them then, and she had sat fretting about it and the possible consequences until a few minutes later he had said, ‘But I’m impressed. You handled it well.’ She had started to cry. He had passed her some tissues but hadn’t slowed down.

After that he had showed her the documents they had prepared for her. She had no idea how he had arranged everything in the time available but imagined they must have a pre-prepared stock of false documents they could choose from as need arose. ‘They’ being people who worked for Michael Rugojev, people back in Spain, she supposed, but wasn’t clear about that. Things Drake said seemed to suggest he was usually based in Germany.

The papers were all in the name of Alice Rogers, someone five years older than her, British. She wondered what had happened to the real Alice Rogers. In a brown envelope he had given her Rogers’ passport, a selection of visas, three of her credit cards, a London tube pass, an AA membership card, a driving licence, and other paperwork, all in Rogers’ name.

‘The credit cards draw on Mr Rugojev’s funds,’ he said.

‘This woman doesn’t exist?’

‘She exists. But she doesn’t know she exists in two places.’ He smiled again, then added, ‘It’s harmless. Don’t worry.’

The woman checking their queue looked Somalian, very tall and thin, in a blue uniform. She scanned the passport as Julia held her breath, wondering frantically if Drake had any idea what to do if they started questioning her. But the woman
only looked at her as she handed the passport back, without any interest at all, saying nothing. Julia walked through, sighed, turned and waited for Drake. They then both walked past the one-way customs windows without any problems, out into the circle of people holding signs, or watching out for relatives. ‘Told you,’ he said.

He steered her through the small crowd by gently holding her elbow. She was wearing clothing he had given her in Seville: pale blue slacks and matching jacket, a white shirt, her own boots, a little shoulder bag. In the car at the airport he had even produced a hairbrush and carefully brushed out her hair while she sat in the passenger seat, turned away from him. There had been blood matted into it, he said. Then he had produced the clothing and she had changed into it sitting in the car, with him helping, because her knee was still stiff and there wasn’t much space to pull clothes off and on. The clothes fitted quite well. He gave her a pair of his own black socks from a briefcase. It would have to do, he said, for now. ‘How did you know my size?’ she had asked. ‘I didn’t,’ he replied. ‘These all belong to my girlfriend. We were lucky.’

She imagined she looked like she was on a business trip, and had asked him about that, whether there was a story to stick to. ‘We’re in business together,’ he said. ‘We buy cheap property in Spain. We’re coming back from a trip. But no one will ask.’

Outside the terminal it was a normal, grey, London day. There was a car waiting for them in the drop-off zone. The driver got out as they walked over, handed Drake the keys, nodded and walked off. He opened the driver’s door.

‘Who was he?’ she asked.

‘No idea.’

‘You do this all the time? This kind of thing?’

‘This and other things.’ He smiled at her again. ‘Get in.
We’re on a pretty tight schedule now. I have to hand you over to someone else. They’re waiting.’