The Ice House (19 page)

31

Zaikov’s boat was a twenty-one-metre conversion, built in Finland in the seventies, sold to the Russian state for marine research, then converted to a luxury yacht on the back of the collapse of the communist regime. Zaikov had paid for the conversion, but he would have got the yacht itself for a fraction of its value because that was the way it worked in the days of Yeltsin – everything the state had once held was sold off cheap to those in favour.

Creeping into the heart of Helsinki south harbour, into a berth often reserved for the boats of visiting monarchs or heads of state, it drew a small crowd of onlookers. Carl stood in the market square, amongst the dwindling tourists, watching the slow docking procedure. As it went on, the big boat ­manoeuvring very cautiously into position, the crowd began to get bored and thinned out. They wouldn’t know whose boat it was. It was flagged to the Isle of Man and called
Bravo Delta Two
.

In any case, Zaikov wasn’t a celebrity oligarch like those the world could read about in magazines or dedicated online sites. He kept a low profile. Even the boat wasn’t slapping new wealth in your face – it was old, elegant, slightly faded, and lacking the sleek sci-fi lines that were the current fashion. Viktor leased a modern ten-metre model which looked like a spaceship. But Zaikov’s yacht still bore traces of the working vessel it had been, complete with ice-breaker hull. You could see the luxury – the three-tiered sun decks at the stern, one with a pool, the helipad, the cluster of jet skis and smaller boats stowed under awnings – but it wasn’t screamed at you. It was a statement of some sort to bring the thing here, to arrive in Finland like this, to take this particular berth in the heart of the capital, in full view of the cathedral, the parliament, the president’s offices. But not a statement about Russia – hence the absence of a Russian flag.

Zaikov had extensive interests in Finland. He was here for an AGM for one of his largest holdings – a multinational logging company. Probably that was what Viktor was buying into. The ceremonies had already started in the Kalasjatorppa Hotel, in the west of the city, twenty minutes away, and Zaikov would speak and meet there within a couple of hours. From there, Viktor had been told, he would use a house on the small island of Kaskisaari, in Helsinki south harbour, not returning to the boat at all.

Carl had parked the motorbike in a side street a little further back, the gun left in the locked top box, the helmet clipped there too, the keys pushed under the seat. He could have left the helmet dangling from the handlebars, the top box on the pavement beside the bike, and been more or less guaranteed that no one would interfere. There were parts of Helsinki where people still left their doors unlocked.

Before they had even got the mooring ropes secured, a column of four shiny black Mercedes pulled onto the dock alongside the boat. The drivers got out and lit cigarettes, chatted, waited. Carl wondered if they were hired locally. They looked local. There would be no guns, he thought – Zaikov couldn’t risk that sort of thing here. But would they have guns on the boat? He didn’t think so.

He walked closer – past the old indoor market building – and watched the crew moving around on deck, organising the arrival. He tried to count them and thought he could see around ten, all in smart white uniforms. The online details for the boat – all publicly available – stated there were crew ­quarters for twenty-six, five luxuriously appointed staterooms and guest cabins for ten. He watched them lowering a steel gangway to the quay and securing it, then checked his phone again. He had tried calling Viktor many times, to check on Rebecca, but he wasn’t picking up. That was irritating, but not unusual. Since there were no last-minute messages calling it off, the plan stood. He would meet Zaikov, apologise. Viktor would take care of the rest.

He waited another five minutes, then walked over to the cars and the gangway. There were no police vehicles, no security presence that he could see, the drivers barely looked at him, the people up on deck were all busy, so he just walked up the gangway and waited for a response.

A man in a suit – definitely not boat crew – stepped from somewhere and blocked the entrance before he was halfway up the ramp. He was about Carl’s age, though shorter and slighter. Carl stopped about two metres down from him. ‘I’m here to see Zaikov,’ he said, in English. ‘I’m here about Rebecca Martin. My name is Carl Bowman.’ It was what Viktor had instructed him to say.

The man repeated back the details and Carl waited whilst he spoke into a concealed microphone. There was a visible earpiece. The man spoke very quietly, in Russian. He didn’t seem to have recognised either name.

‘Please wait,’ he said, after a moment. Carl watched his eyes scanning the dock behind him, quick professional eyes, looking for others who might be with him, for his transport, for anyone who might be watching. After about a minute his eyes came back to Carl and he stared at him, no expression in the gaze. ‘OK. Follow me.’

Carl stepped past him onto the deck and raised his arms a little, in case a search was coming. The guy didn’t touch him though. He pointed to a set of steps leading off the deck, down below, then led the way.

What he
felt
– going down the companionway into the boat, turning the corner at the bottom, walking to the open set of double doors guarded by another much bigger guy in a suit, arms akimbo, waiting to close the doors after him, shutting him in – what he
felt
was that he had missed something, somewhere along the line, missed a detail.

The risk was clear – that Viktor was totally wrong about Zaikov, that Zaikov would ignore anything he had agreed with Viktor, regardless of the business price. Zaikov was a wealthy man – maybe he didn’t need an alliance with Viktor to the extent that Viktor thought he did. Maybe his ‘principles’ came first.

That risk had been twisting in Carl’s stomach for the last three hours. But he had felt fear before and he knew how to slide his attention away from it. If he didn’t then nothing would be achieved. The fear wasn’t the detail he was missing.

It was something about the very idea that Zaikov was behind the contract on Rebecca. Federov, the man who had the proof on that, had not showed up on time. Instead, Viktor had showed him documentation which
might
prove that the money sent to Carl’s account had come from a company which traced back to the Zaikovs. Not proof such as a court would need, but enough to suggest that Viktor was
probably
right about Zaikov placing the contract. Yet he wished now that he had taken photos of those documents with his phone, so he could check them again. Because something about them was tugging at his mind. What if Viktor had made a mistake?

The doors shut behind him with a heavy click. He didn’t look behind but knew that only one of the security people had come in with him and was standing there now about three metres back, doors blocked. He kept his eyes on the man standing at the opposite end of the room. Sergei Zaikov. No doubt about it. He’d studied the photos.

The room was like a lounge in a plush bar, with low easy chairs and tables, at the moment stacked around the edges. A crimson carpet, gold fittings. Carl imagined it would be the reception room. The lights were all off and there were blinds pulled over all the windows, so it wasn’t well lit. When they met people here, did corporate entertainment, there would be waiters taking your coats and orders. But there was no one now – just Zaikov and the guy behind Carl.

Zaikov was leaning against the back of one of the chairs, staring at him, his arms hanging at his sides. Carl could hear him breathing in short, quick breaths, his fingers clenching and unclenching like he was doing some arthritis exercise. He was eighty-three, Carl had read, and it was undeniably an old man standing there – an old man dressed in a smart suit, with a shirt and open collar. Short and stooped, very thin, drawn features. The eyes – at this distance – looked black, slightly recessed under a heavy forehead.

‘I’m known as Carl Bowman,’ Carl said, again sticking to the formula Viktor had agreed, using English. ‘That’s how you will have heard of me. Carl Bowman. I’m here about Rebecca Martin.’

Zaikov didn’t move, didn’t speak. Carl stepped forward a couple of paces, trying to better see the face, but all he could see were lips set tight, an unflinching gaze. He couldn’t work out what it meant – that Zaikov hadn’t heard him, or that he was seriously pissed off with him? He took a breath. ‘She’s a ten-year-old girl,’ he said into the silence, thinking more explanation was needed. His voice sounded very shaky. ‘You put a contract on her and her family. I was meant to execute it. I didn’t. I’ve come to apologise.’

One of Zaikov’s hands came across to his stomach and he clutched it, like he was in pain. The breathing was louder but still the eyes didn’t move.

‘I think you know what I’m talking about,’ Carl said, uncertainly. ‘My brother Viktor has spoken about it with you. It’s because of that I’m here. I come with the greatest respect, to apologise. I come because you have arranged this with Viktor.’

No reaction. Had the man heard at all? Maybe he
was
deaf. Carl glanced back at the security guy but he was staring at the floor.

‘Could you hear what I said, sir?’ he asked, gently. He tried to sound polite. ‘I don’t want to waste your time. I’m here to apologise. I’ve come to assure you that your money will be repaid, and to ask you to cancel this contract.’ Did he also need to say that he had taken precautions before walking in – to lie about that? Surely Zaikov would know he couldn’t just kill him, here, in the middle of Helsinki harbour? His walk up the gangway must have been recorded on countless security cameras, observed by many.

He started to repeat himself but then Zaikov stepped away from the chair, taking his eyes off him for the first time. The hand went up to his mouth and he leaned sideways. He made a noise in his throat. It took Carl a moment to realise he was retching. It went on for a few seconds without him actually being sick. Then he took deep breaths through his mouth, produced a white handkerchief, dabbed at his lips, straightened up. ‘I feel sick when I look at you,’ he said, in quick Russian.

Carl frowned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, replying in Russian. ‘I don’t understand. I want to …’ He stopped. He wasn’t sure how to respond, or what Zaikov’s words had meant. But he could read the expression on the old man’s face all too clearly now – the downward twist to the lips, the bitterness in the pulled back cheeks. ‘I’m not sure—’ he started again, but then another door opened behind Zaikov and a younger man strode in.

Tall, fit, in his forties. ‘Is this the fucker?’ he demanded loudly, in Russian. ‘Is this him?’ There was a baseball bat in his hands. He started to cross the room, headed for Carl. Carl shifted stance, his hands coming up, his brain starting to re­assess everything he had thought about the meet. There was some confusion, clearly, and he had to dispel it quickly. He tried to get the one behind him into the periphery of his vision, and started to say something at the same time – again mentioning Viktor’s name. But Zaikov spoke sharply, raising a hand. ‘Not here,’ he said feebly. ‘Not now.’

The man with the bat stopped immediately. He was halfway between Zaikov and Carl. Carl thought he might be the oldest surviving son – Andrei. Carl started to speak quickly to him, trying to get an explanation out: ‘I don’t know what you think I’m here for, or who I am, but you should have known I was coming—’

‘Is it really him?’ the guy asked, ignoring him and glancing across at Zaikov. ‘Why is he here? Is he totally fucking stupid?’

Zaikov snapped something back, too quick for Carl to get because his attention was behind him now. He had heard movement there. He spun to see the security guy pointing something at him – something plastic, brightly coloured. It was like a playground toy, a joke gun. The thing went off with a silly popping noise and two little darts leaped towards him, so slowly he could see them come out of the gun, see the thin trail of wire spooling out behind them.

It was a taser. The darts hooked into his jacket. No time to dodge or duck.

There was a split second of lucidity, then his whole body tightened, snapped straight, his mouth open and yelling. A massive contraction shot through him, turning him into a rigid knot. He was aware of it, conscious, but every muscle frozen. He saw the guy staring at him, pulling the trigger, saw the little wires in the air, connecting him to the gun, saw the ceiling spinning off as he went down. Then his head smashed off the floor, he rolled into a fetal ball.

There was a gap long enough to feel his body buzzing like a fused machine, his head spinning with dizziness, then it started again. But this time the pain was like a vice around his chest, real pain that made him scream, made him think that if they kept doing it his heart would stop.

32

Julia had driven badly at first, so badly she almost crashed reversing out from the concrete space. Wrong side of the road. She had pulled out automatically as if driving in Spain, a car had braked, hooted her. So she had pulled to the side of the road, tried to calm herself. She couldn’t do something stupid that would attract police attention. When she started again she was more careful, easing herself back into it.

Traffic was lighter than she remembered in London. There was a satnav built into the car. She had to stop again coming up to Ealing Broadway and work out how to program it. She put in the first address she had seen on the laptop, on the Hammersmith Road. The device had told her it would take her twenty minutes to get there, but it had taken over half an hour.

She was behind the place now, in a side street near Brook Green. A posh bit of Hammersmith. She had been sitting in the car for a few minutes thinking about what she was doing. But nothing was clear. She couldn’t see how thinking was going to help. She needed to know if Rebecca was here. Here or in one of the other addresses – she thought she could remember them all. She would go through them one by one.

She got out and walked down to Hammersmith Road, a wide, two-lane artery running towards town from Hammersmith Broadway, busy with cars, trucks, buses, courier bikes. The block Bowman’s flat was in was on the north side, off to her left a little – a seven-floor structure that had scaffolding around one end. There were barriers narrowing the road in front of it, skips and building trucks. They were renovating it, a sign said. To get to the main entrance you had to walk under a section of scaffolding.

She walked as normally as she could, got to the big glass double doors and noted they were wedged open, despite the security lock and number pad. She pushed one of them open, stepped into a vestibule. It was quieter, but she could hear banging noises from inside the place, punctuated by the whine of a drill.

Straight ahead – beyond another set of doors, also wedged open – there were two lifts, to the right a large panel with individual buzzers for each flat. There was plastic sheeting, stained with boot marks, leading through the doors towards the lifts. To her left the wall was a rack of locked letterboxes. She stepped up to the buzzers and looked for his name, found it at once. Top floor, flat 75.
Bowman
. She swallowed, turned, walked out, suddenly overcome with fear.

She crossed the road at a run and walked towards the Broadway a bit, glancing back all the time. There was a coffee shop a little further on and she went in, sat at a bar in the window, from where she could see the entrance. A man took her order for a tea but she didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes on the building.

She tried to work out which set of windows would be Bowman’s flat but had no idea which end it would be. The furthest end was wrapped in scaffolding and protective boarding, so you couldn’t even see the windows of the rooms. She couldn’t get her head to compute the possibility that Rebecca might be being held inside the place she was looking at. There were builders, everything was public, life going on as normal. How would it be possible to get her daughter into the place? She couldn’t believe it.

Her eyes dropped to street level, looked at the entrance again. Some­one walked in, a woman with two kids – younger than Rebecca – came out. Her eyes moved sideways. A man standing near to the start of the scaffolding, on the pavement, was facing her. Her eyes switched to him because she suddenly realised he was staring in her direction. She focused on his face. He was looking right at her. She heard her breath slip out in a gasp. Was it the man she had seen in the crowd at La Linea, the man with the pistol? He had the same backpack, the same clothes. He turned away immediately and walked quite casually under the section of scaffolding. It went around the corner of the building into the next street, so she couldn’t see if he had emerged at the other end or not. But he didn’t walk back onto Hammersmith Road, and he didn’t go into the building.

She was stunned. Was
that
Bowman? There couldn’t be another explanation. But if that was him, where had Rebecca been when she had seen him in La Linea in the middle of the riot? She started to shake because the desperate, horrible facts seemed suddenly bitterly clear – she had been that close to Rebecca in La Linea,
that
close – she had looked at Bowman and he had looked at her, then he had got away. If she had followed him, shouted out to him, anything, then maybe she could have changed things. Why hadn’t she run to the nearest police, told them, begged them to go after him?

She got out the phone Drake had given her and called him. He answered at once. ‘He’s here,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve seen him.’

‘Where are you?’ His voice was calm. ‘And who do you mean?’

‘Bowman. I saw him in Spain, and I’ve seen him here. I’m in Hammersmith, outside the address …’

‘Why did you go there?’

‘Don’t worry about that. You’re looking for Bowman – well, I’m telling you I’ve seen him. I’ve found him. You need to get here now.’

‘You’ve seen someone outside the place, or inside?’

‘Outside. He was standing around, watching me …’

‘How did you know it was Bowman? It could be our man. There will be at least one of our people there. Where exactly are you now?’

‘In a coffee shop, opposite.’

‘Can you get back to the car? Did you use the car?’

‘I used the car, yes. But you need to get here—’

‘You should go back to the car. Now.’

‘No. I can’t just sit by and wait. I want to go over there. I want to check. I let him get away once, but not this time. Will you come here? Will you help?’

‘Listen. There are problems you don’t know about. What you’re suggesting is fucking dangerous – for you, for Rebecca …’ Abruptly, he sounded different – not calm at all – anxious enough to make her pause.

There was silence for a few moments. ‘You should come here, then,’ she said. ‘We can work out what to do.’

‘Listen to me!’ He almost shouted it. ‘You remember the man Rudy? I’m at his place now and someone has been here, there’s been a fight, there’s blood. Do you understand? Rudy is not here.’

‘Rudy?’

‘The guy who was meant to meet you in London. The guy whose house you were meant to wait in.’

That Rudy. But she had no idea who he was. So he’d been in a fight – what did that mean? And why did Drake assume there was a connection? In the front of her head there was only one thing – that Rebecca might be up there, right opposite her, metres away. ‘When is Michael coming?’ she asked. ‘He needs to know about this. You need to tell him I’ve found Bowman.’

‘OK.’ She heard his impatient sigh. ‘We’ll do it this way. Stay where you are. Don’t move from where you are. You understand? I will come to you. Do you hear?’

‘I hear.’ She cut the connection, irritated that he was giving orders suddenly. Besides, why would he think the man she had seen was one of Michael’s men? She had said she saw the same man in Spain, told him that.

A blur of confusing connections formed in her head, ending with a sudden doubt about Michael Rugojev. With nothing concrete to back it up, no clear reason. But still …

She got off the stool and walked out, without waiting for the tea. She crossed the road and looked down along the line of the building, under the scaffolding. No sign of the man. She took a deep breath and spoke aloud, without realising it. ‘I might be mistaken. Maybe it wasn’t him.’ How clearly had she seen him? She had a good view now, but not back in Spain. Her nerves were overwrought, she was exhausted, living on adrenalin. It was likely she was being really stupid, that it wasn’t the same man at all.