Vagabond (16 page)

He was a full inch shorter than Frankie and wore just a T-shirt, jeans and open sandals. She saw on his bare right forearm a tattoo of a pistol. Frankie was against a wall and he said in her ear – and she bent to hear him better, ‘How would you describe your life, Miss Frances?’

‘It’s Frankie. My life, if you must know, is fucking boring.’ She had had two boyfriends in her fifteen weeks at the university: a boy who was in the hockey second team, who thought she should stand on a touchline and watch him; another who was second-year English and wanted to be an actor. A bit of sex, not much . . .

They’d gone upstairs. He’d said on the landing, ‘Could you handle something, Miss Frances, that’s not fucking boring?’

She hadn’t needed to reply. There was a couple in a room and he told them to go. They grabbed their clothing and bolted. He’d closed the door and undressed her. She’d thought it was adult sex – amazing and sweaty, quite unlike the actor and the hockey boy. She reckoned she grew up. There was no curtain and a streetlight shone across the bed. They dressed. He had a biro wedged in his wallet, and asked her to write on his palm her mobile number. They’d gone down the stairs and into the music. All eyes were on him and her, and he manoeuvred a way through the crowd. They went together out into the night. He smacked her buttock roughly and half smiled, then went right towards Andersonstown. She turned left towards Finaghy and a bus for the Malone road.

She had never seen him again in the flesh. A month later she had been called and contact with Maude established – a good name: Maude Gonne McBride had been the wife of a patriot executed by the Crown, firing squad, in 1916 after the Rising. She had seen his picture, though, on television: the police called his arrest ‘significant’. He was Tomas Doherty, held on remand at Maghaberry. He’d chosen her and she had passed the initial tests. She had no regrets.

She told the clerk at the Dresdner Bank, showing him her passport, her account number, and gave him the details of the bank in Prague to which the monies should be transferred. She spoke briskly, as if the movement of funds on that scale was not unusual.

Then Frankie took another taxi, back to Tegel, and checked in on the Prague flight under a different name.

It would be good to see the man when he came: they would be partners. He would need her for the negotiations.

The restaurant served only Russian food: the waiters were immigrants. He had enjoyed his morning walk and now Timofey Simonov was with those who thought they were his friends.

A table had been booked at the back of the restaurant. Across the room, plate-glass picture windows gave a view onto the street, the river esplanade and the tall spa villas from the end of the nineteenth century and churches, the whole topped with the trees changing colour and clear blue skies. He had ordered
golubtsi
to start: cabbage stuffed with millet. He would follow with
kurniki
: chicken pie with rice, hard-boiled egg and mushrooms. He would drink mineral water bottled in the north Caucasus, and would talk in Russian. The conversation would be about grandchildren, though he did not have any, the price of property, political developments at home and the influence of the
siloviki
. He would neither contribute nor share opinions. He would laugh when others laughed. He told them about his dogs and when they had last put up a deer in the woods behind his home. He was different from all of the four men around the table.

He couldn’t see the window: his back was to the door. The other four had jockeyed for positions where they could observe who entered the restaurant. He thought that, still, they kept to the habits of the Motherland. One had successfully founded a bank in Cypriot Limassol; one had sold a Siberian oil well to the state – the money transfer had been honoured; the third had been a KGB officer of the old regime and now did cyber work from abroad for the SVR, his former employer’s successor. The last had owned a group in St Petersburg. It had been taken over, he had been rewarded and had escaped with his life. All four wished to face the door. Each had two bodyguards, one on the street, the other at a nearby table. They would be armed: arrangements made with officials in the town for the issue of legal permits. He had left the brigadier behind. There were firearms in a floor safe in the basement office at the villa, and ammunition, but they were seldom taken out. He did not regard his life, security or freedom to be threatened.

They knew little of him. They knew something of his wealth but not its extent.

They would have realised he had a solid ‘roof’ in place, but did not know whether it came from government, intelligence or organised crime. They might have wondered if their conversation bored him because there were moments when he seemed distant from them.

He had a keen imagination and good insight.

He saw the lock-up garage near the Iset river. A young man, no more than a youth, sat on a hard chair, his arms tied behind his back. He was stripped to the waist and his body showed the tattoos that came from gaol: he would have been under the needle to demonstrate his importance as a criminal, a badge of honour. His shoes were off, his socks beside them, and his jeans had been cut with a knife at the knees. It had drawn blood there. His struggles were lessening, and he made shrill grunting noises through the tightly tied gag. His feet were in an oil drum of which half of the sides had been taken off, leaving a ragged edge. A man now emptied a sack of cement into the drum, covering his legs. A second man filled a bucket with water from a tap against the garage’s back wall. He would tip it onto the cement. They would not need to stir it into the cement as the leg movements would thicken it. The young man was asked no questions. He could not save his life though confession. His death was assured, authorised by the former intelligence officer, now eating chicken pie, whom he had crossed without knowing it.

Timofey Simonov drank only water. He could count the years since he had last been rendered incapable of coherent thought by alcohol. He had been with Ralph Exton – a true friend. Another thought. It was less clear in his mind because he didn’t know London.

He had seen a passport photograph of the Serbian but – of course – had not met him. A slim man, tall, with a crop of close-cut greying hair, a master of his trade, which did not come cheaply. An arrangement had been agreed. From the embassy there had been an envoy, a meeting, a budget, and what intelligence had been gathered was handed to him. There was neither a paper nor an electronic trail connecting the diplomats to him. He thought the marksman would now be driving an airport car far out from the British capital. There were supposed to be wildernesses in Wales and the remote moors in the extreme west. The rifle would be in the hatchback, stored in a case with polystyrene shapes to hold it secure on the journey. He thought the Serb might fire four shots to satisfy himself of the calibration of the telescopic sight. His own share, after payment to the marksman and the purchase of the weapon, was a hundred thousand American dollars – and he would also win gratitude.

He sipped his imported water. When Ralph Exton came, he might drink alcohol. The deal was ridiculous, as the brigadier had said, and he had accepted it only because Ralph Exton was a true friend.

The engine seemed to be misfiring, and was spewing dark fumes. Ralph Exton intended to drive to Heathrow. The size of the last taxi bill, coming home, had frightened him. Most of his accounts were overdrawn, most of his bills outstanding, and what was due to him from the Irish, when the deal went through, would be more than welcome. He needed a new car. Trouble was, what with the bills, he could have spent the Irish money three times over. The car sounded sick.

He drove away from home.

His wife,
extraordinary
, was out. She’d come back briefly, changed and gone again. They’d exchanged pleasantries: her appearance, the weather. Tomorrow, or the day after, was their wedding anniversary. He hadn’t bought anything. Would she have something for him? Would her parents have remembered and put a card in the post? It was unlikely.

He might have let slip to some that he was a central part of the community from which the duchess came. He would not have said he knew her well, but had implied they were on nodding terms. It had helped with a deal for Bulgarian furniture that should have done better, except the shifty bastards had skimped on the glue, and the out-of-sight joints were the worst fitted he’d ever seen. There were people down on the Costa who put stuff his way and liked him.

He drove towards Reading. Ralph Exton thought he might phone home the next evening and hope to speak to her. He would wish her a happy anniversary, and hope she’d had a good day . . . It hurt. He pretended it didn’t – put on a brave face.

There was a pub off to the left, fronting onto a village green and a duck pond. They’d had a meet there. Him, Gaby and Hugo. It had been important enough for them to hang on what he’d said. He passed it and saw that the car park was full. There were the golfers, the guys who’d sold their Ford dealership franchise, others who ran property portfolios, and they’d been nattering. In the corner, under some horse brasses, Ralph had told his handlers what was now asked of him. He was still in shock. He’d come off the first plane of the day from Málaga. The proposition had been put late the previous night. He’d spluttered, ‘You are joking?’ The three men had said, their voices covered by the
folklorique
musicians, ‘Never been more serious, Ralph. Right thing for you, and you’re a man who can deliver. Not something we’d joke about.’ They didn’t want Marlboro cartons by the crate. They were looking at assault rifles, grenade-launchers, big machine-guns, military explosive and detonators. It was all written out – atrocious handwriting. Trouble was, he hadn’t said, it was beyond him. His reply: ‘Might be able to do something. Might have a man who could fix that sort of business for me. Give me a moment.’ He had gone outside, into the gardens, and rung the villa. He had talked to Timofey Simonov.
For you, friend, for you, Ralph
. Should have kept his mouth shut.

Could he pull out? He remembered asking it, his nerves frayed.

Hugo had said, ‘Hardly the right time, Ralph.’

Gaby had said, ‘We really value you, Ralph. You’re special to us. What you do saves lives. Ralph, we’re here to look after you. We take your safety very seriously.’

They’d treated his anxiety as if it were a joke, dismissed it. When would have been the right time to demand to quit? But he had no cards in his hand: they had the power to lock him up. Might as well have had a ball and chain attached to his ankle. Later the envelope had arrived with the postman: the photograph of his front gate and house. He’d told them, but they hadn’t seemed to register it. Five had him, and the Irish had him. Timofey Simonov was his friend, and that was another matter. He reflected that it was a small miracle he didn’t run into a lamppost. He was on a treadmill, it was speeding up, and he didn’t know how to get off.
Ralph, we’re here to look after you
. He had to believe her.

A young woman came in, caught his eye, then ordered at the counter. He had sat for more than twenty minutes, staring at his empty glass. Around him people were eating. Danny Curnow was tired and grubby. He thought he probably stank. Every other table was taken but at his there were two empty chairs. She had two cardboard beakers, paid, stared at him, decided the link was made and jerked her head for him to follow her out.

She went through the door, held it open with her hip. He sat in his chair and had his elbows on the table, with the empty glass. She made the contact again, but he stayed in his seat. Others were now looking at her, wondering how long she intended to hold the door open, letting in the draught. She was short with dark hair, jeans, a sweater and an anorak. Danny assumed she thought that a suitable uniform to demonstrate she was not an analyst at a desk, but actually at the business end. Bentinick had said only that Danny would work with her.

Annoyance in her face. She let the door swing back and walked over to him. He looked up at her. In Caen, at the house, it was almost impossible to anger Lisette or Christine. Neither had tantrums, and neither wanted authority.

‘You’re Danny?’

‘Are you Miss Davies?’

She said, grudgingly, ‘Can we go outside?’

He had had no allies at Gough. He could remain inside the family and still have no friendships. He had accepted Matthew Bentinick’s leadership, and Dusty Miller as his sidekick. He stared back at her, then stood, hitched his rucksack over one shoulder and chicaned between the tables. She led. At the end of the street there was a park, prettily kept, with benches around an outer path and old gravestones. She sat and passed him a coffee. He could have said he didn’t drink coffee, but saw no point. She had a north-east accent and told him the garden had been used by one of the acknowledged stellar personalities of the Service for meetings, that she’d smoke incessantly and curse but was gone now. There were two gardeners on the far side, clearing beds of summer flowers, raking and filling a barrow. One had a wan complexion and a limp.