Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (28 page)

Discreetly I slipped away whilst staying close to the colonnade, as I walked its length self consciously toward the executive jet. Perversely the only way out of this as far as I could discern, was to see if Zhukov would give me a lift. I didn’t fancy falling into the clutches of the IRG or being a fugitive all alone, unarmed and not speaking Farsi. The more I thought about it Zhukov was my only hope. If I turned up begging a lift would he make the connection? I would just have to bluff it out. I broke in to a gentle jog to get to the jet before it was too late. Finally when I reached the part of the building that was closest to the jet I left the shadow of the terminal and strode out to it.

A crew member was at the foot of the stairs as they boarded the aircraft. She greeted Zhukov who was at the head of his party. Just as he started climbing the stairs and as I closed the distance I called out over the sound of aircraft engines, “Mr Zhukov!”

They turned in unison to look. Anastasia saw me and then averted her gaze, no doubt the memory of the ardent lust we had enjoyed, inspired feelings of guilt. I came up to them and stopped.

“Hello,” I said gushingly, “I thought it was you. Do you recall we met at the Onegin Gallery? Damian Willoughby’s the name.”

Zhukov looked down at me inscrutably from the stairs, exuding the apogee of sang froid.

“Yes I recall,” he announced barely moving his lips, “What you want?” he asked brusquely.

He can’t have been in the best of moods: he’d left Azakistan abruptly, had to wait for his plane to arrive and then discovered that his henchmen Gromyko had been killed.

“I’m being called back to Moscow urgently on business. When I saw you from the terminal I naturally assumed that’s where you’re going. My flights been cancelled. I’d be most grateful if you’d allow me to fly with you,” I said imploringly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked calmness personified.

“I’m collecting and buying art works,” I shouted in reply over the cacophony of engines.

His eyes narrowed as if he were weighing up the plausibility of my explanation.

“But you told me in Moscow that you weren’t an Art dealer,” he queried.

“I’m not,” I said modestly, smiling, as if the inquiry were an impertinence, “I’m buying for myself.”

He gave a weak smile in penance, “Forgive me. Yes, you must come with us,” he beckoned, gesturing for me to climb the stairs, “You’ve met Ms Olonova and this is Pavlovitch,” he said pointing them out perfunctorily.

I acknowledged them with a nod as Zhukov turned and resumed climbing the stairs.

The luxury and ambience on the jet was in stark contrast to the conditions I had endured in Azakistan. It appeared that after the cockpit there was a crew rest area, which one had to walk through to get to the cockpit – this was closed off to us by a door. The jet was spaciously configured with a mere eight white leather upholstered passenger seats.
Each pair were configured one seat forward and another rear facing across a table, separated by the aisle. The front four seats, where I sat with Zhukov and Anastasia, were separated from the rear four seats by a bulkhead, which was as wide as the wings to which they were adjacent. After the bulkhead there was a cloakroom on the starboard side. Then came the rear four seats and behind them was the galley and then a toilet. The decor was varying shades of white with a deep pile carpet. The panel work and table were mostly hardwoods such as mahogany. There was the faintest smell of leather and stale cigar smoke mixed with a cool perfume. On the right hand side of the aisle Zhukov sat facing backward, with Anastasia sitting opposite him facing forward, a table between them; I sat facing forward adjacent to her with the aisle between us. Pavlovitch sat in the rear as befitted his rank. A moment after taking our seats the stewardess served chilled champagne and canapés. I looked out of the window and saw that the passengers for my flight to Tehran had now started boarding. They would have discovered that one passenger was missing – a foreigner; for whom they must now be searching.

Wanting to escape momentarily from my travails, I brought the flute to my lips and took a sip, closing my eyes so that my senses might better concentrate on the taste. As I did so I heard the sound of more people boarding and then the doors being closed. I let the champagne circulate around my mouth, breathed in and let my palate go to work. It had an almost creamy texture, expansive bouquet, crisp and clean with an explosion of fruity flavours.

“Not the best champagne in the world Mr Willoughby, but quite good?”

I swallowed and opened my eyes. Zhukov was looking across at me amused.

“Dom Perignon?” I conjectured.

Zhukov gave a little laugh as if he’d scored a small victory, “You disappoint me. It’s a Krug Grande Cuvee. I also drink Cristal - but only on special occasions.”

“Your tastes are exquisite,” I praised thinking that flattering the fellow did no harm; but instead of stopping there I heard the words, “
Your taste in women is equally refined,” coming out of my mouth, as I turned toward Anastasia with a nod.

I mildly reproached myself for my bout of vino veritas.
She looked embarrassed, but Zhukov was pleased.

“To beautiful women,” announced Zhukov as he raised his glass in a toast. I met his gaze, raising my glass and then took a sip.

At that moment the aircraft started moving from its parking spot. We fastened our seat belts as the jet taxied along the runway. Once we had reached the end, the aircraft slowed and turned around as it came to rest at the end of the runway and paused. In the tranquil surroundings of this luxury jet, with my fatigue, coupled with the orgy of killings in which I had indulged, I was content to call off all hostilities against Zhukov. Christ knows I’d done my bit! By killing Gromyko I could tell myself that I had satisfied my vow to avenge Andrew; whilst disregarding the fact that I was enjoying the hospitality of the very man upon whose orders he’d been acting. An uncomfortable compromise, I grant you. Besides it seemed such bad manners to kill one’s host. Just then the engines increased in volume and we started moving, gathering speed swiftly, as the engines could be heard going to full thrust as we hurtled down the runway. And then I felt the incline as the aircraft left the ground and we became airborne. Down below I saw Persia diminish as we rapidly climbed. Torbat-e-Jam seemed so inconsequential, surrounded as it was by mountains and barren wasteland - visible as far as the eye could see.....before it all became obscured by clouds.

Once we had reached our cruising altitude the stewardess appeared from the galley and took the lunch order for each of us in turn. I relaxed as she brought me a generous gin and tonic. Moments later I got up and went to visit the lavatory. In so doing I walked past the rear four passenger seats. To my consternation I saw two men whom I’d never seen before and Pavlovitch. These two must have boarded when I was swilling champagne. One of these men was leaning against the fuselage sitting in the rear facing seat; he had dark hair and appeared to be reading a magazine which obscured his face. Sitting opposite was Pavlovitch, next to whom on the other side of the aisle was the other man. These
latter two were drinking from cans of beer and eating some meat and bread. They can’t have drunk anything as guests of the Persians, for their host’s religion forbade it – and now that they could, they drank like fishes.

Once I reached the lavatory the only thing further aft on the fuselage, was a storage area for baggage, accessed through a door, where the fuselage became too narrow for anything else. When I had finished I opened the toilet door and discovered Anastasia standing outside.

“Wait,” she whispered conspiratorially, to which I halted.

She looked down the cabin to ensure no one was near and then turned to face me, “There is something I must ask you,” she said furtively looking me directly in the eye.

There was a second of suspense before she asked, “Did you kill Yuri?”

“Kill whom?” I stammered taken aback.

“Yuri Gromyko is killed and then you appear – is this just a coincidence?”

“Who the devil is this Yuri Groshika person....or whatever he’s called?” I retorted.

“Gromyko - his name is Gromyko,” she insisted, taking umbrage.

“He could be the Czar for all I care! I haven’t killed anyone,” I protested, “By the way how was your trip to Azakistan?” I asked casually, neatly changing the subject.

“Not good. There was
a...” she searched for the right word, “...explosion in the Bactria Valley.”

“I......see,” I said phlegmatically, “How did it happen?” I asked, wanting to know what the Persians thought as to who was responsible.

“The Iranians think it was Israel and America.”

“I see,” I said guardedly, inwardly pleased, feeling that suspicion would not then fall on me; and returned to my seat, from where I could see Zhukov snoozing in his.

I sipped my gin and tonic thoughtfully. Her perception in thinking I had something to do with Gromyko’s death was as admirable as it was troubling. If she thought that, how long would it take Zhukov to think it? The stewardess appeared and laid our respective tables for lunch. Just then Anastasia returned to her seat and I felt an uneasy tension between us. The stewardess returned to the galley at which point Zhukov awoke and visited the cockpit, leaving the two of us alone.

I whispered across to her, “Anastasia what is troubling you? I hope we’re still friends.”

She took a gulp of her drink as if she needed it to fortify her, looked fore and aft to ensure our privacy and turned to face me, “I lied to you when we met in the Onegin Gallery. I told you I knew very little about Zhukov’s business interests – that is not entirely true,” she then paused tantalisingly, with me hanging on her every word, “I know....everything!” she
concluded emphatically.

CHAPTER 35 – AN INQUISITION AND A SPY REVEALED.

Just then, to my disquiet, Zhukov returned and frustrated any further conversation. As I looked out at the clouds I reproached myself for allowing her to deceive me. She owed me nothing, certainly not loyalty; her allegiance was to Zhukov – I’d been a fool to think otherwise.

Dinner was served: Sevruga Caviar served with blinis with a shot of chilled vodka; Green Leaf Salad with a vinaigrette dressing, Filet Mignon with a Béarnaise Sauce with assorted vegetables, followed by dessert, with a chessboard and fruit accompanied by fine wines. I declined the wine and just drank water. It was undoubtedly a splendid meal – the best I‘d had on a plane. I would actually have enjoyed it more, were my mind not preoccupied with Anastasia’s appalling revelation that she’d been lying. As I chewed on a piece of filet mignon, it made me question whether there had been an ulterior motive for seducing me - was it possible that it could have been for a reason other than my charm and good looks? During the meal Zhukov kept peering at me; which in my state of anxiety caused me to wonder whether the two of them were in cahoots, playing out some fiendish rouse.

When the meal was over and everything had been cleared away, but for the brandy, Zhukov came over and sat opposite me. At his instigation the stewardess brought over a lacquered wooden box and opened it before me. Curious, I looked inside; it contained Cohibas – Cuban cigars. I’m quite partial to a Davidoff once or twice a year; so this was a pleasant surprise. I reached in and took one gratefully, as did Zhukov. I half expected someone to come along and rebuke us for this guilty indulgence, as I took my first puff - but having your own plane means you can make your own rules. The cigar had rather rejuvenated my spirits; comforted as I was by the sweet smell of the tobacco.

Zhukov, looking contented exhaled a cloud of smoke and then sat back,
gazed at me directly and asked, “So I am interested to know what you have been collecting in Iran?”

Concealing my alarm at this question I blew a cloud of smoke languorously as I thought of an answer.

“Oh you know,” I began casually gesturing with my hands a trifle nervously, “the odd Khorasan Carpet, a Safavid period miniature......that sort of thing.”

He seemed to approve, “Quality is everything....not quantity. I would rather drink the best once a year, than rubbish every week that is only fit for a peasant’s table.”

I took a sip of my brandy and asked, “What brought you to Iran?”

“Business,” he answered reticently before looking away.

There was silence in the cabin for a few moments. Anastasia read her book, whilst Zhukov and I smoked our cigars, sipped our brandy and gathered our thoughts – like two rutting male deers circling each other before re-engaging in combat.

The silence was broken as he looked in my direction, “Is it coincidence that we are both in Iran at the same time?” he smiled at the question and shook his head in disbelief, “My life has taught me not to believe in coincidence.”

“Stranger things have happened!” I pointed out, before looking out of the window.

I could feel his eyes upon me, piqued at my summary dismissal of his observation.