The Blind Spy (34 page)

His mind turned finally to Anna Resnikov. Was it Burt’s obsession with her, too, that drove his anti-Russian position? It seemed she wouldn’t rest until she’d taken her dying breath striking against her old country. She had all Burt’s attention. To Logan, it was almost embarrassing. He was like some senile, rich man who’d fallen for a pretty woman half his age. Then Logan thought back, as he had done so many times before, to the night he and Anna had spent in New York, before she’d cut him out of her life for good. ‘Maybe in another life, Logan’ – those had been her exact words at the ranch to end a relationship that had only just begun. One night with her, for Christ’s sake! Well, if Burt fucked up over Ukraine, maybe she wouldn’t enjoy Burt’s protection for much longer, and Logan wouldn’t be sorry to see her star fall. She’d become an irritant under his skin.

He buttoned the oilskin up higher to his neck and walked to the stern of the boat. Then he climbed some steps up on to the bridge.

‘We should have her in sight soon,’ he said to the skipper, an ex-navy Seal, and then he nodded to the Brit Holyoake.

‘We have her on radar.’ The skipper showed him the radar map. The
Pride of Corsica
was the only other vessel in the area apart from them.

‘Has she moved at all?’ Logan enquired.

‘Been there for two days. Same spot, near enough.’

‘Any supplies brought in?’

‘Nothing. No physical contact, according to the satellites.’

Logan looked across at Philip Holyoake. He’d provided no analysis so far, made no contribution of any kind, in fact. He guessed he was there just to keep Adrian Carew, his MI6 chief, in close touch with Burt. It was a known fact that Adrian was looking for a soft, well-paid job once he stood down from the British intelligence service, and Cougar could provide that if anyone could.

A half-hour later, they could see the
Pride of Corsica
appearing from the horizon through powerful binoculars and, shortly after that, her outlines appeared to the naked eye.

‘She’ll have been following us for as long as we’ve seen her,’ the skipper said. ‘How close do you want to go?’

‘Head for her,’ Logan replied. ‘We want to see what she points at us.’

At a distance of just more than a mile, the techs below the deck in the fish hold began to pick up a missile guidance system from the
Pride of Corsica
that was trained directly at the
Mira
. They relayed it to the bridge, with some guesswork attached as to the type and firepower.

‘Bit over the top for a merchant ship, wouldn’t you say?’ the skipper said quietly.

‘They’ve got a Russian Helix helicopter on the deck,’ Holyoake said, looking through a scope. ‘You can see its coaxial rotors. No markings. Probably bought on the open market. Armed with Aphid missiles. That’s what the sensors are picking up. They’re fixed.’ He turned away from the telescope, as Logan moved beside him and put his eye to it.

‘Are they locked on?’ Logan asked, and the skipper relayed the message below decks, to receive a reply in the negative.

At that moment, a ship-to-ship communication crackled over the radio. ‘To fishing vessel
Mira
. To fishing vessel
Mira
. This is the commercial freighter
Pride of Corsica
. This is the commercial freighter
Pride of Corsica
. Over.’

‘Reading you,
Pride of Corsica
. This is
Mira
. Over.’

‘We request you alter your course immediately. We are carrying toxic materials. Over.’

Logan put his hand on the skipper’s arm. ‘Don’t reply,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

There was a silence that seemed like an age, but it probably lasted no more than a minute. Then the communication crackled again over the
Mira
’s radio. They were just over half a mile away from the
Pride of Corsica
now.

‘This is the
Pride of Corsica
calling the
Mira
. Alter your course immediately. Immediately. Over.’

‘Take her a couple of degrees off,’ Logan ordered the skipper. ‘No more.’

The
Mira
didn’t seem to alter course unless you looked closely at the bow. They would now miss the
Pride of Corsica
by a hundred yards or so.

‘This is the
Mira
to the
Pride of Corsica
. This is the
Mira
to the
Pride of Corsica
. We have altered course and will be passing on your port side. Have a good day. Over.’

There was a short pause, then the radio crackled back at them. ‘
Pride of Corsica
to
Mira
. This is the final request. Repeat. This is the final request. Alter your course by at least ten degrees. Over.’

They were six hundred yards from the
Pride of Corsica
now and Logan, Philip Holyoake and the skipper saw men on the stern of the vessel which the
Mira
was approaching. One of the Russians and one of the Americans joined them on the bridge.

‘They’re wearing balaclavas,’ Logan observed.

‘Against identification from satellites,’ Holyoake said. ‘Nothing to do with us.’

Logan picked up the radio that connected the bridge with the hold below. ‘Are they locked on?’

‘No ... no ... wait. They’re locked on now. Something on the deck.’

‘The Aphid missiles on the chopper,’ Holyoake said.

Logan looked at him. He seemed completely calm as if they were enjoying a day out game fishing.

‘How long have we got?’ Logan said, and felt a sweat break out on his forehead.

They were four hundred yards from the
Pride of Corsica
.

Suddenly there was an explosion from the vessel ahead and a spout of water shot up almost simultaneously about fifty yards to the right of the
Mira
.

‘
Pride of Corsica
to
Mira
.
Pride of Corsica
to
Mira
. The next firing will be aimed at you. Over.’

‘Turn away now,’ Logan said and the skipper swung the wheel sharply to the left until they were far to the left side of the
Pride of Corsica
and passing between it and the distant mountains. Logan found himself trembling. When he looked at Philip Holyoake, he was amazed to see a small smile playing around his lips. Holyoake clapped the skipper on the shoulder.

‘Beers all round, Rick,’ he said.

B
ALTHASAR STOOPED TO come out from beneath the hanging plastic sheet that served as a porch. The heat through the plastic roofs in the shanty town was intense, even now in early spring. It must be unbearable in high summer. Once he was outside, he straightened up and stood for a moment, welcoming the cool air on his face that came in from the sea. He stayed still for a moment, listening to the sounds around him from the encampment on the hill, orienting himself. The speech of the inhabitants was a mix of Tatar and Russian, a sort of pigeon language that owed a great deal to the Russian language after centuries of rule from Moscow.

Balthasar heard a man shouting about a missing goat, then a boy replying, who in turn was told finally to go and find it. He picked up the sounds of pots and pans jangling together on a woman’s back, on her way to the stream for cleaning. An old motor was turning over and over, sounding less healthy each time, until it died – a Neva jeep, he decided. There were random shouts of men, a kick against something metal. Tinny music was playing on a radio, an old Tatar folk song.

But what he sensed over and above the smells and sounds of the shanty town on the hill was the deep air of resignation, which was occasionally ignited by anger, then doused again by despair.

The river of the camp’s collective psyche contained little else in its flow but these three elements. He turned to his left away from the lean-to and went to find Irek. When he found the old man’s home, he stooped again under more plastic and entered.

‘How long ago was she here?’ Balthasar asked when they were sitting on cushions and facing each other.

Irek looked up at the sightless eyes of the man opposite him. It was true what their mutual friends in Ingushetia and Chechnya had said about this man. He saw more than the seeing did.

‘Around four hours,’ he replied. Then not being able to completely believe the man could have known of her visit without some information, he said, ‘Someone told you she’d come?’

‘I felt her. I feel her now,’ Balthasar said. ‘She sat here, on this cushion where I’m sitting.’

‘You know her well?’

‘Once. But not for many years. Not for decades.’

They sat in silence for more than a minute. Balthasar sipped water from a metal cup, a round copper mug without a handle, not the tin cup that Irek had served the tea in, four hours earlier. Balthasar was in no hurry.

‘My acquaintances said you are a Muslim,’ Irek said finally. ‘Yet you come on behalf of Russians. Which Russians?’

‘Money is money, old man,’ Balthasar replied. ‘What does it matter which Russians?’

‘Maybe it matters a great deal.’

‘We are offering to build you a mosque,’ Balthasar continued. ‘But that’s just the beginning. There will be more mosques, madrassas for learning. Eventually, we’ll get you out of this camp into proper homes. My sponsors wish this to remain anonymous.’

‘The woman said you would offer us good things,’ Irek replied.

‘Did she? What is her interest in what we offer you?’

But Irek didn’t answer his question.

‘Why are you making gifts?’ he said at last.

‘Why? We are all Muslims. We should all stand together. We understand the treatment of your people. It was the same with us.’

‘But you ...?’ Irek said quietly. ‘I don’t think you are a religious man.’

Balthasar stirred, shifting slightly on the cushion, and put down the copper cup, very precisely but with an ease of purpose, on to the small level space beside the rug.

It is as if he sees everything, Irek thought. Sometimes he wondered if this man Balthasar was even blind at all.

‘Religion is just man’s imperfect attempt to see God,’ Balthasar replied. ‘But religion doesn’t always look in the right places.’

‘Then you and I are similar in our views of religion,’ Irek replied. ‘But that doesn’t explain why you wish to finance mosques for us. What we want is homes. First homes, then we can see where religion fits in.’

‘My sponsors who are providing the finance are offering mosques and schools,’ Balthasar said. There was a pause, as if he were waiting for Irek to show his gratitude, but none was evident. ‘You haven’t reached the age of ninety, I see, by believing what you’re told without doubting its truth. It’s the woman, isn’t it? She has made you wary.’

‘Everything has made my people wary,’ Irek replied.

‘You’re concerned about the origin of the money,’ Balthasar stated.

Irek was silent. This man could see inside his mind, he thought.

He reached for the hookah and flaked apple tobacco into the bowl, lighting it with a piece of charcoal that he put in place with his hand though it was burning. He took two or three puffs, then passed it to Balthasar without putting a different mouthpiece on to the pipe as he had done for the woman. Balthasar received it easily and took a long draw and the water in the glass bowl bubbled. Then he exhaled slowly, tilting his head upwards to the roof of the dwelling. A dog began to bark outside, then squealed and fell silent; a kick or a stone must have been aimed at it. In the pecking order of human anger there’d always be someone or something to beat up that was less than you, he thought. Even these people who were fixed by history and circumstance in the drainage system of humanity needed something to oppress, something to feel superior to.

‘What did she tell you?’ Balthasar said. ‘No. Wait. First, tell me how she appears.’

‘Physically?’ Irek said.

‘What is your impression of her? How does she present herself? And what is her disguise, if you could penetrate it? Then, yes, you can tell me what she looks like if you wish,’ he added, as if that were not important.

Irek told Balthasar what Anna had told him earlier; that she represented an American company with business interests in Ukraine. For those business interests to be successful, the Americans needed Ukraine to be free, or at least not a vassal of Russia’s. Her disguise? What did the blind man in front of him mean by that? ‘She didn’t tell me everything,’ Irek continued, ‘if that’s what you mean. And neither do you,’ Irek added. Then he finished by saying, ‘She is a beautiful woman whose beauty seems to be irrelevant to her. Maybe she even feels it gets in her way. Maybe she’s met too many men who don’t see beyond her physical beauty.’

Balthasar smiled. To Irek, it was unexpected. Did the blind man not know that she’d warned him against Balthasar?

As if to answer his thoughts, Balthasar spoke through the smile that hadn’t left his lips. ‘She knew about me, didn’t she?’ It was a statement and Irek saw he was still smiling.

‘I don’t know. All she said was that someone would offer to help us. That money would be given.’

‘And not to trust this offer of friendship?’ Balthasar said, the smile still playing around his lips. ‘This money?’

Irek wasn’t afraid to say the truth. ‘She said it would link us to terrorism,’ he said flatly.

‘And who do you believe?’ Balthasar replied. ‘Her or me?’

‘Her visit was unexpected. Yours was not. I have to think it over.’

‘There’s no hurry,’ Balthasar said.

‘Tell me,’ Irek asked him, ‘do you yourself really know what is behind this offer of help you bring? Or are you just the messenger?’

Balthasar considered what he knew. He saw that all he really knew was what he’d been told by his bosses in Department S, his father included. ‘We want these people on our side,’ his father had said. ‘That’s the reason for help.’ Why did it come from Department S, then, Balthasar thought? Why not as part of an aid package from the government? But he didn’t communicate his misgivings to the old man.