The Samurai Inheritance (15 page)

Why? That didn’t really matter, he’d find out soon enough. It couldn’t be about the Bougainville head, which had no value to anyone but Keith Devlin. He was fairly certain it had nothing to do with Kaganovich – an almost-centenarian former gulag inmate was hardly a threat – and Berzarin was dead, so his reputation didn’t require protection. On second thoughts, the past had ways of catching up with Jamie Saintclair. If Berzarin had clout then perhaps Berzarin’s offspring had clout too, and were protecting their father’s memory. The only other Russian he’d had any contact with had been a late-lamented billionaire oligarch. The fact that he’d already been dead when they met seemed to rule out that particular line of inquiry.

His thoughts turned to Magda Ross. She’d be puzzled when he didn’t return in mid-afternoon as he’d intended, but she wouldn’t become truly alarmed for a few more hours. He’d left her Daniel’s number, so Devlin would find out soon enough. The first places they’d look were hospitals and the morgue, because that’s what sometimes happened to tourists in Moscow, especially people silly enough to visit places like Kapotnya. Jamie had a feeling that the Devlin Foundation would have the kind of contacts to be able to track him down eventually. What mattered then was whether Devlin had the influence to get him out. And that depended on why he was here, and probably more pertinently, who’d put him here.

He lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He’d always had the facility to put his immediate concerns aside when no amount of thought was going to solve them. In these circumstances the only thing you could do was conserve your energy for the tests to come. Within three minutes he was asleep.

XVII

‘Up!’ Jamie woke instantly at the combination of the order and the talon-like fingers biting into his shoulder. He rolled off the bed and stood to attention as if he was still enduring the two short weeks at Sandhurst that had put him off the army for life. A big man he hadn’t seen before stepped back warily at the sudden movement and the shirtsleeved jailer stood by the door holding a pair of the familiar steel manacles. His eyes drifted to Jamie’s feet. ‘Put your shoes on.’

Jamie complied and held out his wrists for the manacles, not that cooperating was going to win him any Brownie points judging by the bite of the cuffs. The two men laid hands on his shoulders and guided him out into the corridor, turning left and then left again, to where a set of iron stairs led upwards. Another corridor and a door that opened on to a bare, windowless room with a metal table and two chairs. Table and chairs were fixed to the floor and the men sat Jamie in one chair and chained the cuffs to a bolt in the centre of the table. They left him alone and he tried to calm his racing mind. Something told him that bluster and bluff weren’t going to do him any good here. He needed a clear mind, even though his surroundings weren’t exactly conducive to rational thinking. No amount of scrubbing had been able to remove the stains of past indiscretions from the table and dark patches on the floor bore witness to the room’s unfortunate previous occupants. On the walls, lighter areas in the concrete showed where some equipment had been fixed and then removed. Given the place’s history it didn’t take a lot of imagination to guess the nature of that equipment. The fact that it was no longer deemed necessary was momentarily comforting, which probably said more about his state of mind than the circumstances.

They kept him waiting for around twenty minutes – to concentrate his mind, he heard his captors thinking – before the angry man walked through the door. He took the seat opposite and placed the mandatory grey file just so on the table. You knew he was angry by his posture, which was stiff and upright, his narrowed eyes, and the pent-up aggression in the jerky movements of his hands. Not that he was angry at you. No, it was the situation you’d placed him in. He had much better things to do than sit here trying to teach this foolish tourist who had flaunted his country’s hospitality the error of his ways. Eventually, he spoke, straining to keep the impatience from his voice. His eyes were fixed on the contents of the file. ‘You are using the name James Saintclair?’

‘That’s the name on my passport, I would be very foolish if I didn’t use it,’ Jamie replied carefully.

‘And you speak and understand Russian?’

‘I do – I assume our conversation is being recorded and I am currently a guest of the FSB?’ A slight shake of the head indicated the pointlessness of the question rather than a negative answer. ‘In that case, I wish to protest in the strongest terms at my arrest and confinement without charge. I am a British citizen …’

‘That is still to be decided.’

‘… and I request to see the British consul. I would also be grateful if you could remove these chains.’

‘I’m afraid that is not possible. As I’m sure you understand, we have very strict protocols here. Freed from your chains, but you do not demand to be freed from custody immediately? Surely that would be the act of an innocent man?’

‘I am an innocent man, old chap, but I’m also a pragmatist.’ Jamie managed a consoling smile. ‘As the representative of a civilized country I assume you have your reasons for holding me. I am certain that, given the opportunity, I can convince you that those reasons are mistaken. I would also like to protest at the unwarranted assault on my person by one of your heav— … operatives.’

‘Were there any witnesses to this
unwarranted assault
?’

‘Only the men who accompanied the perpetrator.’

‘Ah yes.’ His interrogator picked up a sheet from the file. ‘The men who state in their arrest report that the suspect refused a lawful request by representatives of the state to accompany them to their vehicle, thereby resisting arrest and requiring restrained physical persuasion. Did you refuse to go with state
operatives
as you call them?’

‘Yes, but I—’

‘And did you suffer any injury during your restraint?’

‘Not permanent, no.’

‘Then perhaps we can stop wasting both our time and discuss the serious matter of the allegations against you.’

‘I wasn’t aware that there were any.’

The FSB man pulled another sheet from the file and placed it in front of Jamie. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

The paper was a printout of a passport and Jamie would never know how he kept his face from betraying his shock. The answer was yes, but to admit he recognized the ever-so-familiar face he saw in the mirror every morning, only with a heavy stubble and a decent tan, was to excavate a hole he’d never dig himself out of. He shook his head. ‘No, I can’t say I have.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘His name is Mohammed al-Awali, a wanted terrorist – an Al-Qaida bomber, in fact – he was last seen in New York last October, part of a team who blew themselves up in a Manhattan hotel …’

‘Then I think you have your answer to why he disappeared.’ Jamie risked another smile.

‘Oh, al-Awali was not among the casualties, Mr … Saintclair, but you are correct that he disappeared. You were also in New York last October, were you not?’

Jamie froze. ‘I’m not sure where you got that information, but it’s no secret. I was recovering an artefact for a client.’

‘And which hotel did you stay in?’

‘Is that really relevant?’

‘If you want to get out of here, I would say it is.’

‘Then I didn’t stay in a hotel, I stayed with a friend.’

The Russian picked up a ball-point pen. ‘And this friend’s name and address is?’

Jamie sighed. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give you that information until I’ve asked he … them whether they’re happy to have it revealed.’

‘Even if it means your detention might be extended?’

‘That would be disappointing. Look, I’m doing my best to cooperate. I would really be very grateful if I could make a telephone call to the British consul.’

‘I’m afraid you are not in an English feature film, Mr Saintclair, there is no one phone call allowed. This is Russia and what happens to you is entirely dependent on what you tell me. Who were you visiting in Kapotnya? It is rather far off the tourist track for one staying in the presidential suite of the Lotte Hotel.’

Jamie sensed danger in the sudden change of tack, but he had no choice but to answer truthfully. ‘I was interviewing an elderly resident of the care centre as part of an investigation for a client. His name is Dimitri Kaganovich.’ The interrogator wrote the name down on a piece of paper and went to the door, handing it with a whispered instruction to the young man guarding it. ‘Look,’ Jamie let his frustration show, ‘I really have no idea what all this has to do with me. I’m partly here to work and partly to enjoy your lovely country. If I did anything wrong when I was arrested it was because your people took me by surprise and refused to show their identification. For that I apologize, but I haven’t done anything illegal.’

The other man shook his head. ‘Do you think we are fools, Mr Saintclair, the Englishman who looks so similar to Mr al-Awali? You will have heard of the Christian converts to Islamic terrorism who being white have a much greater chance of operating in certain countries without being detected? Your friend Mr al-Awali is one such. He is a known associate of certain radical elements from the Caucasus region who are sworn enemies of the Russian Federation. But, of course, I am telling you nothing new. One of those elements is a Chechen who we believe was part of the planning team for the Moscow theatre attack. We received information only a week ago linking him to an apartment in Kapotnya, in fact, in the very block you visited. Does that surprise you?’

Jamie felt as if all the breath had been kicked from him. Mohammed al-Awali had been the invention of his one-time friend and occasional megalomaniac Adam Steele, who’d tried to frame Jamie to cover up his own bid to stage a military coup in Britain. Steele was long gone and Jamie had thought al-Awali was long gone with him. ‘Look here,’ he protested, ‘I—’

He was interrupted by a knock on the door and the interrogator raised a hand as the young guard entered and whispered in his ear.

‘How very convenient for you, Mr Saintclair. Dimitri Kaganovich was found dead a few minutes after your visit. I do hope you find your cell comfortable. I don’t believe you’ll be going anywhere soon.’

‘We lost him.’ Doug Stewart could almost feel the heat of Keith Devlin’s fury as he explained what had happened. ‘Well, not quite lost him.’

‘How can you lose somebody, but not lose them?’ the Australian raged. ‘Am I employing complete incompetents?’

‘Our man followed him out to the shithole where the old Russian lives. Saintclair spent more than an hour with him. When he came out they were waiting for him.’

‘They?’

‘Some kind of security outfit. They took him to the Lubyanka.’

‘Christ!’

‘What do you want me to do, Keith?’

A long pause followed while Keith Devlin considered his options. ‘Nothing,’ he said eventually.

‘Nothing? But—’

‘If we start asking questions the Russians are going to want to know why. Maybe they want in on the Bougainville deal, maybe not, but I’m not going to open the door for them. Saintclair will have to take his chances. But, Doug?’

‘Yes.’

‘If he does resurface, make the arrangements for Saintclair’s two little ladies to join us on our trip.’

XVIII

Despite the paltry blanket and the chill in the room, Jamie’s shirt was damp with sweat the next time he woke. He was instantly aware that something had changed, but not certain what had caused it. Only when he felt the draught on his cheek did he realize someone had opened the cell door. Slowly he turned his head.

‘I didn’t like to disturb your beauty sleep. There is something quite admirable in a man who can sleep in a place like this.’ The slight figure leaned against the door jamb dressed in a black leather bomber jacket and jeans and with the laid-back air of a slightly older and wiser James Dean. A movie star smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were an icy-blue spotlight into a soul that Jamie suspected was just as cold. The young man threw a bundle that turned out to be Jamie’s jacket and belt on to the bottom of the bed. ‘Your wallet, phone and the rest of your papers are inside.’

‘What do you want?’ Jamie ignored the clothing.

‘You don’t recognize me? The man who did you such a big favour down Ketrzyn way?’

Jamie recognized him well enough – he even remembered his name: Vatutin. They’d last met at Hitler’s Wolf’s Lair in what had formerly been East Prussia. Vatutin had walked into his life and asked several puzzling questions about a painting of which Jamie had no knowledge. Before they’d parted the Russian had also taken care of an awkward problem that involved several dead bodies – but that didn’t mean Jamie was going to trust him. Vatutin waited a while for a response then shrugged when one wasn’t forthcoming, not taking offence. ‘It turns out this has all been a big mistake,’ he continued. ‘The FSB, they want to put Jamie Saintclair’s feet in the furnace and find out what he knows about the Chechens. We’ve explained he is a friend of the Russian people and no terrorist.’

‘That’s very kind of you, but who is this “we”? From our previous meeting I’d gathered that you represented a … shall we say private enterprise company? But here you are at the very heart of your country’s state security organization. You’ll forgive me for being a little suspicious of your motives.’

The smile broadened. ‘Suspicious is good, I would not want it any other way. But truly we are here to help. It would surprise you to know how often in Russia the interests of private enterprise and state organizations combine. We are Communists no longer; even the FSB must balance its books, as you say in England.’

‘You still haven’t told me who “we” are,’ Jamie pointed out.

‘That’s for later, but first we get you out of here.’ Vatutin stepped back from the door and held out an arm, like a sixteenth-century courtier ushering an aristocrat into the presence of the monarch.

Jamie studied the grey walls. Last night he’d wondered if he’d ever get out of this place. Now a ghost from the past had turned up with the keys to the castle. So why was he so reluctant to take the step? Because with people like Vatutin there was always a price to pay, and sometimes that price was higher than you were comfortable with. Every instinct told him to stay and take his chances. Then again, if Vatutin and his shadowy ‘we’ had the clout to get him out of the Lubyanka, they also had the clout to ensure that his stay would be painful and more than likely permanent. Jamie Saintclair would become a Moscow accident statistic. He sighed and rolled off the bed, slipped on his shoes and walked to the door, picking up his jacket and belt as he went. He paused in the doorway. ‘I’ll miss the old place.’