66 Metres (26 page)

Back at the inn she found Jake sitting alone.

‘What's up?' she asked.

‘Elise is missing. Nobody's seen her this morning.' He looked up at her. ‘Her bed hasn't been slept in. The others are out looking for her.'

Nadia's mind conjured up a name. She suppressed it. ‘I thought she left you and went back to her room?'

He looked tense as hell. ‘Sometimes after a discussion like that she goes for a walk.'

‘Alone?'

‘It didn't go too well with her, to be honest. Thing is, she left her wallet, everything in her room. Even her phone is still there.'

The name popped into her mind again.
Danton
. But why? ‘Maybe…' But nothing came to mind. No rational explanation.

Jake had his head in his hands, then he looked up. ‘You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you?'

She didn't answer, but the more she thought about it, the more she was sure Danton had just dragged Elise into Nadia's side of the thermocline.

Chapter Fifteen

Lazarus crunched his way up the gravel pathway to Kadinsky's dacha, aware there would be a marksman upstairs training cross-hairs on his face. Americans aimed for the heart, Russians for the head. The gravel was thick with pebbles, impossible to run on, and Lazarus' significant weight left dimples in the circular path surrounding the empty clay-coloured fountain, a statue of Pan in its centre. The Greek god of mischief's flute was bone dry.

Lazarus had to leave his car and the key with a guard down at the estate entrance, and trek the remaining three hundred metres alone. He didn't mind the walk, but he detested the psychology. Everything about Kadinsky was a reminder of who was boss. As if on cue, two men in identical dark suits came down the stone steps from the front door, carrying a black body bag. Lazarus slowed. The bag was moving. Something – somebody – writhed inside. The end of the bag slipped from the front guy's hands and fell with a sickening thud onto the gravel. The man at the front gave whoever was in there a good kick, yelled a few expletives and told him to lie still. Lazarus heard a man sobbing. Someone who had let Kadinsky down, had almost certainly been beaten to a bloody pulp by Kadinsky himself, and was going to be taken into the woods and buried alive. Lazarus would have liked to put the victim out of his misery. But no doubt Kadinsky was watching. So instead he walked on, not meeting the eyes of the men carrying the bag. The body had stilled, at least.

A gruff man with designer stubble, wearing a suit stretched tight by muscles on top of muscles, held open the wine-red door. The goon inspected Lazarus, taking in his sheer size, probably wondering how much was lean, how much was fat, and where best to pop him with his .38 if necessary. The face, or the back of the head, as always. He patted Lazarus down while another watched from the upper landing, a Kalashnikov hanging from his shoulder. Lazarus wasn't carrying a weapon. He didn't need one. There were plenty around. And his hands could snap necks when required. Not that he enjoyed killing, but he preferred it to being killed.

Whenever he was in hostile terrain he made rapid assessments of opponents, putting them into one of three categories: commas, semicolons, and full stops. Commas could be scared off, they'd turn and run, and didn't need a bullet. Semis, when wounded, would go crying to their mommas, no longer a threat. Full stops needed to be put down quickly, a head or neck shot so their finger couldn't pull the trigger in that last second of shocked clarity. These two were semis. One shot, one bone broken, they'd call it a day. They weren't in it for love or loyalty, just dreaming of an early pension. Lazarus never dreamed. He was saving that for when he was dead.

The search over, the goon jerked his thumb towards a set of double doors with frosted glass to the left on the ground floor. A golden Labrador intercepted him, and Lazarus squatted down, held his hand out, waiting while the dog hesitated then came over and sniffed his hand. Lazarus stroked him. The dog lapped it up. If only humanity were gone, just animals. The goon nudged Lazarus in the back with his knee. Lazarus rose and spun around on the spot, towering over him, making him step back in surprise. Lazarus heard the swish of the Kalashnikov being unshouldered and clicked into readiness, trained on his face, but he didn't look up. Nor did he glare at the goon who had fumbled for his gun, he just loomed over him, the dog at his side sensing who was master.

‘Lazarus,' a voice came from the room, ‘stop shitting around and get in here.'

He turned to see Kadinsky – expensive baggy suit, chunky gold jewellery – in the doorway, before he turned and went back inside. Kadinsky was fixing the back of his collar over his tie. His shirt looked fresh. No doubt he'd just changed due to spattered bloodstains. Lazarus followed, the dog too.

A tall girl in a black lace cocktail dress, with tousled hair and sandalwood eyes that danced when she walked, handed him a Scotch, no ice. Kadinsky already had one, plenty of ice. Lazarus took the drink, met her eyes once, then planted himself in a soft leather armchair. The Labrador lay down by her feet. Two other girls were in the room, an athletic short-skirted blonde – Latvian or Finnish – and a Chinese girl in a full length silk dress, red with a green dragon motif coiling around her body, and yet another suited goon who looked serious and sharp. A full stop guy for sure.

Lazarus nursed the square, thick-walled whiskey glass, swirled the amber liquid once, then downed it. The brunette gestured with the Scotch decanter. Lazarus shook his head.

‘What do you want done?' he asked Kadinsky.

Kadinsky smiled, revealing two gold molars. ‘That's what I like about you, Laz. Always to the point.' He stifled a yawn, then snapped his fingers. The girls left, the dog trailing behind as if it, too, wasn't allowed to hear what came next. The full stop remained.

‘I still don't have the device, Laz. And I don't have a warm feeling.'

Lazarus knew Kadinsky well enough: ambitious, powerful, good at maintaining his kingdom, but impatient, always wanting more. Greedy. Kadinsky would never make it to the top. But the Rose would make him a major player, get him attention from the Kremlin, win him favours. If he could pull it off. Lazarus reckoned it was better not to have such attention, better to know one's place. And better to take your time. Life wasn't a novel for most people, especially in his line of work. It was a few pages that ended abruptly, usually mid-sentence. Lazarus wanted a good ending, that was all.

He said what Kadinsky wanted to hear. ‘The girl will retrieve it. Danton will take care of her and Adamson.'

‘Yeah, but the buzz around Frankfurt – for which we have to thank Adamson, apparently – is dying down. Attention's focusing on Penzance. They identified the bodies, Janssen and the others.'

Lazarus heaved himself up out of the chair, the full stop's eyes tracking him. He went to the decanter, poured himself another. There was a sharp, stabbing pain, deep and low in his gut, accompanied by a sudden spike of nausea. He masked it by stooping down to pour the whiskey, blinking hard with his back to the other two, his hand momentarily shaking. The doc had said this would happen. It passed. Without offering Kadinsky any, Lazarus sat down again, as if nothing had happened. He pushed it out of his mind, focused on the task.

His last.

It was good that Janssen was dead, the guy had been a real jerk. Kadinsky never should have entrusted him with such a job. Nor the girl: too inexperienced for such an operation. But he said nothing.

‘I want you to go down there, get it done.' Kadinsky's voice was a dangerous blend of anger, frustration, and fear.

Lazarus put down the glass. ‘You know the deal. I don't do field work like that. I don't exactly blend in.'

Kadinsky glowered. ‘Leave us,' he said. The full stop glanced at his boss, then left by the rear door. Kadinsky got up, went over to the decanter, filled his glass and plopped in two ice cubes, spilling Scotch onto the table. He wandered over to the window and surveyed his territory.

The idea occurred to Lazarus that he could kill Kadinsky. Here. Now. He wouldn't make it out of there alive, but it might be worth it. Except someone else would just fill the boss's shoes. For some strange reason the world needed people like Kadinsky. Which meant it wasn't worth saving.

‘I trust you, Lazarus. Which is why I'm going to tell you what I've told nobody else.'

No, you don't trust anyone, you just want me to do something, and afterwards you'll decide I know too much.

‘I'm in pretty deep with the Chinese.'

Lazarus joined the dots. ‘You told them you have it.'

Kadinsky took a gluttonous swig, gulping noisily. ‘They're expecting it the day after tomorrow. Fat price.' He turned around, the gold chain hanging from his wrist glinting in the last rays of afternoon sun. ‘Double what the Kremlin would pay.'

The Kremlin never paid, they just let you live longer and made you work harder for them. But the Chinese?

‘As long as it's not Cheng Yi,' Lazarus said. But Kadinsky didn't reply, just stared out into the barren gardens as if he'd spied something interesting.

So, it was Cheng Yi.

Lazarus had worked on an op in Hong Kong once, for the Kolorokov brothers, trying to make inroads into the contraband markets there. That's where he'd first encountered the ex-spymaster from Shanghai. An eight-man team, only Lazarus got out alive. Reason was, he didn't run when the sniper bullets flew. Standing there, surrounded by bodies, he'd just waited, until Cheng Yi himself arrived, unarmed, but somehow still controlling the snipers. His English was good, though the Chinese accent was strong. He had a habit of speaking incredibly slowly, as if he deliberated over every single word, inflecting meaning into every syllable. It had the effect of making you listen just as carefully.

‘Tell your bosses they are not welcome here,' Cheng Yi said.

Lazarus needed another whiskey just remembering it, but this news meant he should stay sober. Kadinsky was right to be scared. No point saying he shouldn't have gotten involved with them. Everyone made bad decisions every now and again. Most didn't cost you everything, though. Probably he'd tried the Kremlin but they didn't take him seriously, he didn't have the right connections. It was a major screw-up, but still salvageable. Just.

Kadinsky took another swig, then downed it all. ‘Cheng Yi thinks I'm going to double-cross him, hand it over to someone else.'

‘What did he threaten you with? This isn't exactly their country.' Not that it would matter.

‘He has videos. He'll send them to the Kremlin, show I was working for him.'

‘Ah.' Greed had gotten Kadinsky this far, but it was going to bring him down. Lazarus hoped he'd have a ringside seat.

Kadinsky walked back to his chair, sat down again. ‘Any advice, Laz? I've heard that men who've been brought back from the dead can see the future.'

Lazarus could predict Kadinsky's: his body full of holes, soaked in blood. He almost gave a shit for the guy, in way over his head. Almost.

‘Give it to him, then move to Rio. Otherwise you'll work for him the rest of your life, which won't be that long. The Kremlin will figure it out sooner rather than later.'

Kadinsky gave him a long hard stare, during which Lazarus didn't look away. Then Kadinsky uttered a forced laugh.

‘Which is why I need to get my hands on it, or else I'm finished.' He leaned forwards, a grotesque grin on his face, like a gargoyle.

Lazarus could move quickly, and he considered reaching out and grabbing Kadinsky's chin and neck, and saving both the Kremlin and the Chinese a lot of hassle. It would make a good last line. But then again, maybe he had a few more pages left in him. He predicted what Kadinsky was about to say.

‘I need you to go and get it, to make sure. Because if I go down, I won't go quietly. Everyone goes down with me. You can be sure of that.'

Lazarus was sure. He spread his hands theatrically. ‘You want me to go incognito?'

Kadinsky sat back, smug, like an actor pleased with his own performance.

‘Actually, yes. There's a small-time wrestling championship. The perfect cover. You're going as Rasputin, the Russian Bone-Cruncher.' He laughed, then laughed some more.

Lazarus hated jokes. They were always at someone's expense, this time his. But he knew Kadinsky never really joked, and you didn't say no to a guy like him, who knew where all your friends and relatives lived. Kadinsky had already buried two of Lazarus's nephews.

‘Good, that's settled. You leave early tomorrow, private jet to Bristol, you'll be picked up from there.'

Lazarus began to get up.

‘Which girl do you want for tonight?'

‘Thanks, but I don't –'

‘Which girl?' Kadinsky's smug smile was gone.

‘The brunette,' he said. He watched for any trace of reaction, in case the brunette meant something to Kadinsky, but there was none. As expected.

‘Dinner's at seven,' Kadinsky said. He pressed something, and the double doors opened.

Lazarus sat in an armchair by the bed, thinking of Sasha, the car crash, the ice cracking. He closed his eyes. Seventeen years ago. Her book had been so short, barely a few chapters. But he read it every night.

He'd be joining her soon. Cancer. Stage Four. Size of a football by now. Barely noticeable on a man of his size, but the PET scan of his massive body had lit up like a Christmas tree. The doc had muttered something about experimental drugs, but didn't even convince himself. Then he'd looked Lazarus in the eye. ‘A month, maybe more. You'll know when it's coming. Bursts of unbearable pain, getting more frequent, and near the end, coughing up blood.'

That prognosis was a week ago. Lazarus didn't want to spend his last days wasting away in a chemo ward like his father. No, a decent ending. That was all. The doc had given him an open prescription for high-dosage morphine. It had gone straight in the bin. Lazarus intended to die with his eyes wide open.