Black Pearl (33 page)

His body fell back on to the elephant path without even twitching and lay there, less than twenty metres from the remains of Mizuki Yukawa. The gorilla rose up and drove the stock of the assault rifle down on to Max's head one last time. And the gun went off. The rest of the clip emptied itself automatically into the gorilla. Twenty rounds of five point four five millimetre ammunition went up under its massive chin and out through the top of its skull at nine hundred metres per second. The gorilla stood still for a second, as though hardly able to believe that it, too, was dead. And then it fell forward to bury the body of the man it had just killed with its own mountainous black bulk.

R
ichard and Robin always preferred to stay at the Kempinski when they were in St Petersburg. They loved its combination of old-world charm, courteous service and fine dining. Their favourite suite overlooked the Moika River, had a decor of restful blue and was full of photographs of 1930s sailboats. When they visited in the summer they always ate out on the balcony of the Bellvue Brasserie on the top floor. Not only was the food exquisite, so was the view which overlooked the back of the Hermitage. They had eaten there yesterday evening, soon after their arrival in the city. But the view had proved less than uplifting because it also included the golden onion domes of The Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood, which was where they were bound for today for Max's long-delayed memorial. It was just as well that there would not be a coffin. It had been Richard and Ivan who dragged the gorilla off Max's corpse the next morning when they found what was left of Ngama and his hostage, though it had been Anastasia who had seen the irony and laughed with a mixture of bitterness and hysteria until Ivan half carried her back to the camp. That had been at the end of last summer and now it was spring, with even St Petersburg thawing under an early heat wave. Max's will had mentioned his wish to have his memorial at the Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood; an unexpectedly romantic gesture that had cost a good deal of extra time. It was the church he had promised that Ivan Yagula and Anastasia would be married in – in the days before his own Ivan died.

As usual, Richard was up and about first. He showered and shaved – a process that took longer these days courtesy of Ivan's over-assiduous help with his disguise. Then, wrapped in one of the hotel's dressing gowns, he crossed to the bedside phone and dialled 914. ‘A cafetière of Blue Mountain,' he said, rubbing his still-tender jaw, testing a still-loose tooth. ‘Robin, do you want tea?' Robin grunted in the affirmative and rolled over. ‘And a pot of English Breakfast tea, please.' He hung up. ‘Mind if I take a look at the news?' he asked. Robin grunted.

Richard picked up the remote handset and scrolled through the channels until he got the BBC World News. He was just in time for the four o'clock news GMT – which made it five a.m. in London and eight a.m. in Moscow and here. ‘Better shake a leg, darling. We're meeting Felix at ten. Service is at eleven.' He didn't quite catch what she said in reply but he heard the word, ‘tea'.

He was distracted by the news report. ‘… And in a surprise announcement from Granville Harbour, Julius Chaka has conceded defeat. President Chaka will be succeeded by his daughter, the freedom fighter and political activist Celine Chaka. All the negative stories about her campaign have been proved to be groundless and the final count is decisive. Her first priority is likely to concern the long-running border dispute with Congo Libre which led to the tragic confrontation at Lac Dudo last year.'

There was a gentle tapping at the door and Richard crossed to open it and accept a tray laden with the coffee and tea he had ordered and turned back.

‘… associated story,' the anchorwoman was saying as he slid the tray on to the bedside table nearest Robin and let the scent of English Breakfast tea work its magic on her. He straightened with his cafetière in one hand and his coffee cup in the other, listening as he poured. ‘The Russian consortium Bashnev/Sevmash is continuing with its assessment of the bed of Lac Dudo, in spite of the upheavals at head office resulting from the death of its co-founder Mr Maximilian Asov, ex-CEO of Bashnev Oil and Power. Initial estimates of the worth of the coltan in the discovery now seem to have been inflated, but a spokesman for the consortium has informed our Moscow correspondent that the new government in Benin La Bas is fully committed to continuing the project with them. The Bashnev/Sevmash share price as quoted on the Moscow and London stock exchanges remains at an all-time high.' Richard sipped his coffee as Felix Makarov's face filled the screen.

‘What's the time?' asked Robin sleepily.

‘It's gone eight,' he said. ‘Felix will be outside in just under two hours.'

‘Oh my
GOD
! Why didn't you tell me, you
bloody
man?'

Felix was waiting outside the Kempinski at ten in one of Bashnev/Sevmash's St Petersburg fleet of Bentleys. ‘This is a bit excessive,' observed Robin. ‘We could walk. What is it? Five hundred metres?'

‘My dear girl,' said Felix, ‘nobody walks. Nobody who is anybody. Certainly not today!' He reached into a capacious briefcase as they climbed in and handed them their ID badges. Like everyone else attending Max's memorial, they would only be allowed into the church if their lapels announced clearly who they were.

Robin settled into moody silence, fiddling with the pin on the ID badge she did not want to push through the cashmere of her outfit, still flustered from having to get ready in what she considered to be a brutally short time. Though the effect, thought her indulgent husband, could hardly have been bettered, even though black was not really her colour. ‘You looked good on television this morning,' he said to Felix, looking up from his own badge. ‘Talking to the BBC.'

‘I'll have to talk to more than the BBC, and you know it,' rumbled Felix. ‘I'm booked on the first flight to Granville Harbour tomorrow. Even so, I'll be well behind Han Wuhan. Doctor Chen is going himself, hoping the president will succumb to a Chinese charm offensive.' He too lapsed into silence.

The radio on the car was tuned to Voice of Russia news. The report filled the confines of the passenger compartment. ‘The sudden death of Fydor Novotkin, millionaire music producer and ex-guitarist with Simian Artillery, has thrown the music business into turmoil, as our reporter Ludmilla Sokolova explains.' The voices changed. ‘It's as though Simon Cowell had died unexpectedly,' breathed excitedly tones. ‘Fydor Novotkin was discovered in his suite at the Petrovka hotel. He apparently died of an overdose …'

‘That's strange,' said Richard.

‘You think so?' asked Felix and Richard couldn't tell whether the Russian's mind had been elsewhere or whether he just knew a lot more than he was saying. Richard frowned, his mind racing. Robin hadn't reacted at all. She really was lost in thought. And her Russian wasn't quite as fluent as Richard's.

‘And in international news,' the radio continued to whisper, as the first voice resumed control. ‘Funke Odem, self-styled colonel of the Army of Christ the Infant, appeared before the World Court in the Hague yesterday. Colonel Odem is accused of crimes against humanity including rape, torture, mutilation and murder. He is accused of using black magic rituals, sex trafficking, employing child soldiers and attempting to invade the sovereign state of Benin La Bas, whose new president, Celine Chaka, has already said she will be giving evidence against him in person. Colonel Odem has been compared with the notorious Joseph Kony, leader of the Lord's Resistance Army who was famously the subject of a viral video in 2012.'

It took the Mulsane the better part of half an hour to ease its way through the traffic down Moika Embankment, along Nevsky Prospekt and back up Griboyedova Embankment to The Church of our Saviour on the Spilled Blood, even though, as Robin observed, it would have been easier and quicker to walk. But at last the limousine whispered to a halt outside 2A, Kanal Griboyedova and the three passengers in the back were able to climb out. Richard looked up at the dazzling frontage, wrestling with the irony that had Max Asov laid out on the spot where Tsar Alexander II had been assassinated by guerrillas rather than gorillas – and with a bomb, not a gun.

The roadway was packed with congregation moving under the golden awning into the side of the beautiful building. As well as the mourners with their ID badges, there were hoards of well-wishers, onlookers, tourists and TV crews. It was a considerable crowd and Richard could see why. Max had been a social animal and a big beast in all sorts of jungles other than the one he had died in. The sober-suited men were world-class politicians, business leaders, media and sporting personalities. The women in beautifully fashioned mourning were film stars, TV stars and models. Almost all of them were young and breathtaking – many of them ex-girlfriends of the man who was desperately trying to replace his dead son. Richard saw the lovely Irina Lavrov in the crush, star of one of the most popular and long-running Russian TV shows – and now a considerable film star on the international stage – the next Milla Jovovich, perhaps. Beside her was Tatiana Kalina, the last of the late mogul's girlfriends. All of the mourners were worth looking at – independently of the fact that the fairy-tale church was St Petersburg's most popular tourist attraction after the Hermitage. All well worth interviewing.

Or, it seemed, they were until Felix and the Mariners arrived. Then the TV crews gathered round the three of them with an eagerness that bordered on frenzy. Richard was the first to feel the camera lights on him as he was asked to retell the story of Max's last few hours and how he had found the body. His version was nothing less than the truth, but it glossed over certain elements, playing down his own role and emphasizing Max's, Ivan's and Anastasia's. It was a version of events agreed between the survivors in the days after the Battle of Black Lake as it became popularly known. In this version, Max died heroically pursuing the traitor Bala Ngama on behalf of the peoples of Benin La Bas. Ivan and Anastasia had done much the same with Colonel Odem. And the destruction of the dam, the road, and the invading army from Congo Libre with their Chinese associates, were all part of a quick-thinking reaction to the crisis on the part of Colonel Laurent Kebila, the president's chief of staff. Coupled with the repetition of a natural disaster similar to the one that wiped out half the population of Cite La Bas just after the turn of the millennium.

Richard had just reached the end of this story when a long black limousine with diplomatic plates drew up. A smart driver in a military uniform jumped out and ran round to open the passenger door. And another man in uniform stepped on to the pavement, came to attention and marched up towards the church but turned aside when he saw Richard. For once in his life, Richard was absolutely astonished. The man approaching so smartly was Laurent Kebila. Under one stylishly uniformed arm, where he habitually tucked a swagger stick, he carried what looked like a roll of parchment. Richard was so surprised to see Kebila in the first place that it took him a second to register that the medal ribbons on his breast had been updated and the pips on his epaulettes, together with the gold braid on his cap, had received attention too. All of which was confirmed on the ID label he wore on his lapel just above his campaign decorations. ‘Captain Mariner,' said the punctilious officer.

‘General Kebila,' returned Richard. ‘This is an unexpected honour.'

Kebila half turned so that he was addressing Felix and Robin as well as Richard. ‘Captain Mariner, Mr Makarov,' he said formally, ‘I have come at the express orders of President Chaka to represent the people of Benin La Bas at the service. And the president has asked me to pass this to you, Mr Makarov. It is the award of our nation's highest honour to your deceased associate.'

Felix took the proffered scroll, moving like some kind of a puppet. He unrolled it, apparently without thinking, and held it up to the cameras. General Kebila announced in a loud, formal tone, ‘Mr Maximilian Asov is hereby made a Companion of the Legion of Honour of Benin La Bas.'

And under the brightness of the TV lights, Richard could see the signature above the presidential seal.
CELINE
,
it said. Now that was a confident woman, Richard thought. Confident of victory, carefully planning ahead. What a president she was going to make!

There was a moment of silence, then someone started clapping. Then someone began to cheer, and the whole of the roadway and the canal beside it was filled with a kind of standing ovation, so that Richard didn't even hear the engine growl as the final car arrived. And it would have been quite a growl, for the last car was a Bugatti Veyron. Its wings were black and its bonnet red. The windshield and the side windows were tinted. It prowled up to the kerb and simply crouched there, reminding Richard of his Bentley Continental, which was also full of feline grace – like a black panther. But the Veyron could go fifty miles an hour faster even than the Continental, which could top 200 mph.

Richard crossed to Felix. ‘Isn't that Max's?' he asked. ‘Or are there lots of Veyrons in Bashnev/Sevmash?'

‘It's Max's,' nodded Felix. ‘Or it
was
.'

The driver's door opened and Ivan folded his massive frame out, stretching to his full height and testing the seams of his perfectly tailored black suit and cashmere overcoat with its Persian lambskin collar. Gone was the rough and ready soldier-boy who had helped carry Max's corpse back to the compound with Mako's cross. This was every inch the shark-smooth
biznisman
. A fitting successor to his godfather. Ivan caught Richard's eye and came up towards him at once, raising his hand to Felix as he did so, and blowing a kiss to Robin. The coat billowed wide as he shoved a black-gloved hand into its pocket.