Fire Hawk (48 page)

This was wrong, he told himself. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But there was no other way.

THE BUS THAT
took them to the centre of Odessa was packed solid. Oksana stood pressed against the man into whose hands she'd as good as entrusted her life, close enough to smell the animal tang of his body. She'd decided to shut her mind to the potential consequences of what was happening.

Throughout the journey she'd watched him staring through the window, knowing that those brooding eyes of his were seeing nothing of what they passed. She'd tried to concentrate her own mind in an effort to see into his, and to understand why he had such extraordinary faith. In her country no man would have the courage or the foolhardiness to confront the Mafiya in the way he was planning.

She felt mesmerised by this Englishman. He was an agent for the esteemed MI6 of James Bond, a man, she imagined, whose courage and judgement must have been honed by brushes with danger all over the globe. To have been enlisted by such a person, a man who believed in a concept of justice that Ukrainian people could only dream of, had brought a trace of purposefulness into her life where there'd been none before. And if it proved to be brief or illusory, then so be it. But while it was there she
would cling to it, because to be on this man's side against the forces of evil was irresistible, however terrifying.

She knew she was being absurdly fanciful. But why not? Her life had become a drudge. She felt a euphoria being with him – even if in reality it was hysteria. She imagined it might even have been this way for the disciples of Christ. A belief that no harm would come to her, because no harm could come to him.

She kept her eyes on his face, drawing on the strength of it, fired up by its power. The feelings she was experiencing from his presence were increasingly sexual and she knew why. Back in that revolting room in Moldovanka, Taras had gone out for nearly an hour to track down a friend who knew more about the Voroninskaya organisation than he did, and Sam Packer had lain on the sofa with his eyes closed. Before long he'd been snoring and she'd taken her chance to play the videotape again, watching it from the beginning. She'd never seen such explicit images of submissive sexuality before and had found them disturbingly exciting.

The bus lurched to a halt a block away from the Opera. The early mist had fully cleared, leaving a blue sky and bright sunshine which bathed them in a warmth more appropriate to late summer than autumn.

Sam eyed the bustling crowds warily, subconsciously searching for the scarred face of Viktor Rybkin. When he found the man – as he felt sure he would – it was important that he was alone, not with Dima Grimov, if there were to be any chance at all of tweaking his conscience. From everything he'd learned about Grimov himself, that man had none.

Taras had served him well in the end, pulling himself together enough to find out the address from which the Voroninskaya ran their businesses – a renovated block on the vulitsya Artema. Dima Grimov was definitely known
to operate from there, and wherever Grimov lodged so, Sam assumed, would Viktor Rybkin.

Sam had put on the light check suit and an open-necked blue shirt for the ‘business' meeting he was planning, but the air was so warm he took the jacket off and slung it over his shoulder. Oksana had changed into a pink cotton blouse embroidered with a relief of flowers and a smooth, slate-grey skirt that ended just above her knees, in order to look like the personal assistant she was pretending to be. She'd brushed a shine into her hair and sprayed herself with an
eau de parfum
that smelled appealingly of rose petals. From a thin strap over her shoulder hung a small bag in artificial leather. She hooked her hand through his arm again, her extra-firm grip on his biceps the only sign of her nervousness.

Whatever personal reasons Oksana might have for helping him, they were irrelevant to Sam now. All that mattered was that he
needed
her at this moment, and she was here. He admired her courage. Admired her determination to stick with him. He'd also grown to quite like it when she put her arm through his.

They crossed a small square of trimmed lawns in front of the baroque Opera house, and entered the elegant Prymorsky boulevard whose neo-classical homes had once belonged to the nobility. Set on a sandstone cliff, it overlooked the port and had the feel of a resort. Crowds of proud-breasted young girls in thin T-shirts strolled beneath the planes and chestnuts, some with boyfriends.

‘I think this some public holiday,' Oksana said, pointing out the stage being set up in front of the white-columned town hall at the end of the boulevard. ‘Maybe some concert tonight.'

She sighed.

‘I love Ode-ssa.' She lengthened the middle syllable as if caressing the word. ‘When I was child, we come here every summer.' She squeezed his arm. ‘They say Odessa
girls most beautiful girls in Ukraine. Maybe you notice already.'

Sam's eye, however, had been caught by a group of sailors ambling through the throng, bunched together like geese. Their uniform, he realised suddenly, was extraordinarily familiar. As they drew closer, he read what was written on the bands of their hats.

HMS
Devonshire
.

He remembered the NATO visit that Figgis had told him about – the British defence attaché was here in Odessa for the occasion. He turned around and realised the promenade was full of foreign sailors eyeing up Odessa's talent. Black Americans in gleaming white. Olive-skinned faces from some Mediterranean navy or other. And cocky-looking Brits, all ashore on their best behaviour.

‘Look down there in port,' Oksana exclaimed, pointing through a gap in the laurel hedge that lined the promenade. ‘Navy ships. See American flag? They looking so new. That's how you can be sure they not Ukrainian,' she added with irony.

They stopped in the middle of the boulevard at the head of a broad sweep of stone steps leading down to the port.

‘You know these steps? You ever see famous film
Battleship Potemkin
?' Oksana asked.

Sam nodded, remembering the massacre scene in Eisenstein's 1920s classic. ‘The pram . . .'

‘Nearly two hundred steps.'

At the foot of them the port spread like an ugly stain, its cranes mostly motionless and its wharves less than a quarter full. The visiting naval fleet was in the inner harbour. He counted half a dozen warships, among them the familiar profile of a British Duke Class frigate.

‘We're wasting time,' he whispered, urging her on. ‘How much further to this vulitsya Artema?'

‘Five minutes. No more.'

She began to feel heavy on his arm, as if trying to hold him back.

His plan for getting through what Taras had described as a heavily guarded entrance to the Voroninskaya fortress was to pose as a British wholesaler in adult videos wanting to purchase tapes. Not much of a scheme, but once inside he hoped that bluff would get him to Viktor Rybkin.

They left the boulevard, passing an old palace undergoing renovation, and crossed a footbridge over a gorge. In a small park at the far end a wedding couple posed for photographs in front of a fountain.

Oksana kept clearing her throat. Her nerve was going.

‘You know about Odessa catacomb?' she asked, desperate to interest him in something that would delay the moment of truth.

‘No,' he said flatly, not wanting to know.

‘Yes. When they build Odessa they dig stone from underground. Make tunnels. Some people say one thousand kilometre altogether underneath Odessa. Like honeycomb. During Great Patriotic War partisans hide there from Germans. Taras father – my uncle – he was partisan in Odessa,' she burbled.

He looked at her and forced a smile. Not easy, because he was as tense as she was.

‘Nearly there, Oksana?'

‘Nearly there.' Then she stopped dead and turned to confront him. ‘Don't you think maybe this bad idea?' she pleaded, her pale cheeks hollow with fear.

‘Probably,' he said, giving her shoulders an encouraging squeeze. ‘But it's the only damn idea I've got.'

The building Taras had directed them to was a recently restored corner house on four floors with a buttressed roof decorated with rococo mouldings. Its windows were capped by finely arched lintels and hung with blinds to
obscure the interior. Parked outside was a large black Mercedes being guarded by two watchful men in black roll-necks and black trousers.

‘
Sam
. . .' Oksana whimpered, her throat dust-dry with terror. ‘
Gangstery
!'

‘Stick close, Ksucha,' he breathed, trying to exude a confidence he didn't feel. As they aimed for the entrance, the two heavies scrutinised them with a drill-like gaze.

The outer door was of armoured glass. Oksana spoke into a wall-mounted speakerphone, saying a Mr Molloy from England wanted to buy porn videos.

This'll never work, thought Sam, feeling the thugs' eyes scorching his back. Miraculously the door clicked open and they entered a small lobby, the door snapping shut behind them. They were in an airlock of mirrored glass. There'd be a camera watching their every blink, he realised. He turned his face towards the street in the hope of avoiding its scrutiny.

After a minute, a second buzzer clicked and they were admitted to the inner sanctum that resembled the reception area to any small and prosperous business. A young woman in a turquoise silk blouse and pearl necklace eyed them from behind a desk, her face frozen with suspicion.

Oksana filled her lungs and told the woman that Mr Molloy was one of the UK's most prominent dealers in adult videos, and that he'd been advised it was Viktor Rybkin that he needed to see here.

Sam heard ‘
nyet
' in the reply, but understood nothing else.

‘She says is not possible,' Oksana explained, her face taut with the strain.

‘Well tell her we'll wait here until it
is
possible.' He pointed to the long black leather sofa lining one wall. Oksana shook her head, her eyes pleading with him to let them get out of here while they still had legs to walk on.

As he sat down he noticed the receptionist lean back
and slide her knee forward under the desk as if nudging a buzzer. Not long now, he guessed. He felt strangely calm.

Oksana sank onto the sofa beside him, her breathing jerky and spasmodic. She clasped her hands on her lap, their knuckles turning white.

The reception area was a windowless box with reinforced doors at each end that were fitted with coded locks. The place was indeed a fortress. In the corners of the high corniced ceiling two cameras swivelled on their mounts. Sam looked down at his shoes and counted the lace holes.

It was the right-hand door that opened. A short, slim man in his twenties wearing an oversized jacket stood there with a smile that looked as if it had been painted on.

‘Please,' he said in English.

‘You wait here, Ksucha,' Sam whispered.

‘No. Both of you,' the man insisted. He stood to one side to let them pass. Beyond the door was a carpeted hallway and a regal staircase rising upwards, its walls adorned with oil paintings. The door closed behind them.

Suddenly two more men stepped from a side-room, dressed in track-suits, their hair clipped to within millimetres of their scalps. Sam clenched his stomach expecting a punch. Instead, hands like claws seized each arm and frogmarched him towards the stairs. Heart racing, he felt cold metal press into the bone behind his right ear. Behind him Oksana screamed, her muffled shouts revealing that she too was being manhandled.

‘Leave her alone!'

Jesus . . . What had he done, bringing her into this?

He stumbled up the steps, carried forward by the powerful grip of his handlers. Behind him, Oksana's commotion was silenced by a sharp double slap.

‘Leave her alone, arsehole!' he barked, craning his neck to see.

A few steps from the top his eyes locked onto a pair of legs standing on the landing. Shoes in fine, black calf. Grey trousers, well-pressed. He looked up. Blue shirt, gold tie kept neat by a jewel-encrusted clip – and above it the lopsided jaw of Viktor Rybkin.

Clearly shocked to see him here, the former KGB officer spun on his heel. Sam was bundled after him into a small bare-walled room, furnished with a table and two chairs. The men in track-suits frisked Sam for a weapon. When they found none Rybkin waved them out of the room.

‘What the hell are you doing here, stupid
cunt
,' he spat. ‘In Cyprus I told you I didn't want to see you again.'

‘Fuck what you told me! You're in trouble, Viktor, and I've come to help you.'

Rybkin's eyes registered disbelief.

‘
You?
Help
me
?'

‘Yes. And, that woman who was with me, you leave her alone, understand?'

‘You've got a damned nerve telling me what to do. Whatever game you think you're playing with us, just remember we don't play cricket in Ukraine,' Rybkin cracked.

He took a pack of Marlboro Lights from his pocket, pulled one out for himself and tossed the pack to Sam.

‘You're crazy coming here,' he said. Softening his tone. ‘You know that?' The American accent seemed to be broadening by the minute, an accent honed on Tarantino movies. ‘Who is she anyway?'

‘Works at the British Embassy in Kiev. A translator. So treat her with respect.'

‘Respect!' Rybkin laughed. ‘We always treat our women with
respect
, Sam. You've seen the videos . . .'

Sam pushed the cigarette packet back to him.

‘Hell! I should have shot you in Cyprus,' Rybkin fumed. ‘Now, tell me what the fuck this is all about.'

‘They know about the VR-6, Viktor,' Sam growled, hunching forward. ‘MI6, the CIA, the whole western intelligence apparatus – they know about your deal with Naif Hamdan.'

Rybkin flinched. Sam knew he'd hit home.