Dead Centre - Andy McNab [27]
I stirred the milk into my coffee. It was so thick with sugar I could stand the spoon up in it. ‘I read when I can.’
‘Tarkovsky? Pasternak? Fadeyev?’
I raised an eyebrow. I knew he was taking the piss. ‘The guy who said Stalin was the greatest humanitarian the world has ever known? Good writer, but I wouldn’t trust his character references, would you?’
I didn’t give a fuck what he thought, but I was quite pleased that he was suddenly sitting up and paying attention.
‘We all need friends in high places, Nick.’ He waved his hand at a huge picture window. ‘Every one of these great writers had a dacha here, you know. They’re buried here too. Peredelkino is featured in a le Carré novel – The Russia House.’
I finished stirring. ‘Is that so?’
‘There’s a lot of history in these dachas. If only they had ears.’ A thought struck him. ‘Well, maybe some of them did have ears during the Soviet era, yes?’
The triple-glazed windows slightly warped the view, but I knew that if I had to leg it, I’d head for the door I’d come through and straight towards the swings and the slide. Then into the tree line, even though I didn’t know what was on the other side of it. I’d go and see what the crows were up to.
The small man flicked through the pages of his newspaper with one hand, as he motioned with the other for me to sit opposite him.
‘What are you reading now, Nick?’
‘Dostoevsky.’ I gave him my best poker face. ‘Crime and Punishment. But I’ve got a feeling I won’t be finishing it any time soon.’
‘When you do, you will find knowledge and enlightenment. I came to books late, but …’ He closed the paper and raised his hands. ‘… as we all know, Nick, knowledge – of whatever kind – is power.’
I sat there with the brew. He was playing with me, enjoying the moment, even though he wasn’t showing it. Not a hint of a smile crossed his face. He was like Arnie in Terminator mode.
‘Thanks for the tip. But isn’t it time you introduced yourself? And told me what you want?’
He waved my questions away. ‘How’s Anna? Is she enjoying North Africa? I watch her every day. It’s a little warmer there, I suspect.’
If he was trying to impress me, he’d succeeded.
I put my mug down on the white marble. ‘She in trouble?’ I kept my voice even. It was pointless getting sparked up. I’d know the answer soon enough.
‘This is not about Anna, Nick. No, this is about another of your women.’
My head pounded. I was starting to get pissed off. If he was going to hurt me or offer me something – I didn’t really care which – I just wanted him to get on with it.
He dragged his seat backwards, turned and pulled one of the photos from the steel board. A well-manicured hand spun it towards me. Then he settled back, putting a bit of distance between himself and the table.
A woman and a young boy cuddled one another on the garden swings.
She’d changed the colour of her hair; it had blonde highlights now, and was a lot longer, well past her shoulders.
‘She’s still beautiful.’
He nodded. ‘Of course. And you knew her husband. Knew him well. What was his name?’
‘Montgomery. We called him Mong.’
He nodded, satisfied.
‘So you’re Frank.’
‘Francis. But until we get to know each other better, you may call me Mr Timis.’
‘Not very Ukrainian.’
‘It puts you Westerners at ease.’
‘What’s happened to Tracy? Is she OK? Or is it the boy?’
‘Stefan.’
‘Your son?’
‘Yes, he’s my son. Look closer – you will see.’
I did. The boy’s eyes were fixed on the camera as if he was interrogating it. The only difference between father and son was the grin on the boy’s face. Frank probably hoped that in a few years’ time the whole smiling thing would just run its course, and Stefan would turn into his father’s son.
His eyes suddenly burnt, and I knew playtime was over. ‘I have a problem. I need your help. Someone has stolen them from me. And I want you to get them back.’
14
‘HAVE YOU HEARD from them? Has anyone contacted you?’
He leant forward, keeping my gaze. He was still remarkably cool, even for