He scanned her back and then turned the body over. The front was devoid of marks except the blood clotted in the pubic hair and the pinched line of the ligature which Zagranichny had used to throttle her; a pair of her own nylons. On closer examination the face revealed faint bruises beneath the make-up and the sign of old cuts on the jaw bone and in the eyebrow, the remnants of old encounters with her killer, maybe even of the session in Viktor’s dacha which he had filmed. So Vera had known Zagranichny and gone back. She still didn’t deserve what had happened to her. The contrary idea was a lie put out by violent men. Perhaps she had gone back because she loved him — God help her.
There was a noise at the door, a key being inserted in the lock. Quickly Kirov switched off the light and took his place behind the door. A woman stepped into the room and her hand reached for the light switch. Kirov grabbed the hand and pressed his own palm over the woman’s mouth. He kicked the door closed.
‘Nadia!’ he whispered. His hand released hers and slipped to her waist so that he could grip her invisibly to him. He could read her body and it spoke of terror even though she had recognised his voice. ‘Listen to me!’ he urged her. ‘Listen! I’m going to let go of you and turn on the light. Something terrible has happened here, but you are going to pay no attention. You are going to concentrate on me — look only at me. Do you understand?’ She nodded; her hair brushed his face. He turned her bodily, still clamping her by the hand around her waist so that now she was facing him, the upper part of her body resisting him while the prow of her pelvis was pressed against his. Cautiously he released the hold over her mouth and let his hand stray to the light switch. She made no movement but the release of a sigh which he felt as the stroking of his cheek. The room filled with light.
They stood for a second, each dazzled before the other. He felt her body relax slightly as the sight of him confirmed his identity; but her expression remained fearful, her eyes fixed on his as though the slightest deviation would be into horror.
‘Your face…’ she said uncertainly. He felt the burning of his skin.
‘It isn’t serious.’
‘You’ve been injured.’
‘It looks worse than it is.’
She nodded acceptingly at this and asked simply, ‘Can I look round?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? What’s happened?’
He hesitated to tell her but he had no choice. ‘Your friend Vera is dead. Zagranichny was here tonight. He went crazy and he killed her. Her body is on the bed. I’m going to turn you slowly so that you can see her, but you won’t make a sound, just look and it will all be over. Your own life is in danger, but I’m going to help you. Is that all understood?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good,’ he said gently. ‘Now — quietly.’ He let her body slide in the cradle of his arms and her head pivot away from him slowly, slowly, until her eyes were looking away and he heard the cry catch in her throat. And then she was back to him, her arms around him and her face hidden in his breast. Her body shuddered and his own voice was saying, ‘I thought it was you — I thought it was you!’
He held her closely and comforted her; and he thought to himself: ‘She betrayed me,’ which was the explanation of the police at his hotel, intercepting his calls, since only Nadia Mazurova of all his enemies knew that he was in Tbilisi. Yet the point seemed immaterial as he felt her warmth and softness.
She was finished with crying. She pulled away from him and her expression was cold. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised.
‘It’s OK. I understand. Now we must get away. When Zagranichny comes to his senses or his friends learn what he’s done, then they’ll try to kill you too — is that clear? They won’t be able to trust you now that Zagranichny has murdered your friend. Remember that he is indispensable to them. You aren’t. You’ve been an embarrassment ever since Viktor was arrested. Viktor’s girlfriend and his courier between Moscow and Tbilisi: you represent the link to the operation here. My guess is that only your connection with Georgi Gvishiani has kept you alive so far; and not even Georgi can save you now — you must believe me!’
‘What do we do?’
‘Good — good.’ Kirov held her at arm’s length. Whatever her fears and suspicions, her calmness appeared complete. ‘I need a change of clothes. Can you get them for me?’
She nodded. ‘The co-pilot has the next room; he is about your size. If the dezhurnaya will let me have his key I can find something.’
‘And vodka — if he has any vodka, get that too.’
She left him alone, closing the door behind her; left him to trust her. He returned to his search of the room. He re-examined Nadia’s flight bag, recalling a small cardboard box that held cotton wool and some pieces of jewellery. He looked at them again. A pair of ear studs. They answered in part the mystery of Viktor’s diamonds. The junk stones that represented his commission on the deals with the jeweller, Ostrowsky, had been converted into presents for his harem. Kirov checked the hands of the dead woman. Sure enough there was a ring mounting several cheap diamond chips. He felt a dull satisfaction that he was right.
She came back into the room carrying a change of clothes over her arm. ‘I’m afraid it’s a uniform. Will that be OK? And the only drink I could get was this.’ ‘This’ was a bottle of bootleg samogon.
‘They’ll have to do. Put the clothes on the bed.’ Kirov began to strip off. He washed himself at the hand basin and examined his face in the small mirror. One side was scorched red by the fire but looked as though it would heal well enough. In the reflection of the glass he could see her studying him with her impenetrable gaze. He took his trousers off and exchanged them for those of the co-pilot.
‘The dezhurnaya is asleep,’ she said, anticipating his next question. ‘What next? Where do we go?’
‘Do you know where Georgi Gvishiani lives?’
‘Yes, but you can’t want to go there.’
‘Have you got some cream?’ Kirov indicated her flight bag. She delved into it and produced a pot of face cream. He applied a dab to the scorched skin and trusted it would work. ‘Zagranichny is there,’ he told her. ‘After tonight, he’ll have gone running to his protector.’ He glanced at the woman. ‘I need to see him. I need to know for certain who he is.’
She didn’t recognise his necessities. ‘There are guards at the house.’
‘I’m not after trouble. But I need to see Zagranichny with my own eyes.’
‘And then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Your people will arrest him?’
‘I don’t have any people.’
Her eyes showed surprise, but it was brief and followed by intelligence. ‘I see. I knew that Georgi had a lot of money to buy people. I just didn’t realise how many people he had bought.’
‘Now you do,’ Kirov answered. He finished packing one of the flight bags, bundled up his clothes and handed them to the woman to carry. He wiped the surfaces to remove any prints, then turned off the light. The darkened room was still headily scented from the clove cigarettes, and he wondered why.
The street was broad and hilly and lined by sycamores. It lay near the university clinics off Ilya Chavchadze Boulevard, a block away from the river Vere. The house stood in a walled garden with a wrought-iron gate. It had a stuccoed facade and shuttered windows, a swimming pool in the garden, a patio and a mass of shrubbery. Gvishiani paid well to have it maintained. The pool was lit with a radiant blue light, and the still water invited the observer to drop a body into it.