‘How many people does he have?’ Kirov asked.
‘There’s a gardener and his wife, a cook, a manservant and a bodyguard.’
‘And militia? The police chief is in his pay, isn’t he?’
‘Sometimes there are militiamen there too.’
‘And what else?’
‘He keeps guns.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. In his study there are rifles on the walls: He likes to hunt.’
‘And the guard — he carries a gun?’
‘A pistol. I’ve seen it under his coat.’
‘Describe the house.’
‘There’s a hallway: the study is on the left and the dining room on the right. Behind the dining room is a kitchen and there’s another room behind the study but I’ve never been in it.’
‘What about the upper floors?’
‘Four bedrooms, two bathrooms and an attic room. Georgi uses the bedroom above the study. The bodyguard sleeps next to it and the servant sleeps in the attic.’
‘What about the cook and the gardener?’
‘The cook lives in the city. The gardener and his wife have a small house in the garden; you can’t see it from here. What are you going to do?’
‘Do the militia normally have a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s no car there now.’
The grounds of the house were empty, the garage doors closed. A light shone through a crack in the shutters at the study window. Kirov assessed the terrain and measured its distances in seconds to scale the wall and cross the open areas. ‘I’m not looking for trouble,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not trying to be a hero.’
‘Aren’t you?’ The remark was ironic, but she appeared indifferent to whether he caught the irony. It came to him that she regarded men with contempt. Except for Viktor who was somehow different. Among other things, Viktor wasn’t a hero.
‘Wait here,’ he told her. He tested the wall for footholds and in a few seconds had climbed it and dropped onto the soft earth on the other side. Without pausing he ran to the shelter of the nearest bushes, from where he could see to the far end of the grounds and the tiny house occupied by the gardener. A shaft of light spread from the main building across the grass and the gardener’s wife was crossing from the rear to her home, carrying a covered plate with food from the kitchen. She halted and cast a glance in Kirov’s direction then calmly resumed her course to the door of the cottage where she knocked and was admitted. The lights went out.
He crossed the twenty metres to the shadow of the main house and pressed himself against the wall under the dripping eaves. On this side a pair of French windows with heavy shutters gave onto a patio. The shutters were firmly locked and the dining room behind them was in darkness. Kirov edged to the corner and the well-lit facade and paused there. He had to decide whether to traverse the exposed front of the villa in order to check the study window or to try to gain access from the rear. He told himself that Gvishiani’s security arrangements were more apparent than real — no dogs or electronic intruder systems; the racketeer had never needed them. He had the comfort and security of his friends, and the rest was all for show. He told himself it was an easy decision, but he felt the intensity of his fear and its absurdity. He was tired of being frightened; his body was stressed and weary with it; he wanted to lie down and sleep away the remnants of the night.
For half a minute Kirov remained in the comfort of the shadows. Then he roused himself and took his first step across the open facade under the brightness of a white lamp hanging at the porch. He crossed the grass on soft footsteps, crunched the gravel of the path immediately before the door, then grass again; and in open view he crouched before the study window and peered through the crack in the shutters. He looked into a large well-furnished room where two men were in conversation with a table between them and on the table a cut glass decanter and a couple of tumblers.
He recognised Georgi Gvishiani. The Georgian was talking vigorously and smoking from a box of cigarettes that stood on the table. He was on his feet, pacing, standing now with his back to the window and his hands resting on the chimney-piece of a log fire while he considered the wall, now turning sharply and pointing at his companion and his face lit with anger. The person he was with was buried deep into a club chair, a naked leg stretched out and visible from the knee, an arm clad in a red velvet dressing gown lying limply on the armrest, the fingers of the hand clenching and unclenching. The room was in darkness but for the firelight. The forms of the two men were mingled with shifting shadows. Their voices were inaudible.
Kirov tried to follow the conversation by the gestures and identify the elusive figure in the armchair. Gvishiani was inconstant; at one moment berating the other man, then taking a seat and silently pouring a glass of spirits while his face showed incomprehension and his eyes wandered to avoid the gaze of his companion. He was angry, puzzled and fearful, reduced by Zagranichny to mute fury. Kirov was certain that the stranger in the room was Zagranichny, masked as he had been in the film, but this time by the wings of the deep leather chair.
Nothing. No movement. The two men silently contemplating each other. Squatting outside the window Kirov felt the cold of the night eating into his muscles. He glanced around from time to time, and to his night-adjusted vision the garden seemed as bright as day. Lit by the lamp above the porch, he saw his own long shadow cast upon the grass. He forced himself to stay calm and watch the two men. Long minutes and then Zagranichny rose slowly from his chair, a tall, stooping figure with a large head that lolled listlessly, chin down on his breast. He gripped the arm of the chair for support and in his other hand he clutched a drink. He turned and faced the window. Two large eyes under a powerful brow gazed vacantly towards Kirov, who was transfixed by the bottomless blind-eyed stare. Then Zagranichny shambled towards the door and was gone.
Kirov got slowly to his feet. He moved quickly and softly to the shadows of the side of the house and then across the darkness of the lawn and the bushes to the wall. He found Nadia waiting for him as he had left her. She seemed guardedly pleased to see him, but he could not register the impression in competition with his recollection of Zagranichny, of the violence, desolation and emptiness in that pair of eyes.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Well?’ he answered sparkishly, wearing optimism like a suit of clothes because she needed it.
‘Then it was all right,’ she said with relief.
‘It was fine,’ he reassured her.
‘You found out what you wanted?’
‘Yes.’ He was thinking of Viktor, who used to play games with names. Zagranichny, for example. It was obvious really. Zagranichny meant from abroad.
‘Did you see Zagranichny?’ Nadia pressed him.
Kirov nodded. ‘I saw him. He’s an American. His name is William Craig.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
‘How do we get out of here? Where do we go?’
She had worked that one out for herself. Georgi Gvishiani controlled the police. Now that he had got the story of the murder out of Zagranichny, he would be arranging the clean-up operation. The militia would be watching the hotels, the airport and the railway stations. Nadia knew better than Kirov how powerful the gangster was in the city. There was no point in approaching the local KGB: Gvishiani had long ago bought and sold the director with a villa in the mountains and a taste for the good life on a scale that a KGB officer could not match even from KGB’s special resources. Besides, the man was a Georgian and he would stick by his own when it came to handling a Russian who was acting without formal sanction from Moscow.