‘Money talks, Nick. If—’
‘There is a protocol. As long as you stick to it, there’s a chance of getting them back. You understand that?’
‘Of course. That is why you are here.’
‘You’ve got to start thinking of them as dead. Plan their funerals in your head. Anything else is a bonus. Do you understand that too?’
He nodded.
‘All right. To confirm, no one has contacted you? No one has been given a message to pass on? No contact number was left with the crew?’
He shook his head.
Maybe Frank hadn’t heard anything yet because they were dead. Or maybe the BG was switched on enough not to give him as the point of contact.
‘So why me? Why aren’t you doing this through your insurance company? They have people who do this sort of thing twenty-four/seven. Or why not get the word out some other way? Knowledge, as you say, is power. And the red plates out there tell me you’ve got both. Why have you come to me?’
He shrugged. ‘I have my reasons. I will pay you extremely well. But we can talk about all that later. Tracy respects you, Nick. I think perhaps she loves you. You have been a good friend to her, not just to her husband. You will not let her down now, will you?’
Eyes riveted to mine, he pointed his finger. ‘You will be doing what you do best. And doing it for somebody you care about. What could be better for a man’s soul? Read some of the books that have been written in this village, Nick. Then you will understand what I am talking about.’
I took another mouthful of my brew. The coffee wasn’t hot any longer, but it still tasted good. ‘I’ll have to try and find a contact. Once I’ve done that, I’ll get back to you. It’s pointless talking about anything else until we know they’re alive.’
He nodded again, slowly.
‘Don’t raise your hopes.’
He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket. The only thing on it was a mobile number. ‘Call me whenever you want. Do not give this out to anyone else. Please remember the number and then destroy the card.’ His eyes burnt again. ‘I’m a very private man.’
The card went into the pocket of my jeans.
‘I need you to buy me a flat, somewhere on the outskirts of London. No more than a hundred and fifty K. In my full name. You know that, of course.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
I was sure money wasn’t the reason he wanted to know. ‘You’ll find out why if they are still alive. But the only way to get them out safely will be to do exactly what I say.’
An engine rumbled alongside the dacha. The smashed-up Range Rover came into view and Webb climbed out.
Frank leant over the table, eyes boring into me. ‘I want my son and his mother back here. Whatever it costs.’
I took a last mouthful of the brew and swallowed. Finally, I nodded.
If he was pleased at my decision he didn’t show it. He sat back. ‘The crew is waiting for you.’
I gestured towards the sink. ‘Just give me a couple of minutes to clean my head.’
15
I kept my hood up as we stepped into the luxurious lobby of the Ararat Park Hyatt. This was an extraordinarily lavish hotel. The management would have surveillance measures to match.
I didn’t look around much as we headed for the elevators. But the little I saw of the polished steel and marble atrium told me that Frank Timis looked after his people. The cheapest room would be about six hundred dollars a night, and not just because of the architecture. Neglinnaya Street was in the heart of the city, within spitting distance of Red Square, the Kremlin, St Basil’s Cathedral and the Bolshoi Theatre. Property here would cost millions of roubles a square metre. We were on oligarch turf.
The one thing my hood didn’t shield me from was the smell. It was roses and bleach again. Either that scent really was everywhere or it was buried inside my head.
The drive back to the city had been as talkative as the one in. We took the same route. Genghis drove this time. The Nigerian rode shotgun. He was constantly on the phone. He talked in Russian.
This suited me. I hadn’t come to any decision on Frank yet. I didn’t know enough about him to make a judgement, and I didn’t know enough about the situation. All I knew was that it involved Tracy, so here I was.
In the exposed, space-age lift, the Nigerian pressed the button for the fourth floor. We raced upwards while the world below chatted over coffee in plush sofas. The mobile never left his ear. It had to be a woman he was talking to. His tone was far too smooth for it to be anybody else.
He didn’t bother knocking when we got to Room 419. The door was ajar. He signed off his lady friend with a silver-tongued comment or two and walked straight in. More five-star-plus luxury. The walls were cream. The thick-pile carpet was the colour of bleached sand. The furniture was solid walnut. Electric curtains. A wider than widescreen Bang & Olufsen TV. A mini-bar that was even bigger than Mr T’s cappuccino machine.
There were two sofas. Two men sat on each. A fifth, the youngest, was on the unmade king-sized bed. They all wore brand new shell-suits. Their faces were red and blotchy from exposure to the sun. And they all had cigarettes on the go. There was so much smoke you couldn’t even see the No Smoking signs.
They eyed me apprehensively, like I was a cop who suspected them all of murder and the grilling was about to begin. Maybe it was the environment. Not many crew normally got to stay in a twelve-hundred-dollar suite in the Ararat Park Hyatt.
The Nigerian didn’t even bother to greet them. He just redialled and helped himself to one of the armchairs that sat each side of a small coffee-table next to the triple-glazed window.
The oldest of the crew got to his feet. ‘I am Rudy.’ He stretched out his hand. He was in his early fifties, with tight grey hair and a beard. ‘I am the captain.’
He was about to start a round of introductions.
‘No time for that, mate. Let’s crack on.’
I threw my parka onto the armchair opposite Mr Lover Man, then drew back the curtain. I was looking out of the front of the hotel. The rooftops of Moscow were covered with snow. It was like a still from Doctor Zhivago. The onion-shaped domes of the Kremlin were so close we could have watched Putin pumping iron.
Mr Lover Man wasn’t impressed. He was too busy looking inwards, locking eyes with the crew. He might have been whispering sweet nothings into his phone, but he wanted them to know he’d be hanging on their every word.
Below me, the Range Rover was parked at the front of a line of half a dozen vehicles immediately outside the hotel entrance. Genghis did his bit for the Moscow smog by keeping the engine running. An Audi estate about four wagons down was doing the same. A couple of half-moons had been carved out of the dirt on the windscreen. It was two up. I admired the view for longer than I needed to.
Mr Lover Man closed down his mobile. Was he staying or going?
The vibe I was picking up from the crew was that it would be better if he left. You could have cut the tension between them with a knife. The atmosphere couldn’t have been more at odds with the comfortable world of suede-upholstered headboards and Egyptian cotton sheets.
Mr Lover Man wasn’t moving one inch.
‘Does anybody else speak English?’
‘I do.’
I turned back into the room.
16
He was just a kid, really, low twenties at the most. His nose was already peeling. He looked even more nervous than Rudy, maybe because he was right at the bottom of the food chain and the only other crew member I’d be able to talk to. There was definitely something wrong with this lot.