‘Why do you like funerals so much?’ asked Salih.
‘I don’t like funerals,’ said Merkulov. ‘I like burials. I like to see the coffins being lowered into the cold, damp earth. It makes me realise how lucky I am to be alive.’
‘It doesn’t worry you that one day it’ll be you?’
Merkulov chuckled. ‘I’ll be cremated, my friend, and my ashes will be scattered over Manchester United’s pitch.’
‘You want footballers to run over you?’
‘Hallowed ground,’ said Merkulov. ‘And what about you? You’ll be in Heaven with forty-two virgins, will you?’
‘Inshallah,’ said Salih. ‘God willing. And it’s seventy-two virgins, not forty-two.’
‘You really believe in your religion, don’t you?’
‘Without religion, what is there? Without religion we’re animals.’
‘And you believe in God?’
‘I believe there is no God but Allah and that Muhammad was his messenger. What about you? You are a believer?’
‘After what I’ve seen? The things I’ve done? There is no God, my friend, but if there is I’ll be sent straight to Hell.’
‘Then what’s the point of life?’
‘Procreation,’ said Merkulov. ‘Children. They are the part of us that lives on.’
‘Our deeds live on, too,’ said Salih. ‘What we do will be remembered. For a while at least.’
The widow scattered a handful of earth over the coffin, then leant against the boy, tears running down her cheeks. The priest bent to mumble words of comfort, and the boy put his arm round his mother.
‘For a while, maybe,’ said Merkulov. ‘But children bring the only sort of immortality that truly exists. That’s why you Muslims are allowed to have more than one wife and why your leaders keep telling you to have children.’
Salih didn’t want to argue with the Russian, especially about religion. Merkulov was an infidel, an unbeliever, lower than the animals in the field. He was something to be used, in the same way that oxen were used to toil in the fields. Before the fall of the Soviet Union, Viktor Merkulov had worked for the KGB, the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti. He had been a high-ranking officer with the Seventh Directorate, responsible for the surveillance of foreigners and Soviet citizens. When the KGB was transformed into the Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the Foreign Intelligence Service, Merkulov transferred to the new organisation but soon realised that his surveillance and intelligence skills were much in demand for the country’s booming private sector, especially the criminal fraternity. He went freelance and was soon reaping the benefits, buying apartments in Moscow, Paris, London and New York and amassing a small fortune in Swiss bank accounts. Salih had used him several times in the past and trusted him.
‘So, how can I help you, my friend?’ asked Merkulov, settling back on the bench as he watched the mourners taking turns to sprinkle soil on to the coffin. He blew out a tight plume of bluish smoke.
‘I am looking for two people,’ said Salih. ‘An English woman and an American man. The woman is Charlotte Button. She is based in London but I can’t find her on any electoral roll and her phone number is not listed. In the past she worked for MI5, I’m told.’
‘A spy?’ said Merkulov. He smiled. ‘Not a name I recognise.’
‘A former spy,’ said Salih. ‘She is involved in law enforcement now, but I need to know where she is working.’
‘And the man?’
‘Richard Yokely. Former CIA, now something shady within Homeland Security.’
‘Now that is a name that rings a bell,’ said Merkulov. ‘He is a dangerous man. A very dangerous man.’
‘Whereas I am a pussycat, of course,’ said Salih.
‘You are what you are, old friend,’ said Merkulov, ‘and I am what I am. But Yokely is in a league of his own. If you are planning to take him on, I would suggest you are well prepared.’
‘That’s why I’ve come to you, Viktor. And that’s why I’ll pay you well. He is former CIA, then?’
‘He cut his teeth in South America,’ said Merkulov. ‘He was never active in Russia, but in recent years he has worked in Africa, Afghanistan and Iraq.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Information retrieval, I think they call it these days. Torturer-in-chief, you might say. He has been flying the world with the rendition programme, taking terrorist suspects to places where torture is still permitted. He is a frequent visitor to the Ukraine, for instance.’
‘Where you have contacts, I am sure.’
Merkulov smiled. ‘I have contacts everywhere, my friend. As do you. Yokely was with the Intelligence and Security Command, also known as the Tactical Concept Activity, a black ops group that was run from somewhere deep within the Pentagon. And he left them to join Grey Fox.’
Salih raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah,’ he said.
‘You’ve heard of Grey Fox?’
‘A presidential assassination squad,’ said Salih. ‘Government-sanctioned killers.’
‘Off the top of my head I’m not sure if he’s still with Grey Fox, but it gives you an indication of the calibre of the man,’ said Merkulov.
‘I’ll need photographs, and I’ll pay whatever it takes to get an itinerary.’
‘I shall do what I can,’ said the Russian. ‘But with a man like Yokely, I shall have to tread carefully.’
Salih smiled. ‘You and me both,’ he said. ‘Payment on your usual terms?’
‘One of the few things in life that does not change,’ said Merkulov.
Salih took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to the Russian. Merkulov slid it into his pocket without opening it. He did not check the contents. He knew that the ten-thousand-pound retainer would be in used notes, as usual.
‘Are you staying?’ asked Salih, as he stood up.
‘I like to hear the soil thudding on the coffin,’ said Merkulov. ‘It sounds like closure.’
‘I’m surprised you don’t dance on the grave after they’ve finished.’
The Russian frowned. ‘Why would I do that?’ he asked, confused.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Salih, and walked away.
Shepherd arrived at Laverys at a quarter past eight. He’d changed into faded jeans and a dark blue blazer over a white polo shirt. Laverys was a traditional Irish bar with a red and black frontage. There were stairs on the left that led up to the third-floor pool bar. A sign on the door warned that there was a dress code – no baseball caps or tracksuit bottoms. He pushed open the door and went in. A Chuck Berry song was blaring out from the speakers on the walls, and everything was painted black – the walls, floors and ceiling – and the bar to the left was staffed by young men in black shirts. He bought himself a Jameson’s and soda then leant against the bar to look about him.
The third floor was a labyrinth of small rooms filled with pool tables. Most of the clientele were young men in sweatshirts and jeans who would probably have been more comfortable in baseball caps and tracksuit bottoms. He saw Elaine in a room facing the bar, leaning over a table and showing several inches of cleavage through a pale blue silk shirt. She played the shot, then straightened. When she spotted him, she waved him over.
There were three tables in the room, and two fruit machines. Elaine was playing against a man in his late forties, tall with broad shoulders, a strong chin and bright blue eyes. Shepherd knew immediately that he was a police officer, and a senior one at that. He had a policeman’s watchful eyes, and a confident way of standing that suggested he could take pretty much anything that was thrown at him. Shepherd and he made eye contact and Shepherd went into grey-man mode, dropping his shoulders, glancing at the floor and tugging at the sleeve of his blazer.
‘Jamie, good to see you,’ said Elaine, air-kissing him on both cheeks. He caught a hint of her perfume. ‘This is an old friend, John.’
‘Less of the “old”, please, Elaine,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘John Maplethorpe.’
‘Jamie Pierce.’ Shepherd shook hands with Maplethorpe, firm but not too firmly, and averted his eyes. He didn’t want Maplethorpe to gain the impression that Jamie Pierce was an alpha male or in any way a threat to him.