“Two Westerners in a place like this,” Milton said. “We won’t go unnoticed.”
“Probably not. She asked me why we were here. I told her we were taking photographs. She seemed to buy it.”
Milton guessed that the hotel would be required to alert the local FSB office that they had two Westerners staying with them, and wouldn’t have been surprised if they were checked out, perhaps even put under light surveillance. He was relaxed at the prospect. They were a long way from Moscow now, and even the FSB, with all its manpower, wouldn’t be able to bring a big team to bear on them at short notice. He doubted that they would see it as a necessity, especially once they established their legends, and even more so given that they would be leaving town in the next day or two, depending upon when and if Anastasiya Romanova made an appearance.
The lift stopped and Milton made his way to room 404. He opened the door with his keycard and went inside. The room was pleasant enough: there was a double bed, a large bureau and two cheap leatherette armchairs. The curtains and carpet were burgundy-coloured and the ceiling seemed to have been made from vinyl; the room was reflected in the polished white surface. Milton had no idea whether the FSB’s reach would extend to being able to bug a room like this, so far from anywhere Westerners might be expected to visit, but he had no wish to take chances; he went over to the radio, turned it on and then went to Ross.
He leaned in close, as if to kiss her on the cheek, and whispered, “It might be bugged.”
She nodded and, before Milton could react, she twisted her head and kissed him on the lips. Milton could taste the mintiness of the gum that she had been chewing. He kissed her back, thinking about the possibility of bugs and cameras, telling himself that he was just playing the part that had been asked of him. She disengaged first, laying the palm of her hand against his cheek. She trailed her fingers across his stubble and gave him a wink. Milton was reminded how attractive she was. Pretty, but, more than that, she had an unruliness to her, an edge that made her different and interesting. This was just business, he told himself. It was all for show.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
Milton collected the camera bags and held them up. “Shall we go and take a look around?”
They decided to walk. The city was laid out with a central hub that was then surrounded by a number of spokes that radiated out from it. Ross bought a guidebook and led the way to the unofficial symbol of the city, the ‘house with a spire’ near Lenin Square. They visited the Cathedral of the Holy Prophet Elijah, stopping in its wide square to take photographs of the five golden bulbs that sat atop its tower. They made their way along Lenin Avenue and Mira Avenue and took pictures of the buildings constructed in the style of Stalin’s neoclassicism. They visited the History Museum, the Exhibition Hall of the Union of Artists and the Zoological Center. They took a taxi to Silinsky Forest, five hundred hectares of virgin pine, spruce and larch within the city limits.
They took photographs as they travelled, both of them carrying the Nikons they had been supplied with on straps around their necks. Milton kept an eye on their surroundings, looking for any sign of surveillance. There were no cars following them, either directly or on parallel streets; no leapfrogging surveillants; no watchers salted ahead of them to pick up their tail; no one with cameras trained on them; nothing. He glanced at Ross, who was seemingly absorbed in her surroundings and either didn’t notice Milton’s occasional distraction or didn’t comment upon it.
Milton led the way to the railway station, heading across a wide parking lot to the main building. It was large, with a central section and two long wings, all of it painted an incongruous pink and white. There were rows of neatly planted trees, a paved area and then a wide space where cars had been parked. Milton had timed their arrival for midday so that he could get a sense of how busy it would be tomorrow. It was quiet, with just a handful of people waiting for their trains.
“What do you think?” Ross said.
“I’d rather it was busier. We’re going to stand out.”
“She’ll be able to find us.”
“And so will the FSB.”
“You think they’re following us?”
Milton looked out into the parking lot. As far as he could tell, they were alone. “I don’t know.”
They walked back outside and set off again toward the river.
“Have you thought how we’re going to do it?” Ross asked him.
Milton looked again; there was no one near them. “We passed an Avis near the hotel,” he said. “I’ll hire a car later and we’ll use that. If she’s here tomorrow, we’ll pick her up and go.”
“Where? How are we going to get her out?”
“We’ll drive south, back to Vladivostok. It’ll take a day—when we get there, we’ll take the ferry to Japan.”
They came upon the embankment. It was the most scenic part of town. The ferry terminal was here, and there was a park laid out around it with a fountain and statues. One statue stood out: four workers holding hammers and shovels and waving their hands as if greeting the party apparatchiks who might have visited to inspect their work. The official story was that a town had first been constructed here by patriotic members of the Komsomol—the Soviet youth league—who had landed on the shores of the Amur and set about building a communist utopia with wide avenues lined with trees, a modern transport system and comfortable housing for all. Milton knew that it was all lies. The region had been turned into one of the most voracious of the gulags during Stalin’s purges, and it was the tens of thousands of political prisoners and Japanese prisoners of war who had really laid those first foundations. It was a city of lies, built atop thousands of unmarked graves.
They took pictures of the statue and then climbed the steps to the ferry terminal. It was an ugly building and was next to a brutal concrete pier that jutted out into the water. The view from the top was impressive, a broad panorama that took in the river—half a mile wide at this point—and the snowy hills on the opposite bank. The embankment itself was a grey and pink stone walkway, and they followed it to the east. They passed an area that was under construction, with large LED screens showing images of the river during winter, with locals wrapped up in heavy coats skating on the ice. It was warm today, as it had been for the duration of Milton’s time in Russia. Steps led down to the water where a stretch of sand had been revealed by the retreating tide, a space for children to splash in the shallows while their parents lay back and enjoyed the sun’s warmth. The temperature would plunge by forty or fifty degrees Fahrenheit between now and the winter; it was difficult to credit.
“My legs are killing me,” Ross said. “How far do you think we’ve walked?”
“Ten miles?” Milton offered. He was tired, but the fresh air had done him good.
She took out her phone and looked at the time. “It’s five o’clock. Can we go back to the hotel?”
Milton could do with sitting down, too, and he was happy that they had wandered enough so that anyone who might have been watching them would be able to report that they had behaved as might have been expected from their legends. “Yes,” he said. “I think we’re done.”
She linked her arm through his. “What are you doing tonight, Mr. Burns?”
He looked over at her; she was smiling mischievously back at him. He remembered the kiss. “Not much,” he said. “Why?”
“Want to get dinner with your wife?”
67
They took turns to freshen up. They had each been provided with the kinds of clothes that travellers might carry in their packs, but, in both cases, the clothes had been chosen for their utilitarian qualities rather than for a night out. Milton showered first and, while he waited for Ross, he dressed in a pair of jeans and a black crew neck. He regarded himself in the room’s mirror; he didn’t care much about how he looked, and this outfit was never going to do him any favours. He went back to the bedroom.