“You’re on your own?”
“I didn’t bother to check”-Will grinned and nodded toward the gun-“because I knew you’d shoot anything that tried to creep up on me from behind.”
“Nice car. Is it yours?”
“It’s a rental.”
“You’re lucky. If it was yours I could have put both barrels into you and sold the Mercedes for parts.”
Arman Shpalikov walked quickly toward him, despite the limp he’d had since serving as a Soviet captain in the war in Afghanistan. Shaking Will’s hand with an iron grip, he replied, “Good to see you too, Philip. You want tea, coffee, vodka?”
From previous experience, Will knew that none of the options were preferable. “Black coffee.”
“But vodka when you’ve done your work-right?”
“If I have time.”
He led Will to his trailer. Inside were a tiny bed, a single-ring gas stove, a sink that was overflowing with dirty dishes and cups, a torn leather seat that ran flush against three sides of the trailer, and a two-foot-square table.
Will sat. “How’ve you been?”
Arman placed his gun on the table, put a pan of water onto the stove, struck a match, and lit the gas. “You know. Every day’s a blessing.”
It was. A piece of shrapnel was lodged inside Arman’s body. One day it would reach his heart and kill him, but the stubborn old warrior refused to have an operation to remove it because he believed the shrapnel made him embrace every moment of being alive.
“How’s business?”
The Russian grabbed two mugs and began rinsing them. “It shifts with the times.”
Arman did many things: as a former tank commander, his forte was vehicle and machinery repair work, though when the work wasn’t there he also made money by hunting wildlife and selling the catches at the local market, felling trees and turning them into logs and planks, buying and selling scrap metal, washing floors at a nearby restaurant, collecting refuse, and providing logistical support for MI6 operations in Russia.
Will had recruited him six years earlier because the Russian was an expert at sourcing things-guns, vehicles, communications equipment, fake documents, men who’d not think twice about killing someone for cash-and had a network of contacts who could help MI6 personnel move covertly across Russia in trains, boats, trucks, and other modes of transport. Though Will paid him for his service, Arman’s motivation to work for him was grounded in his hatred for the Soviet Union and by extension his hatred for Russia, because in his view both countries had been run by the same set of psychopathic bastards.
That hatred had started when he was deployed with the Fortieth Army to Afghanistan to fight the mujahideen. He’d witnessed both sides commit numerous atrocities, but one in particular had left him mentally scarred. During a Soviet offensive into the Panjshir Valley, his tank became damaged and separated from the rest of his unit. He and the rest of his crew were captured by mujahideen guerillas who immediately used their knives to behead his soldiers. One of the guerrillas then plunged his knife into Arman’s leg and kept twisting it while asking him in broken Russian how many Soviet tanks were heading along the valley. The torture continued for thirty minutes, during which time Arman told them nothing. He too would have almost certainly been decapitated, but Soviet soldiers who’d been looking for their missing tank attacked the group. The mujahideen fled into the hills and escaped, much to the fury of the officer commanding the Soviet rescue unit, a fury that was intensified when the major saw that one of the decapitated heads belonged to his younger brother.
Unable to walk, and in agony, Arman was placed on a stretcher, and the unit carried him three miles to the nearest village. He’d thought that he’d been brought there to receive medical help, but it transpired that the major had other intentions. After Arman was lowered onto the ground, the major ordered his men to round up every Afghan villager and point their guns at them. Further orders were issued. Five women were pulled out from the group, their legs and arms were bound with rope, and they were forced to lie down on top of each other until they formed a pile. Gasoline was poured over them. Holding a lighter in his hand and speaking to them through a translator, the major asked the rest of the villagers if they knew the whereabouts of the mujahideen who’d attacked Arman’s tank crew. The villagers were terrified, screaming, and pleading with him that they knew nothing. Before Arman could say anything, the major ignited the lighter and tossed it onto the bound women. As the women burned to death, the major strode forward and grabbed a girl who looked about four years old. After tying her to a shovel, he stuck the barrels of two rifles deep into the ground either side of the burning corpses, got two of his soldiers to hold the shovel at each end so that both the tool and the girl attached to it were horizontal, ordered the men to hold the girl over the fire, and tied the shovel to the butt of each rifle. Watching helplessly as the girl roasted to death over the bodies, Arman screamed louder than he’d screamed when the mujahideen blade had been stuck in him.
That scream had stayed in his head ever since.
As Will watched the former tank commander open a can of instant coffee and spoon granules into cups, he wondered, not for the first time, if the real reason Arman had refused to have the shrapnel removed was because he was praying for it to reach his heart.
Arman pushed a mug toward Will. “I know it’ll taste like piss.” He smiled. “Good job you don’t come here for my cuisine.”
Will took a sip of his drink and tried not to wince. “Did you get everything I asked for?”
Arman nodded, opened a cupboard, and placed a Makarov handgun on the table.
Will stripped it down. Though old, the weapon was in immaculate condition, and there was not a speck of dust within its workings. “Perfect.”
“Shame I can’t keep my dishes as clean, eh?”
“One of the advantages of being bachelors is that we don’t have to.”
“You still unmarried?”
Will nodded.
Arman looked confused. “I’ve got every excuse for being single because I look like the wrong end of an artillery strike. You don’t.”
Will shrugged. “I’ve not met anyone who’ll have me.”
Arman looked mischievous. “You have problems in the man department? If so I can get you some pills, much better than Viagra.”
“That’s very kind of you, Arman, but I’m fine in that department.” He thought about having another sip of coffee but decided not to. “Being unmarried suits me.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Thought not.” Arman took a gulp of his drink, grimaced in pain as he stood, and said, “The other stuff you need’s on the bed. I’ve got to prepare the vehicle. Help yourself to more coffee.”
After he’d left, Will removed his business attire, carefully placing his shirt, suit, and overcoat onto a hanger, and dressed in the clothes that Arman had gotten him. Within minutes he was wearing a white Windbreaker jacket, waterproof trousers, and boots. He looked inside the small knapsack that Arman had prepared for him: a crowbar, mallet, pair of binoculars, set of screwdrivers, military knife, lockpick set, and two spare magazines for the pistol. After putting the bag on his back, he walked out of the trailer.
Arman was on the other side of a clearing, standing next to a large off-road motorcycle, revving its engine while listening to the noise it was making. He took his hand off the throttle as Will approached him. “It looks like a heap of crap, but I’ve checked it thoroughly and have given it a tune-up. You’ll have no problems.”
Will sat on the bike. “I should be three hours. Much longer than that means something’s gone wrong.” He smiled while looking at his rental car. “And that means you can do whatever you like to the Mercedes.”
Will brought the bike to a halt on a deserted country lane and checked his map. He was four miles away from Yevtushenko’s cottage. Deciding that he could get to within two miles of the property before leaving the bike, he revved the throttle, kept control of the machine as its back wheel slid on ice, and drove off the lane onto open farmland. The land around him was featureless and frozen under a few inches of snow. No doubt in the warmer months the land would be plowed and crops would be planted in it, but now it looked inhospitable and lifeless.