The Case of the General's Thumb (22 page)

“You asleep?” he asked turning to Viktor.

“No.”

“Ever go camping with the Pioneers when you were a kid?”

“No.”

“I did. Three times. This is like a fourth.”

“How so?”

“There was a game we had. Summer Lightning. Sort of treasure hunt. I don't remember exactly. What I do remember is how one evening we'd be told, Summer Lightning tomorrow! And how excited we'd be, not knowing what to expect, but expecting it to be fun. You're like that as a kid.”

“And now it's the same?”

“Expecting it to be fun, yes,” Nik said, but with a note of uncertainty that implied the opposite.

Viktor made no response. He, too, was staring at the ceiling.

A motorcycle roared past outside.

“So tomorrow it's the big one,” Nik said calmly. “After which we're disposable. Not that I feel of any bloody use to anyone any more.”

Again no response from Viktor.

Georgiy arrived at 8.00 in summery flannels, dark blue shirt and grey jacket, and carrying a briefcase.

“All fit?” he inquired, leading them out to a Suzuki mini-jeep.

“Fifteen dollars a day, petrol extra. It's peanuts what they charge for these things here.”

Viktor sat beside Georgiy, Nik in the back.

“This is where we collect, is it?” Nik asked abruptly.

Georgiy smiled into the mirror.

“Yes. The big money.”

Seeing how tiny the mini-jeep's boot was, Nik wondered where they would put it.

A mobile rang. Viktor reached for his, but Georgiy forestalled him.

“Be there in an hour … All set this end … Suzuki jeep, brownish yellow. OK. At the Karpas Peninsula–Famagusta fork we slow.”

Pocketing his mobile, Georgiy produced automatics.

“You're my bodyguards …”

At the fork, where Georgiy slowed, a chocolate-coloured Mercedes eased out behind, and as they accelerated, fell back.

Famagusta seemed larger, livelier, busier than sleepy Kyrenia, and Georgiy appeared to know the place. At the flower-bedded, Atatürk statue roundabout, he swung right and brought them to a hotel overlooking the lifeless, war-scarred buffer zone between the Turkish sector and the Greek.

They made their way out onto a terrace facing the sea, and Georgiy ordered coffee.

“From this point on, questions are out,” he said. “Understood?”

They nodded.

Georgiy consulted his watch.

“We'll be joined shortly by someone else for you to protect.”

“Is danger anticipated?” Viktor asked.

“Not at the moment, though anything's possible. After which, no more questions!”

They drank their coffee in silence, Georgiy looking now at his watch, now around at the other customers, now at a ship on the horizon.

Someone came and sat at the table next to theirs. Georgiy greeted him with a smile. The newcomer, Viktor saw to his astonishment, was Refat.

“Good morning.” He looked pleasantly at each in turn, and as a waiter appeared ordered a coffee in English. “We leave in twenty
minutes,” he said. “It's fifteen minutes from here to the bank. We're expected.”

“And you two keep close behind, eyes peeled,” Georgiy threw in.

At the bank, an Arab official took five copies of a document from a leather folder and laid them out on his desk, open at the last page.

Georgiy made an ink impression of his right thumb on each document in the appropriate place, and Refat did the same. The Arab, who had shown him the greater deference throughout, wiped Refat's thumb clean with ink solvent before turning to Viktor and Nik, assuming one of them to be next. At which point Georgiy, having pulled on surgical gloves, produced the thumb, and the Arab supervised the imprinting as unconcernedly as if it were still part of a person.

When the three thumb-signatures had been computer-scanned and checked, prints were taken of Viktor's right-hand index finger and Nik's right-hand thumb. These were then scanned into the computer together with each of their passport photographs.

Outside in the brilliant sunlight, Georgiy tossed Viktor the keys of the jeep, and travelled with Refat in the Mercedes.

“You all right?” Viktor inquired after they had driven for ten minutes in silence.

“Bit tired,” Nik confessed, then added, “You know this Refat chap, do you?”

“Yes, why?”

“I was thinking of a pal of mine in Africa, who drove over a mine.”

“No chance of that here.”

“How about an in-car bomb? Stop and have a look?”

“Georgiy said keep close behind.”

“So we wouldn't stop and look.”

“Then why all that stuff with our fingerprints and photos?”

“Means nothing. Things can be kept in test tubes.”

Viktor found Nik's unease infectious, and the more so since the
out of the blue arrival of Refat. If Georgiy had all along been hand in glove with Refat, why all the nonsense of his having to conceal from Georgiy his own connection with Refat?

“And where the hell is this cash they've just signed for?” Nik persisted.

“No idea.”

They had now left the town behind. On one side, meadows; on the other, barbed wire of some military installation.

“Does your wife know where you are?” Nik asked suddenly.

“Look, Nik, if you were expendable, you'd have been expended in Paris.”

“Seems we're heading for the airport,” Nik said, as a plane flew over very low – dark thoughts apparently allayed.

The Mercedes pulled into the side, Viktor drew in behind. Georgiy came round to Viktor's window.

“Let's have the guns.”

Meekly they handed them over.

Producing a duster, Georgiy wiped both weapons free of prints, and tossed them into the roadside grass.

“That's it,” he said, smiling broadly. “So on and up we go!”

From Ercan they flew to Istanbul, from Istanbul to Rome, and from Rome to Larnaca in the Greek sector of Cyprus, morale much improved by the excellence of the in-flight catering enjoyed on the final leg of their journey.

From Larnaca airport they were driven to Limassol and the offices of Kostakas & Co., where they were received by Zakhariya, clearly an old friend of Georgiy's.

“All set, then, at this end?” Georgiy asked in English.

“Of course! We're the best.”

Cinnamon-scented coffee was served by Zakhariya's charming daughter, and for a while they sat in silence.

“Just one small thing, Georgiy,” Zakhariya began unctuously, “storage charges have gone up a little.”

“And it's payment in advance.”

Zakhariya nodded.

“How much?”

“Half a million would cover it.”

Georgiy and Refat exchanged glances.

“You really are all set to load?” Refat asked.

“We are,” smiled Zakhariya. “Slick as a Swiss bank, that's us.”

Refat drew one of Zakhariya's phones towards him.

“Per Western Union,” Zakhariya prompted, with a smile which broadened as Refat authorized Moscow to pay.

At the vast dockside container warehouse Zakhariya reached down one of the cartons, with which Refat's container was packed, stripped back the sticky tape, and stepped aside for Georgiy to examine the bundles of hundred-dollar notes it contained. Refat declared himself satisfied, the warehouse manager re-sealed and replaced the carton, then closed and re-sealed the container.

“See it loaded, and accompany it on board,” Georgiy ordered Nik and Viktor.

“On board what?” Viktor asked.

“Container Ship Lisichansk. Ukrainian flag.”

They saw the container loaded, then sat guard on thoughtfully provided plastic chairs. Hot food was delivered to them.

“Do you know,” said Nik suddenly, “I was supposed to get a family flat in Kiev on the strength of reclaiming this money. Plus a job in Security.”

“Meaning what?”

“A sort of Ukrainian Federal Bureau, a new idea Parliament refused the funds for. So my Ivan Lvovich said.”

“There actually is a new National Investigation Bureau.”

“Is that what you are?”

“Wish I was. No, I'm just militia.”

Refat and Georgiy appeared shortly after dark, accompanied by the ship's captain.

Refat broke the seal and opened the container.

“That's the one,” said Georgiy, pointing to the carton opened at Limassol.

Refat lifted it down.

Opening the carton, Georgiy handed Viktor and Nik ten bundles of notes each, then turned to the captain.

“There's eight hundred thousand dollars there for you. And you can come with us if it's a question of dodging Ilichovsk customs, and we'll put you ashore at Istanbul.”

“No sweat,” said the captain. “We can hide anything up to a tank.”

Refat closed the doors.

“Come, you two,” said Georgiy. “We're leaving ship.”

They followed him to the side. Bobbing below they saw a trim motor yacht.

“You're leaving all that money, just like that?” Viktor asked Refat as they waited for Georgiy to climb down the ladder.

“What we're leaving is a container of contraband cigarettes, shortly to be escorted by our own brave Navy to the Black Sea port of Ilichovsk. Come on, down you go.”

Two hours later Dimitris, the swarthy Greek skipper, brought his yacht alongside Grozny, a towering container ship, port of registration Novorossiysk, hove to with engines silent.

“Decision time,” Refat announced, joining Viktor and Nik drinking coffee with Dimitris in the cabin. “Georgiy and I are sailing on Grozny to Novorossiysk, and can do without you for the time being. Dimitris will be happy to land you at Piraeus, and from there you can make your own way.”

“Why Novorossiysk, when the money's for Ukraine?” Viktor asked in surprise.

“The money's for Russia,” said Refat, “to set against the Ukrainian debt for natural gas. All by agreement with the future government. The present Kiev bunch would only blow it on getting re-elected. Better our way, don't you think?”

Viktor ignored the question.

“Kiev for me,” he said firmly.

“As I expected,” said Refat. “So come with us to Novorossiysk, and travel home from there. How about you, Nik?”

Nik said nothing.

“We'll call further on your services,” Refat continued. “And we'll see you safe. After all, we've you and Viktor to thank equally for the recovery of four billion. So where's it to be?”

“Paris,” Nik said quietly.

“I've a fax here that could change your mind,” Refat said, passing it to him.

Above the letterhead, a tiny picture of Sakhno and Uli seated on the bonnet of the familiar hearse before the premises of Sachs Funerals.

“Hi, Nik!” read the message. “Congrats on striking oil. Into undertaking here, in Prague. No shortage of clients! Could do with an assistant. Care to join me? Go for a drive? I'm at 18, Marcel Popelar Street. Tel. 134-53-64.”

Nik stowed the fax away in the breast pocket of his denim suit.

“Well?”

“Piraeus, please.”

“Good man!” said Refat. “Regards to Sakhno! You know each other's ways. Build on it.”

“Right,” he said, turning to Viktor, “you and I had better go on board.”

Nik and Viktor embraced.

“Slip Dimitris a couple of thousand when you land,” Refat
advised Nik. “And hang on to that American Express card. Could come in useful. Take it as a present from Ivan Lvovich.”

“Who's where?”

Refat shrugged.

“Hiding abroad. The National Investigation Bureau got going without him. Anyway, he'd never have made it to the money. It's amazing how you did. Au revoir!”

As Grozny's engines throbbed into life, Dimitris' yacht swung sharply away.

Nik sat alone in the cabin lost in thought. One day perhaps, when he was clear where home was, he'd return there. He needed time – a month, a year, maybe, to think.

Meantime he would take that job with Sachs Funerals. From Prague he could visit Paris, write to Saratov, send Tanya and Volodya money to buy a fine flat and be not too angry. Dear to him as they were, he was no longer the same man. Time was needed to mend, make good the distortion inflicted by life.

But now for Piraeus.