Jack Grimwood - Moskva

‘Of course you do. As you can see, I have the girl.’ There was nothing human in the general’s smile. ‘Kyukov is dead, I imagine?’ General Dennisov shrugged. ‘I can forgive that. You shouldn’t have burned my huts, though. That’s disrespectful…’

‘I didn’t,’ Tom said.

‘But you did kill Kyukov?’

‘Call it a favour.’

Without warning, the general pushed Alex, grabbing her back before she could topple over the edge. Dragging her from the wall, he kicked the back of her knee and put his pistol to her head as she crumpled, the knuckle of his trigger finger whitening.

For a second, Tom believed he’d fire.

‘Now look what you’ve made her do.’

Alex climbed back on to the parapet. She was crying.

Did Becca cry as she crashed? Could you see a tree well enough through tears to hit it at eighty? Maybe Caro was right. Maybe it really was an accident. Maybe Bec didn’t kill herself after all… Below the level of Tom’s fear, below the howling wind and burning huts, were deeper impulses, older hungers.

Inside his head, Tom offered the God of the Old Testament whatever he wanted. He didn’t know if he was heard. There were days he was damn sure there was no one there to make the deal. All the same, the wind stilled slightly, the moon came out from behind cloud, and Alex stopped crying.

‘General,’ Tom said.

The Russian’s eyes were fixed on the folder Tom pulled from his jacket.

‘I take it this is the last set?’

Despite himself, the man nodded. ‘We came together,’ he said, ‘to burn them after Stalin died. I kept copies. The commissar did the same. Gabashville…’ The general glanced at the piss drying on Alex’s legs and looked as if he might push her off the roof anyway. ‘He didn’t keep copies. He had fakes made, perfect right down to the thumbprints on the back. Fakes were what he brought to our ceremony. Fakes were what we toasted with that awful brandy of his.’

Tom could see Beziki enjoying making fools of them.

‘When did you find out?’

‘I didn’t. The commissar wanted something from Gabashville. Gabashville revealed what he’d done and told him to go elsewhere. The little thief had grown a conscience…’

‘About killing the boy in the chair?’

‘There’d been a murder. We needed a murderer.’

‘And when flayed bodies kept turning up?’

‘What could they do? They were already implicated. Drench a knot in blood and it becomes impossible to unpick. Golubtsov’s father was devastated, you know.’ General Dennisov looked at Alex and his smile was a wasteland of desires. ‘Poor Kyukov. The things he liked to do. And now he’s dead.’

‘That was me.’

‘Well, it was hardly going to be her, was it?’ The man shook Alex, like a terrier with its catch. ‘I’m not sure why Sir Edward’s so upset. She’s not even his real daughter.’

‘I think you’ll find she might be.’

When Alex stiffened, Tom realized that her Russian had improved in the weeks she’d been away. Then he realized that it might have improved, and she might well have understood, but that wasn’t what transfixed her.

Turning in a tight circle over the burning huts, a white helicopter shuddered in the sudden updraft. The pilot fought for control and then came in hard and low, straight at their building. The machine was squat and sharp-edged, and so quiet Tom could barely hear it. A searchlight flicked on and blinded him before he could look away.

After-glare burned his retina.

When he glanced back, the light was on Alex.

The general stopped pointing his pistol at her and aimed at the helicopter instead, ducking as a rattle of automatic fire put bullets through the hut behind him. It was an impressive piece of shooting.

‘Step down,’ General Dennisov ordered.

With his pistol to Alex’s head, the general let himself be driven back by the copter’s downdraught, which threw up such a blizzard it almost swept him off the roof. Edging closer, its searchlight filtered by dancing snow, the machine followed, until General Dennisov turned away, using Alex to shield him from its glare.

Very slowly, the helicopter positioned itself over the abattoir, never more than a few feet above its surface. Then it settled, skis spreading as they took the craft’s full weight. As its engine died, and the only sound became the low chop of slowing blades, General Dennisov pushed his pistol under Alex’s jaw.

‘Turn off that shitting light,’ he shouted.

The searchlight went off. Whoever did it changed his mind, and it flicked on again, but angled away from the general. A door slid back and a figure dropped to the roof, stumbling slightly under the weight of a rifle.

Pulling off a flying helmet, she shook out her hair.

General Dennisov looked in disgust from the burning huts to the girl in front of him. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘I should have known it was you.’

Ignoring her father, Yelena walked round to help the pilot from his seat. Metal leg dragging, Dennisov limped around the rear of the small helicopter, avoiding its tail rotor. His face was fierce with pain.

‘Your wife came to my bar.’ He stared at Tom. ‘She told me about the deal you made. A woman like that… I’m not sure you deserve her.’

‘Your father wants these.’ Tom held up the photographs.

‘Of course he does.’ Dipping into his pocket, Dennisov threw across a gas lighter designed like a blowtorch. ‘Burn them.’

In his eyes was certainty, and a fury so bitter his mouth twisted at its taste. This was an officer who killed his own CO for being crap at the job, who’d ridden a Ural motorbike out to a log cabin after being told he’d never ride again, who could barely stand for the pain of flying a copter.

‘Do it,’ Dennisov ordered.

His sister raised her weapon and it was Tom she pointed it at. When her father stepped forward, she waved him back. The general’s eyes flared, but when Yelena twitched the rifle, he stopped where she indicated.

‘The catch on the side…’ Dennisov’s voice was flat, his patience eaten away.

Blue flame danced from the lighter’s nozzle.

‘Wait,’ Yelena said.

Tom waited.

‘You.’ She pointed at Alex. ‘Describe them.’

Alex looked from Yelena to the general, who still gripped her arm. At a jerk of Yelena’s rifle, Alex pulled free and went to stand beside Tom.

‘A man on an old-fashioned motorbike.’

‘Burn it,’ Dennisov ordered.

Tom put the lighter to the photograph’s corner and watched flames catch and cardboard curl. ‘No,’ Dennisov said, when he was about to let go.

Tom held it until he could feel his fingers singeing. When he looked over, the general was smiling. ‘And the next,’ Yelena said.

‘Three young men in an old Mercedes.’

Tom burned that as he’d burned the last, holding it and the ones that came after for as long as he could manage. If he didn’t hold them for as long as the first, Dennisov said nothing and didn’t make him pick them up again.

‘Two men with two girls.’

They joined the others as sprinkled ash on the snow.

‘A girl in a bath,’ Alex said. ‘She’s not wearing anything.’

‘She’s in the bath,’ Yelena said. ‘She wouldn’t be.’

‘A man tied to a chair.’ Alex’s voice faltered. ‘He’s trying to escape.’

‘And on the back?’ Dennisov asked.

‘A fingerprint.’

‘A thumbprint,’ the general corrected her.

Describing the next few photographs, Alex simply said, ‘He’s been cut… And again… He’s been cut some more…’ Her voice became flat and her eyes dead as she fought to keep her horror under control. Tom felt ashamed for forgetting how young she was.