Jack Higgins - Rough Justice

‘Really.’ Volkov turned as the individual concerned approached in total panic.

‘General Volkov – please. I had no idea you were joining us today.’

‘Neither had I. We’ll sit by the window. Caviar and all that goes with it and your very finest vodka.’

They were seated at the necessary table, Zorin terrified. Volkov said, ‘Calm yourself, my friend. People always treat me like Death in a black hood, like something from a Bergman film, but I can assure you that you are guilty of nothing.’ The vodka arrived in pointed glasses stuck in crushed ice. ‘Drink up and then another. You’re going to need it. The news is not good, but you will have the satisfaction of knowing you have been part of something that has served Mother Russia well.’

Zorin looked bewildered. ‘But what would that be?’

‘Your nephew, Captain Igor Zorin, has died in action while taking part in a highly dangerous and most secret covert operation. I had the unhappy duty of conveying this news to our President a short while ago. He sends his condolences.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Zorin tossed back the vodka, then poured another. But was that a certain relief on his face? Yes, thought Volkov. ‘What terrible news. When did this happen?’

‘Within the last few days. His body is already here in Moscow at the military morgue.’

‘Where did it happen?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information. However, he died honourably, I can assure you of that. There may even be another medal.’

‘That won’t help my sister. She’s been widowed for years and her health isn’t good.’ The caviar arrived and more vodka.

‘Try some of this. A man must live, my friend.’ Volkov spooned some of the caviar himself. ‘Your sister is here in town at the moment?’

‘Yes, she lives alone with her maid.’

‘Would you like me to be with you when you go to see her?’

The relief on Zorin’s face was even greater. ‘That would be too much to expect, General.’

‘Nonsense, I’m happy to do it. Now eat up. It will do you good. Then you can take me to your sister’s house and we’ll break the bad news.’

Zorin was pathetically grateful, strange when you considered his stature, and yet dealing with such a wealthy man gave Volkov no problem at all. The oligarchs, the billionaires, those Russians who preferred the delights of English public schools for their children and townhouses in Mayfair for their residences still had enough to contend with back in Moscow. In the old days, the KGB had kept Russians of every level in line, and now it was the FSB, Putin’s old outfit. Putin was hugely popular as President – which meant that he, Ivan Volkov, didn’t need to be. Fear was enough.

The Zorin apartment was in a grand old block with views over the river and looked as if it hailed from Tsarist times. The bell echoed hollowly and the door was opened by an old woman who answered to Tasha, dressed in a peasant blouse and long skirt, grim and rather forbidding, her hair bound by a scarf, her face like a stone.

‘Where is she?’ Zorin demanded.

‘In the parlour,’ she said, and with the privilege of an old servant asked, ‘Forgive me, but is this bad news?’

‘It couldn’t be worse. This is General Volkov from the President himself to tell us of her son’s glorious death in action against our country’s enemies.’

His sense of theatre was poorly received. She glanced at Volkov briefly, obviously not particularly impressed, but then she looked as if she had lived forever. She had probably been born during the Great Patriotic War, the kind of woman who had seen it all.

‘I will speak to her first,’ she said. ‘If you gentlemen would wait here.’

Simple, direct, it brooked no denial. She opened a mahogany door with a gold handle, went in and closed it behind her. Zorin shifted from foot to foot, very uncomfortable.

‘She’s very direct, Tasha,’ he said. ‘Peasant stock from the family estate.’

‘So I can see.’ There was a dreadful keening from inside the room, a wailing that was quite disturbing, followed by sobbing. After a while, Tasha opened the door. ‘She will see you now, both of you.’

They entered, and Volkov found himself in a room that was a time capsule from another age: tall French windows to a terrace outside, a distant view of the river, old-fashioned mahogany furniture, wallpaper with paintings of rare birds, an Indian carpet, the grand piano covered with family photos. There were green velvet curtains, a musty smell to everything. It was as if nothing had changed since the nineteen twenties, and even the clothes that the broken-hearted mother wore seemed antique.

She was sitting in a chair clutching a photo in a silver frame, her hair bound with a gold scarf, and Zorin embraced her.

‘Now then, Olga, you mustn’t fret. He wanted only to be a soldier since his youth, no one knows that better than you. See, look who I have brought you. General Ivan Volkov, with words from President Putin himself extolling the bravery of Igor.’

She stared vacantly at Volkov, who said, ‘He died for the Motherland. There’s talk of a medal.’

She shook her head, bewildered. ‘A medal? He’s got medals. I don’t understand. Where are we at war?’ She clutched at Zorin. ‘Where was he killed?’

Volkov said, ‘On a mission of the greatest importance to the State, that’s all I can say. You may remember him with pride.’

She held up the photo of Igor Zorin in a bemedalled uniform, and Volkov took in the handsome face, the arrogance, the look of cruelty, and then she seemed to come to life.

‘That’s no good to me, General. I want my son alive again and he’s dead. It’s turned my heart to stone already.’

She burst into a torrent of weeping. Tasha held her close and nodded to Zorin and Volkov. ‘Go now,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to her.’

They did as they were told, went out into the street and paused beside their two limousines.

‘I can’t thank you enough for coming with me,’ Zorin said.

‘When I spoke to Colonel Bagirova of the Fifteenth Siberians, we agreed on the day after tomorrow for the funeral, ten o’clock in the morning, the Minsky Park Military Cemetery, so your nephew will be laid to rest with some of Russia’s finest soldiers. We will see what we can do about the medal. I can certainly promise a letter with Putin’s name on it.’

‘I doubt whether even that will cheer her.’ Zorin got in his limousine and was driven away.

‘Just another day at the office,’ Volkov murmured, got into his own limousine and was driven back to the Kremlin.

The funeral at Minsky Park was all that could be desired. There was a company of soldiers from the Fifteenth Siberian’s training camp outside Moscow, plenty of mourners in black, family and friends. The coffin was delivered on a gun carriage, lowered into the prepared grave, and twenty soldiers delivered the correct volley as ordered at Colonel Bagirova’s shouted command.

Olga Zorin stood with her brother, a few relatives behind, Tasha on the end of a line. Zorin held the umbrella, his sister sobbed, the regimental bugler played a final salute. Volkov stood some distance away wearing a military coat of finest leather and a black fedora, an umbrella over his head. The crowd dispersed to their various cars and Zorin came towards him.

‘It was good of you to come. The family are very grateful.’

Volkov, who had observed the furtive glances coming his way, smiled. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think they’re more worried than anything else. This coat always makes me look as if the Gestapo actually got to Moscow.’

Zorin obviously couldn’t handle such levity. ‘The reception is at the Grand. You’re very welcome.’