Mark Mills - House of the Hanged

It came to him quite suddenly what he would do and how he would do it.

It was a religious building of some kind, set well back from the street behind a high wall at the southern end of the Nevsky. Beyond the imposing entrance gate the trees rose tall and bare on either side of the pathway. Dukes cut left almost immediately into the trees, taking a well-trodden trail through the deep snow. It led to a cemetery deep in the wood, a bosky burial ground for the wealthy, sparsely populated with the dead. Large free-standing tombs were scattered around a frozen lake, like temples in some eighteenth-century garden.

The packed snow of the snaking pathways suggested that many others had visited in recent days, possibly paying a final tribute to their ancestors, it occurred to Tom, before fleeing the country for good. Right now, though, the two Englishmen found themselves alone. The purpose of their own pilgrimage was still no clearer to Tom, even when Dukes made for a tomb pushing four-square through a deep drift.

No larger than a garden shed, it was maybe twice as tall, its roof crowned with a Russian cross. The pale green stucco of its outer walls had crumbled in parts, revealing the bare stone blocks beneath. Its door was of solid wood and firmly locked.

Dukes was still struggling with an iron key when Tom joined him. The lock finally emitted a rasping groan and the door swung open on rusty hinges. The moment they were inside, Dukes shouldered it shut behind them.

The only illumination came from a small lunette above the door, and it was a few seconds before Tom’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, by which time Dukes was already on his knees before the altar. For a worrying moment it looked as though he was praying, but he was working away at one of the flagstones, prising it up with a pocket knife. Buried in the packed earth beneath was an old cigar box. It contained a wafer-thin package wrapped in waxed paper.

‘Here,’ said Dukes. ‘Take it with you.’

Tom had handled enough of Dukes’s coded intelligence reports in the past to know what it was.

‘Tell them I need more money – a lot more.’ Replacing the flagstone, Dukes got to his feet and stamped it down. ‘Deal directly with Leonard. I wouldn’t trust Bayliss with anything more than a cocktail shaker.’

‘You’re staying?’ asked Tom, incredulously.

‘It’s not over yet.’

‘But what about Zakharov?’

‘You think he’s the first to betray us?’

The weary fatalism of the statement grated. It suggested that the Zakharovs of the world were an unavoidable irritant to be endured, like mosquitoes, or people coughing in the theatre.

Tom removed his cap and pulled some banknotes from the lining. ‘It’s all I have left.’

Dukes riffled through the money, clearly delighted. ‘How much do you need?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

Dukes pocketed most of the cash and handed the rest back. ‘This should see you back to Helsinki.’

These weren’t the last words the two men exchanged. As they parted company outside, Tom asked, ‘How do you live like this?’

Dukes hesitated before replying. ‘I was here when the Revolution broke, when we turned the Tauride Palace into an arsenal. You see, I once believed in the New Jerusalem. Maybe I still do. But this isn’t it. This . . . this is Abaddon.’

He touched Tom lightly on the arm. ‘Tell Leonard from me that it’s not too late.’

‘For what?’

‘He’ll understand.’

As Tom watched the slight, anonymous figure shuffle off down the pathway, something told him that this would be his last ever glimpse of the man.

Abaddon, the place of punishment.

A fitting analogy, Tom reflected, his thoughts turning once more to Zakharov, the betrayer.

Chapter Two

Toulon, France. July 1935. Sixteen years later.

The porters were already in place, ranged along the platform like a guard of honour, when the train pulled into Toulon station. The heat was oppressive, and they fidgeted in their brass-buttoned tunics. A few of them crushed their cigarettes underfoot as the train shuddered to a halt and the carriage doors swung open.

Lucy was one of the last to descend. She had cut her hair short, and Tom might not even have recognized her had she not spotted him and waved.

Seeing her at a distance lent a new perspective. He realized, with a touch of sadness, that although she had lost none of her coltish grace she was no longer a girl. She had become a woman. It wasn’t just her new coiffure, or even her elegant organdie summer frock, it was the way she carried herself, the easy manner in which she proffered her hand to the guard who helped her down to the platform, the casual comment which set the fellow smiling.

Tom fought his way through the throng, arriving as her Morocco travelling bags were being loaded from the luggage car on to a trolley.

She might have changed, but she was still happy to launch herself at him and hug him tight, limpet-like, as they had always done. She smelled of roses.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘For what?’

She tilted her head up at him. ‘For the nice man at Victoria station who showed me to the first-class carriage, and the other nice man in Paris who showed me to my own sleeping compartment.’

‘An early birthday present. Don’t assume I’m setting a precedent.’

Releasing him, she looked around her. ‘Where’s Mr H?’

It was her name for Hector, his flat-coated retriever, his shadow for the past four years.

‘Missing.’

‘Missing?’

‘Since yesterday.’

‘Oh, Tom . . .’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he replied with as much non chalance as he could muster. ‘Maybe he needs a holiday too.’

But it wasn’t like Hector to go off for more than an hour or so, and only then to scrounge scraps from the customers at the bar in Le Rayol. Hector was a big coward at heart, although like all the best cowards he cloaked his fears in bold and boisterous behaviour.

‘It’s not the first time he’s done a disappearing act. I’m sure he’ll turn up as soon as he knows you’re here.’

Lucy looked unconvinced but was happy to play along if it spared them both the discomfort of any further discussion.

‘So, what do you think?’ she said brightly, flicking her fingers through her cropped hair and throwing in a theatrical little pout for effect.

‘I think your mother’s going to need a very stiff drink.’

‘That wasn’t the question.’

‘I think,’ Tom intoned with deliberation, ‘that you are more beautiful than ever.’

Lucy smiled. ‘Spoken like a true godfather.’

Tom’s car was parked out front in the shade of a tall palm. The porter set about loading the bags into the boot.

‘A new car,’ Lucy observed.

‘Not new, just different.’

‘It’s a lot smaller than the last.’

‘Ah, but this one doesn’t break down.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

She was referring to the previous summer and the day-trip with her family which had turned into a two-day-trip when the big Citroën had resolutely refused to start, stranding them as the sun was going down at a remote beach on the headland beyond Gigaro. There had been just enough food left in the picnic hamper to cobble together a simple supper and they had hunkered down for the night. Lucy’s half-brothers, George and Harry, had slept in the car, the rest of them under the stars around a driftwood fire, cocooned in Persian rugs. Leonard had embraced the setback with his usual sunny good humour, and even Venetia, who relished her creature comforts, had entered into the spirit of the occasion, leading them in a repertoire of Gilbert and Sullivan numbers, which had set Hector howling in protest. Remarkably, Leonard and Venetia had gone a whole evening without arguing, although they had bickered like a couple of old fishwives during the long and dusty march back to Gigaro the following morning.