Angel in the Shadows Read online

  ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Not that one either.’

  More pictures followed, and all of them portrayed the same summer scenario of a country girl amusing herself with friends.

  ‘It was easy to locate the source of these images,’ Dalsven said. ‘It’s the black-and-white documentary photo series Ich bin Waldviertel, about two girls from the countryside between Vienna and the Czech Republic. The photographer followed the daily lives of two sisters in a small rural village.’

  As if on automatic pilot, Radjen’s hands reached for his temples to massage away the headache he felt coming on. He thought about the thin line between innocence and sin, the difference between light and dark, a line he’d just crossed. The photos were suggestive, but certainly not forbidden.

  ‘These aren’t the images I saw, damn it!’

  He stopped rubbing his temples and looked up. ‘Where’s the video?’

  ‘There is no video.’

  ‘I saw it. The detective who was with me saw it as well. As did the forensics expert. What happened to it?’

  ‘You need to ask the external contractor.’

  ‘External?’

  ‘Given the hour of your request, our regular staff were unavailable or couldn’t be reached on the night in question. The situation demanded a quick reaction, so we contacted the Nationwide Forensics Bureau. A reliable partner. They always do a good job.’

  ‘What happened to that computer once it left the building in The Hague?’

  ‘What normally happens. It’s sealed and delivered back to us the next morning with a detailed report.’

  ‘The next morning? So, in the period between its being confiscated and the return delivery –’

  ‘It was stored by Nationwide Forensics and then brought back to us. We have a track-and-trace policy so from that moment on it’s possible to follow the computer.’

  ‘From that moment, yes. But my concern is the hours before that.’

  ‘In these kinds of cases we work with certified companies. No doubt they’ll be able to give you an account of how this was handled.’

  ‘I’d expect no less,’ Radjen replied. ‘We’re taking this computer for a second opinion. In the meantime, nobody else gets access to this info.’

  He was fuming inside, but determined not to let his feelings get in the way.

  ‘That bureau, Nationwide Forensics. Where is it?’

  Dalsven gave him an address in the centre of The Hague, on Paul Krugerplein.

  They were given the computer in a sealed box and transported it to the car on a special trolley that they didn’t bother to return before they drove off.

  ‘We had him,’ Radjen said, slamming the steering wheel with his fist. ‘We had that bastard by the balls and now he’s slipped through our fingers.’

  14

  Paul thought of the two men who’d walked towards him in the narrow, dimly lit corridor, the clinical tone with which they’d ordered him to come along, the ruthless force that command had held.

  They’d taken him downtown, in a dark-grey vehicle without number plates, via Nikolskaya Ulitsa, which connected Red Square with Lubyanka Square; finally, they’d passed through a gate and entered the courtyard of the Lubyanka, once a prison run by the KGB. Now it was the headquarters of the Federalnaya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, better known as the FSB, the Russian security services.

  As Paul got out of the car, the smog impaired visibility on the square, but the sense of threat was palpable all the same. In the Soviet era, thousands of political prisoners had been executed by firing squad here. Although decades had passed, this was still known as a lawless place from where you could disappear without a trace.

  The two men stood on either side of him. There was no need for them to say anything, to waste words on him; they hadn’t done so during the twenty-minute drive either. Their body language alone was enough to accomplish what needed to happen. In this case: his walking to the wide entrance, even though it ran counter to all of his instincts, even though the sweat was gushing down his back and his heart rate was unnaturally fast.

  In the massive entrance hall, they passed through two electronic security scanners, and then walked down several wide, high-ceilinged corridors, their footsteps echoing almost in sync. When they came to another lobby, he was told to wait.

  He looked up at an icon on the wall. Several metres tall, it depicted a tree of all of Russia’s rulers, with branches laden with medallions of grand princes and tsars. As he looked at it, he wondered if his feelings were anything like the emotions that go through the head of a condemned man in the final minutes before his sentence is carried out.

  At that moment two tall doors opened. A stylish-looking man in his fifties, wearing a dark-blue suit, made straight for Paul and greeted him like one would a guest in a five-star hotel.

  Alexander Arlazarov projected an image of a modern Russian. He had a firm handshake and his dark-brown eyes fixed Paul with a penetrating stare. He had the affable half-smile of a man who, as head of the counter-terrorism department, had no trouble managing a staff of several thousand people.

  ‘Mr Chapelle, I’m sorry to have given your day a slightly different turn than you undoubtedly had in mind, but I thought it was time for us to meet. Please follow me?’

  Leaving the other two men in the corridor, they entered an austere-looking study in which one wall was covered with shelves full of pale-blue files. Shades of dark grey dominated the rest of the soberly decorated room. On the desk, next to a silver-coloured bust of KGB founder Felix Dzerzhinsky and a pile of papers, stood a large samovar.

  ‘A family heirloom,’ Arlazarov said, as he filled one quarter of a glass with a dark liquid from the little teapot on top before adding hot water from the tap on the side.

  ‘Russian or English?’ he asked blithely as he handed Paul the glass. ‘You’re my guest, so it’s your choice.’

  Paul accepted the glass. ‘Why am I here?’ he asked in English.

  ‘Besides being a journalist, you’re clearly also a mind reader,’ Arlazarov said while preparing a glass of tea for himself. ‘That was my first question. Why are you here? Here in Moscow, I mean.’

  ‘I happened to be nearby.’

  ‘Nearby?’

  ‘From Amsterdam, it’s less than a four-hour flight. After eighteen months away from Moscow, it’s a small sacrifice to make for a drink with former colleagues.’

  ‘And by former colleagues you mean –’

  ‘Journalists … friends …’

  ‘Girlfriends …?’

  ‘Mr Arlazarov, why am I here?’ Paul asked again.

  While observing a measured silence, Arlazarov took an equally measured sip. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, as he sat down at his desk and opened the file in front of him.

  The chair Paul was offered forced him to keep straightening his back. Spartan was the term that sprang to mind. This was no ordinary study, no comfortable executive office. This was something halfway between an interrogation chamber and a solitary confinement cell.

  Arlazarov took a photo from the file and glanced at it, appeared to change his mind and casually put it aside. ‘You know what,’ he said, ‘let’s not talk about your former colleagues here in Moscow, however interesting they may be …’

  Paul saw the photo that Arlazarov had put next to the file.

  Anya’s face stared at him upside down.

  ‘Let’s talk about your current colleagues,’ Arlazarov continued, as he pulled a second photo from the file. ‘Of course I’m referring to a woman who has produced little if any socially conscious journalism of note in her career. True, there are two recent articles in which she accuses the Dutch government – legitimately, if you ask me – of inhumane treatment of Afghan asylum seekers. But, other than that …’

  He studied the photo intently.

  ‘Other than that, she’s rather beautiful.’ He looked at Paul again, this time with a smile. ‘And, trust me, from a male perspective, that’s not a problem. But this
woman, Chapelle, this woman unexpectedly pops up during a hostage situation and boldly declares her solidarity with the Chechen scum bringing death and destruction to Russia. And then, Chapelle, after delivering her video message, she vanishes into thin air. That begs the question: does she have magic powers? Even Houdini couldn’t pull that off.’

  Alexander Arlazarov regarded Paul for a while without a word.

  ‘And, believe me, Houdini was a master. One of the best.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Your connection with her. And what she was doing there, in the Seven Sisters.’

  ‘I’m a stringer, a freelancer working from Johannesburg. I have nothing to do with my colleagues from Amsterdam.’

  ‘So it was a coincidence that the two of you travelled from Amsterdam and arrived here in Moscow practically at the same time?’

  ‘A twist of fate, I’d say. I was here on private business. Hafez was here, I assume, for work.’

  ‘Do you assume this, or do you know this for a fact?’

  ‘As I said, I have nothing to do with my colleagues in Amsterdam.’

  ‘Not even when Hafez has an editor-in-chief who’s also your uncle, and with whom you’re regularly in contact, even though you work in Johannesburg?’

  Arlazarov leafed through the file and paused on a page. ‘Edward Vallent – am I pronouncing it correctly?’

  Paul silently stared at the file in Arlazarov’s hands. There was no doubt that this man had plenty of trump cards to fall back on – information, photos, names and yet more information. Who knows, maybe Paul had been shadowed by Arlazarov’s agents from the moment he touched down on Russian soil. How else could they know he’d gone to hear the story of a traumatized girl in a decrepit dormitory room somewhere in Kuzminki?

  ‘You know, I think journalistic integrity is admirable,’ Arlazarov said as he pulled a packet of Marlboros from his breast pocket, ‘but protecting the lives of Russian citizens is my top priority, I’m sure you understand.’

  He tapped a few cigarettes out of the packet, which he then held out to Paul.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  Paul didn’t bother to respond to a question that wasn’t really a question. Arlazarov produced a green flame from a metal lighter sporting an image of a double-headed eagle and lit his cigarette.

  ‘I’d like to impress on you the need to adopt a cooperative attitude.’

  ‘Do you really expect me, a journalist, to share my information with an organization that intimidates my colleagues and tries to make it impossible for them to do their work?’

  Arlazarov stood up from his chair and sat down on the edge of his desk, from where he looked down at Paul in a casual yet intimidating manner.

  ‘What’s the life of a female Chechen suicide bomber worth, do you think?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Less than a hundred dollars. Her family, or whatever remains of it, can live on that for a year or so. A black widow will blow herself up for a hundred dollars. And for that amount she’ll send about forty to fifty innocent Russians to their deaths. From a terrorist viewpoint, a hundred dollars provides an optimum return on your investment.’

  Arlazarov took a drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke through his nostrils.

  ‘The people and the media are supposed to believe that these are desperate individuals who see no other way out than blowing themselves to smithereens. Though in reality there’s a complex machinery behind it all, a well-financed organization that manages to persuade these women to translate their despair, frustration and honour into systematic suicide attacks. All for a hundred dollars per black widow. One hundred dollars.’

  Arlazarov rose to his feet, stubbed out his cigarette and sat back down behind his desk.

  ‘Such an organization doesn’t need an unknown journalist to express her sympathy for the cause on the internet. In other words, I believe fuck all about this story, Chapelle. And I believe the same goes for you. Someone’s trying to take us for a ride.’

  Arlazarov drained his glass and looked Paul straight in the eye.

  ‘C’mon, tell me, man to man, who’s trying to pull one over on us? Who is it?’

  Arlazarov was using a curious tactic, Paul thought to himself. He was hinting that he knew exactly what Paul was up to, although it could well be a double bluff. At the same time, he was trying to make Paul believe that, although their journalist and FSB Director roles might put them in opposing camps, strangely enough they had some shared interests in this case. However bizarre it was, Paul realized he had to do something to break the impasse. He thought of the girl. They’d seen him emerge from her room. He’d told the woman at the dormitory reception desk he’d come to see her. They’d interrogate her, no doubt about it, and use God knows what methods to make her talk. This seemed to provide an opportunity to meet Arlazarov halfway and hopefully come out of this curious situation relatively unscathed.

  ‘The girl was one of the hostages,’ he said.

  ‘There were hundreds of hostages. Why specifically her?’

  ‘I’m prepared to share that information, but only on my terms.’

  Arlazarov showed a charming smile. ‘Since when are you in a position to dictate terms?’

  ‘I’m doing something I don’t normally do. Only because I don’t want you to ruin the life of an innocent student by subjecting her to a grilling she’s far too traumatized for. She had a gun pressed to her temple. They were going to shoot her in the head unless Farah Hafez said what she said. That’s her story.’

  ‘A story that would exonerate your colleague –’

  ‘Farah Hafez is just as innocent as that young woman and all those other students who were held hostage there.’

  Arlazarov regarded him gravely. ‘There’s actually a warm, beating heart underneath that journalistic armour of yours. But, whether you like it or not, Chapelle, I’ll have to pick up the girl for questioning. At the very least, we’ll have to verify whether she’s telling the truth. If we get her to talk, of course.’

  ‘You give me the impression, Mr Arlazarov, that you’re a man of your word, that you can be trusted. And that’s why I told you about this girl.’

  ‘I’m interested in the man who pointed the gun, Chapelle, and I suspect it will bring me a step closer to the mystery of the missing journalist. Or, as the media insist on saying, “terrorist”.’

  Arlazarov walked to the door and threw it open with a grand gesture, issued a few curt orders to the two men in the corridor and beckoned Paul.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, you’re free to go.’

  He looked hard at Paul, as they shook hands.

  ‘Where is she, Mr Chapelle. Where is Farah Hafez?’

  ‘I’ve given you the girl. I hope she’s in good hands.’

  Something inscrutable came over Arlazarov’s smile, like he was looking straight through Paul, seeing all his secrets, all the things he’d kept back.

  ‘I promise. All the best, Chapelle.’

  They had a code. Back when they were still together, when they worked together, when they did everything together. A code for when one of them was in danger and they couldn’t meet each other freely. Anya had used that code twice. Now, after all this time, now that he’d come back, it was his turn.

  As the two men escorted him through the long corridors, Paul realized that, while he may have left Arlazarov’s room a free man, from now on there would always be someone looking over his shoulder, listening in on his conversations, no matter where he went, no matter who he spoke to. From now on, everybody he met would be at risk, just like the girl from the dormitory.

  By the time he’d left the building via the main entrance and walked across Lubyanka Square, with the eyes of the two men in his back, he’d made up his mind. In the process he’d bitten down on his lips so hard that he could still taste the blood as he said the code into his phone. He did it in the middle of car-free Ulitsa Arbat, amon
g the souvenir stands, the cafés and art galleries, the street performers and portrait-painters and the innumerable tourists. Right in one of Moscow’s busiest spots.

  ‘Please congratulate Miroslava from me this evening. Her twenty-first, how time flies.’

  Despite the noise around him, he felt the silence in his bones – the silence at the other end of the line, a silence that seemed to signify shock.

  She responded to the code. ‘I’ll pass your best wishes on to her.’

  Then he broke the connection, walked to Arbatskaya Metro Station, took Line 2 towards Dinamo, changed to Line 13, and spent the next half-hour changing lines to and from the city centre, until, finally, Line 5 brought him to Park Kultury, where Line 1, which ran right across Moscow, intersected with the ring. There he changed, at the last minute, to the train in the opposite direction.

  It was 8.45 p.m. by the time he arrived at Kolomenskoye Metro Station. He was positive that he’d shaken off any potential shadows, anyone that might have followed him. Yet he walked faster than usual. He took the side entrance into Kolomenskoye Park, to the left of Ulitsa Novinki, not far from the wooden church and the domes of the seventeenth-century Nikolo-Korelsky Monastery.

  They were to meet beside the small watermill by the Zhuzha River, among the ancient oak, birch and linden trees in an old graveyard where few Muscovites or tourists were ever seen. It was where Peter the Great is said to have played as a child. They’d chosen the name of an unknown woman on one of the gravestones – Miroslava – as the code word for their meetings here. The woman’s age indicated the time they’d meet.

  Each arrived from a different direction, shielded this time by the smog from the forest fires. In the distance, they could hear the low hum of the motorway and the bells of the Church of the Ascension