Our Kind Of Traitor Part 10

The word friends friends seems to trouble him. He repeats it, breaks off, mutters something in Russian to himself, and takes a pull of vodka before resuming. seems to trouble him. He repeats it, breaks off, mutters something in Russian to himself, and takes a pull of vodka before resuming.

'My friends friends, they talk these pilots, do deal, very private deal, no comebacks, OK?'

OK. No comebacks.

'Know what they fly in these empty planes, Professor? No customs, freight on board, direct to buyer, GuantanamoKabul, cash up front?'

No, Perry has no suggestions for a likely cargo out of Guantanamo bound for Kabul, cash up front.

'Lobster, Professor!' slapping his hand on his great thigh in a fit of savage laughter. 'Couple thousand G.o.ddam lobster from Bay of Mexico! Who buy G.o.ddam lobster? Crazy warlords! From warlords, CIA buy prisoners prisoners. To warlords, CIA sell G.o.ddam lobsters G.o.ddam lobsters. Cash. Maybe also a few K heroin for prison guards at Guantanamo. Best grade. 999. No s.h.i.t. Believe me, Professor!'

Is Perry supposed to be shocked? He tries to be. Is this really sufficient reason to drag him to a rickety lookout bombarded by the wind? He doesn't believe so. Neither, he suspects, does Dima. The story sounds more like some kind of sighting shot for whatever lies ahead.

'Know what my friends friends do with this cash, Professor?' do with this cash, Professor?'

No, Perry does not know what Dima's friends friends do with the profits from smuggling lobsters from the Bay of Mexico to Afghan warlords. do with the profits from smuggling lobsters from the Bay of Mexico to Afghan warlords.

'They bring this cash to Dima Dima. Why they do that? Because they are trusting trusting Dima. Many, many Russian syndicate trust Dima! Not only Russian! Big, small, I don't give a s.h.i.t! We take Dima. Many, many Russian syndicate trust Dima! Not only Russian! Big, small, I don't give a s.h.i.t! We take all all! You tell your English spies: you got dirty money? Dima wash it for you, no problem! You wanna save and conserve? Come to Dima! Out of many little roads, Dima make one big big road. Tell road. Tell this this to your G.o.ddam spies, Professor.' to your G.o.ddam spies, Professor.'

'So how are you reading reading the b.u.g.g.e.r at this stage?' Hector asks. 'He's sweating, bragging, drinking, joking. He's telling you he's a crook and a money-launderer and he's boasting about his bent chums what are you really the b.u.g.g.e.r at this stage?' Hector asks. 'He's sweating, bragging, drinking, joking. He's telling you he's a crook and a money-launderer and he's boasting about his bent chums what are you really seeing seeing and and hearing hearing? What's going on inside him?'

Perry considers the premise as if it has been set for him by a higher examiner, which is how he is beginning to see Hector. 'Anger?' he proposes. 'Directed at a person or persons yet to be defined?'

'Keep going,' Hector orders.

'Desperation. Also to be defined.'

'How about honest-to-G.o.d hatred, always good?' Hector insists.

'To come, one suspects.'

'Vengeance?'

'Is somewhere in there, definitely,' Perry agrees.

'Calculation? Ambivalence? Animal cunning? Think harder!' spoken in jest, but received in earnest.

'All of the above. No question.'

'And shame shame? Self-disgust? Self-disgust? None of that about?' None of that about?'

Taken aback, Perry ponders, frowns, peers about him. 'Yes,' he concedes in a long-drawn-out voice. 'Yes. Shame. The apostate's apostate's shame. shame. Ashamed Ashamed to be dealing with me at all. to be dealing with me at all. Ashamed Ashamed of his treachery. That's why he had to boast so much.' of his treachery. That's why he had to boast so much.'

'I'm a G.o.ddam clairvoyant,' says Hector with satisfaction. 'Ask anyone.'

Perry doesn't need to.

Perry is describing the long minutes of silence, the conflicting grimaces of Dima's sweated face in the half-darkness, how he pours himself another vodka, chucks it back, mops his face, grins, glowers indignantly at Perry as if questioning his presence, reaches out and grabs him by the knee in order to hold his attention while he makes a point, relinquishes it, and forgets him again. And how finally, in a voice of deepest suspicion, he growls out a question that must be squarely answered before any other business can be conducted between them: 'You see my Natasha?'

Perry has seen his Natasha.

'She beautiful?'

Perry has no difficulty a.s.suring Dima that Natasha is indeed very beautiful.

'Ten, twelve book a week, she don't givva s.h.i.t. Read them all. You wanna get a few student like that, you be G.o.ddam happy.'

Perry says he would indeed be happy.

'Ride horse, dance ballet. Ski so beautiful like G.o.ddam bird. Wanna know something? Her mother. She got dead. I loved this woman. OK?'

Perry makes noises of regret.

'Maybe I f.u.c.k too many women once. Some guys, they need a lotta women. Good women, they wanna be the only one. You screw around, they go a bit crazy. That's a pity.'

Perry agrees it's a pity.

'Jesus G.o.d, Professor!' He is leaning forward, stabbing at Perry's knee with his index finger. 'Natasha's mother, I love love that woman, I love her so much I explode, hear me? Love like make your guts on fire. Your p.r.i.c.k, b.a.l.l.s, heart, brain, your soul: they live only for this love.' He makes another pa.s.s of the back of his hand across his mouth, mutters 'like your Gail, beautiful', takes a shot of vodka and continues. 'Her b.a.s.t.a.r.d husband kill her,' he confides. 'Know that woman, I love her so much I explode, hear me? Love like make your guts on fire. Your p.r.i.c.k, b.a.l.l.s, heart, brain, your soul: they live only for this love.' He makes another pa.s.s of the back of his hand across his mouth, mutters 'like your Gail, beautiful', takes a shot of vodka and continues. 'Her b.a.s.t.a.r.d husband kill her,' he confides. 'Know why why?'

No, Perry does not know why Natasha's mother's b.a.s.t.a.r.d husband killed Natasha's mother, but he is waiting to discover, just as he is waiting to discover whether he really is in a madhouse.

'Natasha she my my child. When Natasha's mother tell this to him because she cannot lie, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d kill her. One day, maybe I find this b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Kill him. Not with gun. With these.' child. When Natasha's mother tell this to him because she cannot lie, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d kill her. One day, maybe I find this b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Kill him. Not with gun. With these.'

He holds up his improbably delicate hands for Perry's inspection. Perry dutifully admires them.

'My Natasha go to Eton School, OK? Tell this to your spies. Or no deal.'

For a brief moment, in a violently rotating world, Perry feels himself on firm ground.

'I'm not absolutely sure that Eton takes girls yet,' he says cautiously.

'I pay good. I give swimming pool. No problem.'

'Even so, I don't think they'll change the rules for her.'

'So where she go?' Dima demands recklessly, as if it's Perry and not the school who is making the difficulties.

'There's a place called Roedean. It's supposed to be the girls' equivalent of Eton.'

'Number one for England?'

'People say so.'

'Kids of intellectuals? Lords? Nomenklatura? Nomenklatura?'

'It's a school for the high end of British society, put it that way.'

'Cost lotta money?'

'A great lot.'

Dima is only half appeased.

'OK,' he growls. 'When we make deal with your spies. Number-one condition: Roedean School Roedean School.'

Hector's mouth is wide open. He gawps at Perry, then at Luke beside him, then at Perry again. He pa.s.ses his hand through his unkempt mop of white hair in frank disbelief.

'Holy f.u.c.king cow,' he murmurs. 'How about a commission in the Household Cavalry for his twin sons while he's about it? What did you tell him?'

'I promised I'd do my absolute best,' Perry replies, feeling himself drawn to Dima's side. 'It's the England he thinks he loves. What else was I supposed to say to him?'

'You did marvellously marvellously,' Hector enthuses. And little Luke agrees, marvellous marvellous being a word they share. being a word they share.

'You remember Mumbai Mumbai, Professor? Last November? The crazy Pakistani guys, kill the whole G.o.ddam world? Take orders over their cells? The G.o.ddam cafe they shoot up? The Jews they kill? Hostages? The hotels, train stations? The G.o.ddam kids, mothers, all dead? How the f.u.c.k they do that, those crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?'

Perry has no suggestions.

'My kids cut a finger, bleed a bit, I wanna throw up,' Dima protests indignantly. 'I done enough death in my life, hear me? Whadda they wanna do that for, the crazy f.u.c.ks?'

Perry the unbeliever would like to say 'for G.o.d' but says nothing. Dima steels himself, then takes the plunge: 'OK. You tell this once to your G.o.ddam English spies, Professor,' he urges with another lurch into aggression. 'October two thousand eight. Remember the f.u.c.king date. A friend friend call me. OK? A call me. OK? A friend friend?'

OK. Another friend friend.

'Pakistani guy. A syndicate we do business with. October 30, middle of the G.o.ddam night, he call me. I'm in Berne, Switzerland, very quiet city, lot of bankers. Tamara she's asleep beside me. Wakes up. Gives me the G.o.ddam phone: for you for you. It's this guy. Hear me?'

Perry hears him.

'"Dima," he tell to me. "Here is your friend friend, Khalil." Bulls.h.i.t. His name's Mohamed. Khalil, that's a special name he got for certain cash business I'm connected with, who givva s.h.i.t? "I got hot market tip for you, Dima. Very big, very hot tip. Very special. You guys gotta remember it was me who tell you this tip. You remember for me?" OK, I say. Sure. Four o'clock in the G.o.ddam morning, some piece s.h.i.t about the Mumbai stock market. Never mind. I tell him, OK, we remember it's you, Khalil. We got good memory. n.o.body stiff you. What's your hot tip?

'"Dima, you gotta get the f.u.c.k outta the Indian stock market or you catch big cold." "What?" I say, "what, Khalil? You f.u.c.king crazy? Why we gonna catch a big cold in Mumbai? We got a s.h.i.tload respectable business in Mumbai. Regular, squeaky-f.u.c.king-clean investments, took me five years I clean services, tea, timber, hotels so f.u.c.king white and big the Pope could hold a ma.s.s in them." My friend don't listen. "Dima, hear me, get the f.u.c.k outta Mumbai. Maybe a month after, you take strong position again, make a few million. But first you get the f.u.c.k outta those hotels."'

A fist again pa.s.ses across Dima's face, punching away the sweat. He whispers Jesus G.o.d Jesus G.o.d to himself and stares around their tiny box for help. 'You gonna tell this to your English apparatchiks, Professor?' to himself and stares around their tiny box for help. 'You gonna tell this to your English apparatchiks, Professor?'

Perry will do what he can.

'Night October 30 two thousand eight, after this Pakistani a.r.s.ehole wake me up, I don't sleep good, OK?'

OK.

'Next morning October 31 I call my G.o.ddam Swiss banks. "Get me the f.u.c.k outta Mumbai." Services, timber, tea, I got maybe thirty per cent. Hotels seventy. Couple week later, I'm in Rome. Tamara call me. "Turn on the G.o.ddam television." What do I watch? Those crazy Pakistani f.u.c.ks shooting the s.h.i.t outta Mumbai, Indian stock market stop trading. Next day, Indian Hotels are down sixteen per cent to 40 rupees and falling. March this year, they hit 31. Khalil call me. "OK, my friend, now you get the f.u.c.k back in. Remember it's me who told you this." So I get the f.u.c.k back in.' The sweat is pouring down his bald face. 'End of year, Indian Hotels are 100 rupees. I make twenty million profit cold. The Jews are dead, the hostages are dead and I'm a f.u.c.king genius. You tell this to your English spies, Professor. Jesus G.o.d.'

The sweated face a mask of self-disgust. The cracking of the rotten weatherboards in the sea-wind. Dima has talked himself to a point of no return. Perry has been observed and tested and found good.

Washing his hands in the prettily decked-out upstairs lavatory, Perry peers into the mirror and is impressed by the eagerness of a face he is beginning not to know. He hurries back down the thickly carpeted staircase.

'Another nip?' Hector asks, flapping a lazy hand in the direction of the drinks tray. 'Luke, lad, how's about making us a pot of coffee?'

7.

In the road above the bas.e.m.e.nt, an ambulance tears past, and the howl of its siren is like a scream for the whole world's pain.

In the wind-beaten, half-hexagon turret overlooking the bay, Dima is unrolling the satin sleeve from his left arm. By the changeful moonlight that has replaced the vanished sun, Perry discerns a bare-breasted Madonna surrounded by voluptuous angels in alluring poses. The tattoo descends from the tip of Dima's ma.s.sive shoulder to the gold wristband of his bejewelled Rolex watch.

'You wanna know who make this tattoo for me, Professor?' he whispers in a voice husky with emotion. 'Six G.o.ddam month every day one hour?'

Yes, Perry would like to know who has tattooed a topless Madonna and her female choir on to Dima's enormous arm, and taken six months to do it. He would like to know what relevance the Holy Virgin has to Dima's quest for a place at Roedean for Natasha, or permanent residence in Britain for all his family in exchange for vital information, but the English tutor in him is also learning that Dima the storyteller has his own narrative arc and that his plots unfold with indirection.

'My Rufina make this. She was zek zek, like me. Camp hooker, sick from tuberculosis, one hour each day. When she finish, she die. Jesus Christ, huh? Jesus Christ.'

A respectful quiet while both men contemplate Rufina's masterpiece.

'Know what is Kolyma Kolyma, Professor?' Dima asks, still with a husk in his voice. 'You heard?'

Yes, Perry knows what is Kolyma Kolyma. He has read his Solzhenitsyn. He has read his Shalamov. He knows that Kolyma is a river north of the Arctic Circle that has given its name to the harshest camps in the Gulag archipelago, before or after Stalin. He knows zek zek too: too: zek zek for Russia's prisoners, the millions and millions of them. for Russia's prisoners, the millions and millions of them.

'With fourteen I was G.o.ddam zek zek in Kolyma. Criminal, not political. Political is s.h.i.t. Criminal is pure. Fifteen years I serve there.' in Kolyma. Criminal, not political. Political is s.h.i.t. Criminal is pure. Fifteen years I serve there.'

'Fifteen in in Kolyma Kolyma?'

'Sure, Professor. I done fifteen.'

The anguish has gone out of Dima's voice, to be replaced by pride.

'For criminal prisoner Dima criminal prisoner Dima, other prisoners got respect respect. Why I was in Kolyma? I was murderer. Good Good murderer. Who I murder? Lousy Sovietsky apparatchik in Perm. Our father suicide himself, got tired, drank lotta vodka. My mother, to give us food, soap, she gotta f.u.c.k this lousy apparatchik. In Perm, we live in communal apartment. Eight c.r.a.ppy rooms, thirty people, one c.r.a.ppy kitchen, one s.h.i.thouse, everybody stink and smoke. Kids do not like this lousy apparatchik who f.u.c.k our mother. We gotta stand outside in kitchen, very thin wall, when apparatchik come to visit us, bring food, f.u.c.k my mother. Everybody stare at us: listen to your mother, she's a wh.o.r.e. We gotta put our hands over our G.o.ddam ears. You wanna know something, Professor?' murderer. Who I murder? Lousy Sovietsky apparatchik in Perm. Our father suicide himself, got tired, drank lotta vodka. My mother, to give us food, soap, she gotta f.u.c.k this lousy apparatchik. In Perm, we live in communal apartment. Eight c.r.a.ppy rooms, thirty people, one c.r.a.ppy kitchen, one s.h.i.thouse, everybody stink and smoke. Kids do not like this lousy apparatchik who f.u.c.k our mother. We gotta stand outside in kitchen, very thin wall, when apparatchik come to visit us, bring food, f.u.c.k my mother. Everybody stare at us: listen to your mother, she's a wh.o.r.e. We gotta put our hands over our G.o.ddam ears. You wanna know something, Professor?'

Perry does.

'This guy, this apparatchik, know where he get his food?'

Perry does not.

'He's a f.u.c.king military administrator military administrator! Distributes food in barracks. Carries a gun. Nice pretty gun, leather case, big hero. You wanna try f.u.c.king with a gun belt round your a.r.s.e? You gotta be big acrobat. This military administrator military administrator, this apparatchik apparatchik, he take off shoes. He take off his pretty gun. He put gun in shoes. OK, I think. Maybe you f.u.c.k my mother enough. Maybe you don't f.u.c.k her no more. Maybe n.o.body gonna stare at us no more like we're wh.o.r.e's kids. I knock on door. I open it. I am polite. "Excuse me," I say. "Is Dima. Excuse me, Comrade Lousy Apparatchik Comrade Lousy Apparatchik. Please I borrow your pretty gun? Kindly look me in my face once. You don't look me, how do I kill you? Thank you so much, Comrade." My mother look me. She don't say nothing. Apparatchik look me. I kill the f.u.c.k. One bullet.'