The snow had fallen heavily overnight and walking had become even more difficult. There were huge mounds of wind blown snow across the sidewalk and, where it had been cleared away, hidden expanses of black ice. The municipal workers were out even at this early hour, preparing the city for the day ahead. They were dressed in orange overalls with thick parka jackets over the top and drove prehistoric trucks, shovelling snow into piles and treating patches of ice with caustic chemicals that dissolved it with a worrying hiss and fizz. In the street outside the supermarket they had piled all the snow on one side, burying the cars that had been foolishly left there. They hacked at the thickest patches of ice with pickaxes and shovels with an abominable screeching that reminded Milton of nails being dragged down a blackboard. He had to wait fifteen minutes for a taxi; the cold quickly robbed him of the warmth he had managed to absorb from the apartment’s baking central heating and he was shivering when he finally slipped into the back seat and asked to be taken to the Ritz-Carlton.

* * *

He opened his door quietly and slipped inside. It was just past six. He had taken off his coat and shirt and was about to run the bath when there was a knocking at the door. It was Anna. She must have been awake, listening for his return. She stood at the threshold, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. Her eyes fell to the scars on Milton’s naked chest, switching back promptly as she noticed he was smiling with amusement at her.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Milton?”

“I went out.”

“Where did you go?”

“Sightseeing.”

“All night?”

“Lots of sights to see,” he said.

She frowned at him disapprovingly. “It does you no favours to play games with us. And it does your friend no favours.”

“I’m not playing games. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m ready to see the colonel.”

“Yes,” she said. “We are leaving immediately.”

“Where is he?”

“Not in Moscow.”

“Where?”

She did not answer. “We have a long trip ahead of us. Four hundred kilometres, Mr. Milton.”

“In this snow?”

“It should take us eight hours.”

Chapter Sixteen

Milton swapped his bath for a shower, dressed warmly, and met Anna in the lobby. There was a car waiting outside for them. It was a top-of-the-line Range Rover Sport, a big and powerful four wheel drive with snow chains fastened around all four tyres. It was black and the windows were tinted. Anna led the way to it and opened the rear door.

Milton got inside and saw that they had been provided with a driver, too. The man was dressed in an anonymous suit and his blond hair had been shaved to a short, prickly fuzz. He was an intelligence operative, he guessed, one seconded from the Spetsnaz if his guess was right. He was big, several inches taller than Milton and fifty pounds heavier. He would be armed, and tough, and a passable match for him if things took a turn for the worse. Milton looked into his face in the rearview mirror as he slid into the seat, the man’s eyes cold and impassive as he glared back at him.

“Who’s the gorilla?” he asked Anna, his eyes still fixed on the man’s.

“His name is Vladimir,” she said as she slid alongside. “He’ll be driving us.”

“Just driving?”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Milton. You’re under the protection of the Russian government now.”

“That fills me with confidence.”

“Please, relax. We have a long drive.”

“So you said. Are you going to tell me where?”

“There is a place called Pylos. North east from here. The colonel is staying at his dacha. We will visit him there.”

“Why all the way there? You don’t have a safe house in Moscow?”

“Of course we do,” she said irritably. “But, no matter how careful we are, there will always be prying eyes in the city. The colonel is a private man. Pylos is remote. A place where Muscovites go for their summer holidays. It will be deserted in this weather. There is one way in and one way out and we will be watching both. Easier for us to ensure that your meeting is not noted. That is in both our best interests, is it not?”

Milton said nothing.

The driver put the Range Rover into gear and slid into the traffic. They headed to the north.

There were new high-rise apartment buildings on the edge of Moscow, coloured beige and cream and not as ugly as the old Soviet ones, with patches of snow-covered lawn between them. They drove on, passing out of the suburbs and into the countryside beyond, the road occasionally taking them through cute Russian idylls of sloping wooden houses and little orchards alongside and behind them. The houses all had ornamental window frames, rickety fences and rusty roofs, and sometimes the snow receded just a little to reveal a hint of the landscape that hibernated beneath it: a grove of silver birch trees, stretches of water choked by mirror smooth ice, tethered goats, wild deer and elk foraging for greenery amid the freezing grip of winter. The towns and villages were beautiful and ugly in equal measure, with fly-tipped trash left to rot on the outskirts: bits of old machinery covered over by the snow, discarded white goods, empty vodka bottles scattered across deep drifts. Milton remembered Russia well enough, and knew that the snow was covering a multitude of sins. It masked all the scars and blemishes and lies that collected beneath. It was an apt metaphor for a great country that had fallen into disrepute.

They followed the E115 north, passing through Khotovo, Pereslavl-Zalessky and Rostov. Milton watched the scenery passing by the window and thought about Pope and what the Russians wanted from him. Whoever he was, Shcherbatov was obviously a man not to be taken lightly. Mamotchka was a tough old coot; she had seen plenty of the KGB’s hardcases and blowhards, watched them rail against the unstoppable tide of capitalism, and she had outlasted them all. Her years had given her a breezy confidence and yet Milton had not missed the frown she wore throughout their discussion last night. Colonel Shcherbatov was different.

Anna was next to him. “Are you going to tell me anything about your boss?”

“It would be better if you met him with an open mind.”

“Why? Does he have a reputation?”

“Judge him for yourself.”

The driver glanced up at him in the mirror.

“What do you think, Vladimir?”

“Colonel Shcherbatov is patriot and hero,” he said in heavily accented Russian.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You remember.”

“Vladimir,” Anna chided. “Please. Concentrate on the road.”

They stopped for diesel after six hours. The station was on the outskirts of Yaroslavl, three hundred kilometres from Moscow, and Milton got out to stretch his legs. The cold grew more severe the further north they travelled and here, on the station forecourt, it took just a few minutes to spear into the marrow of his bones. Anna came out and stood beside him, their clouded breath merging together and their shadows thrown long by the afternoon sun. They were enclosed by forest, the branches of the trees sagging with the great weight of the snow. Milton looked at the woman through the corner of his eye. She said nothing, as she had said nothing all the way throughout the drive, but now it seemed almost a companionable silence, as if a friendship might be possible between them if the circumstances were different. He had been in the same business as her, after all. Same coin, different sides.

He absently followed her towards the garage. A wrecked, bearded man was slumped against the wall. He looked up as they approached and asked in Russian if they would buy him a bottle of vodka. Anna dismissed him curtly and went inside. Beside the fuel, the proprietor had a ramshackle business selling beer and vodka, stationery, pornography, cigarettes, bootleg DVDs and perfume. The man glared at Milton from over the counter, a baseball bat ostentatiously propped against the wall, and when he came over to the till to accept Anna’s payment, he revealed an empty trouser leg that hung loose between his good leg and his crutch. He wasn’t old enough for Afghanistan, Milton guessed. Chechnya.