Chapters (58)
- Cover
- Also by Oliver Harris
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
‘Can you come round? Now?’
‘Sure.’
‘Be careful. Extra careful.’
TWENTY-SIX
Yussopova’s flat was crowded. It felt like a small, tense cocktail party: cigarette smoke in the air, a pile of coats, dirty coffee cups, and even a bottle of vodka on the table. The computer was missing, books and files over the floor. Her wrists were still red from handcuffs. Dried white cream covered injuries further up her arms.
The crowd shot me hostile glances. I recognised a couple of men and women from the protest photos. One grey-haired man had a case on his lap and was using it as a writing desk, as the group around him talked heatedly about legal options.
Yussopova studied me with a searching intensity.
‘You are okay?’ she asked.
‘Just. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘I was questioned. About Vanessa. They showed me a photograph of you, from the airport. I was asked if I knew you. If I’d met you.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said no.’
I tried not to think of the price she paid for that. I looked across the people and the paperwork in front of them, their plans for a protest; the coffee table with its bug.
‘Can we talk in private?’ I asked.
‘We are safe,’ Yussopova said. ‘These are good people.’
‘I don’t know them.’
We went to the kitchen. I closed the door, turned the taps on.
‘Do you know who they were?’
‘Police, security service. I don’t know. It was in the central police station.’
‘What did they ask about?’
‘They thought I might have documents or information – something from Vanessa. I couldn’t understand what they wanted. It wasn’t just about our work.’
‘It’s to do with whatever Vanessa found out.’
‘Yes. You should leave.’
‘I was also questioned by police this morning.’
A man entered the kitchen before she could react. He was small, middle-aged, with a pullover under a mismatched brown suit. He looked unhappy to see a stranger. There was an argument in Kazakh. Who is he? How do you know? How do you know who Vanessa was? She brings a lot of trouble. I gathered this was Andrei Nichuskin, the communications director, back from Armenia. The last one she had contact with.
‘John was arrested too,’ Yussopova said.
This quietened him. I could see the room through the doorway, responding to the news. I mentioned the treatment I received and a woman in the living room said she was a doctor and offered to check my injuries. I could feel the crowd thinking through the danger and opportunity I represented: a Westerner, an Englishman, someone who couldn’t be ignored. I could draw international attention to their cause. That attention could get them killed.
‘She spoke to you, before she disappeared,’ I said.