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 we meet? I am very worried.’
‘You are in Astana?’
‘I have just arrived.’
She gave the address of a café and said she could be there in an hour.
I swung by my hotel, set up email accounts in the names of Reporters for Human Rights and John Sands. I missed having access to Six’s Changeling software which gave you the ability to spoof any email address and send messages under that identity. But sleight of hand got you a long way. The Reporters for Human Rights email address was .org. I set one up at .co.uk. and emailed myself an urgent few lines about tracking down Vanessa. I sent one to myself from Vanessa, backdated to last week, saying everything was going fine and she had spoken to Elena Yussopova. I changed out of the suit into a shirt and jumper.
Unprofessional, I thought. Unprepared. A step closer.
FIFTEEN
Yussopova’s café of choice was in Saryarka district, north of the railway line, where the industrial and poorer residential areas remained. Bare parks showed empty pedestals, snow piled up where the communist heroes would have been. The café sat opposite a war memorial. A statue of a grieving mother towered opposite the grate for an eternal flame, which had gone out. Mounds of chrysanthemums and gladioli lay frozen across a slab of pink marble. A bride and groom posed by the memorial, having their photograph taken, a tradition in this part of the world that had always struck me as odd but also in some ways understandable. Life, death, the realm of serious things: the submission of lives to the nation. Her dress was brighter than the snow; the groom wore a scarlet bow tie. After five minutes the newly-weds piled back into a VW people carrier and it sped off towards the next photo opportunity. Elena Yussopova walked in.
I glanced at the street outside. There was a better chance she was being tailed than that I was, but I couldn’t see any new vehicles. She was alone. She was unmistakable, lined face accentuating a hard brightness in her eyes. Her hair was dyed dark red and she looked frail, eaten away by fury. She clutched a phone and a packet of cigarettes, studied the place and clientele as she approached. Then she studied me.
‘John?’
I shook her hand.
‘Thank you for meeting me so quickly,’ I said. ‘This is obviously terrifying for Vanessa’s family. For all of us.’
She took a seat, ordered a coffee. I showed her the emails. Yussopova read them, handed them back.
‘You work with her?’
‘Yes. But more than that, I’m a friend.’
‘When did you arrive here?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘Have you had any trouble?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘No one following you?’
‘No. What’s going on? What’s happened?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘When did you last hear from her?’ I asked.
‘Three days ago. You?’