Free Dead Centre by Andy McNab Page B

There was a hint of grey at the temples. He was immersed in a Russian broadsheet, the front page full of the Fukushima meltdown. ‘Coffee?’ Without looking up, he pointed to a cappuccino machine the size of a nuclear reactor. ‘Help yourself and sit down over here with me.’
    He was wearing black suit trousers, shiny black leather shoes, a grey shirt and V-neck jumper. A white magnetic board hung on the wall behind him, covered with photos and all the normal family shit. A scaled-down red Ferrari with an electric engine was parked beneath it, next to a Tupperware crate containing every shape and size of game ball. The cappuccino machine stood beside a white marble sink large enough to dismember a body in.
    ‘Relax, Nick. No one else is going to interrupt us, and you’re in no danger. I just want to talk with you.’ His English was precise, but his accent was surprisingly guttural. He sounded like Hollywood’s idea of a Cold War Soviet agent.
    ‘Please.’ He nodded again towards the dozen or so matching blue mugs that were lined up on the spotless work surface. ‘Get yourself whatever you fancy. Then come and sit down.’
    I wasn’t going to turn down a brew. It could be my last for a while. I piled in the sugar in case I needed an energy boost some time soon. I lifted the shiny glass jug from its hotplate and poured myself a generous shot of its contents.
    ‘Do you know where you are, Nick?’
    I reached for the condensed milk. ‘Not a clue.’
    ‘Peredelkino. A very nice place, steeped in history. It’s known as the writers’ village. Many famous Russians have lived here, Russians who have changed the world with their words and their wisdom. Do you admire our great Russian writers, Nick?’
    I stirred the milk into my coffee. It was so thick with sugar I could stand the spoon up in it. ‘I read when I can.’
    ‘Tarkovsky? Pasternak? Fadeyev?’
    I raised an eyebrow. I knew he was taking the piss. ‘The guy who said Stalin was the greatest humanitarian the world has ever known? Good writer, but I wouldn’t trust his character references, would you?’
    I didn’t give a fuck what he thought, but I was quite pleased that he was suddenly sitting up and paying attention.
    ‘We all need friends in high places, Nick.’ He waved his hand at a huge picture window. ‘Every one of these great writers had a dacha here, you know. They’re buried here too. Peredelkino is featured in a le Carré novel – The Russia House .’
    I finished stirring. ‘Is that so?’
    ‘There’s a lot of history in these dacha s. If only they had ears.’ A thought struck him. ‘Well, maybe some of them did have ears during the Soviet era, yes?’
    The triple-glazed windows slightly warped the view, but I knew that if I had to leg it, I’d head for the door I’d come through and straight towards the swings and the slide. Then into the tree line, even though I didn’t know what was on the other side of it. I’d go and see what the crows were up to.
    The small man flicked through the pages of his newspaper with one hand, as he motioned with the other for me to sit opposite him.
    ‘What are you reading now, Nick?’
    ‘Dostoevsky.’ I gave him my best poker face. ‘ Crime and Punishment . But I’ve got a feeling I won’t be finishing it any time soon.’
    ‘When you do, you will find knowledge and enlightenment. I came to books late, but …’ He closed the paper and raised his hands. ‘… as we all know, Nick, knowledge – of whatever kind – is power.’
    I sat there with the brew. He was playing with me, enjoying the moment, even though he wasn’t showing it. Not a hint of a smile crossed his face. He was like Arnie in Terminator mode.
    ‘Thanks for the tip. But isn’t it time you introduced yourself? And told me what you want?’
    He waved my questions away. ‘How’s Anna? Is she enjoying North Africa? I watch her every day. It’s a little warmer there, I suspect.’
    If he was trying to impress me,