15

I KEPT MY hood up as we stepped into the luxurious lobby of the Ararat Park Hyatt. This was an extraordinarily lavish hotel. The management would have surveillance measures to match.

I didn’t look around much as we headed for the elevators. But the little I saw of the polished steel and marble atrium told me that Frank Timis looked after his people. The cheapest room would be about six hundred dollars a night, and not just because of the architecture. Neglinnaya Street was in the heart of the city, within spitting distance of Red Square, the Kremlin, St Basil’s Cathedral and the Bolshoi Theatre. Property here would cost millions of roubles a square metre. We were on oligarch turf.

The one thing my hood didn’t shield me from was the smell. It was roses and bleach again. Either that scent really was everywhere or it was buried inside my head.

The drive back to the city had been as talkative as the one in. We took the same route. Genghis drove this time. The Nigerian rode shotgun. He was constantly on the phone. He talked in Russian.

This suited me. I hadn’t come to any decision on Frank yet. I didn’t know enough about him to make a judgement, and I didn’t know enough about the situation. All I knew was that it involved Tracy, so here I was.

In the exposed, space-age lift, the Nigerian pressed the button for the fourth floor. We raced upwards while the world below chatted over coffee in plush sofas. The mobile never left his ear. It had to be a woman he was talking to. His tone was far too smooth for it to be anybody else.

He didn’t bother knocking when we got to Room 419. The door was ajar. He signed off his lady friend with a silver-tongued comment or two and walked straight in. More five-star-plus luxury. The walls were cream. The thick-pile carpet was the colour of bleached sand. The furniture was solid walnut. Electric curtains. A wider than widescreen Bang & Olufsen TV. A mini-bar that was even bigger than Mr T’s cappuccino machine.

There were two sofas. Two men sat on each. A fifth, the youngest, was on the unmade king-sized bed. They all wore brand new shell-suits. Their faces were red and blotchy from exposure to the sun. And they all had cigarettes on the go. There was so much smoke you couldn’t even see the No Smoking signs.

They eyed me apprehensively, like I was a cop who suspected them all of murder and the grilling was about to begin. Maybe it was the environment. Not many crew normally got to stay in a twelve-hundred-dollar suite in the Ararat Park Hyatt.

The Nigerian didn’t even bother to greet them. He just redialled and helped himself to one of the armchairs that sat each side of a small coffee-table next to the triple-glazed window.

The oldest of the crew got to his feet. ‘I am Rudy.’ He stretched out his hand. He was in his early fifties, with tight grey hair and a beard. ‘I am the captain.’

He was about to start a round of introductions.

‘No time for that, mate. Let’s crack on.’

I threw my parka onto the armchair opposite Mr Lover Man, then drew back the curtain. I was looking out of the front of the hotel. The rooftops of Moscow were covered with snow. It was like a still from Doctor Zhivago. The onion-shaped domes of the Kremlin were so close we could have watched Putin pumping iron.

Mr Lover Man wasn’t impressed. He was too busy looking inwards, locking eyes with the crew. He might have been whispering sweet nothings into his phone, but he wanted them to know he’d be hanging on their every word.

Below me, the Range Rover was parked at the front of a line of half a dozen vehicles immediately outside the hotel entrance. Genghis did his bit for the Moscow smog by keeping the engine running. An Audi estate about four wagons down was doing the same. A couple of half-moons had been carved out of the dirt on the windscreen. It was two up. I admired the view for longer than I needed to.

Mr Lover Man closed down his mobile. Was he staying or going?

The vibe I was picking up from the crew was that it would be better if he left. You could have cut the tension between them with a knife. The atmosphere couldn’t have been more at odds with the comfortable world of suede-upholstered headboards and Egyptian cotton sheets.

Mr Lover Man wasn’t moving one inch.

‘Does anybody else speak English?’

‘I do.’

I turned back into the room.