91

The car park was as empty as the last time I’d been here. It seemed more like a century ago than a couple of days. I peeled off the ramp at the second floor. I wondered whether Qasim and Adel were up on the roof, not a care in the world, getting their rocks off as another airliner took to the air.

I opened the back door and started to undress Tattoo. He was bigger than me so there’d be no drama getting into his kit. I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it over his shoulders. His chest and back were covered with tattoos. He’d obviously done some time. The pictures of bears shagging women and rats with numbers above them would tell anyone in the know what detention centres he’d been to, and why.

He had stars tattoo’d onto his kneecaps. In gang language, he was going to kneel for no man.

With Tattoo tucked safely into the boot, and none of his ID in the car, I emptied a couple of bottles of mineral water over my face and hair. I dried myself off with my own shirt before putting on his, brushed as much sand and shit off his trousers as I could, then finally slid on his jacket.

I binned the mobile as I legged it towards the terminal.

It was 06.45.

Inside, it was busier than I’d expected, a lot busier than when I’d flown in. I looked up and scanned the departures board. The Moscow flight stopped off first in Astana. I headed towards the ticket-sales counter. The girl standing behind it looked as though she’d just come off the high-cheekbones-and-perfect-teeth production line.

I took some deep breaths as I went to slow everything down inside my body and my head. I got into the zone. I’d always known that people like Red Ken, Dex and I were lucky to be able to do that. I didn’t know if it was genetic or acquired or a combination of the two, but when everything went to rat shit, thinking clearly just sort of happened. It had nothing to do with being brave or, in Dex’s case, certifiably insane. It had to do with mastering the stress when it would be natural to flap big-time.

Stress improves performance. Your heart-rate is governed by adrenalin levels. That’s all good stuff when you need flight, fight or bluff, but there is an optimum state – when it’s hammering away at between 115 and 145 beats per minute. Anything above that and your body stops being able to control what it’s doing and you get killed because you fuck up. Or in this case it arouses suspicion and encourages the uniformed automaton in the driving seat to check everything about you more closely, starting with your passport.

She finished her call as I reached the counter. She looked up and switched on her brilliant white smile. I tried my best to match it.

‘The seven thirty for Moscow via Astana. I’d like a seat, please.’

She tapped away at her computer keyboard as I flipped Tattoo’s passport out of his jacket pocket and got extra busy looking down and fucking about in my day-sack.

She scanned it and passed it back to me with just a cursory glance at the personal details. She certainly didn’t see anything odd about a guy with a British accent presenting with Russian travel docs. I know people who’ve travelled the world on their wife’s passport. You just have to show a bit of front.

‘How would you like to pay, Mr Sinitsin?’

‘US dollars, please.’

She checked her tariff. ‘That will be ninety.’

She gave the keyboard a really good hammering and a ticket eventually clattered out of the printer beside her. She passed it across the counter, giving me the opportunity to admire her green wristband and immaculate manicure.

‘You are boarding at gate ten. Air Astana do not allocate seats, but that is no problem – the flight is nearly empty. Please hurry. The gate is closing in fifteen minutes.’

Immigration and security were a piece of piss. They were there to tag foreigners coming in and nationals going out, not the other way round. The camera had lost its memory card; it was now in my mouth. My James Manley passport was in Tattoo’s wallet.

A stewardess looked at my boarding pass and waved towards the hundred or so empty seats. As I moved down the aisle I heard the door close behind me. I spat the memory card into my hand.

The aircraft was relatively new, much better than the ropy gear that former Soviet Union countries used to fly. There were three seats either side of the aisle. I spotted Anna about three-quarters of the way back, on the right-hand side, hunched over her netbook. Judging by the expression on her face, she was using the last few minutes before take-off to spit teeth and feathers at her readers about the misdeeds of M3C. She had a silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. I knew she was going to be wearing it for a good few days.

I didn’t know where the Falcon was headed, and Julian wasn’t going to be of any help. I had to get out of the country. So here I was, with the only person who could help me find out what the fuck was going on.

I carried on down the aisle and took the seat next to her.