Vessel (23 page)

'Azurov.'

'It's Banin.'

'Banin.
I thought you might call.'

'Then why did you do it? Why did you put me on this stupid case?'

'I need this one out the door. Gone, and quick. You can do that for me, can't you?'

'Why? It's been done
already. Did you read the file? Drunk guy crashed his car. Died. End of.'

'Come on, Banin
— you don't think I know that?'

'So what's going on?'

Azurov sighed. 'This one's come from central. They've reopened the case. I don't —'

'But what
—'

'
— I don't know why, but they have, and so I'm passing it down to you. The main suspect is a fugitive by the name of Aleks Dezhurov, a friend and work colleague of the deceased's. Central says he did it, and now I need you to go and put the pieces together. That's an order.'

'B
ut I —'

'
No more buts. I need this done yesterday.'

Banin wanted to tell him no, but he couldn't.
'Alright, I'll do it. But you owe me.'

'I'll get the drinks in for the rest of the week, how about that?'

'It's Friday already.'

'Then you'd better get your drinking hat on.'

Banin laughed and hung up. He flicked through the file once more, stopping at the picture of the car, upside down and mangled, wrapped around the telegraph pole.

'What a mess,' he
said, tossing it onto his desk.

Chapter 23

The weather flying home was not as
calm as it was flying out. If it weren't for the constant battle to keep his innards down, Sean would have been terrified by the way the small plane was being tossed about by the angry sky. Death wouldn't have been unwelcome, and the journey was the longest, most torturous thing Sean had ever done. There was more than one occasion where he regretted the trip, and he had to remind himself over and over — between trying not to hurl — that the information he had uncovered, however small, was valuable beyond reckoning.

The European coastline was a welcome sight, and
Sean thanked every deity he could thing of for his safe arrival. From there, the hop over to Moscow was a breeze, and one that he slept through without stirring.

'I hope I never meet you
or your tin-pot plane ever again,' he said, shaking McBride's hand, 'but thank you for getting me there and back in one piece all the same.'

'It was my pleasure,'
McBride said.

Sean had a bit of a
walk to the nearest payphone — he'd decided not to use his satellite phone any more in case that too was being tracked — and his feet felt like two distant nubs by the time he reached it. Two miles, maybe four, he'd walked, on a stomach that could not be any emptier.

'Aleks?' he said
when the call was answered.

'Sean
— you're back! How are you?'

'Come and get me and I'll tell you everything.'

Sean wasn't true to his word. As soon as he arrived at Grigory's, he flopped onto the sofa and fell asleep, a state he managed to maintain for over fourteen hours. When he awoke, he felt better, but starving hungry.

'Oh g
od …' he groaned, struggling to lift his aching limbs. He could still feel the plane tossing him about even now.

'How are you this morning?' Alek
s asked him from the kitchen.

'Just
south of dead,' Sean said, sitting, then waiting for his head to catch up. 'Would you mind getting me a coffee, please?'

'Sure.'

'Where are Novitskiy and Grigory?'

'Out h
unting.'

Aleks heated the kettle on the hob
and made Sean a fresh coffee. Sean sipped at it, relishing the soothing warmth as it spread to his extremities, chasing his aches and pains away. 'This tastes awful,' he said. 'When's Grigory coming back? His is much better.'

Aleks
snorted. 'I'm glad you like it.'

Then it all came back to Sean in an instant
: the plane, the taxi ride, the old people's home, the story Todd had told him — everything. He burned the roof of his mouth as he took an over-large swig of coffee in his surprise. 'Ow!' he said, fanning his mouth and blowing.

'Are you ok
ay?' Aleks asked, looking concerned as he put dry dishes away.

'Yeah, fine. Just burned my mouth.'

'Can I get you some water?'

The heat tingled and stung
Sean's skin. 'No, I'll be fine.'

'So what did you find out in America?'

'She's dead.'

'
Ruth?' Aleks asked, as he brought Sean a glass of water anyway.

Sean drank it, the cool liquid soothing his mouth.
'Yeah. Died in her sleep apparently.'

'Natural causes?'

'I asked, they said yes.'

'Do you believe them?'

'I think so. There was no need to lie.'

Aleks folded his arms, looking
thoughtful. 'Is it true? Do you think she was there?'

'At Roswell?
Yes. She saw UV One, or something like it. But they destroyed it.'

'Why?
'

'It was
doing things to people, turning them crazy. They must have all died because of it — Bales' father included. Well, all except Ruth.'

'Why wasn't Ruth affected
?'

'I don't know.'

'How did they destroy it?'

'I don't know
that either. But Bales does. He knows what happened, he knows it killed his father, and he wants revenge at whatever cost.'

Aleks flopped down next to Sean and folded his arms.
'That confirms it,' he said. 'Bales wants to destroy UV One, and the station with it.'

'It certainly looks that way. And we've only got a week left until it happens.'

'What are we going to do now?'

'
I think we've done enough research,' Sean said. 'Now it's time to get this story on the front cover of every newspaper, magazine, blog and pamphlet before it's too late.'

* * *

'What a dump,' Banin said, pulling his all-weather coat tight around him. It was raining that fine kind of rain that soaked through even the most waterproof of materials. He knew it was raining when he left the office, yet somehow he'd still forgotten his umbrella.
Stupid case
, he thought.
I should be back at my desk, where it's dry
. He blew at the bulging drop hanging from his nose, only for another to take its place. 'So this is where it happened?'

He needn't have
asked: the long row of neat telegraph poles was interrupted by one leaning at a drunken angle. At its base, the dull, fume-stained wood had fresh scars gouged from it, and a few red paint streaks, too. The car that did the damage was long gone.

'That's right sir,'
the accompanying police officer said. 'Came straight off the road about here' — he pointed to a scuffed section of kerb — 'and down into this ditch here. Poor bastard. Such bad luck to hit this pole. If he'd stayed on the road a fraction longer or come off a fraction earlier, he'd have missed it.'

An articulated truck whooshed by, spraying them both.

'Is it okay if I go and sit in the car while you look, sir?'

Banin nodded, and the police officer darted back to the cruiser.

Bad luck indeed,
Banin thought, stumbling down the roadside ditch to study the pole. The officer was right. It wasn't in the base, it was sprouting from the bank, and hitting it was the worst feat of bad luck imaginable. The road was dead straight, too, and quiet. How had he come off in a straight line?

He trudged up the
bank, his boots sinking into the slimy mud, back to the road where Ryumin's bad fortune had started. The rain would have washed any skid marks away by now, but he knew from the file photos that there hadn't been any, which struck him as odd. There was, however, the section of kerb that had been chewed away, the sign of a car hitting it at speed and grinding straight over the top. Tracing an imaginary line from the pole to the damaged kerb, he waited for a car to pass before following it into the road, where something caught his eye. He bent down to pick it up, then jogged heavy and wet back to the verge before a truck ran him down. He opened his hand and turned the object over. It was a fragment of broken headlamp glass, clean, sharp and fresh.

* * *

Sean's stomach churned as he watched the passing metropolis through the taxi window. He hadn't been this nervous in a long time — scared, yes, but not nervous like this. He shifted on the cracked leather, looking but not seeing, his mind distracting his thoughts elsewhere.

H
e was due to meet an old friend, James Aspen, who was working as editor-in-chief at the
Moscow Times
. Not only did James have control of the
Moscow Times
, he was also well loved and respected throughout the industry, and had the potential to be a valuable tipping point in getting the story out. Aleks and the others had offered to come with him, but he was glad he'd refused them. It wasn't safe in the density of the city with nowhere to hide, but the risk he was running wasn't what made his stomach turn: it was UV One.

The more he thought about i
t, the more ludicrous it seemed. An old woman, dead of course, who'd had a UFO encounter, and a young woman, who no one knew or cared about, having the same experience all over again. He knew it was true in his heart, yet he couldn't douse the rising feeling of doubt in his guts that made him want to tap the driver on the shoulder and ask him to turn the taxi around. He sat back in his seat and dabbed nervous sweat from his cheeks with the back of his sleeve.

When the taxi pulled up outside the
Moscow Times
building, he checked his watch; he had an hour to kill before the meeting. He paid the driver and got out, crossed the street to a ream of blaring horns, and slipped into a coffee shop. No sooner had he ordered a coffee and sat down when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He had an email from James.

Can you meet me somewhere else? I don't think it's best we meet at head office.

James

That was fair enough. Sean tapped out his reply and sent it.

The earthiness of his coffee soothed his nerves as he waited, and when the phone buzzed again, he wasn't feeling anywhere near as bad.

Great. Meet me at The Beijing Tiger restaurant in ten minutes.

James

Sean looked at his watch; it was half eleven.
Taking a last mouthful of coffee, he gathered up his phone and his bag, and left the shop. Ten minutes was enough time to walk to The Beijing Tiger, so he threaded his way through the streets and alleys on foot. He could get a bite to eat while he was there.

Nestled between a fabric shop and a Jewish deli, The
Beijing Tiger was a sorry sight. The plastic golden tiger above the sign was as faded and cracked as it had ever been, and the waft of hot sweet-and-sour sauce hit him as soon as he opened the door. The restaurant may have been old, but it was a place he knew well, many a hazy memory gathered under its eaves. The maître d' bowed his head, and Sean nodded in return. 'Good afternoon.'

'Good afternoon, sir. W
ould you like to eat in or take away?'

'I've got a lunch with
James — James Aspen. Is he here?'

'Yes si
r. Come right this way.'

Sean followed the waiter into the bowels of the dark
, empty restaurant. It was a strange atmosphere: it wasn't exactly dingy, but this was no family eatery. In the corner, he could just about make out James sat at a table, and he gave him a nod. James looked grim.

'Hi,
James, how are you doing?' Sean said, shaking his hand as he rose to greet him.

'I'm good, Sean, I'm good,'
James said, although his usually friendly face was a little ashen. Perhaps it was the light, or lack thereof.

They sat, and the waiter gave Sean a menu, then left them to decide.
James already had a menu, but he seemed to be looking through it rather than at it.

'Ho
w have you been?' Sean said, and James gave a small sideways jerk of his head.

'N
ot bad,' he said. 'I understand you've been getting involved with the US Department of Defence?'

He looked at Sean, his eyes hollow and searching. Sean struggled to read whether they expressed concern, or whether they were admonishing him.

'That's right …' he said, the uncomfortable feeling building in his stomach again. 'How do you know about that?'

James
slapped his menu on the table. 'Come on, Sean, everyone knows. You've practically got a price on your head. What are you doing messing around with high level stuff like this?'

Sean couldn't believe it. This didn't seem like the
James he knew. Something had spooked him. 'This is what we do, remember? We investigate, we report, we make public the affairs that concern the people and their future — is that something you've forgotten?'

'No
,' he said, 'but this is too much. You've got to know when to draw the line.'

'You don't
even know what's going on here,' Sean said, struggling to keep his building frustration under control.

James
looked him in the eye with a stare that took him aback. There was fear in it. 'I know what's going on. The whole board does. I don't know whether to believe it or not, but frankly, if we
are
on the brink of some alien invasion, I think the public would do better to be kept in the dark.'

Sean shook his head, flabbergasted.
He couldn't believe it — he'd respected James for a long, long time. The man sat in front of him could've been someone else by the way he was acting. 'You've given in too, huh?'

'Sean, don't …'

'Tell me, James,' Sean said, leaning close and jabbing the table with his finger, 'what happened to the dignity of professional journalism? Why are you, and everybody else in this damn industry folding like a wet deck of cards?'

James
balled his fists, and at first Sean thought he was going to strike, but then he realised he was trying to hold back tears.