Tig Hague - Zone 22

MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS

MICHAEL JOSEPH

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R0RL , England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R0RL , England

www.penguin.com

First published 2008
1

Copyright Tig Hague, 2008

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior
written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book

978-0-14-192466-3

In memory of Sandra

Thursday 17 July 2003

The bump and skid of the wheels woke me up with a jolt as we touched down at Moscows Sheremetyevo 2 airport. I squinted through the window at the watery grey clouds enveloping the skies over the Russian capital. It was just after six Moscow time, three hours ahead of the UK, and my aching body was telling me it was actually three in the morning and this was no time to be starting a day. My bum was numb and my head thick with sleep, or the lack of it, after a fitful night squirming in my uncomfortable Aeroflot seat. My mouth was dry and sticky but my water bottle was empty and I was just going to have to wait until we passed through Customs. I was still paying for the stag party and wedding at the weekend, and this was one business trip to Moscow I couldve really done without. Garban Icap, though, didnt become the worlds largest derivatives broker by letting one of its junior brokers cancel three days of meetings with leading clients just because he had a dog of a hangover.

Half asleep I tidied up my notes, snapped my briefcase shut and sank into my seat as the plane began to taxi slowly back towards its docking bay. I stared out of the window, thinking of Lucy yesterday morning back in bed at Mums house when I nuzzled into her warm neck as she dozed under her mop of wavy brown hair.

Sweetheart, how am I going to spend four days without you? That was the last thing shed said and I smiled as I recalled it.

It usually takes about an hour, or sometimes two, to reach the front of the passport and visa queue at Sheremetyevo 2, and theres always pushing and shoving as people start to lose their patience. I was one of the first into the Arrivals building and I reached the man in the booth in a personal best time of 30 minutes only to be told I hadnt filled in my form properly. I was dispatched with a grunt and a wave of the hand to join the back of the queue and I was annoyed that I couldnt quickly scribble out a new form there and then, which would have taken under a minute. I rolled my eyes, sighed loudly and sloped off like a naughty schoolboy.

I glanced anxiously at the clock on my mobile. Time was getting a little tight. I needed to get through the terrible Moscow traffic to my hotel for a shower, a shave and a change of clothes before I headed off to the first meeting of the day. I hadnt touched my razor for three days, and what with my puffy, black-ringed eyes I didnt want to be shaking hands with some of our most important clients looking like a Chechen separatist on the run, albeit one dressed in a smart light-blue shirt and a pair of tailor-made dark trousers.

The queue I rejoined after filling in a new form had become something of a scrum and I elbowed and shoved as politely as the next man to reach the booths, but by the time I finally made it into the baggage reclaim area I was one of the last passengers left in the cavernous grey hall. There were just a few bags left on the carousel, but my large black suitcase wasnt among them. It was sitting on the floor with two or three other cases. Weird. What was all that about? Running late, I walked quickly towards the screened-off Customs area with my two Duty Free bags, dragging the case behind me.

A dozen or so officials wandered around in a variety of uniforms, while roughly the same number of passengers shuffled towards the exit. No one was smiling. Just beyond the screens, a set of electronic glass doors opened into the Arrivals area and I headed straight for them, craning my neck to see if I could spot my driver for the trip. It always gave me a small thrill to come through into the concourse and see a man holding a board with my name emblazoned across it: TIG HAGUE!

I was dimly aware that there was a group of other passengers over to my left, but I just kept walking, thinking nothing of it. I was about five yards from the door when a man started shouting in Russian. I turned around. He was shouting at me. I didnt understand what he was saying, but he was waving his hands around and pointing to the back of the queue. Am I ever going to get out of this shithole? I muttered to myself. Everyone was being asked to put their bags through an X-ray machine. I had never seen luggage being scanned on the way out of an airport. Then I remembered the previous weeks news story about the twenty people whod been killed by two female Chechen suicide bombers at an open-air rock concert in the city. Fair enough. Besides, the queue was moving fairly fast and Id be away in a couple of minutes.

The middle-aged official who took my bag was the same one who pulled me up just as I was about to head through the automatic doors. He looked like hed been there all night. He was very small, no more than about five foot two, and he had dark greasy hair, big bloodshot eyes, skinny arms and the expression of a man who just wanted to get home and put his feet up.

As my suitcase emerged on to the rollers from the other end of the scanner, he pointed to my two Duty Free bags, one containing a box of Marlboro Lights and another of Marlboro Reds, a pen and some perfume, and the other, two bottles of whisky; presents for my clients. I handed them over to him, knowing that that was the last bureaucratic obstacle I had to hurdle. Within seconds, Id be through those doors. He peered inside the bags and said something in Russian. I shook my head and looked quizzical. Im sorry, pal, but I dont understand Russian, I said in English, smiling.

He replied sternly: Two whisky, two cigarettes, NO!

That amount had never been a problem on previous trips and I told him that, even though I knew he wouldnt understand. He looked around the room and over his shoulder, leant towards me and rubbed his fingers and thumb together. I didnt twig that he was inviting me to bribe him. I thought he was asking whether I was carrying large sums of cash in my luggage. The Russians are very strict about how much money you can take in and out of the country; when you fill in the visa form on arrival you have to declare how much cash you have and what credit cards you are carrying. I had about 500 US dollars two months wages for this guy but hardly enough to put me in smuggler class.