by A. R. Zander
Everyone smiled sympathetically as Harper walked back to his place and sat down. The driver slammed the door shut and pulled off back onto the highway. Harper closed his eyes, but stayed awake as the rest of the passengers drifted back off to sleep. He let the slow hum of the engine vibrate through his body until the van juddered to a halt in a dark street. The snow lit up the area slightly, but it still looked grim and dilapidated. A drunk was sprawled on a bench next to the van. He stirred as the engine chugged next to him, but rather than leave, he just turned onto his side and ignored the disturbance. There was a crisp layer of snow on top of him, but he didn’t seem to care. The driver pulled open the door on the side of the van. He stood there with a clipboard, his breath freezing on the air as he looked at the list.
“Sarah and Jennifer,” he said. “Come here please.”
Harper watched as two spindly girls started to move towards the front and stepped down onto the icy pavement. They looked up at the building in front of them. The grey structure was smattered with filthy stains and a collection of rusted car parts sat around the entrance. They huddled closer together as the drunk let out a gurgling sound and punched out into thin air. The driver handed them a key each.
“You are on third floor. Apartment 304. Door code is 0000. I will be here in the morning. 9am.”
He turned to walk away and one of the girls let out a slow whine before bursting into tears. The driver turned around and furrowed his brow.
“What, 9am is too early for you?”
“It’s not early,” screeched the second girl, putting her arm round her new friend. “You just can’t leave us in this…this…well, horrible place.”
“Horrible?” said the driver. “Why horrible?”
“Look at it!” she shouted back at him. “It’s dark and disgusting and there’s some crazy man outside.” The tramp suddenly swung his legs round and sat up with a confused look on his face. He looked over at the two girls, one crying and one angry, and contemplated the van full of foreigners for a few seconds. His eyes drifted onto the nearly empty brandy bottle at his feet. He picked it up and waved a hand dismissively at the group before stumbling over to the front door and punching 0000 into the keypad. The door beeped and he disappeared into the gloom.
“Oh great,” said the crying girl, “you mean to tell me he lives there.”
The driver took his hat off and rubbed his head. “Anyone else want to stay here instead?” he asked. The van stayed silent. Harper was just about to volunteer when a young Irishman walked forward with his hand raised.
“Why don’t I stay with them?” he said. “It’d be better with a bloke around.”
“It’s okay for you?” the driver asked the girls.
“Yes please.”
“Okay, he stays here too.” The driver walked round to the back of the van and grabbed three pieces of luggage. He placed them on the pavement, got back inside and wound down the window. “Okay, you have my number. Remember please, 9am.” He pulled off down the street, leaving the group of three looking apprehensively at their new accommodation. Harper turned around and watched them disappear into the building. The girls looked like they were fresh from a few months in Thailand or Australia or one of the many other backpacker-friendly destinations. He wasn’t sure what they had expected to find in Moscow, but he was sure it wasn’t the authentic socialist nightmare they were now getting. They made two more stops, dropping off the remainder of the passengers. They looked mildly more pleased with their lot than the first group, but still seemed shocked it wasn’t the Holiday Inn. The driver sped off back onto the icy highway with just Harper sat in the back.
“You wanna cigarette?” the driver shouted.
“Sure,” said Harper, getting up and walking, hunched over, to the front of the minivan. He took the packet of Parliament cigarettes and the lighter from the driver’s hand and sat down.
“You feel okay now?”
“Yeah, fine, I’m not great in cars. Nevermind me though, you must be knackered,” said Harper, lighting up and taking a deep drag.
“Knackered, what is knackered?” asked the driver.
“Very tired,” said Harper.
The driver laughed. “I can’t afford to be tired. I have four children. Tired is for the rich man and the lazy Russian.”
“You aren’t Russian?” asked Harper, looking at the man’s face in the rearview mirror. The driver’s eyes flicked up to look at Harper.
“I am from Armenia,” he said, keeping his eyes on Harper’s, gauging his reaction.
“Armenia?” said Harper. “The birthplace of Christianity right?”
“Right!” said the driver, his face relaxing into a wide smile. “How do you know this?”
“Something my grandmother told me.”
“Your babushka was a very wise lady I think.”
“She was that, yeah. She was that.”
“She was Russian?” Harper checked himself at the question.
“Not that I know of,” he replied. “So those people we dropped off first didn’t seem too happy. Do you think they’ll stay?”
“Happens every time there is new group,” said the driver. “They come to teach English straight from university or nice holiday. Some they know what is Russia like. Others, it is big surprise for them. BIG surprise. I think they maybe stay a few months then leave. Russia is no good for pretty western girls.”
“What do you mean?” said Harper.
“I mean they are used to being prettiest girl, and here they are not prettiest girl. It makes them a little crazy.”
“Do people still call it the West?” said Harper.
“I am older,” said the driver. “For us, it will always be the West.” They turned a corner and pulled up outside into a small courtyard. The building seemed better quality than the previous places. It had the same rotting bench and scratched metal front door, but it was grander.
“So, you are the lucky one Ryan Evans,” said the driver, looking at his sheet. “You are living in this Stalinka. It is old building. Built well, with high ceilings. Two people live here now, English boy and Russian girl. You are the third.”
Harper took the key and the front door code from the driver, shook his hand and watched him pull off, cigarette smoke creeping out of his open window. He tapped the code into the front door keypad and a clunky tune beeped out of the speaker. He pulled his suitcase inside and walked up to the lift directly in front of him. The doors rattled open and he dragged his suitcase into the small space. He got out on the fourth floor and looked around. The corridor was old, but someone had gone to the effort of putting some potted plants on the stairwells. There was a plastic bottle that had been chopped in half and filled with water and various fly sprays huddled in a corner. Harper walked over to the door of his new flat and slid the key into the lock. It was still the middle of the night, so he turned it as slowly as he could, trying not to make a noise. It was dark inside and he squinted to look for a light switch on the wall, but couldn’t see one. He stood in the dark for a few seconds. His anxiety bubbled slowly somewhere deep in his gut. He took a deep breath and fended it off, relaxing his muscles as much as he could. Just as he went to feel for the switch a second time, he felt someone approaching him out of the dark.
“Hello,” he whispered, but it was too late. He felt a strong shove backwards and he crashed into the coat rack and sprawled onto the floor.
- Chapter 7 -
Policemen and Pirates
The founder of Lenin’s brutal secret police watched Walker and Varndon as they hurried along the path. The statue of Felix Dzerzhinksy sat in the middle of Muzeon Park; a menacing presence over the graveyard for Soviet statues. The two men pushed on through busts of politburo luminaries and military heroes towards a wooden pagoda draped with soft drink adverts. Varndon clapped his gloved hands a few times and rubbed them together to stave off the cold morning air. They both scanned the surroundings for anyone walking nearby, but they seemed to be alone.
&
nbsp; “If the opposition do know we’re here, they must have thought better of turning out at this time in the morning,” said Walker.
“The simple things work to your advantage sometimes,” replied Varndon.
Both their heads snapped round as a man walked out from behind the café. His eyes twitched left and right as he approached them and took a seat on their bench.
“Enjoying the sights chaps?”
Varndon noticed his hands were shaking from more than the cold. The man saw him looking and slid them under the table out of sight.
“Nice office you’ve got here,” said Walker. “Good aircon.”
“Ah, well, yes, needs must I’m afraid. We don’t really want to draw any unnecessary attention to you pair and the embassy is somewhat under siege these days.”
“More than usual?” said Varndon.
“The Russians are keeping us on our toes,” said the man. “It’s got worse in the past few months and particularly since this Cavendish thing last week.”
“Worse how?”
“A couple of our junior embassy staff got guns shoved in their mouths in the middle of the night over the weekend. Someone fishing for something.”
Varndon took another scan around the park. Several stray dogs wandered into one of the entrances and gathered around a pile of litter. They all stopped talking as a young girl with a school bag shuffled along the nearby riverbank.
“We shouldn’t stay here too long,” said the man. “Walker, head back the way you came and make sure to walk past the big hammer and sickle on the way out. The intel files will jump straight onto your phone from a device nearby.” Walker looked over in the direction of the large metallic structure and the man nodded to confirm it was the right one.
“Righty ho,” said Walker, mimicking the man’s accent.
They waited until he had left the park and walked off in the opposite direction.
“I understand you’re the elder statesman,” the man said to Varndon.
“I’ve been onboard officially for about five years.”
“City man?”
“Private banking with a bit of work for Alpha when I could. When the city turned toxic, he asked me over, and I was happy to oblige.”
“Well, good for you. You’re certainly in a division on the up. An old Soviet expert like me is a bit of a relic these days.”
The two men exited the park and walked past a gaudy maritime monument. They crossed the road and walked alongside the frozen river. The pavement was slippy and Varndon took small steps to lessen the risk of a fall.
“How long has your man Walker been with the department?”
“Not too long, maybe a year.”
“Is he reliable?”
Varndon paused. “He’s very smart. We got him in on a bargain. He was facing a few years in jail after that Libor mess, but we offered him a better option. It’s the Vegas principle. The card counters end up in the rafters.”
“I suppose you can’t teach some things to an outsider.”
“It’s hard,” said Varndon. “It helps us if people know the culture from the inside. And they need to be plausible. Walker is definitely plausible.”
They stopped on the corner of the street next to a modern office building.
“So look,” said the man. “Everything we know about Cavendish and Woolaton Capital is on those files. I think it’s best if we leave it to you now.”
“Sure,” said Varndon, shaking the man’s hand. “We can handle it from here.”
Varndon felt the shaking again as their hands slid apart.
“Damn cold always gives me the shakes,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and looking down at the floor.
“Quite,” said Varndon, turning to walk away.
“Oh, and Varndon,” said the man. “Don’t underestimate Katusev. He’s a bit of an enigma and that normally means there’s plenty to hide.”
*****
Harper opened his bedroom door slightly and looked out into the hall. He peered around for the dog that had flattened him a few hours previously, but it was nowhere to be seen. He walked across to the bathroom, keeping an eye on the other doorways as he went. He had slept for around an hour. The dark marks under his eyes protruded slightly. He ran some cold water onto his finger and dabbed the skin a little in the hope they might go down. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was still in reasonable shape, he thought. The trips to his 24-hour gym in the middle of the night were the only positive thing to come from a forced lack of sleep. He showered and stepped back out onto the cold floor. The small room was thick with steam, so he opened a small rectangular window to clear the air, dried himself and walked back across the hall.
He didn’t notice the black shape sitting at the foot of the bed until he was well into the middle of the room. He stood fixed to the spot. The side of the dog’s mouth twitched as it contemplated a growl. It had a small cut above its left eye, presumably from when he had kicked it off him into the wall. He edged back a little and gave the animal a clear path into the hall. The dog’s ears pricked up as it heard a key turn in the front door and it dived off the bed and ran past him.
“Rasputin, you are a beautiful boy, come here to me,” a woman’s voice said in Russian.
Harper chucked on some shorts and a t-shirt walked out into the corridor. The girl standing in front of him rubbed the dog’s ears and patted its side. She was wrapped up in a tartan winter coat and her scarf covered the lower half of her face. She jolted a little as she looked up and noticed the stranger standing in front of her.
“I’m the new teacher,” said Harper. “I just arrived from London”
The girl pulled the scarf off her face and he could see she was smiling. “Oh yes, we were expecting you,” she said, switching to English. “I just thought that maybe you wouldn’t be here yet, you gave me a bit of a fright.” She had high Slavic cheekbones and smattering of very light freckles stretched across her nose. “Welcome to our apartment, is the room okay for you? I tidied it and put on some new sheets.”
“It’s fine,” said Harper. “It’s really great actually. They dropped some of the other new arrivals off at some really dodgy places.”
She placed her coat onto a hook and smiled again. She briefly left her gaze on him and he allowed her to look into his eyes for a few moments. “Dodgy, you English love this word, dodgy.”
“Yeah?” said Harper. “Do you know a lot of English people over here?”
“A lot of our teachers are from England,” she said. “The owner of the school is American, but he prefers his overseas teachers to be English.”
“Why’s that?”
“Russians will pay more for a teacher from England. So what is your name?”
“Ryan Evans,” said Harper.
“Ryan, it’s a nice name, but it’s Irish no?”
“I think so,” said Harper. “I’m not sure. And what should I call you?”
“Anya, pleased to meet you.” She stamped a few bits of snow from her boots and kicked it onto the entrance mat. “Shall we have some tea?”
“Sure.”
They walked into the kitchen and Harper sat down on a blue sofa. There was an assortment of dried fruits sitting in a bowl in the middle of a small table. She stood making the tea with her back to him. Her grey jumper stopped just above her jeans and revealed a slim line of flesh. Harper noticed a newspaper sticking out of the top of her bag.
“Can I have a look at this?”
“Of course.”
The front cover jumped out at him. ‘London cops arrive in Moscow’ was splashed over the front page. There was a picture of Cohen and Russell surrounded by Russian police at the airport. His skin prickled a little and his throat tightened as his mind flicked back to thoughts of the job.
“You read Russian,” she said, turning around and looking at him.
“Just a few words,” replied Harper. “I’ll need to take some lessons.”
“Well, we can practice if you like.
I teach Pavel sometimes.”
“Pavel? I thought the other guy was English.”
“Oh he is English, he is Paul, from Sussex or Surrey or somewhere like this, but he is a very big fanatic of Russia, so likes Pavel instead.”
“Ok,” said Harper. “I see. And where is Pavel now?”
“There was a big party last night in the school’s dacha just outside Moscow. Most of the staff are still there, but I have an appointment, so needed to get back. I am not much of a drinker, so I think my hangover is okay compared to some of them.”
Anya handed Harper the cup of tea. A light smell of her perfume drifted over to him and caressed the back of his throat. He took a spoon of sugar and mixed it into the cup.
“So you have to go back out again soon?” he asked, taking a sip of his tea and putting the cup down onto the table.
“No, my appointment is here,” she said. “I have a student coming over for a private lesson. She is Pavel’s, but he was not in a fit state, so I am filling in. I hope you don’t mind, but I will use the kitchen for this. It will only take an hour.”
“Look, I don’t want to get in the way. I’ll sit in my room for a while.”
The sound of the doorbell caused the dog to bound towards the door, barking and scratching at the metal. Anya stood up and looked at her watch.
“Oh shoot, she is early,” she said. “Could you please answer the door while I put Rasputin in my room.” Harper walked to the front door and pulled open several locks while Anya bundled the dog into the room and gave it a few treats to eat. The handle jammed a little and needed a strong shove before it opened.
“Nastya, please come in and sit down,” Anya shouted from the bedroom.
The woman standing in the hall was dressed all in white, apart from black high-heeled boots. She was smoking a thin cigarette with a lavender filter. Her elaborate white fur hat looked like snow fox or possibly some kind of Arctic wolf. Her huge sunglasses covered half her face. She finished tapping away on her mobile phone and turned towards him. She took off one of her gloves and offered him her hand, palm facing downwards, with a strong air of regency. Harper suppressed the urge to smile and shook it lightly, not knowing whether she had expected him to kiss it or not. She took a last pull on her cigarette and threw it into a nearby bucket of sand.
