by A. R. Zander
“Anastasia Katuseva,” she said. “And you are?”
- Chapter 8 -
Moscow City
The gleaming towers of Moscow City jutted up into a grey sky. Cohen wiped the condensation from the front windscreen to get a better look at this latest testament to Russian modernity. The towers clustered together like a forest of metal and glass. The structures loomed larger as the convoy swept along the highway towards its destination. Cohen looked back at the three cars behind them. One contained a trio of Russian detectives and the other was for the small group of uniforms that had been shadowing them from the airport and around the hotel. But the third group of men remained a mystery. They wore plain clothes and always hung back to observe. Russell’s earlier attempt to ask them for a lighter elicited little more than grunts. Whoever they were, they clearly weren’t in the market for an informal chat.
“It’s like we’ve just driven into a different city,” said Russell, as the cars pulled into a parking area at the foot of one of the towers.
“Different country more like,” replied Cohen.
“Let’s just hope our resident oligarch hasn’t decided to pop out.”
They walked across the complex to the far tower and took the lift to the top floor. The group crammed into Svaboda Capital’s plush boardroom and sat in frosty silence as one of Cohen’s junior officers set up the recording equipment.
“Only 10 minutes,” said one of the Russian detectives. “This is policy.”
“Policy?” said Russell. “Whose policy?”
“You want to go back to hotel?” said the detective.
Cohen placed his hand on Russell’s arm. “Ten minutes will be enough thank you officer. I’m sure what we have to ask won’t take very long.”
Several polished executives walked into the room and chatted quietly amongst themselves. Everyone except Russell stood when Andre Katusev strolled in with a female assistant, beaming widely and taking his place at the head of the table.
“Gentleman,” he said, addressing Cohen and Russell in practiced BBC English, “thanks for coming to my office.” His easy manner reduced the hostility. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. I understand we don’t have too much time, so please, I am happy to answer any of your questions.” He wore jeans and an expensive designer shirt with silver cufflinks; the casual dressed down wealth of the Mayfair set. An expensive metal watch was wrapped round his wrist, slightly offsetting the cultivated nonchalance of the rest of his wardrobe.
“Thanks for meeting with us Mr Katusev,” said Cohen, not wasting any time in case more restrictions were suddenly placed on the conversation. “As you know, we are investigating the death of Simeon Cavendish and his colleagues in London last week. I understand he was your business partner?”
“That’s right,” said Katusev. “Woolaton Capital and Svaboda had a joint venture…I mean…have a joint venture.”
“Have or had?” said Cohen.
“Have,” said Katusev. “Nothing has changed there yet.”
“Did you have a good relationship with Mr Cavendish?”
“Absolutely.”
“And could you please explain to us what your business relationship involved?”
Katusev placed his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together.
“It was a big shock for us all when we heard the news about Simeon, Marcus and Luca,” he said. “They were good people and deserved better than this horrible end.” Katusev pointed towards the coffee and his assistant handed him a cup. “Regarding our business together, we had a contract to cooperate on some ventures.”
“And what type of ventures were these?” said Cohen.
“It’s difficult for me to go into too much detail,” said Katusev. “These are things that our rivals would be very interested to hear about. I’m sure you understand. But I can tell you it was mainly a trading venture.”
“Do you mean trading as in televisions and stereos, or are we talking about something more complicated?”
“Financial markets,” said Katusev. “We were…” The line of questioning was interrupted by one of the gruff men from the back of the room. He said something in Russian to the detective, who suddenly grabbed the recording equipment and put it in his pocket.
“We are finished now,” said the detective, standing up.
“Hang on a minute,” said Russell. “What happened to ten minutes?”
“It’s enough,” said the detective. “You can submit the rest of your questions in writing and we will get you answers.”
“In writing?” said Russell. “Is that some kind of joke?”
“No joke, we will leave now please.”
The Russian uniforms ushered Katusev and his executives from the room. He shrugged lightly at Cohen as he left.
“Who are these people?” said Russell, pointing at the men from the third car. “Are they in charge or are you in charge?” The Russian detectives looked at the men at the back of the room and they indicated again it was time for everyone to leave. Cohen and Russell reluctantly headed for the door. Outside in the corridor, Katusev and his entourage had disappeared. They headed back down to the lobby in silence. Russell struggled to hide his frustration as they were marched back across the complex and into the cars.
“This is a complete farce,” he said as they pulled off back towards the hotel.
“Did you honestly expect anything else?” replied Cohen. “They’re just ticking the boxes.”
Russell folded his arms. “I didn’t expect it to be this much of a waste of time. There are plenty of things we could’ve been doing at home.”
“Look, just try to go with the flow. We’ve got some more people to see. Anything we can get might be useful.” The convoy pulled up outside the hotel and the detectives escorted them back to the lobby.
“So do we get our recording equipment back?” said Russell.
“At the airport,” said one of the detectives.
“But that’s not until next week,” said Cohen.
“You will get it back tomorrow,” said the detective. “That’s when you’re leaving.”
*****
Walker and Varndon watched from a safe distance as the convoy pulled off down the road. They sat sipping coffee, Walker still smirking at the sight of Russell ranting and raving as he walked back to the car. The café was empty of customers. The waitress behind the counter sat reading a tabloid with a look of permanent disinterest on her face.
“Looks like the Met are a busted flush,” said Walker.
“Maybe,” replied Varndon. “Maybe not.”
“You ever met the guy?”
“Katusev? No.”
“Must have nerves of steel to be a businessman in this place.”
“I’ve met quite a few Russians over the years. They respect one thing above everything else. Strength.”
“Not money?”
“Money too. But just look at the companies that have come here flashing money in the past and left with their tails between their legs. Money is one thing. Looking someone in the eye and showing them you aren’t scared is quite another.”
“That’s very deep Will. I’ll make sure to practice my death stare.”
“You do that.”
Walker put some money down on the table and they slipped out of the café towards the road. Snow swirled around and had gathered in small drifts against the buildings. Varndon walked slightly ahead with his hands planted in the pockets of his jacket. “Katusev is a bit of different animal though from what I hear.”
“How do you mean?”
“He’s a risk taker.”
“What kind of risks.”
“He knows the rules like they all do. Stick to business. Stay out of politics. But he likes to keep closer to the Kremlin than most. Push his influence here and there. It’s a dangerous game.”
“More dangerous than the one we play?”
“I prefer not to think of what we do as a game.”
They loo
ked down the pavement to the spot where they had parked. There was nothing but a few battered Ladas and some trucks carrying cement.
“Where’s the car?” said Walker.
“I thought we left it there?”
“We did.”
“Well it’s not here now.”
A slight man with light hair and pockmarks on his face suddenly appeared between them. “Have you lost your car Mr Varndon?” A dark blue 4x4 pulled out of a nearby underground car park and came to a stop in front of them.
“I presume this is where you offer us a lift?” said Walker.
“Well I don’t want to leave you both standing here in the snow. The famous Russian hospitality is a virtue of the FSB too you know.”
- Chapter 9 -
School Number Three
The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge greeted Harper on his arrival at the Westminster School of English. The picture of the royal couple on their wedding day was crudely tacked on to the wall above the school’s front door. A stick thin girl stood smoking a cigarette near the entrance, her hips jutting slightly to the side. She watched Harper as he walked in the door. He smiled, but the gesture wasn’t returned. A sign inside pointed students in the direction of the third floor. As he climbed the stairs, a door opened and an old lady with a shopping trolley walked out. She was looking towards the floor and muttering in Ukrainian: “Using a residential building as a business…makes it too crowded…all these foreigners coming in and out.” Harper walked past her and carried on up to the third floor. He approached a middle-aged woman with a purple rinse manning the front desk and introduced himself.
“Hi, I’m Ryan Evans,” he said. “The new teacher.”
She made a small clicking noise with the side of her mouth and put out her hand. “Documents please.”
Harper handed her his passport and the contract he had signed back in London. There were several students sat waiting patiently on cheap wooden chairs. A low light bathed the room and paint was cracked and peeling off the walls. Voices were coming from an adjoining corridor. The mellow tones of an English nursery rhyme flowed through the building.
“Ok, you live with Anya, correct?”
“That’s right,” replied Harper.
“She will be here in ten minutes when she finishes her class. She is your instructor.”
“Okay, great.”
“Oh and there is a message here for you. The man said you should call this number back at 10am.” Harper looked at his watch. It was 9.57am.
“Is there a spare classroom I can make the call in?”
“Hmm, you should go downstairs to our small office. No one is there. It is room number six. Here is the key.” Harper took the key and walked down to the floor below. Room six was at the far end of the corridor. He went inside, shut the door behind him and pulled out a small metallic case. He opened it and looked over the ten Russian sim cards sitting side-by-side. He picked one at random, placed it into his mobile phone and punched in the number from the message.
“Morton speaking,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“I got your message,” said Harper. “But I don’t have too long to talk. I saw in this morning’s paper that they are cutting the trip short.”
“Yeah, the bastards are putting Cohen and Russell back on the plane this afternoon. It’s pretty obvious now they were just doing it for the media. They never had any intention of letting us conduct a real investigation. They’ve already started spinning the line that they have done everything they can to help us, but it’s all a load of nonsense.”
“I’ve made contact with the daughter.”
“Already?” said Morton. “That’s excellent. Any results?”
“I’m working on it. She has these private lessons with the guy I’m living with. I’ll need to work out a way of taking those over.”
Harper turned around at the sound of a door closing down the corridor. His breathing quickened and he felt his senses sharpen. He put his hand over the phone and looked through the keyhole. He saw a small boy shuffling along the floor. He stopped outside the toilet and leant his weight onto the door to open it. He whistled the nursery rhyme from the floor above as he walked inside.
“Sorry,” said Harper. “I just heard something outside.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah I’m fine. Just being extra careful.”
“That’s wise. Look, Katusev managed to get a message to us today. He wants to meet in London where there’s less heat. They’re watching him like a hawk over there at the moment, but I get the impression he wants to keep us onside.”
“Sounds good. What do you want me to do?”
“Just sit tight and keep working on getting close to the daughter. You’re over there partly because we suspected something like this would happen. Act like a teacher. Enjoy yourself. And remember, we’ll always contact you through the school.”
“No problem.” The line went dead. Harper took out the sim card and cut it into a few pieces. He pushed a couple of shards into a used apple core in the office bin and threw the rest out of the window onto a thick pile of snow below. He bent down and put his eye to the keyhole. The corridor was empty. He stepped out of the office and walked back upstairs to the main reception.
“Anya is in the teachers’ room,” said the receptionist, without looking up. Harper looked around at the several corridors. Just as he was about to speak, she pointed to a corridor on his left. He walked down it and stopped at a door with an A4 sheet of paper sellotaped onto it. It said TEACHERS in Russian and had a couple of smiley faces either side. Harper walked inside. The room was stuffy and untidy with a couple of old computers on trolleys in the corners. There were several young women and a man sitting round a small table. Anya was seated closest to where he was standing. She was wearing a tight black jumper and jeans. He could smell the watermelon perfume she had on the day before. She noticed him at the door and got to her feet.
“Oh hi Ryan, you made it.”
“Yeah, I hear you are going to be my instructor?”
“That’s right,” she said. “But don’t worry, I am not so strict.”
“Well, that’s good to hear. But you don’t know how lazy I am yet, so maybe you’ll need to be strict.” The man sitting at the table glanced up at them briefly. Harper saw him catch the eye of the girl opposite and raise his eyebrows.
“Everyone, this is Ryan Evans,” said Anya, turning to face the group. “He is our new teacher.” Harper raised a hand to say hello to the girls and they both smiled. “Please meet Genia and Yulia, and this is Pavel, our housemate from England that I told you about.”
“Hi Paul,” said Harper. “So where are you from in Blighty?”
He shook Harper’s hand more firmly than was necessary. “Pavel.”
“I’m sorry?” said Harper.
“Pavel.”
“Okay, sorry Pavel, what part of the UK are you from?”
Pavel suddenly began to talk heavily accented Russian in Harper’s direction. His grammar was noticeably terrible and Harper struggled to make out what he was saying for the most part. The gist was that Russians find it very rude when foreigners come to Russia without first learning Russian. Anya listened politely and translated for Harper, leaving out the insulting tone.
“Ryan doesn’t speak Russian yet, so maybe you can make an exception and speak English with him?” said Anya.
Pavel let out a small grunt. He turned round to the two girls and made a comment about how he couldn’t believe the school is employing people without Russian. Harper smiled and continued to feign ignorance.
“Okay,” he said. “Well, hopefully I can learn quickly and not offend too many people in the meantime. Great to meet you guys.”
“Okay, so let’s go,” said Anya. “We can use my classroom.” Harper heard Pavel muttering more derogatory comments about him in Russian as he followed Anya out of the teachers’ room. They passed back through the reception and went into one of the classrooms down
the opposite corridor. Anya scooted around and cleared up some small cards with pictures of animals that were scattered around the desks.
“So you teach children?” said Harper.
“Some children, some teenagers. But I prefer children. Teenagers are the worst to teach.”
“I can imagine.” She sat down on the seat next to him. He felt her knee brush his as she pulled her chair closer to the table.
“They are giving you only one-on-ones to start with. Just conversation.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. And all adults. It won’t be too difficult, as long as you like to talk. Do you like to talk?”
“I think I can manage talking.”
Anya took some papers from her bag and handed them to Harper. “I think the best thing is if you read these and come back to me with any questions. There are some ideas in there about how to structure the lessons and keep things interesting. Don’t feel like you have to use them, you can use your own techniques if you like.”
“Thanks,” said Harper, putting them into his own bag. “Your English is really great, you know that.”
Anya looked at him and blushed slightly. “Thank you. I worry about it sometimes. The students can sometimes complain if they don’t get a native teacher.”
“Well, I’m not complaining.”
“Then you are very kind.” Harper noticed a light redness on her neck. She handed him a small list of Russian names and contact details. “So, the best thing to do is email each student beforehand and see if they have anything they want to talk about. They usually do.”
Harper looked down the list for Nastya Katuseva’s name, but it wasn’t there. “Will I be teaching the girl who came round to the flat yesterday?” he said.
“Nastya? Well, not unless Pavel wants to give her up. To tell you the truth, she told me that she is getting a little bored with him, but please don’t mention this, he can be quite sensitive.”
