Moscow City

by A. R. Zander

  “Sure.”

  “You know, she is having a birthday party this weekend. She has invited all the teachers from the school. You should come.”

  “Isn’t she the daughter of some oligarch?”

  “Her father is Andre Katusev. Have you been to many oligarch parties Ryan?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Well, this can be your first. You know their family is very well-known here in Russia. Do you have a big family Ryan?”

  “What?” Harper rubbed the part of his finger where his wedding ring used to be. “Family? No. Not really.”

  *****

  “Our marriage is over Matt, get that into your head.”

  Harper didn’t try to stop her as she walked into the flat and began throwing the remainder of her belongings into a cardboard box. He wanted to say something, but there was nothing left to say. Anything he said now would just sound limp and pathetic. She had a new haircut and was wearing more make-up than usual. She looked good to him now she was leaving.

  “Where are you living?” he said, trying not to sound too intrusive.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I just want to know you’re okay. You know, for money and everything.”

  “It’s not your concern now Matt.”

  Harper walked into the bedroom and picked up some of her books from the shelf. “Did you want these?” She took them from him without saying a word.

  “Look, I’m sorry, about everything.”

  “Sorry? I don’t care if you’re sorry.”

  “Well I am.”

  “Sorry for what Matt? Sorry for leaving me alone in this flat for weeks at a time? Sorry for cheating on me? Sorry for giving me an STD after you fucked one of your little sluts? Fuck you Matt. Fuck you and your sorry. I’m not interested.”

  He followed her back to the door. As she opened it, a man stood on the other side and took the box from her. He looked at Harper, but said nothing.

  “Who’s this?”

  “This is Dan. He’s helping me.”

  “Helping you?”

  “Yeah, helping me. You know, when someone does something for someone else. You might want to try it sometime.”

  “So you’ve replaced me already?”

  “Replaced you? Have you not been listening to me? There was nothing left to replace. I was married to a bloody ghost.”

  Harper stepped outside the flat as she called the lift. “You know I can change if you want me to change.” The lift arrived and the doors opened. Dan stepped inside and left the two of them in the corridor.

  “You’ve already changed too much. The man I married was loving and caring and I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But this person standing in front of me. This paranoid, deceitful egomaniac. I don’t know who this person is.”

  He watched as the lift doors closed and it trundled down to the ground floor reception. The anger bubbled up inside of him as he thought about Dan and her together. If he could just explain more, tell her about the pressures. Maybe she would change her mind. But he knew it was over. He walked back inside the flat and slammed the door behind him. Forget it. It’s over.

  - Chapter 10 -

  Katusev

  “How much of Kent does he own?” said Russell.

  “It’s probably best not to think about it,” replied Cohen, as he finally turned onto the long road leading up to the front of Stanmore Hall.

  “It must have taken us nearly ten minutes to get here from the front gates,” said Russell.

  Morton looked out of his window at the vast estate. A small herd of deer watched their car warily before disappearing into the confines of some nearby woods. “You know what pisses these guys off most when they buy somewhere like this? They get told that some footpath or other goes straight across their land and there’s nothing they can do about it unless they get down to the local village and negotiate with a group of old timers on the parish council.”

  Russell laughed. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that meeting.”

  Cohen stopped the car on a gravel drive at the bottom of a large stairway. They got out of the car, watched closely by figures in dark suits from the windows on the upper levels.

  “He uses ex-French foreign legionnaires as his personal bodyguard,” said Morton. “There was a bit of an incident last year when someone approached him in a restaurant in Kensington and got their arm dislocated. They don’t mess about these boys, so probably best to keep sudden movements to a minimum.”

  Cohen looked more closely at one of the guards. The distinctive outline of an AK-47 assault rifle flashed momentarily into view before disappearing behind the man’s back. As they walked up the steps, a butler emerged to meet them.

  “Welcome gentlemen. My name is Foreman. If you’d like to follow me.”

  They followed Foreman straight ahead and up some stairs onto the first floor. There were subtly placed security cameras attached to the ceiling and other hints of modernity were dotted around the corridors. The only sign of Russian influence was a landscape painting of St Petersburg hanging on one of the walls. Foreman showed them into a large oval office and left the room.

  “Seems like the guy’s pretty big on security,” said Russell. “Doesn’t seem like he sleeps easy at night from the look of this place.”

  “If anyone wanted to get at him, they’d need some kind of army to take on his private bodyguard,” said Cohen.

  After a few seconds, a separate door swung open and Katusev came striding into the room. The tension from the interview in Moscow had evaporated as he greeted them all warmly and invited them to take a seat in front of his desk. He wore white cotton trousers and cream loafers with no socks. His black jumper was stretched tightly over a chiseled physique.

  “Apologies if I kept you gents waiting,” he said. “I have just had a new gymnasium installed in the basement and my trainer was keen that we try out some of the equipment.”

  “No problem at all,” said Morton. “In fact, we just got here.”

  “You are Scottish DCI Morton?” said Katusev, pulling his chair closer to the desk.

  “Aye, that’s right.”

  “You must come and join me on my next Highlands hunting trip. Are you a hunting man?”

  “I’m more of a whisky man I have to say.”

  Katusev smiled. “Me too as it happens. The single malt that follows the hunt is one of my favourite parts of the day. You know, the last time I was…”

  “With all due respect Mr Katusev, is it possible we could get straight onto the business at hand,” said Russell.

  The smile disappeared from Katusev’s face. “Why of course. I don’t want to take up any more of your time than is necessary.”

  “Please forgive my colleague if he is a bit short,” said Cohen. “It’s just our time in Moscow was extremely frustrating and, naturally, we would like to push ahead with our enquiries as swiftly as we could.”

  “Yes, it was unfortunate your time in Moscow was wasted,” said Katusev. “I did my best to secure us a private meeting, but you can imagine the obstacles that were put in my way.”

  “We understand there’s nothing you could do,” said Cohen. “And we appreciate the invitation to come and see you today.” Foreman came back into the room pushing a squeaky service trolley with coffee and biscuits. He handed them each a cup and walked back out.

  Katusev took a sip of his coffee and placed the cup back down on the saucer. “Please understand that I am happy to cooperate as far as I can with the authorities here. I have always respected your legal system and I have made this country my second home over the last few years. Some of my children are still at school here and I have some very important investments that I do not plan to jeopardise. So please, how can I help you with your investigation?”

  “How about telling us who you think massacred Simeon Cavendish and his mates in Warwick Avenue?” said Russell. “That’d be a start.” Katusev looked towards Morton, seemingly lo
oking for some kind of reprieve from such an aggressive line of questioning, but the Scotsman contented himself with sitting back and waiting for an answer.

  “The truth is I have no idea who killed them,” said Katusev. “They were all three good friends of mine, especially Simeon. We had known each other a long time, since before the wall came down.” Katusev stood up and walked over to a wooden cabinet at the side of the room. He took out a framed photograph and handed it to Morton. “This is a picture of us at a scientific convention in Paris in 1987. It was the time of Glasnost and it was very exciting for the scientific community on both sides of the iron curtain. The chance to meet the so-called enemy face-to-face was a unique experience. And of course, once you begin to talk to people, you understand that the enemy is actually not so dissimilar to yourself.”

  “And did Mr Cavendish have any enemies?” said Cohen.

  “When you are a successful businessman like Simeon, you will always have enemies.”

  “There are lots of successful businessmen who don’t end up tied to a chair with a knife in the back of their head,” said Russell. “You for example, Mr Katusev. You’re a successful businessman and you’re still walking around with air in your lungs.”

  “Really Mr Morton,” said Katusev, raising his voice slightly. “The line of Detective Russell’s questioning is more than a little insulting to me.”

  The three officers turned their heads as a legionnaire in black military fatigues opened the door and stepped inside the room. Katusev put his hand up and said a few words in French and the man reluctantly retreated back into the next room. “Apologies for the interruption officers, he is just doing his job. As you can see, I don’t take the air in my lungs for granted.”

  “We are not trying to accuse you of anything Mr Katusev,” said Cohen. “We are just trying to get a bit more understanding of why those men are dead. When was the last time you saw Mr Cavendish?”

  “Just before he left Moscow for the last time.”

  “And what can you tell us about the work you were doing together?”

  Katusev stood up and walked over to one of the large bay windows in the office. “You know we have taken extraordinary measures to stop leaks about our work.”

  “If you’re worried about confidentiality, I can give you my word that whatever you say will stay within the investigation team,” said Morton.

  Katusev turned and walked back to his desk. “These worries about leaks seem far less important now Simeon is dead. Worrying about leaks is worrying about money and it seems somewhat…crass… to worry about these things now.”

  A look of cynicism flashed over Russell’s face as Katusev spoke. “Right, crass, forgive me, but you don’t come across as a man who ever sees money as crass.”

  Katusev ignored the comment. “How much do you gentlemen know about high-frequency trading in the financial markets?”

  “Not too much,” said Morton, “but we’d be happy to learn. Are you talking about stocks and shares?”

  “Stocks, bonds, oil, derivatives. It doesn’t make much difference in our world. We go where the money is. To put it simply, the days of traders in brightly-colored jackets shouting at each other are long gone my friends. The trading world has been taken over by computers and this means the man with the best programme makes the most money.”

  “And this was your project?” said Cohen. “Making the best programme.”

  “If you get it right, it’s modern day alchemy. And we were very close to getting it right.”

  “You were close?” said Morton. “You mean you were close when Cavendish was killed?”

  Katusev took a small black and white photograph from his desk drawer and handed it to Morton. “This man is called Seva Vitsin. He was one of our researchers. In fact, he was our best researcher.”

  “Was?” said Cohen.

  “He disappeared with some key research.”

  “Do you think his disappearance is connected to Cavendish’s death?” asked Morton.

  “It’s possible. Everything is possible.”

  “And do you think he disappeared of his own accord? Or do you think he may have been kidnapped?”

  “Both are a possibility,” said Katusev. “Seva was our star. He devised the key parts of our programme and some people would go to great lengths to possess what is in this boy’s mind.”

  “Boy?” said Cohen. “How old is he?”

  “He is 19. Somewhat of a prodigy.”

  Cohen picked up the picture from the desk. “So one possibility here is that whoever killed Cavendish was in fact looking for Seva Vitsin?”

  “You are right. It is hard to believe Seva’s disappearance and Simeon’s death are unconnected. There are a lot of people looking for Seva at the moment. The Russian government recently became a partner in our venture. They were very insistent. This was not my choice, but sometimes compromises are necessary. They are as anxious as we are to locate the boy.”

  “Anxious enough to torture Simeon Cavendish and his partners?” said Russell.

  “I have told you what I know,” said Katusev. “I am not going to start pointing fingers directly. I am not a fool.”

  Morton stood up and extended his hand to Katusev. “We appreciate your help. It’s likely we will need to speak to you again.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you mind if I keep the picture of Vitsin?”

  “It’s yours.” Katusev walked the three detectives back to their car. More legionnaires had now appeared on the roof and around the gravel drive.

  “What sort of money is this programme worth?” asked Cohen.

  “If you can beat the market,” said Katusev. “The potential for profit is…intimidating.”

  “And you found a way to beat the market?”

  “There is only one person on the planet that knows how to beat the market Sergeant. His name is Seva Vitsin.”

  - Chapter 11 -

  The Exchange

  Alpha arched his back a little to relieve the pain simmering away near the bottom of his spine. He reached for the heater and turned the dial up a couple of notches, all the while keeping an eye on the darkness beyond the border. The driver, Randall, was sucking slowly on a boiled sweet, making a faint clack clack sound as he rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other and it collided with his teeth. The three other cars were parked close by, all with their headlights turned off. The goods they had come to trade were sitting quietly in the black Saab estate a few yards away.

  Alpha stirred as several sets of headlights appeared in the distance. It was tough to judge how far away they were, but the vehicles were clearly slowing down. They finally stopped around a quarter of a mile from the border, lining up behind one another at the side of the road. Alpha stayed seated as car doors swung open and the highway suddenly teemed with movement. He watched from the darkness as four of his people escorted the two men forward towards the Russians. He could just about make out a similar group advancing from the other vehicles. Once both sides were close enough to confirm they were receiving what they expected, the handcuffs were taken off and the prisoners started their walk away from their captors. The four men all slowed down as they passed each other on the road.

  It always happened, thought Alpha. People liked to assess their worth.

  Walker and Varndon quickened their pace as they crossed the Estonian border and neared the waiting reception party. Alpha remembered clearly the days they were both recruited to the service. Varndon was simple. His small favours to the department were becoming big favours and he was very good at what he did. Pushing money from one bank account to another to pay agents. Creating shell companies within shell companies to benefit operations. He was practically a full-time employee when he eventually came onboard officially.

  The service can always rely on men like William Varndon.

  Walker on the other hand, was an uncomfortable necessity. Alpha could make out his cocky stride as he got closer to the car. He had strutted into th
eir first meeting at Vauxhall Bridge in the same manner. These city boys had no respect for anyone. They played by their own rules and the economy had suffered as a result. If the head honchos had listened before instead of wasting money on chasing ragtag Islamists around the hills of Afghanistan, the country wouldn’t be in such a mess. No, Walker hadn’t changed his spots. He’d just found a new way to get his daily adrenaline rush.

  Alpha opened his window as the men arrived back at the parked cars. “Well done all. That was nice and clean. Let’s get out of here.” Randall spun the car round in the road and set off back in the direction of Talinn. Alpha checked over his shoulder and just caught the faint red glow of the opposition’s motorcade disappearing from view. They kept a steady pace all the way back to the capital and arrived at the city limits just before sunrise. The embassy was quiet as they parked up and filed into a side entrance. Alpha led Walker and Varndon into the Ambassador’s office and closed the door.

  “Welcome back gentlemen,” he said. “You look tired.”

  Varndon rubbed his eyes. “They interviewed us for as long as they could. They didn’t want to waste any time by letting us sleep.”

  “I can understand that. I’d do the same. What were they asking about?”

  “They quizzed us about the expansion of the Department and about you. Kept asking about your health.”

  “Nice of them to be concerned,” said Alpha.

  “But they mainly wanted to talk about Cavendish,” continued Walker. “We got the usual paranoia about ‘you people did it’ but it was fairly obvious they knew about as little as us.”

  “They were pretty shaken up,” said Varndon. “Svaboda’s top quant went AWOL. He took all the code with him and disappeared off the face of the planet.”

  “Or someone forced him to disappear,” said Alpha.

  “Or that,” said Walker. “The guy’s name is Seva Vitsin. The Russians kept asking about him. They must have presumed we already knew. They just kept pushing. Where is Vitsin? Who has Vitsin? Vitsin this. Vitsin fucking that. It was like a bloody broken record.”