Moscow City

by A. R. Zander

  Alpha stood up and placed his hands into his trouser pockets. Walker’s constant swearing grated on him, but he said nothing. “How do you think you were blown?”

  “We have no idea,” said Walker. “The whole country is a house of mirrors.”

  “Were the higher ups concerned about the exchange?” said Varndon.

  “They’re only concerned about publicity,” said Alpha. “As far as the general public knows, nothing happened.”

  “Who went the other way?” said Walker.

  Alpha took off his spectacles, folded them and placed them in his inside jacket pocket. “Have you ever heard of Leonid Ashansky?”

  “The Prince?”

  “That’s right,” said Alpha. “They call him the Prince. He presides over a very diverse empire of interests. Some of it legal and some of it illegal. The illegal part landed him in Belmarsh prison last year.”

  “What did they get him for?”

  “He was running weapons out of Russia into Northern Ireland. Shipments of explosives and grenade launchers for a group of Loyalists out of east Belfast. There’s a lot of dead IRA over there because of Leonid Ashansky. Anyway, we knew the Russians wanted him back pretty badly, so back he went. The other man was his second-in-command, Yuri Gershov, a real nasty piece of work.”

  “I can’t imagine the plod were very happy about that,” said Walker. “Must have taken some serious effort to convict him.”

  “Well, the police need to understand that there are security concerns well above their station,” said Alpha, a hint of anger in his voice. He buttoned his jacket and patted down the creases in the material in a signal that the meeting was over. “I think you two should get some sleep. We can continue the discussion tomorrow back in London when we are all feeling a little fresher.”

  “Is the Met team still in Moscow,” said Walker?”

  “The Met are bunch of clowns,” said Alpha. “They got chucked out after a day. They’ve got no one in Russia.”

  - Chapter 12 -

  Rublyovka

  Harper slugged back the remainder of a quarter bottle of Dagestani cognac. It was smooth. He looked at the bottle and took note of the brand name, for next time. A faint scratching sound came from the other side of his bedroom door. He opened it and looked down to see Rasputin eyeballing him. The dog stood still, just staring up at him. The black fur above his left eye was still flecked with dried blood. He waved his hand to motion the animal to go, but it bared its teeth and he thought better of it. It casually looked around and then turned and walked away.

  “Ryan, are you ready?” said Anya, emerging from the kitchen. A few cracks of static jumped into the air as she ran a brush through her hair a few times. She dipped her little finger into a pot of lip gloss and ran it across her lower lip as she turned to face him.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “Yeah, you look great…fine.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do I look okay?” said Harper, smirking.

  Anya looked him over. “Yes. Okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  She blushed. “You look like a man. A man can look how he wants and it’s always okay. As long as he is clean.”

  “I’ll remember that.” They made their way down onto the street and Anya stuck her hand out to hail a gypsy cab.

  “So Johnny two names is going to meet us at the party?” said Harper.

  “Who is this Johnny two names?”

  “Paul-Pavel.”

  Anya laughed. “You shouldn’t make fun of him.”

  “Some people need to be made fun of sometimes. It’s good for them.”

  A battered Lada pulled up in front of them and Anya bent down to the window. The destination caused the driver to hesitate a little, but he was persuaded by a slightly higher price. They both got in the back seat and the car juddered off up the road.

  “I don’t think he has ever been to Rublyovka,” said Anya.

  “We’re going to Rublyovka?”

  “It’s where the Katusevs live when they are in Moscow. I would imagine they have property in quite a few places though.”

  Harper had heard of Rublyovka. The fabled suburb for Moscow’s most exclusive residents was out to the west of the city. It wasn’t somewhere you went without an invite and he planned to make the most of his. His mind skipped back to his second call from Morton. They were doing all they could from London, but they needed him to find anything he could on the missing genius, Vitsin.

  “Do you want some of this?” said Harper, offering Anya a black hipflask he had in his jacket pocket.

  “Oh, no thanks.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “I’ll have some wine when we get there.”

  “Me too.”

  “You drink wine with Cognac?” said Anya, looking slightly surprised.

  “I’m English. We drink anything with anything.”

  “You mean like a Russian homeless person?”

  “Yeah, I suppose you could compare English drinking habits to those of a Russian tramp.”

  The traffic was light and they swept along the Moscow highways out into the countryside. The taxi driver looked a little twitchy as they pulled up to the large security gate at the entrance to the complex. Two armed guards strolled over, looking disdainfully at the rusting vehicle. One of them shot some questions at the driver and he swiftly pointed in Anya’s direction, who thrust two elaborate party invites into his hand. The guard must have seen the same invite multiple times that evening, but he shone his torch on them all the same and examined them thoroughly.

  “Don’t take this piece of shit anywhere near the house,” he said to the driver in Russian as he handed the invites back to Anya. “Drop them at the gates.”

  The driver nodded and pulled forwards. They all marveled at the waves of opulence that flashed past the car. Mansions in a myriad of styles sat among the trees. The Moscow grime had disappeared and been replaced with a moneyed sheen. The driver’s face looked less impressed and more irritated the further they got into the estate. He put his foot down so they arrived quickly at their destination.

  “Can you take us up to the house?” said Anya as he pulled over next to the gates of the Katusev property.

  “You heard what the guard said,” shouted the driver. “He doesn’t want my shit car up at that place. It’s not for people like me.” They paid him and he soon disappeared back off into the forest.

  “What’s his problem?” said Harper.

  “Some Russians don’t like to see this type of place. It can make them a little envious.”

  Harper took another swig from his flask. “It’s not just Russians that it makes envious. I’m feeling pretty envious myself at the moment.”

  “Well,” she said, linking her arm into his. “Why don’t we pretend we are arriving home to our own house. That way, for a few minutes, you don’t have to be envious.”

  “Ha, why not.” Harper put his hands in his pockets, squeezing her arm onto the side of his body. They walked slowly up to the floodlit house. It was built in a classic Russian style and painted in a yellow pastel colour. A fountain on the vast front lawn spouted a spherical stream of water into the air. Anya handed the invites to one of the bouncers on the door and they were directed towards a hall straight ahead of them. Harper noted there were more bouncers blocking entrance into other parts of the house. They wandered down a small corridor and onto the top of a staircase leading down into a large ballroom. A sea of people thronged the room and a small army of waiters moved deftly among them distributing canapés and drinks to the guests.

  “Oh, I can see some of the other teachers,” said Anya, grabbing Harper’s arm and pulling him down the stairs. They pushed their way past a few people to the back of the room. Harper recognised some of the faces from the minibus. He smiled at the two girls that had been dropped at the grotty flat.

  “Hey there, how are you? He said. “Did you manage to get another place or did you have to stay there?”

/>   “It was a lot nicer inside,” said the girl that had burst into tears on the pavement. “But the corridors just smell horrible.”

  “The school don’t seem very concerned,” said the other girl. “They said they would let us know if anything else comes up, but it doesn’t sound too promising. How is your place?”

  “Oh it’s okay,” said Harper, not wanting to sound too smug. “They’re all pretty much the same. The resident dog doesn’t seem to like me very much.”

  “Well, we should all go out for drinks one day,” said the first girl. “We can meet at the school or something. You live with that nice girl Anya, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, it’s us and another guy. She was just….” He looked around and spotted her a few yards away talking to Pavel and some students from the school.

  “Excuse me,” said Harper as he turned and walked over towards the group. As he joined the circle, he noticed that Pavel had dropped his rule of never speaking English in Russia. He gifted Harper a cursory glance and continued talking.

  “…I just found the pace of Crime and Punishment so leisurely. Dostoevsky seems to delight in dwelling on irrelevant emotions. Bulgakov seems to understand pace more and the importance of the external in literature. I just found Myshkin to be very difficult character to spend time with…”

  “Raskolnikov,” said Harper.

  Pavel flashed an irritated look in Harper’s direction. “What was that?”

  “I think you meant Raskolnikov. Myshkin is from the Idiot.”

  “Err, well…no…I said Raskolnikov.”

  “If you say so,” said Harper.

  “No, I think you said Myshkin,” said one of the students. “Pavel, I think you maybe need to be more diligent with your reading of Russian literature.”

  Pavel scowled in Harper’s direction. “Well maybe Evans would like to regale us all with his opinions on Crime and Punishment since he is suddenly such an expert. I mean, I’m sure with your excellent Russian you’ve read all the classics in their native form.”

  “I’m not sure people really…”

  “No, I insist,” said Pavel. “We are on the edge of our seats.”

  Harper thought of his grandmother’s library. The rows of Gogol, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Turgenev, Bakunin. He could picture it intimately in his mind. No television and an abundance of time. “It just seems to me Crime and Punishment shouldn’t be easy to read.”

  “A book that is purposefully badly written?” said Pavel. “That’s the most ridiculous literary observation I have ever heard.”

  “I’m not saying it’s badly written,” said Harper. “I’m saying it is written to make you feel uncomfortable. You are forced to spend time inside the head of man who is struggling with his own conscience. Dostoevsky wants to instill Raskolnikov’s sense of panic and guilt in the reader. The book is about the trial a man puts himself on inside his own head.”

  “Or a woman,” said Anya.

  “Or a woman,” said Harper. “Of course.”

  “I think maybe you may have a Russian soul,” said one of the students.

  “I think so too,” said Anya, looking up at Harper. Pavel’s face contorted slightly and he started to look over the heads of the students for alternative company. He spotted someone near the staircase and moved off without saying goodbye.

  “I hope I didn’t offend him,” said Harper, half-heartedly.

  “He is always a bit offended by something,” said Anya. “Anyway, he was talking bollocks. Is that right word? Bollocks.”

  “Ha, that’s the right word Anya.”

  “Oh good. Now, I’m going to find some wine. Do want some?”

  “Please, any colour, whatever’s going.” Harper watched her walk off through the crowd. Her little black dress exhibited the contours of her body. She was thin, but not too thin to look boyish. And she proudly displayed a pretty brown birthmark on her left shoulder. As she disappeared towards one of the waiters, the striking figure of Nastya Katuseva flashed across his eyeline. A small entourage stood fawning over her as she showed off some jewellery. Harper grabbed a brief look at himself in a nearby mirror and walked over.

  “Hey Nastya, sorry to interrupt, I just wanted to say happy birthday.”

  She finished laughing at something one of her friends was saying and stuck her white-gloved hand in Harper’s direction. This time he decided to kiss it.

  “Thank you darling,” she said, grabbing the tail of her red dress and sweeping it around towards him. “How do you like our little country pile?”

  “I love it,” said Harper. “You’ve clearly got taste.”

  “You can buy taste sweety. We are aiming for class.”

  “Well, your aim is good. It reminds of a place we have in Tuscany.”

  “A place in Tuscany? On a teacher’s salary?”

  Harper smiled. “Our family business is diamonds.”

  He saw that he now had her full attention. “Diamonds, really? Have you seen my gift?” She turned her head slightly so he could see her earrings.

  Harper studied them. “You know, a woman needs a certain beauty to wear a good stone like that Anastasia. They would be wasted on anyone else here.”

  She giggled a little and pushed her hair behind one of her ears. “Remind me of your name please honey?”

  “Ryan. Moscow’s most sought after English teacher.”

  “Well Ryan, you know I think we could have a lot in common. I’m going to ask the school to give you to me as a teacher. That is, if you don’t mind.”

  “The pleasure would be all mine,” he said, kissing her hand again. “I’ll hopefully see you again soon.”

  “Oh, you will,” she said, looking him up and down.

  Harper walked off across the room, making sure not to glance back as he went. The crowd had swelled almost to capacity and people jockeyed for position around the edges of the room. Harper took his chance to slip back through the bodies towards the front door. A bouncer in a dinner jacket was still hovering around the stairs leading to the upper level and the only people who seemed to have access were elderly members of the Katusev family.

  Harper bided his time, leaning against a wall and pretending to talk on his mobile phone. His chance came as the guard pulled out a cigarette and walked out into the fresh air. He darted over to the staircase and offered to carry the bag of one relative with a fur coat. She thanked him enthusiastically as they reach the top and he quickly disappeared into a nearby bathroom. He waited for a few moments until he heard the relative’s footsteps patter back down the hall and rejoin the party. When he was sure she was gone, he stepped back out into the hall and looked around.

  Nothing moved.

  There were several open doors nearby, but he could see they were all bedrooms. He needed to find the study. He peered carefully round the corner leading downstairs and saw the security guard chatting to a female partygoer. He turned down the light with a nearby dimmer switch and moved silently to the end of the hall. Another couple of doors stood opposite each other. This time they were closed. He turned the handle on the one on the right. A smell of fresh linen crept out of the opening. He opened it a little further, but there was nothing but blankets. He turned the handle on the opposite door, but it was locked. The steady beat of house music filled the building. Harper nodded his head a couple of time to the beat and shoved his shoulder onto the door in time with the sound. After a few hits, he heard a small crack and the door opened inwards into a small passageway leading to the attic. He went inside, pushed the door closed behind him and walked slowly up the stairs.

  The attic study was spread across the whole floor and was bathed in a low light. Harper took a quick scan of the room. He couldn’t see any obvious signs of security cameras. The outside of the room was mostly bookcases with what looked like collectible volumes. A small conference table sat in the middle of the room with some equipment for piping people in on television screens.

  “Where are you Seva Vitsin…” he whispered under his b
reath as he made his way towards a desk at the back of the room. He leafed through a couple of folders sat on the oak surface. They had the Svaboda insignia on the top.

  Harper’s eyes shot back towards the door as he thought he heard a creaking sound coming from downstairs. His skin prickled and he listened closely for any sign of footsteps, but the dull thud thud of the music was the only thing audible. He quickened his search, opening the desk drawers and examining as many papers as he could. He felt around at the back of the last drawer and pulled out a single USB stick. He examined it before slipping it into his pocket. He held his breath as he made his way back across the room. Just before he reached the top of the study stairs, he froze. There was no question there was a creaking sound this time. Someone was coming up the stairs into the attic. Harper stepped back and looked for somewhere to hide. The only place he could go was back behind the desk. He turned quickly, but caught his heel on a thick rug, tripping and landing heavily on his hip. He went to get up, but it was too late. A man in a black tuxedo stood directly in front of him, looking down into his eyes. They looked at each other for a few seconds, both unsure of what to do next before Harper got steadily to his feet.

  “Enjoying the party?” he said, brushing himself off.

  “I was a bit bored of the party to be honest,” said the man, revealing his English accent as he spoke.

  “Yeah, me too,” replied Harper.

  Both men looked down the stairs as a shriek of laughter travelled up from the corridor. The voices got steadily quieter and finally disappeared. They looked at each other again, both gauging the other, considering what to say next.

  “I was on my way out,” said Harper. “Is that an issue for you?”

  “No,” said the man. “I was on my way in. Is that an issue for you?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Harper walked past him to the top of the stairs.

  “Wait,” said the man. He took out a pen and scrawled some directions on the back of piece of card. “Meet me here tomorrow at 11am. I mean, it’s always good to meet new people at parties, right?”