by T. M. Parris
The sound of the metal wheels on the rails just below her feet was deafening. She manoeuvred herself and stuck her head out between the carriages. Fairchild was gone. She climbed up the ladder and turned backwards. Fairchild was on the roof of the car, lying flat. They caught each other’s eye.
Away from the loading bay the train sped up, the rhythm of the moving parts below her feet getting faster, the wind getting colder. She found a way of perching on the ladder and wrapped her coat more tightly, looking out at distant roofs and chimneys across fields, criss-crossing power lines overhead. They went onto a bridge. The sound doubled in volume, echoing upward. The iron spans of the bridge flew past close enough to touch. She leaned out to see the river below.
Whether this was part of the plan or not, they were at least out of Moscow.
65
Roman rubbed his eyes after closing the last of the ledgers. It had been a long day, but despite everything he enjoyed being back. Retirement felt purposeless. He piled up the ledgers and pushed them over to Vadim to store in the safe. The office was back to how it should be. Kamila was right. A business like this didn’t run itself.
On the desk in front of him was an envelope for Fairchild and the woman Rose. Vadim would organise getting it to the man who was looking after them. Vadim knew every subtle shade of the business. He had a hand in everything. In all types of endeavour, it was necessary to trust people, unavoidable.
Getting the paperwork was not easy. But if it were the last time Roman could do it, good that it was to free Fairchild. The net was closing. All Roman could do was hope that Fairchild would somehow find a way through it, and that his own hurt and obsession would push him onward. That he would not be tricked and flattered as others were. And that his feelings for this woman would not distract him.
Vadim moved about, putting everything in order for the night. Roman poured himself a shot from the bottle he kept on the shelf. A single shot at the end of an evening’s work helped to calm him for sleep. He offered it to Vadim who declined. Roman had never seen Vadim drink. The vodka tasted clean, earthy, like home.
Roman moved to the window, stretching his legs. How many other vory bosses stayed up to the early hours like this, reviewing every detail? These days they were too willing to leave things to well-spoken subordinates who told them what they wanted to hear. No wonder it was so easy for the long fingers of the government to reach so far.
“You were right about her, that woman,” he said to Vadim, who was slowly locking up. It was a sop, a peace offering. Until now he hadn’t mentioned it. Vadim looked up sharply, but then nodded. He always was a man of few words. Roman knocked back the rest of the vodka, feeling it burn in his throat. He handed the glass to Vadim. One shot at night was enough, when drinking on his own. Outside the window the car was parked, sleek along the pavement. He looked at his own reflection in the window, an old man.
His stomach twinged. It must be tiredness. Behind him, Vadim seemed to be moving more slowly, checking every lock on every cupboard. Roman wished he would hurry up. But Vadim always wanted to do everything thoroughly, correctly. Roman was lucky to have him. Such a silent, obedient servant. Always so loyal, always.
“Ready,” said Vadim briefly. Just as well, as Roman was feeling weak, sweaty. He turned and put a hand on the table to steady himself. Vadim was fastening his jacket. Roman took two paces and his gut exploded. He fell to his knees and bent over, grinding his teeth.
“Vadim.” He needed help. He was never sick. “Help me, Vadim.” But Vadim stayed where he was, watching, waiting.
That was when Roman knew for sure. He suspected it, ever since what happened to Kamila, but at that moment he fully understood. Everything fell into place. Oh, Vadim.
His insides burned and he tasted blood. His ears roared. He fell onto his side. He didn’t think it would be like this, not like this. He tried to speak again but couldn’t. Vadim wasn’t moving. Roman couldn’t draw breath. His heart was racing. His mouth was wet with spit and vomit.
If Vadim had to betray him, why like this? Why not a gun, a knife? All their time together, then to kill him like a woman would? This was not how the Bear should die. He wanted to weep. He looked up. Vadim stood staring down, his eyes no sadder than usual.
That was the last thing Roman saw.
66
Vadim stood and watched his employer die. Not just his employer: his lifelong friend, the centre of his existence for more years than he wanted to count. Roman was a fool. Roman should never have come back to Moscow. He should have left Alexei to his own devices. But he had to meddle and disrupt everything. And it cost him his life.
The world was changing. Alexei, for all his conceits, understood that. Roman, stubborn old fighter that he was, tried to stop it. But it would not be stopped. The brute force that was the will of the Russian government swept in like a tidal wave, destroying whatever it found in its path. If the Kremlin wanted your money or your supply lines or your silence, you gave it or you lost everything. The biggest mafia gang of all, it showed its strength and you got into line. Roman of all people should have understood that. But he would never have accepted it.
Oh, he wouldn’t approve of the method. A stabbing or a shooting, please, Vadim! But Vadim had to be sure, couldn’t risk it going wrong. Vadim had his orders now. Grom had sought him out, explained what was needed. Vadim could see what was coming. Roman was finished, had been since the moment he decided to come back to Moscow. The only question was how. An arrest, a show trial, a trumped-up charge, a phony sentence in a filthy prison? That, for the Bear? No. In younger life he could have managed it but he was old now, would waste away in such a place. Better this, painful but quick. It was his own fault. Same with Kamila: that’s why she had to go too. They thought they could resist, but no one can.
In the Russian story, everybody dies. Roman used to say that. But this way Morozov would live on. Vadim could keep the business intact. Paying dues to the government, doing what was needed to survive. But still here, still serving the people, helping ordinary Russians make ends meet and live their lives. It wasn’t what Vadim wanted, for himself or the Bear. But of all the paths open to him, this was the best, the cleanest.
Well, it was over now. Roman’s bulk lay still on the office floor. Vadim picked up the envelope that was on Roman’s desk, switched off the light, closed the door behind him and left.
67
Some hours later the train came to a halt in another goods yard. Fairchild couldn’t feel his face. His fingers ached from gripping cold metal. From his position on top of the box car he couldn’t see Rose, but he knew she was there, down between the carriages, hopefully more sheltered than he was. They were travelling west. Roman had shared nothing of his plans from this point forward.
The attack at the Embassy was a much closer call than Fairchild would have liked, for either of them. Grom was afraid of no one. Power like that was chilling. Roman was right about leaving Moscow to regroup and form a plan. When his heavies had picked Fairchild up at the station in Moscow, the old gangster had probably saved his life.
Some unhitching and shunting was going on with a formation on the next rails. It looked as though they would be here a while. He climbed down. Rose already had, and was stamping her feet on the ground. She had a ‘what next?’ expression on her face. Clearly, he had a ‘I’ve no idea’ expression on his, because she didn’t even ask the question and walked off saying she needed to find somewhere to pee. Fairchild hung around watching the unhurried rearrangement of goods cars, and keeping an eye on the slow approach of a man in a dark jacket, who was walking steadily up the length of the train smoking a cigarette. By the time he got close, Rose had returned. The man wore a train driver’s uniform, of sorts.
“You are our guests from Moscow?” he asked. Fairchild said nothing. “Don’t worry,” said the driver. “Roman asked me to look out for you. You can trust me. Come.”
He led them to a box car and invited them to climb in through the side door.
When Fairchild’s eyes adjusted, he saw mattresses in the corners; this carriage had been used for similar purposes in the past. The driver disappeared but came back with warm meat-filled sweet pastries in a paper bag, and bottles of Coke. Rose asked him how far they’d be going.
“You’ll know when we arrive.”
He left. Shortly afterwards, the train jerked into motion again.
They ate the pastries. When Fairchild screwed up the paper bag he found something inside, a key with a fob on which was written a street name and house number. He showed it to Rose then put it in his pocket. No doubt all would be revealed when the time was right.
It became the pattern of their existence, hour after hour of rumbling along in the dark followed by a few minutes’ light and air in another freight yard. Fairchild tried to keep track of time. After several days, possibly somewhere between Yekaterinburg and Omsk if they were still going west, Rose, from her dark corner of the box car, started a conversation.
“Did you know,” she said, “that Kamila was forty-two years old?”
“I would have said she was younger,” said Fairchild carefully. “Why?”
“There’s a lot we never knew about her. She lied to me about everything, not just the false information. Her whole persona was an act. And yet, I can’t be angry with her. There’s something about her that made you see the human in her.”
He hesitated. Damn it, he thought, I’ll risk it. “I wasn’t her lover, you know.”
He expected something – defensiveness, denial that she’d ever thought that – but there was none.
“I know. She told me about him. It was someone she met in Moscow, in one of the bars. They were going to set up together. That’s why she stole the money and did all the things she did.”
Something was surfacing in Fairchild’s mind, something that had been submerged in there for some time.
“Roman told me that Kamila had a good understanding of Khovansky, that she’d opened his eyes about what a danger he was. As if he realised, when he finally met her, that there was more to her than he’d assumed.”
“Didn’t stop him killing her, though.”
“He didn’t actually say he killed her. He said she didn’t survive their encounter. He sounded like he was sorry she was dead.”
A slight pause. “Our source at the police said it was a clean kill. One shot in the head, another in the chest.”
Fairchild tried to isolate exactly what was troubling him about his conversation with Roman. “It doesn’t make sense that he would execute her like that. It doesn’t fit with what he said.”
“But Roman thought she killed Alexei, didn’t he? Surely he killed her for that. For his reputation if nothing else.”
“Kamila didn’t kill Alexei,” said Fairchild.
Another pause. “Then who did?”
“Roman did.”
Her surprise was tangible, even in the dark. “He killed his own son? After giving him the business? Why?”
“It was because he gave him the business. And Alexei messed it up. Roman wanted to give Alexei the freedom to grow into a man, by making his own decisions. But he couldn’t bring himself to stand by and watch Alexei make the wrong decisions. Freedom to become a man, but a man like Roman, not a man who was intent on doing the very things Roman didn’t want. That’s why Roman came to Moscow, to try and influence Alexei. But clearly it didn’t work. He realised he had to do something drastic to seize back control and rectify his mistake, even if it meant sacrificing his son.”
A long silence as they rocked along steadily. “The history of Russia,” said Rose. She was lying on her back sounding philosophical. “A brief period of freedom followed by a change of heart and an even more totalitarian regime than before. That’s Peter’s analysis. So if Roman feels that strongly about keeping the Kremlin out of his business, and he thought Kamila could help, it doesn’t make sense that he killed her.”
“Maybe he didn’t,” said Fairchild. “Or maybe he did – but it wasn’t really his decision.”
The atmosphere changed. Rose was computing what he’d just said, the same implications forming in his mind as well. What if Roman Morozov, despite his best intentions, were no longer in charge? What if the FSB, controlled by Grom, had already swallowed him up? What did that mean for the two of them in this train carriage? What was going to happen when they finally got off this train, if they had an opportunity to get off it at all?
Someone had to say it out loud. He was glad it was her.
“John, if Morozov is that compromised, if Roman’s effectively no longer in charge, we’re heading straight into another trap.”
It was some time before he could think of something to say, the only line of hope he had to cling to.
“Roman wants this to work. He wants Grom dead. He’s a clever man, a survivor. If he knows how tight the net’s drawn, he’ll think of a way through.” He tried to sound more positive than he felt.
More silence. Another stop, another goods yard, more shunting and hanging around. It was dark outside this time. Fairchild recognised something about the horizon, how the train line ran alongside the river.
“I think,” he said to Rose, “that this is Irkutsk.”
He first met Roman in Irkutsk, years ago. This was the Bear’s home turf. He’d brought them to the centre of his empire, three thousand miles from Moscow. Fairchild chose to take comfort from it.
They cleared Irkutsk at five thirty in the evening Moscow time, nine thirty local time. But before they’d got back up to speed the train started braking again. They couldn’t have another scheduled stop this soon. They both got to their feet. Was this good or bad? Fairchild reached into his bag for the spare gun; Roman had equipped him well.
“Take this.” He handed the gun to Rose as the train eased to a halt. They stood either side of the door, waiting.
Silence. Then a loud metallic tap-tap-tap on the outside of the car. They did nothing. More silence. Tap-tap-tap. Fairchild, his gun hidden from view, slid the door open a crack. Below stood a maintenance engineer holding a steel rod, the kind used for checking the train undercarriage. The guy gestured him out. Fairchild scanned the area, a long siding almost directly on Lake Baikal itself. He couldn’t see much in the dark. Rose moved closer to him, gun ready.
“I’ll cover you,” she said quietly. Fairchild dropped to the ground, kept low and hurried away from the door, no longer trying to hide the gun. The engineer muttered and backed off when he saw it. There was no other sound. Rose jumped down and moved in the other direction. They both paused, listening. The engineer tutted, strode up to the car and slid the door shut with a clang. He wandered off shaking his head and the train lurched back into motion.
“Hey!” Rose called after him, her voice battling the crescendo of the train. “Which way?”
Without stopping or turning, the engineer pointed towards the lake. They went that way. A single road ran between the railway line and the lake, lined on both sides with cabins. Rose used a head torch to find the numbers of the houses. Fairchild shadowed her, gun in hand, straining every sense as they moved around in the near-darkness. The train faded to silence. Their footsteps made the only sound.
“Here!”
Rose was standing outside a small single-storey cabin on the lake side of the track. She’d found the number that matched the key fob the driver had given them. He gave her the key and she tried it in the lock. It fitted. She pushed the door open slowly, silently. They waited. Nothing. Guns ready, they crept in, circling to check each of its rooms. Nothing and no one.
Rose flicked on a light. The place was plainly furnished and had a sitting area with table and chairs, an ancient-looking kerosene heater, a kitchen, a tiny rudimentary bathroom and a bedroom. The kitchen was empty of food except for two bottles of beer in the fridge.
They looked at each other. “So what do we do?” asked Rose.
“Wait and see what happens, I suppose. Getting this far is a good sign, surely.”
; There was only one bed, a double. Rose slept first. Fairchild spent three hours combing the cabin for any signs of bugs, booby traps, surveillance. Nothing. Then Rose emerged and he went to bed fully clothed. He wasn’t expecting to sleep, but he must have done because the sound of shouting woke him up. He could hear Rose and a man. A door slammed. He jumped up, grabbed the gun and ran out. Rose was standing astride a man face down on the ground, her gun digging into the back of his head.
“He was coming up to the door,” she said.
“Is he armed?”
“Cover him. I’ll check.” She drew back and frisked him while Fairchild pointed his gun at the guy’s head.
“What’s your business here?” he said to the guy in Russian.
“I told her! I’m here to give you the package! The documents! From Roman!”
“He’s clean,” said Rose. Then, to him: “Sorry. We have to be careful.”
The man sat up, revealing a padded envelope he’d been carrying in his hand. He could have been the brother of the engineer who tapped on the box car. Maybe he was.
“Yes, I know, I know. Roman called me. He said things were bad. Don’t trust anybody, he said. He changed the plans. First you were staying in Irkutsk. But he said take them somewhere else. And careful who you tell! Make sure you’re not followed. You’ll get the package as arranged, but when you get it, hide it. Take it to them alone. Check no one is watching. So here I am. Here is the package. Please, I’d like to go now.”
Rose took the package off him, turning it over to examine it. The man got up and brushed himself down.
“You’re sure you weren’t followed?” asked Fairchild.
He held his hands up. “This is a tiny place. Just some cabins, one road. There’s nobody here. See for yourself.”
Rose had opened the envelope. Inside were two passports, visas, tickets and printed itineraries. She turned to the Russian.
