Finally, Khitarov turned to them both, a worried look on his face. “We are of no further use to them. Boss tell them to kill us.”
Burgess, although alarmed, was also suspicious. “Why is he telling us this?”
Khitarov continued, “Earlier, when they were interrogating Archie and me, I told them about the children who were blown up on Alexeev’s yacht. This man was Vor who planted the explosives. He says he not Vor to kill children. He can no longer wear captain’s stars with pride. He want to help us escape.”
The sudden surge of adrenaline shooting through Archie’s veins was electrifying. “Any suggestions?”
The young man spoke again to Khitarov, appearing to give him directions and avoiding eye contact with both Burgess and Archie. Khitarov appeared reluctant about something but the Vor continued to talk earnestly and emphatically to him and the detective eventually acquiesced to whatever it was the young man had requested. All the while the Vor was speaking, Burgess had the strange sensation he had seen him somewhere before. There was something familiar about him that he could not place. Frustratingly, the thought niggled at him but, try as he could, nothing triggered his memory and it left him uneasy.
Khitarov turned again to them. “This man is chauffeur to boss. I have keys to the Lincoln town car. You must follow me. He tell me how to get to garage from here. We have to avoid cameras. We will have to knock him out. He won’t come with us. I think he either very brave or very stupid man.”
“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Burgess rubbed his tired eyes. He did not have a good feeling about this. “They could kill us while we’re trying to escape.”
Khitarov looked resigned. “Is a long story. Later I tell you. We need to go.”
Burgess and Archie took another bottle of the wine and picked up their corkscrews. Khitarov went over to the wine rack and grabbed a bottle of the Heritage Chateau du Seuil, when the Vor spoke again. Khitarov then moved along the rack to take a different bottle.
“What’s going on?” queried Archie.
“He say he heard boss say Heritage bottles thicker and heavier than regular ones. I do less damage to him if I knock him out with this nice Chateau du Seuil 2005.”
“Whatever you say, bro’. Give me the Heritage bottle. I want a weapon I can believe in.”
Archie was anxious to go and looked away as Khitarov dutifully bashed the Vor over the head with the wine. Thankfully for the young man, the bottle did not break, so Khitarov quickly dropped it on to the stone floor, where it smashed. He then deftly caught the Vor as his legs buckled, gently lowering him into the pool of wine, pleased with the eerie bloodbath effect that the red liquid had produced. Not missing a beat, he then yelled, “Follow me!”
The three men burst out of their prison and, crouching to avoid the cameras, made their way stealthily down a poorly-lit corridor towards the garage.
They had not gone far when, rounding the corner, Khitarov stopped dead in his tracks, Burgess almost careening into him. In front of the Russian, clearly lying in wait for them and brandishing an ugly switchblade, was the killer of the Bambases. Burgess smelled the stench of betrayal and felt his jaw go rigid as he gritted his teeth. Khitarov, however, in a shock maneuver, simply lowered his head and shoulders and, using the entire weight of his body, crashed his good shoulder into the Vor’s solar plexus, knocking the breath out him. As the man gurgled and began to keel forward, Archie, horrified, watched as Burgess brought up his fist, corkscrew between his fingers and viciously rammed it straight into the Vor’s eye, silencing his bloodcurdling scream with the bottle of wine in his other hand. On a subliminal level, Burgess noted that the younger Vor had been right. The heavier bottle definitely did the job. With no time to waste, the three detectives threw all caution to the wind and exploded down the corridor towards the garage, praying they would get to the car with no more surprises.
CHAPTER 65
“We’re okay,” Burgess was on the cell phone to Jacintha. “We’ve been checked out by the Moscow doctors and we’re fine. Khitarov has a dislocated shoulder and I have to watch myself for any side effects of concussion. Archie has a massive bruise on his chest from the seatbelt. He’s quite proud of it and was showing it off to the nurses. No, the bruise, not his chest. I’m telling you, we’re fine. Tell Nana not to worry… and I don’t know when we’re coming home yet. Do me a favor and call the station. I don’t have time to do that just yet. I’ll fill you in on the details after we’ve had our debriefing. Yes, okay, I’ll call any time of the day or night. By the way, Archie says hi.”
They had made it back to the Moscow police headquarters, deciding that neither Khitarov’s apartment nor their hotel, was safe. The lieutenant colonel had greeted them with much backslapping and camaraderie. Indeed, Khitarov’s department was in a state of euphoria and several bottles of vodka had mysteriously appeared and copious toasts made to the three detective’s health. Khitarov, after several hours without cigarettes, was chain-smoking like a maniac. All in all, the three were running on a heady mixture of adrenaline, vodka and relief at their unlikely escape.
The lieutenant colonel had scheduled a debriefing session upstairs and they made their way to a conference room, where a TV and DVD player had been set up, on what looked like a metal tea trolley.
Archie’s gaze intercepted that of Burgess. “I’m not looking forward to watching this stuff. If it’s anything like what we saw in Bermuda, I’d rather not go through that again.”
Burgess nodded, smoothing the stubble on his head with his hand. In his most reassuring voice, he said, “I don’t think we have much choice.”
They sat with several other police officers from Khitarov’s department in a cheerless room, smelling vaguely of disinfectant and furnished with a cheap wooden table and several uncomfortable plastic chairs, as they waited for the lieutenant colonel to start the meeting. He first turned on a tape recorder, muttered something into it and then addressed Khitarov who nodded and adjusted the angle of his chair so that he was facing those assembled.
Specifically turning to Burgess and Archie, he announced, “I now going to tell them everything from the beginning: Interview with bodyguard, keys from his apartment, DVDs from safe in casino, kidnapping and escape. Excuse me if I talk in Russian. You will then be asked to give your versions in English, but in separate rooms, so they can compare our stories.”
Khitarov then launched into a long and animated account of their exploits with much gesticulating so that the two detectives found it surprisingly easy to follow the events as they unfolded. Both wondered if he was purposely ensuring they all told the same story; clever man, that Khitarov. Burgess watched, fascinated, as the Russian pantomimed his frontal attack on the large Vor and then Burgess’s own intervention, mimicking him jamming the corkscrew into the thug’s eye and then knocking him out with the bottle of wine. To his surprise, the action was greeted with much clapping and smiling. Was it his imagination or was there a newfound respect emanating from the assembled group? The Bermudian realized, almost with a sense of shock, that he felt no remorse for what he had done and wondered if he had changed beyond all redemption since his killing of the assassin a year earlier. What would Archie think of him, now that he had seen him in action? He tried not to dwell on that thought and instead, continued observing and listening, until Khitarov finally finished his report.
One of the detectives posed a question. Khitarov’s short answer caused a huge stir amongst those present.
“What did he ask you?” queried Burgess.
“He ask me why Vor really help us.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“He’s my brother.”
CHAPTER 66
Shock registered on both Archie and Burgess’s faces. Then it came to Burgess. How could he have missed it? It was as clear as day. The young man had looked familiar because there was a resemblance between him and Khitarov. He remembered Khitarov telling them he had grown up in Lublino, a poor and dangerous neighborhood o
n the industrial eastside of Moscow, populated with drunks and criminals. He, himself, had admitted to starting out life as a thief. Had he too been a Vor? He didn’t appear to have any tattoos. Evidently, he had decided to become a police detective while his brother had gone another route and ended up part of a criminal ring. No wonder Khitarov had wanted the young man to come with them. What would happen to his brother now? What was it Khitarov had said? He’s either very brave or very stupid. Burgess experienced a cold feeling of dread.
The lieutenant colonel broke the Bermudian’s reverie as he gave instructions for the first DVD to run. Archie looked beseechingly at Burgess. Neither was looking forward to watching them. As luck would have it, it was the same DVD they had watched in Bermuda with the bodyguard and young blonde as protagonists. This version, however, was unedited and a voice could clearly be heard in Russian from behind the camera, apparently giving instructions. At one point, the cameraman/director came into the picture to adjust a lamp. There was an exclamation of delight from all the Russians in the room and much clapping and whooping.
Khitarov turned to Burgess and Archie, smiling broadly. “We have him. That, my friends, is the great Russian film director, Vladimir Alexeev!”
Later that evening, as Khitarov, exhausted, sat smoking in his favorite easy chair, he received a phone call from his colleague, Pyotr.
“I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Komissar but I need you to come over to a crime scene.” He gave the details to the detective.
Khitarov felt a strange throbbing in the base of his throat. He determined to remain calm but a sense of foreboding made his heart heavy. It was as if he had anticipated this moment all his life.
“I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
As he left his building, he informed the policeman guarding his apartment where he was going. Cigarette in one hand, the other on the wheel, he drove like a madman, weaving at high speed in and out of the traffic, thus forcing himself to focus purely on his driving. Khitarov soon arrived at the scene on the banks of the Moscow River where his brain registered the balminess of the evening and the twinkling lights of the buildings on the opposite shore, their brilliance reflected in the calm waters of the river. The leaves of the surrounding trees still retained that fresh green color of spring that would gradually darken as summer progressed. Any tourist observing the scene would have considered it almost romantic, except for the plastic sheeting spread on the ground and the pale corpse laid upon it. The pathologist had yet to arrive and, in the darkness, with few police and curious onlookers, Khitarov felt a curious sense of intimacy. He slowly made his way towards the body, already knowing what he would find but still reluctant to have his worst fears confirmed.
Pyotr intercepted him, shaking his hand. “Come this way.” His voice was unusually gentle. “We called you first because we noticed the tattoos. Those on the knees have not yet healed.”
Khitarov’s pulse raced in a way he had never experienced. Was this what unadulterated fear felt like? Pyotr’s voice seemed to come to him from a distance and he knew he needed to get control of himself. Get a grip... Get a grip! Gathering up his courage, he walked towards the silvery corpse, gleaming wetly in the moonlight and, crouching down, inspected it with as much clinical detachment as he could muster. Cigarette burns covered the chest. The face had been beaten to a pulp, one eye crudely cut out, while the throat, cleanly slashed, smiled at him obscenely. In spite of the disfigurement, Khitarov immediately recognized his younger brother and cursed the fact he had left him behind. Not killing the other Vor had been a fatal mistake. The empty eye socket was a personal message. He understood that this now changed everything. He was about to convert himself into a murderer – no, into an avenging angel. The surviving Vor had thrown down the gauntlet and, God knew, Khitarov was not one to back off from a challenge.
CHAPTER 67
Archie and Burgess sat eating their deli sandwiches on their favorite bench at Albuoy’s Point. It felt good to be home. In fact, it felt good just to be alive. They were both relaxed, reminiscing about their trip to Moscow, their impressions of that city and its people and chuckling together about their questionable activities with Khitarov, especially the afternoon spent drinking, dancing and singing in his favorite restaurant. As they had said their goodbyes to their Russian friends at the prefecture, the lieutenant colonel, smiling broadly, had presented them with a package. A memento of their trip to Russia, he had called it. On returning to the hotel, they had been astounded to find it contained the tapes taken from the upstairs casino cameras. There, in full view, were Khitarov and Archie as they made their way along the corridor, peering guiltily into the different rooms and then breaking into the bodyguard’s office. They had both roared with laughter, especially at the part where Archie had reversed backwards out of the office.
In their musings, they carefully steered clear of the appalling death of Khitarov’s brother and the ghastly murders recorded on the other snuff films found in the casino safe. It pleased them that at least they now knew who had murdered the Filipino couple, who was responsible for blowing up Alexeev’s yacht and who had committed the murders of the young Russian girl and butler. Khitarov had promised them he would leave no stone unturned in order to track down the Vor who had killed the Bambases. To them both, it spoke volumes that he omitted to include his own brother’s brutal murder in the man’s criminal resumé and they almost felt sorry for the Vor.
The Moscow police was also trying to indict Anatoli Nikitin, the head of the Vory, in whose home they had been imprisoned. After all, he was the one giving all the orders. Lawyers, both in Russia and Bermuda, were busy preparing a case against the film director, Vladimir Alexeev, who would come to trial shortly. Burgess’s team would be expected to give evidence for that and negotiations were ongoing as to whether they would testify by video conference or in person. The team, of course, was praying collectively that they would receive an all-expenses-paid trip to Moscow for the occasion. All in all, they felt a great deal of satisfaction knowing they had identified, if not captured, almost everyone involved in this string of related murders. Even the superintendent, in his press conference, had been effusive with his compliments, while still managing to make himself look as if he had masterminded the entire investigation. Those in the serious crimes unit marvelled at his gall.
Upon their arrival back in Bermuda, a throng of well-wishers had collected at the airport. Nana and Jacintha, not to mention an overexcited Digby sporting a red bandanna, had been overwhelmed with joy at the safe return of the two detectives. A large contingent of friends, colleagues and various acquaintances from Nana’s church had turned up to greet the returning heroes with flowers, placards and balloons. Archie became just a little emotional on spotting Biker Granny, Van and a few other friends from the Easy Riders Motorcycle Club who provided him with a special escort back to his cottage in Warwick. Pamela had also greeted him with a warm hug and planted a huge kiss on him that had made his heart leap. For Archie, that welcome home had been the stuff dreams are made of. True to form, Johnny McCabe and his photographer had been there to immortalize the chaos for the ZBF Late Night News, first interviewing members of the crowd and then thrusting the microphone into the faces of the two police officers, no sooner had they cleared customs.
Now that things had settled back down, Jacintha only drank Chateau du Seuil red wine in deference to the fact it had saved her hero’s life, suggesting to the knowledgeable redheaded gentleman from Universal Wines that he might wish to import them to Bermuda. On sampling a few bottles, he had readily agreed. Chateau du Seuil wines had therefore become the new staple in the Burgess/Brangman household.
“At least something good came out of your trip to Moscow,” Jacintha continually reminded Burgess.
As they ate their sandwiches, the two detectives remarked that the breeze had warmed up since they last sat on their bench and the dazzling sun made them screw up their eyes as they contemplated the waves in the harbor. They watched a
ferry as it plowed its way through the turquoise water to Darrel’s Wharf, picking up residents and tourists alike who wished to come into Hamilton for a light lunch or a little shopping. The fast ferries made their way across to Somerset, laden with tourists on an outing to Dockyard. Children in small ‘Optimas’, their sails white as eggshells, shouted across the water to each other, as they competed in a friendly regatta. Once out of the office, the vacation feeling was contagious and they felt themselves settling into the rythm of the tourist season.
Their enjoyment of the lunch break was, however, short-lived as Burgess’s cell phone rang, interrupting their flow of conversation. Irritated, he answered curtly. He had so little time off, could he not at least eat his lunch in peace?
“Sir.” It was Pamela, sounding breathless.
Burgess sensed her tension. “Wassup?”
“The airport police have called. Mrs. Flood is boarding a flight to New York and I’ll give you three guesses as to who else is on that same flight.”
“Let me see,” mused Burgess. “Her tennis coach?”
“No.”
“Her golf pro, then?”
“No, Buddy, this is serious.”
“Who, then?”
“Clarissa Lightbourne. And… get this; the female police officer tailing her says they met in the ladies’ room after going through security and they’re obviously very friendly.”
“What? Do you mean friendly as in they could be an item?”
“Dunno for sure but if that’s the case, then we’ve been had.”
“Okay, we’re on our way. Tell the airport police to let them both get on the plane and, once everyone is seated, go on board and pull them off in full view of everyone. We need a little revenge. They can detain them until we get there.” He hung up.
Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series) Page 21
