Delicate Indecencies

by Sandy Mccutcheon

  Studying the photographs it became evident to Teschmaker that Jane had instituted a deliberate policy of avoiding the eye of the camera. There was a short report that mentioned a child, a girl named Melanie Louise, travelling with her parents to a conference at which her mother was giving a paper. Teschmaker read the article carefully, making notes of the few details included. The conference had been held in Washington almost a decade ago and hosted by an organisation called the Institute for Strategic Analysis. According to the report, Jane Sinclair’s paper was expected to be a major contribution. She was not quoted directly but Oliver was, joking that he was pleased to be going along as babysitter. The accompanying picture was of Melanie and her father. No sign of Jane.

  Teschmaker, released from the surge of sexual tension, was suddenly focused. He did a search on the Institute for Strategic Analysis and found an enigmatic website that simply pointed interested parties to a list of published research material available for purchase on receipt of a valid credit card number. Teschmaker scanned down the list but saw no sign of anything by Jane Sinclair. He made a quick note to himself to investigate her field of study and take a look at her thesis from the university. For the moment he had enough to go on. He knew where she lived and that was the centre from which he would spiral out until he had built a complete picture of Jane Sinclair.

  Before switching off the computer he clicked back to the photograph of Jane with Oliver. He peered at the screen, trying to see what it was that she saw with those eyes. Why did she turn away? Was it shyness? He could hardly imagine that the outgoing teenager and apparently successful academic had become a shy mature woman. Was it simply a trick of the light, the camera catching her at the wrong moment? No; his instincts told him that she really had no desire to join her husband in the limelight he appeared to thrive in. And what did she think of his very public antics? Was she, as the librarian had suggested, a fine upstanding member of the community imbued with all the qualities that Milton College had instilled in her? The eyes seemed to be saying something. But tired, and with slightly too much scotch under his belt, Teschmaker knew he wouldn’t find the answer by staring at the monitor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Life is very strange, Laverov thought as he took his seat aboard the Czech Airlines flight to Prague. It was a notion he had been thinking about a lot in the last two weeks. For the first time in years he felt invigorated, as if the Weltschmerz that had insidiously invaded his life over the past decade was in retreat. Maybe it was the sense of danger that now surrounded his investigations, or that he had allowed himself to become involved to the point where he genuinely wanted to track down the ghosts he had unknowingly released. And they were still ghosts. For so long they had remained trapped in the files, safely hidden beneath black-ink erasures and the censor’s scissors. In opening those boxes he had given them light and energy and now it seemed they demanded his attention. It was true that in the years before he had retired there had been some danger, but Laverov had never had the luxury of concentrating on a single case. It had always been a situation of competing demands — murders, rapes, robberies — all requiring more time and manpower than he had at his disposal. And there had been the politics of his own survival. The Party matters, the bureaucratic intrigues, the fight for resources. Now, for the first time, he could maintain a single focus and — if recent events were any guide — he had been granted backing, resources and a freedom of movement that previously would have been unheard of. Now all he had to do was follow the ghosts.

  He settled back in the seat, relieved to see the doors close without a last-minute passenger arriving to take the seat next to him. Laverov had never enjoyed flying; not that he had done much. Maybe that was the reason for his unease — lack of experience. The few flights he had taken had all been with Aeroflot — not an ideal introduction to aviation. This time, however, he was relaxed, not by the fact he was flying ČSA — though that was a plus — but rather that his fear of flying had paled into insignificance next to what he had recently survived. He accepted a boiled sweet from the hostess and fastened his seatbelt. Was he still afraid of dying, he asked himself, after the evening on the Pinega River when he truly thought he was going to die? The answer was yes.

  He and Medvedev had sat silently as the soldiers approached, knowing that there was nothing they could do to avoid capture. But it hadn’t been capture at all.

  ‘Which of you is Laverov?’

  ‘I am.’ Laverov stepped forward.

  ‘Your friend can go. We’ll transport you from here.’

  Medvedev looked stunned for a moment and then shook Laverov by the hand. ‘I don’t know who the bastards were who were trying to screw you, but if you meet up with them give them one for me.’

  He turned with a look of slight disbelief to the soldier. ‘I can go?’ He obviously expected to be shot in the back, for he zig-zagged wildly as he drove off.

  The soldiers laughed and escorted Laverov to the waiting helicopter. Inside, the civilian shook his hand and indicated he should take a seat. He offered no name and Laverov asked for none. He checked that Laverov was securely strapped in and then, before taking his own seat, passed him a headset with a small microphone attached. Laverov put it on and watched as the soldiers prepared for takeoff. They went through their routines and settled into seats at the far end of the aircraft.

  ‘The President apologises for the security lapse. It’s being rectified as we speak.’ The man’s voice in the headphones sounded eerily disembodied and gave Laverov the feeling that he was speaking to someone else. ‘Fortunately the deputy police chief in Arkhangelsk has a well-developed sense of self-preservation and though he was taken in by the criminal elements at first, he had the sense to do some checking.’

  ‘Volodarsky? I thought he was in with them.’ His own voice sounded frail and razor thin.

  ‘There is a lot to criticise him for, but be thankful he contacted the authorities in Moscow. Your name is red-flagged and any enquiry gets passed right to the top.’

  Laverov steadied himself as the helicopter lurched; he felt as though it was drifting sideways. Then he heard the pitch of the rotors change; as they bit into the cold thin air the machine lifted clear of its own miniature snowstorm and into the now dark sky.

  ‘Why? I really have no idea what’s going on.’

  There was a sound like a chuckle. Maybe it was static. Then the man leaned over and handed him a slim folder. ‘For your own protection. The less you knew the safer you were.’

  ‘The last couple of days have stretched my definition of safety.’

  ‘You were the tethered goat. We wanted to see what predators came sniffing around.’

  Thanks, Laverov thought, I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere, damn near killed, dragged through the wilderness on a ‘liberated’ snowmobile and now I’m being called a goat?

  ‘And who came sniffing?’

  ‘Read the file. I’m afraid it stays with me.’

  Laverov opened the folder and spent the next twenty minutes reading a report that left him feeling cold and sick. If the information was accurate then what he had been through was child’s play compared with what the man he was reading about was capable of. The man was also one of the names on the list of those who had requested access to the documents in the boxes he was studying in Moscow: the ex-member of the Duma, Oleg Rusak.

  ‘The money that bought him his seat in the Duma was Mafia money. God knows how many people were killed along the way,’ explained the voice in Laverov’s headphones.

  ‘But why go into parliament when he had his own crime empire?’

  ‘Who knows? Power? Vanity? Contacts?’

  ‘So with all this —’ Laverov pointed to the folder ‘— why not just arrest Rusak?’

  ‘Because he is after something we are after.’ There was a long pause and then the man added, ‘We hope he can lead you to it.’

  ‘Rusak is listed as one of the people who sighted the documents I’m studying in Moscow.�
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  ‘Yes. We suspect he is responsible for the missing files.’

  ‘I need to know about the project referred to in the files, otherwise I’m flying blind.’

  This time the silence was longer. Then the man took back the folder. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t tell you more at this stage.’

  ‘It makes my job nearly impossible,’ Laverov protested.

  ‘It would make it harder if you knew the full picture.’

  That didn’t make sense. Blundering around in the dark was easy? Since when? It had damn near got him killed. ‘Why?’

  Again there was a burst of static in his headphones. It might have been a laugh.

  ‘If you knew the whole picture I doubt you would want to be involved.’

  ‘I have a choice?’

  ‘Well, let me say that I think the time has come to untether you.’

  No need to keep the goat tethered once the predator has got the scent. Not a nice position to be in. He was about to suggest that they should find someone else but he had the distinct feeling that retirement was not an option.

  ‘What is Rusak like? Everything in there is fine but it doesn’t tell me much about his personal likes and dislikes.’

  ‘He’s a sadist in the real sense of the word. He likes inflicting pain and watching it inflicted by others. There has been a suggestion that Rusak is making snuff movies and certainly he has been involved in importing S&M porn from wherever he can get it.’

  ‘You’re suggesting that he doesn’t do this just for the money . . . ?’

  ‘Money is the last thing he needs. He does it for kicks; some sort of sick addiction.’

  There was a sudden change in the noise of the rotors and Laverov leaned sideways and peered through the small window. Below them was an unfamiliar landing strip. They landed with a rather solid bump and five minutes later he was being bundled across the tarmac to a waiting military jet. The civilian wasn’t coming along on this leg of the journey but he explained that Laverov would be escorted safely back to Moscow.

  ‘Study your target. Get to know everything about him but don’t get too close yourself. We have our own man on the inside and he says there is a chance Rusak may be going to the Czech Republic. We need to know why.’

  Thanks, Laverov thought bitterly, now I’m an untethered goat with a mission.

  In Moscow he continued his searching through the boxes of documents. He knew it could take months but he worked longer and harder than before, aware that every day he remained in the dark was another day that Rusak was moving further away from him. There was one consolation. The surly and suspicious Kozlovsky had been quietly removed; his replacement was an elderly woman who, like Laverov, was old-school KGB. Anna Naryshkin did her work, filed his reports and made him the worst coffee he had ever drunk. It was just like the old days.

  It was a week after his return from the north when Laverov discovered ‘The Professor’. At first he thought he was just another inconsequential player, but as he cross-referenced the code name against the project locations he found the name listed more than once and every reference carried a notation pointing to a major file on the man. But that file was missing. Then Laverov came upon a travel authorisation on which someone had scrawled the words: Who granted this and why? It appeared that the Professor had left the country. Laverov was about to toss the file to one side when he noticed the date and destination. The application was for travel to the Czech Republic. Just as interesting was the fact that the date of the travel request was exactly one week after Rusak’s application to view the files. It raised the very interesting possibility that the Professor had been tipped off. He could not have been unaware that the project had developed a very high mortality rate. He was warned; he fled. And later some bureaucrat was reprimanded for authorising his decampment to the Czech Republic.

  Two days later Laverov had the man’s name and address. He was living in Mariánské Lázně — Marienbad — under the name Karel Schmidt.

  Ruzyně airport is seventeen minutes from the city centre and the driver from the Russian Embassy, obviously under instructions not to talk, made the journey in silence. This was fine by Laverov, who was enjoying the scenery and feeling elated at being a tourist even if only temporarily. He would have been content to drive around all day, taking in the sights and tasting the local pivo. Unfortunately the driver took him straight to Praha-hlavní nádraží where he deposited Laverov, breaking his silence only to inform him that he had a two-hour wait for the next train to Mariánské Lázně. Laverov had been supplied with what felt like a generous amount of local currency so, not having eaten on the flight, he went to the restaurant on the top floor and treated himself to drštková polévka, tripe soup, and the pivo he had been craving — a mug of excellent Budvar, the original and only real Budweiser. It certainly tasted nothing like the sweetened cat piss a visiting American had once insisted he try in Moscow.

  The 190-kilometre train trip to Mariánské Lázně took only three hours but instead of being allowed to relax he was interrupted several times by a couple of officious conductors who questioned his reservation, his ticket and his passport. The only problem Laverov could see was that he was Russian and these Czechs had long memories. He was relieved when they finally pulled into the station.

  Why had the Professor chosen this place, he wondered. Maybe he had a health problem. Certainly his colleagues who remained in the Soviet Union had developed one, Laverov thought grimly as he bordered trolleybus No 5 along Hlavní třída to the town centre. The resort itself looked tired and worn, a far cry from the romantic vision Laverov had in his head after reading the Goethe elegy that had added to the town’s fame. The yellow facades were weathered and in need of a touch up and the rundown atmosphere of the town was not assisted by the chill wind and low cloud that shrouded the surrounding wooded hills.

  After checking in at the Hotel Atlantic he strolled across the road, climbed a set of stairs to the Jalta vinárna and ate a reasonable meal. As he ate he consulted a tourist map of the town and decided that as it was just after 5 pm and the evening looked as though it was promising rain, he would take a taxi. He wrote down Karel Schmidt’s address on a napkin, finished his beer and went down to the street. The promised rain had been downgraded to a misty drizzle.

  ‘You’re Russian, no?’ The taxi driver was young and despite the cold was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with the word Xtasy emblazoned across the front in bright green letters.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Your clothes,’ the taxi driver said sympathetically.

  Was it that obvious? After his experience with the conductors on the train he had hoped to avoid the Russian label. Fortunately the taxi driver was too young to remember Dubček and the night of 28 August back in ’68 and seemed happy to practise his stilted Russian on his passenger.

  Karel Schmidt’s house was nestled amongst pine trees with a view down over the town. Laverov had no real idea what the man had been running from but it looked like the kind of place he would have chosen had he been in Schmidt’s position.

  ‘Could you return for me in an hour?’ Laverov handed the driver a reasonable tip and watched as the notes were carefully counted.

  The young man nodded. ‘I’ll be back and wait for you.’

  Laverov paused until the taxi had gone then opened the latch on the gate and walked up the stone steps to the large gabled cottage. It looked like a miniature version of a Swiss chalet. The place was in darkness. After knocking and getting no response, Laverov walked around the side of the house. Two shirts and a pair of trousers hung damply from a line. They looked as though they had been there for some time. He spent a few minutes investigating the backyard. The place was tidy and well looked after. A small woodshed was well stocked and smelled sweetly of pine resin and at the rear of the house a neat terraced garden looked as though it was ready for the coming spring.

  Laverov knocked on the rear door but again there was no movement from inside. He tried the handle
and to his surprise found it open. Maybe one of the benefits of living in Mariánské Lázně was not having to worry about locks, he mused; in Moscow they would steal the door. He swung the door open and called out. Nothing. He stepped through the entranceway and fumbled for a light switch but there didn’t appear to be one. Then his hand brushed a cord; he pulled it down and a small low-wattage globe flickered to life.

  ‘Oh shit.’ He gazed in disbelief at the scene in front of him. It looked as though a tornado had struck the place — a replica of the sight which had greeted him in Tarasov’s house in Kimzha. Laverov stepped over the remains of a chair and made his way gingerly to the other side of the room and pulled open the curtains. Night was falling quickly and he wanted to keep an eye on the front of the house so that he could see the lights of the taxi when it arrived. He turned back to the scene of devastation and began to carefully pick his way through the wreckage.