by Greg Wilson
They were the questions he’d wrestled with for the two sober weeks following his encounter with Nikolai Aven, running hot and cold – determined one day, terrified the next – until finally he reached the conclusion that he had no other option. The plan itself was the easy part. But now the opportunity had come to implement it he was just plain pissing himself with terror.
Still… He stared at the briefcase. It was his only chance. If he didn’t, and if the FSB managed to nail Ivankov anyway, the odds were, he was going to end up in prison, treated all the more harshly for his failure to co-operate. His life had become a living hell. He had to try and get out of this and there was only one way to do it.
He took a deep breath, rose from his chair and pushed it back, locked his hand around the leather grip and dragged the briefcase from the desk. Said a silent prayer and stepped out of his office and into the abyss.
He passed the empty room next to his own, turned left and continued evenly along the corridor. A secretary was coming towards him, heading in the opposite direction. Her eyes fell to the briefcase then lifted quickly, as if she had been caught spying on something that was none of her affair. Gregori forced a tight smile in exchange for her own as they passed.
He stopped at the elevator landing, pressed the down button and waited. The car arrived and he stepped inside, turned to the front and punched his code into the illuminated key pad.
The doors slid shut and his imagination flared to life. Suddenly he was in a prison cell: stark gray walls; bare light blazing overhead; bucket in the corner for his waste. He blinked and swallowed the image, beads of perspiration trickling down the back of his neck like a trail of tiny migrating insects. He began to lift his free hand to wipe them away then caught himself, remembering the security cameras above his head watching his every movement, dropped his hand to his side again and smeared his damp palm against the leg of his trousers.
The elevator came to silent stop and the doors parted. Gregori drew a breath and stepped out, striding forward down the long, empty corridor, the sound of his footfalls on the polished vinyl amplified and tossed back at him from the concrete walls on either side. Behind him, he knew, another camera was tracking his path, the eye of its lens fixed on his back as steadily as the beam of a laser.
He reached the door to the vault and stopped.
Key pad. Enter number.
He shifted his grip on the handle of the briefcase and waited for the door to open.
Step inside. Wait.
The door fell back into place, the lock engaged and a row of overhead fluorescents stuttered to life.
No cameras here, thank God!
He let go his breath and swiped the sweat from the back of his neck, his eyes taking in the familiar surroundings.
The vault was five meters square, three high, with evenly spaced shelves on either side of a central aisle. The cash safe lay at the far end behind another electronically locked door. The clock was ticking now. Much more than a couple of minutes in here and whoever was manning the monitors upstairs might start to get suspicious.
Three strides and he reached the second key pad. His fingers tripped across the numbers, and stumbled.
Shit! He cursed and stabbed the clear button, ran the sequence again and waited.
A single long beep approved the combination and the lock disengaged. Gregori grabbed the handle and pushed back the heavy door, rearranged bricks of banknotes to clear a space on the middle shelf, set the briefcase down and swung the door shut, locking it into place.
That was the easy part.
Now his eyes swung up to the top shelf on the left, settling on the row of videotapes he’d first noticed the day he had spent half an hour down here on Kolbasov’s instructions, searching for a packet of mislaid bearer bonds. He cast around for something to stand on, found a metal stool, dragged it across the aisle and clambered up onto it, running his fingers across the white plastic spines, reading the names and dates on the handwritten labels. There was no time to worry about which might be the most valuable. He picked a tape at random, then another, extracted the black cassettes, snapped the empty cases shut and slid them back into place.
He’d found the missing bonds in a filing drawer on the next shelf down. That was where he’d seen the transcripts.
Stepping down from the stool, he hauled the drawer open and started flicking through the files, scanning the labels for a match to the tapes. He found what he was searching for, set down the tapes, rifled a dozen loose pages from the covers, slid the empty folders back into the drawer and eased it shut. For a moment he paused. Closed his eyes and forced himself to take three long, even breaths. Then, driven on only by the simple, unbearable fear that consumed him, he started again. Wrenched his tie aside, fumbled at the buttons of his shirtfront until the opening was wide enough, pushed the file extracts inside against his chest and kicked the stool out of the way, re-buttoning his shirt as he went. He paused then, staring at the tapes, weighing up options. Made his decision, took a cassette in either hand, swept them around to his back and slid them under his jacket and inside the waistband of his trousers.
How long had he been?
What did it matter? He’d done it now and there was no turning back. But the panic was setting in. His heart was pounding beneath the sheath of paper wrapped against his chest and his mouth had started to crawl with a bitter taste like aluminum. He tried swallowing against it but the taste stayed. And he had to keep moving.
He patted down his shirt, straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket, hit the key pad inside the door, stood back and waited for the vault to open.
The security camera tracked his progress back to the elevator then lost interest and whirred to another focus. Inside the car Gregori edged to the back, praying to God the monitors couldn’t pick up the outline of the tapes beneath his jacket.
The ride back up to the first floor took an eternity; the long walk back to his office, twice that. When he finally did reach it he collapsed into the chair behind his desk and sat staring at the open door as the terror of what he had done swelled through his veins. Then, when he was certain it was impossible to imagine any greater fear than he already felt, he somehow forced himself to gather together a pile of computer print-outs, set them down in front of him, lowered his head and pretended to read.
For ten minutes he sat like this, filled with an ominous dread, waiting, expecting them to come for him; expecting Vitaly Kolbasov to appear at any moment in the open doorway. Then, when they didn’t come for him – when no one appeared – the terror began to slowly ebb away and Gregori began to experience a curious light-headedness. A strange sense of guarded elation.
Fifteen minutes more and he set the papers aside, rose unsteadily from his chair, walked the few steps to his private bathroom, closed and locked the door behind him and fell back against the heavy timber panel.
Holy Christ! He had actually done it!
He waited for the throbbing in his temples to subside then shook back his cuff and stared at his watch.
Almost seven thirty. Late enough. And the sooner this was over now, the better. He was an accountant. Accountants weren’t made for this kind of thing.
He dragged himself upright, pulled the tapes from his belt and the papers from his shirt and set them down on the vanity, then stepped across to the closet and pulled out an oversized shopping bag. Gloss white, red silk cord handles, the Laura Biagiotti logo, emblazoned stylish and bold in cherry and gray. The single, boxed silk chemise inside had cost him the best part of a month’s salary when he’d bought it at the designer’s store in the Radisson Slavjanskaya a week ago, while what was left over had covered a second purchase from a far less salubrious shop in an alley at the back of the Arbat. But why worry about the cost? If the plan came off it would have been a small price to pay, and if it didn’t…
Moving quickly now he set the bag down on the closed lid of the toilet, pulled a penknife from his pocket and started work.
Twenty minut
es later Gregori Gilmanov snapped off his office light and set out again along the corridor, this time heading in the opposite direction.
The work stations he passed were empty now, the evening darkness that had settled over them tinted by the faint electronic glow of a single active monitor. He walked evenly, with an apparent confidence that belied the clutching tightness that had once again settled in his gut.
At the end of the passage he turned left, then left again into the main entry hall. The door that led to the car park behind the building lay just half a dozen paces ahead now, but with the manned security desk set squarely in front of it, it may as well have been on the other side of the Volga.
The uniformed guard saw him coming, set his copy of Pravda aside on the table and rose to his feet. Gregori met him with a silent nod, hoisted his briefcase onto the desk and followed it up with the shopping bag.
He watched silently as the guard worked through the normal routine. Open the briefcase. Shuffle back and forth through its contents. Close the briefcase. Satisfied, he snapped the locks and moved on, turning his attention to the Biagiotti carrier.
Gregori tried unsuccessfully for a smile. “My wife’s birthday.”
The security guard stared at him blankly, regarded the bag a moment more then spread his hands above it in a gesture of apology. Gregori nodded his allowance and watched as the man’s fingers disappeared inside and re-emerged clutching the gleaming white box. He glanced at Gregori again, set the box down respectfully on the desk, pried off the lid, placed it to one side, and began exploring the delicate tissue with his thick fingers, finally lifting the chemise gently from its wrapping. Uncertain about what to do next he shook the garment lightly and the cream silk slinked and roiled out of his fingers and slithered into a pool on the table’s surface. It occurred to Gregori that his attention remained inappropriately fixed on the empty carton’s lining. He snapped aside quickly to meet the guard’s eyes, finding in them, to his relief, nothing more than clumsy embarrassment.
He reached forward with both hands.
“Here, let me help.”
This time the smile worked.
Gregori scooped up the clearly expensive garment, folded it back to order, lowered it carefully into the box and was reaching for the lid when he felt a strong hand settle on his shoulder. He started in fright and the blessed relief he had just begun to feel recoiled like a snake. When he turned he found Vitaly Kolbasov standing behind him, observing him with a watchful smile.
Ivankov’s assistant dipped his head towards the white and red bag.
“You have been doing some shopping I see.”
Gregori’s brain scrambled to catch up.
“Vitaly. You startled me.”
He turned away again, spinning out time to recompose, concentrating on his packing, sealing the lid of the box carefully before facing Kolbasov again with a clumsy grin.
“Lena, my wife. Today is her birthday. I wanted something special for her. I recalled you mentioning how impressed you and Mr Ivankov had been with the Biagiotti showing you attended at the Kremlin and then I heard last week that she had opened a store here in Moscow.”
Kolbasov gave a nod of approbation and traced a finger across the slick surface of the carrier. “You’re learning well, Gregori. I’m flattered you pay me such attention.” His gaze swung across to the guard who had been watching their exchange. “So, Andrey, are we all finished here?”
The guard looked from Kolbasov to Gregori, then back at the carrier. Kolbasov gave an impatient wave. “Well go on, man. Do not keep Mr Gilmanov waiting.”
The guard nodded quickly, dipped his hands back into the bag, rummaged for a moment and came up clutching two plastic boxes, tipping them towards him and studying them with an expression of growing astonishment.
Kolbasov’s smile thinned out and his face tightened. His eyes darted between Gilmanov and the boxes. When he spoke he addressed his question to the guard.
“Well. What is it?”
The aluminum taste was swelling through Gregori’s mouth again and he felt a strange quiver at the base of his tongue as if he might at any moment be about to vomit. He swallowed and turned away, unable to bring himself to watch as the guard surrendered the cassette cases into Kolbasov’s outstretched hand. Gregori’s legs were trembling now; the heat flaring in his cheeks. His mind was stumbling to measure the probability of escape when he heard the peculiar sound behind him. It started as an abrupt chuckle of amusement, stopped then started again, growing steadily louder until it became a shrill wave of hilarity that filled the empty lobby.
Gregori forced himself to look back. Vitaly Kolbasov was clutching a plastic cassette case in either hand, rocking with laughter as his eyes roamed the lurid montage of body parts displayed on their covers. He shook his head and skimmed a tape across the table to the bemused guard.
“Bozhe moi! Andrey, take a look! Can you believe it? Would you ever have thought our studious Mr Gilmanov had such eclectic interests?”
He followed the first tape with the second, burst out laughing again and raised a finger to wipe his eyes. Now that he had been invited the security guard joined in with his own tentative snigger. Kolbasov’s fingers tightened again on his shoulder and Gregori could feel the damp warmth of the other man’s breath in his ear as he leaned forward confidentially.
“Italian lingerie and American pornography. A fine selection. My congratulations, Gilmanov. I’m sure your Lena will be absolutely delighted.”
Gregori managed a nervous laugh.
Kolbasov pulled himself upright and flicked a hand towards the cassettes. “Put them away, Andrey. Hurry up. Mr Gilmanov’s wife is at home waiting for her surprise.” He turned back to Gregori, grinning broadly. “And you my friend… you have a wonderful evening. And I shall expect to hear all the details tomorrow.” He released his grasp on Gregori’s shoulder, turned abruptly and strode away towards the main staircase, calling back as he went. “Remember, Gregori … every little detail.”
Gregori Gilmanov half walked, half stumbled across the car park in the descending darkness, tossed his briefcase and the shopping bag into the trunk of the Mercedes and fell into the driver’s seat, drained and exhausted. His heart was racing, the blood pounding in his temples. He closed his eyes and clamped his fingers around the steering wheel, squeezing so hard he was almost certain it would snap in his grasp, sitting like that for a full minute, trying to drain the tension from his body.
Finally he let go his grip, dragged his seatbelt into place, turned the ignition and – an afterthought – hit the central locking. Backed up from his parking space and eased the vehicle slowly out onto the street and into the Moscow night.
Marat Ivankov looked up across the edge of his reading glasses as Vitaly Kolbasov re-entered his office.
“What was all that noise about?”
Kolbasov walked across to Ivankov’s desk, paused to regard him questioningly for a moment, then, realizing what his boss was referring to, broke into a wide grin.
“My laughing, you mean?” He chuckled lightly again to himself and began sorting through a stack of correspondence. “Just Gilmanov. I happened to be passing by as he was having his evening shakedown. He seemed nervous as a cat so I hung back to find out why, and you know what it was?” Kolbasov found what he was looking for and drew a piece of paper out of the pile. “He was smuggling out some underwear and a couple of dirty movies he’d bought for his wife’s birthday.” Kolbasov shook his head with recalled amusement. “You should have seen him. He looked like some schoolboy caught jerking off in the toilets.” He chuckled again and started to turn away but Ivankov’s calm, measured voice held him.
“And have you checked, Vitaly?”
Kolbasov blinked. “I’m sorry? Checked what?”
Ivankov lifted his glasses from his nose and lowered them tolerantly to his desk, regarding Vitaly Kolbasov with a chill stare.
“Checked his personnel records, Vitaly. Checked that it is his wife’s birt
hday.”
Vitaly Kolbasov blinked again, looked aside, down, then answered in a subdued voice. ‘To be honest? No, it didn’t occur… ”
Marat Ivankov cut him dead.
‘Then perhaps you should check, Vitaly. Don’t you think?”
3
Vari Vlasenko swung the black Volga off the Garden Ring and north onto Prospekt Mira. Beside him Nikolai sat gazing vacantly at the passing blur of colored neon that marked the relentless advance of the city’s Westernization. They passed a towering pylon sign crowned by the now familiar golden double arches. How did the saying go?… Napoleon couldn’t conquer Moscow. It had taken McDonald’s to do that.
“A nice area,” Vari observed, throwing him a glance. “You’re a lucky man, Niko. A beautiful wife and daughter. Money in the bank. You can afford a good apartment in a nice part of town.” His gaze trailed away, following the passing of a sleek, black Jaguar headed in the opposite direction. “You know, I still wonder why someone who can have all this would choose to spend his days wading in the sewers.”
Nikolai glanced at his partner, lips bent in a dry smile.
“Ever had a problem with your plumbing, Vari?” He turned back to the streetscape, not expecting a response.
“We did, a few weeks back. A blocked toilet, nothing major at first. Natalia reported it to the superintendent but he didn’t want to get his hands dirty so he called a plumber. But the plumber was busy doing another job that was worth more to him and he didn’t come. So before long the drains in the bathroom and kitchen began backing up and the same thing started happening in the other apartments on our floor. Then the neighbors upstairs started having problems.”
Vari slung him an uncertain look. ‘So, what’s your point?”
Nikolai drew a breath and swung back from the window. “My point, Vari, is that if you have a problem with your sewer and no one’s interested in trying to fix it, then pretty soon everyone’s swimming in shit.”
Vari considered this a moment. Gave Nikolai a thoughtful nod and turned back to the road. “I see… I think.” He drove on for a while, one hand draped loosely on the wheel, then threw the long gear shift back a notch, steered the black sedan into the central lane, signaled a left turn and changed the subject. ‘So. What did you get her?”
