by Greg Wilson
Vari was regarding him intently across the laminate table that separated them. Just on midday and they were seated in an upstairs booth of the huge, sparkling new McDonald’s on Ulitsa Durova, the street leading from Mira into the Olympic park. Freshly mopped tiled floors, colorful vinyl padded chairs, bright fluorescents. Black and white sports photographs and a lattice of abstract steel sculptures – tennis rackets, cycles, rowing oars – mounted around the walls for atmosphere. A chunk of America dropped into post-Perestroika Moscow like a spaceship from another world, all of it coated in a glaze of pop music that trickled from the overhead speakers. The older man thumbed the last of his French fries into his mouth and pinched salt from his lips with a thumb and forefinger.
“Let’s look at it. They know Gilmanov took the stuff. By sticking your card in the bag with his guts, they’re telling you they know he gave it to you and by now they’re assuming that you’ve got that message. But it’s Saturday, and they’re thinking that so far you won’t have had a chance to do anything with what you’ve got, so…” Vari shrugged. “… it’s a stand-off. The next move is yours.”
He waited until he saw Nikolai’s nod of understanding.
“If they were watching your place when I arrived – and we can assume they were – then they know I came empty-handed.” He hoisted the plastic bag onto the table between them. “Then they see us leave, with me carrying this, and they have to think this might be what they want. They see you as a crusader,” he shrugged “which you are, of course. But they’re hoping I am just an opportunist, and that right now I’m trying to convince you to give it up.”
Nikolai toyed with the rim of his polystyrene coffee cup. “Okay. So what happens now?”
Vari sucked his lips, regarded his partner, nodded.
“We review alternatives.” He propped an elbow on the table and began counting on his thick fingers. “First, you can give it up like they hope.” He paused. Waited for a reaction. Got none. “Okay, so second, we can take the stuff back to the department and turn it in and see what happens.”
Nikolai regarded him. “We’d have to take it straight to the top. To Tsekhanov.”
“Exactly,” Vari agreed. “And we’d have to pray to God that Tsekhanov is as straight as you think he is, that he’s got a direct line to someone above Stephasin who’s also straight, and that neither of them will be intimidated by the fact that we’ve accidentally nailed the Deputy Director of the FSB and the Deputy Minister of the Economy – not to mention Christ knows who else – in a major financial conspiracy. You want to take that chance, little brother?”
Redundant question. Nikolai’s expression acknowledged it. “Any other options?”
Vari rocked slowly in his seat. “There’s a third.”
Nikolai glanced up at him. “Then I guess you’d better tell me what the fuck it is.”
For the five long minutes Vari was away Nikolai waited alone, wedged into the corner of the booth, trying to comprehend how swiftly, violently and completely his life had been thrown off course. From where he sat he had a clear line of sight to the stairway, an unimpeded aspect of the couples, groups and individuals coming and going from the level below.
A clear line of sight but no longer a clear view.
A week ago – even a day ago – it would have been possible for him to sit here and watch distractedly, without the slightest second guess as to who these people really were. But now every stranger had somehow become a possible threat. Not just to himself but to Natalia, the woman he loved so much, and Larisa – the child they had once already come so close to losing, and now both lived for.
How, he wondered, could the world have altered so abruptly?
By the time Vari returned from making his call Nikolai’s empty coffee cup lay peeled like a polystyrene lemon on the table’s surface.
Vari nestled back into his seat and gave him a single tight nod. “It’s done.” He leaned towards Nikolai, his voice low but exact. “You meet him at the Rossiya Hotel, two hours from now. His room will be booked in the name of Mikhail Tarkovsky. You’re to call reception from your cell when you get there, ask for his room and he’ll give you the number.”
Nikolai was overcome by a surge of disequilibrium, as if his world had just been knocked from its axis. Was he really doing this? He searched for something to say.
“Why the Rossiya?”
The shadow of a smile crossed Vari’s face. “I wondered that myself. A message, maybe? When he and I first met fifteen years back the Rossiya was our turf: we used to call her the KGB dining room. Now she’s just like most of the ladies – she belongs to whoever has the money.” The smile faded and he gave a shrug. “I expect they have someone on the payroll who can arrange things the way they like them, and the place is so big it’s easy to disappear. All you have to do is make it to the elevators and after that no one will ever find you. Don’t worry, Niko. He knows what he’s doing: he’s been around the game a long time.”
Vari leaned in close across the table, his dark eyes measuring Nikolai’s resolve. “You’re sure you want to do this, little brother? It’s a big step. The biggest. And you always have the other options.”
Nikolai rubbed his brow. “No I don’t,” he murmured. “Not really. Gilmanov and his wife lost their lives over this. I got him into it. If I sell out now then what he did has no meaning.” His expression had become bleak. “And that’s only part of it. If I don’t act on this, Ivankov will own my soul!”
Vari nodded and glanced aside. “And the second alternative?” he looked back at the younger man. “Taking it up the ladder? You’re sure that’s out as well?”
Nikolai forced a grim smile. “I think you made your point on that one earlier.” He shook his head; sighed. “No. It goes too high. We only have two tapes and they’ve already given us one of the Government’s most senior ministers and the guy one step from the top of the Bureau itself. How many more are there?” He answered his own question. “God knows. And God knows where it might all lead. What I can’t understand is why Ivankov took the risk of making the recordings and transcripts in the first place.”
“Easy,” Vari snorted. “They’re his insurance. Think about it, Niko, these people he’s in bed with have massive power. If anything ever goes wrong for Ivankov they can always fix it, if they have to – if the stakes are high enough to make them want to. And if someone like Ivankov has that sort of stuff on you, that makes the stakes high enough. Those records give him immunity, little brother. At least here in Russia they do, anyway.”
Nikolai dragged a long breath. Exhaled, defeated. “You’re right, I suppose. So that brings us back to the third option, doesn’t it?”
He shook his head in silent dismay at what he was about to do. However he rationalized it – however justifiable, in the circumstances, his action might be – the fact remained: he, Nikolai Aven – patriot and crusader – was, technically speaking, about to commit treason.
He looked at Vari across the table. “So… that’s the one we go with.”
Vari studied him for a long moment, as if he were trying to identify any flaw in the depth of Nikolai’s commitment. Eventually he gave a tight nod, lifted the blue plastic bag to the table, reached inside, extracted a sheaf of papers and slid them across the laminate surface.
Nikolai regarded the transcripts with shocked confusion then swung his head upwards.
“You said we should hide them. When I left you in the apartment upstairs that’s what you were doing.”
Vari’s thick eyebrows arched in speculation. “Was I? Or is that just what you assumed? You must learn to be cautious about making assumptions, Niko. In this business they send you flowers for a bad assumption.” He paused to let the words sink in then spoke again, his tone conciliatory this time. “Just a small lesson, little brother, but don’t worry about it. You see, I made an assumption as well.”
The confusion swirled in Nikolai’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Take them.” Vari prodded the papers towards hi
m. “Fold them and put them in your jacket pocket.” Without thinking Nikolai did as he was instructed. Vari continued. “Knowing you as I do, Niko, I assumed that you would take the third option and that’s why I brought the transcripts. This has to be done quickly and you need to produce enough evidence to get their attention right away. The papers will do that, but without the tapes they’re useless. My guess is that the Americans will agree to whatever you want, so long as you can deliver the tapes, and that’s the way you have to play it Niko. You give them a limited time to study the transcripts and make up their minds. A day, no more. Then, if they want to deal, you swap the tapes for their protection.” He shook his head firmly. “No negotiations, Niko, you understand me? Either they’re in or they’re out.”
Nikolai’s eyes drifted aside as he weighed the logic. He looked up sharply.
“And the tapes. Where are they?”
Vari chuckled and closed a hand over Nikolai’s. “Now you’re becoming too suspicious. Behind the stove, little brother. I promise. If the Americans want to deal, then they need to come to you, to your building. They pick you up… you, Natalia, Larisa. You give them the tapes, all at the same time, then you’re home free and they have the dirt on Stephasin and Patrushev to use as and when they please.”
A hint of doubt crept across Nikolai’s face. It suddenly occurred to him that in the speed and confusion of what was happening he had forgotten to question the obvious. “And what if they don’t want to deal?”
Vari’s thick cheek twitched in a wink. “They will, little brother, don’t you worry. The Americans love buying things, especially things like this.”
The realization dawned on Nikolai slowly, like the numbing warmth of a potent vodka coursing through his veins. He stared at his partner with a look of incredulity. “How long?”
Vari tilted his head to the side, pretending perplexed.
Opposite him Nikolai edged forward, his voice a tight, intense whisper. “Quit the innocent crap! You’ve done this before. You work for them, don’t you?”
Vari pursed his lips, considering the question. In the end, he shrugged. “Only sometimes.”
“Jesus Christ!” Nikolai hissed.” I don’t believe this!”
Vari regarded him with bemusement. “What’s not to believe? This is Russia.”
The reality set in and Nikolai slumped in his seat. He turned to the window, staring out bleakly at the tiny, ancient church opposite. Once it would have been the heart of the community: now it stood isolated and near derelict, clinging precariously to what little remained of a tiny island of land at the hub of a traffic-crazed intersection. Compromise versus survival. He drew a long breath and let it go, shook his head slowly in resignation and turned back to his partner. “This American. Tell me again, what is his name?”
Vari glanced around at the milling customers. Edged closer and spoke softly, pronouncing each syllable with distinct precision. “Jack Hartman.”
Jack Hartman. Nikolai repeated the name silently to himself, committing it to memory.
“And you’re certain…?” He paused. Rewound. “You’re absolutely certain you can trust him?”
6
Outside they separated, Nikolai crossing the street to Olympic Plaza while Vari headed back in the other direction, towards the side street near Niko’s apartment where he had left the Volga, his empty hands now swinging freely at his side. As they had risen from their seats in the restaurant, Vari, without missing a beat, had turned in an arc and shoveled the blue plastic bag and its contents into the waist-high rubbish bin next to their booth. Seeing Nikolai’s questioning look he had responded with his usual considered logic.
“Now you see it, now you don’t. I came with it, I leave without it, so now they conclude that while we were here we gave everything to someone else. But who? Now they are confused and so they have no idea what to do or who to follow. For a while we have the upper hand.”
Nikolai checked his watch as he walked past the shopping center to the crosswalk. An hour and a half before his meeting at the Rossiya. Ninety minutes to worry about Natalia and Larisa. He drove the thought from his mind and concentrated instead on Vari’s instructions: Take the Metro across town and back. Switch trains half a dozen times and watch for anyone you see more than once. If you notice someone sticking with you then that’s the person you’re looking for. Don’t worry about trying to lose them. Just remember what they look like and when you get to the hotel do exactly as I told you.
He crossed with the lights and turned south along the broad pavement, quickening his pace; resisting the urge to glance behind, fixing his eyes instead on the big red “M” that loomed ahead, high above the blunt Soviet facade of the Prospekt Mira Metro. A cluster of food stalls backed onto the curb at the edge of the forecourt. Nikolai plunged into the spice-laden haze that rose from their grills, threaded his way through the loose crowds milling around them and cut across to the bank of heavy timber and glass doors that marked the station entry. He pushed through to the airlock, hauled back the inner door and let it drift closed behind him, cutting dead the mind-blurring drone of traffic noise from the street. For a moment, by comparison, the station hall seemed as silent as a cathedral, then Nikolai’s deadened hearing reprogrammed itself and a new suite of sounds tuned in: the constant soft clack of heels on stone; the low murmur of a thousand muted voices; the quiet mechanical clatter of escalators that never stopped.
He headed for the ticket counters on the left, falling into the longer of the two ragged lines, using the waiting time to scan the crowds.
Saturday midday – not a shadow of rush hour, and Mira wasn’t even that busy a station – but still there were people everywhere.
His eyes swept across the hall and back, uncertain of who or what he might be searching for, registering figures and faces and clothes, willing his brain to print each image to his memory. Was it a man he was looking for? A woman? More than one? And if the other stations were as busy as this – and they would be – what the hell chance did he have of getting a fix on any one individual? Then he saw her, on the escalator, coming up from the concourse below, her head slowly rising above the handrail, and his heart stalled.
The pink dress, with its puff sleeves and white lace collar. The shining, dark hair drawn back from her perfect pale face and knotted high in a sleek pony tail, Boris the Bear dangling from one tiny hand, while the woman beside her clasped tightly to the other. Larisa and Raisa returning late from their shopping expedition, the neighbor shepherding the little girl ahead of her. Just meters away from him but a world apart.
Every instinct of Nikolai’s being impelled him to rush to his daughter. To grab her, scoop her up in his arms and carry her away with him, but to where? To safety? And where was that?
Instead he forced himself to remain where he stood and let them pass oblivious to his presence, watching silently as his daughter skipped ahead, a tiny but intense burst of energy and light and color bobbing through the somber hall, dragging Boris and Raisa along behind in her eagerness to get back home.
In the end it was the voice of the sullen clerk, amplified through the thick, grimy glass of the ticket booth, that drew him away.
Nikolai slid a crumpled note towards the woman, waited while the Metro tokens and change rained into the brass tray then scooped them up and stepped aside, turning back to the exit. They were at the door now, Raisa reaching across Larisa’s head, clutching at the shiny steel rail, hauling it back, Larisa skipping ahead of her, through the airlock, pushing her way out into the sunlight. And then the heavy panels swung shut behind them and they were gone.
Nikolai stood frozen, feeling the sharp edges of the tokens and coins biting into the soft flesh of his palm as his fingers closed round them. Then, very slowly, he forced himself to turn away.
He crossed to the turnstiles, slipped a token into the slot and stepped through the gate. Made his way to the escalator and rode it down to the Circle Line, stepping through the huge steel arch at the bottom ont
o the surreal, chandelier-lined concourse. Pure light bloomed upwards to the vaulted ceiling, glistened on the gold leaf of the rococo moldings and gleamed against the cream marble walls. The Moscow paradox, Nikolai reflected: the further underground you went here, the more civilized everything appeared.
He cut through an archway onto the westbound platform, drifting into the ranks of waiting commuters, willing himself to surrender the image of his daughter and to concentrate instead on Vari’s instructions. His eyes settled on the digital time board above the tunnel entry, watching fifty seconds trip past before he felt the familiar, cool rush of air against his cheek. He turned back as the train emerged from the darkness, its six blue carriages glissing to a stop along the length of the platform.
Compartment doors hissed open; passengers spilled out; those around him pressed forward. Nikolai held back. Glanced at his watch and looked around as if searching for a lost friend, his eyes skimming the crowds, trying to assess whether anyone else on the platform had become hesitant as well. At what he judged to be the last second he stepped across the threshold into the nearest carriage, grabbed an upright pole and pivoted back to face the doors as they snapped closed in front of him. He settled into his space, regarding the other passengers. Some chatted together quietly. Others studied newspapers or paperbacks in preoccupied silence. Most sat staring vacantly beyond the windows. Even if there was no one here who seemed remotely interested in his existence, that still left the five other compartments ahead and behind.
The overhead lights flickered and the car lurched. Nikolai tightened his grip on the pole, bracing himself as the engine grabbed the slack, then they were moving. Surging forward and picking up speed as the carriages skimmed the platform, the thick electric hum of the engine consumed by the rush of displaced air as the train plunged into the cool darkness of the tunnel.
Nikolai rocked with the motion, holding his vantage point at the door through the first stop. At the next, Belorusskaya, he got off. Tagged the swarm through the archway into the main concourse then stepped aside and paused for a moment, as if gathering his bearings, letting the tide of bodies surge around him. His eyes swept the crowd, searching without success for any familiar image. But then with trains coming and going each way every ninety seconds – with the concourse a perpetual maze of human confusion – why would that be a surprise?
