by Greg Wilson
“Don’t worry, Marat, it will work. In fact, I have excellent news for you: it’s working already. Everything is going exactly to plan.”
23
MOSCOW
Try to imagine.
Nikolai lay on his back in the darkened bedroom measuring his breathing.
Try to imagine that it is night. That you are lying on the floor of the forest looking up to the sky through the branches of the towering firs and that the chilled air drifting down from the ceiling vents isn’t air at all, but snow. The first flurries of winter tumbling softly through the trees, settling over you layer upon layer, closing around you. That you are sinking into sleep, losing yourself, and when you wake you will find it has all been just a terrible, crazy dream. That your life is just beginning and that the world is good and anything is possible and there is no such thing as reality.
But he couldn’t. Couldn’t imagine. That was the problem. He turned abruptly and blinked at the digital clock. Watched it flick over from five fifty-nine to six and swung back again, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t imagine anything any longer because cold reality was all that was left.
It had taken Vari nearly two hours to finish his account. Nikolai had sat in silence and listened, incapable of stopping the relentless flood of images that poured into his mind, until in the end all that remained was the terrible anguish and a silence so intense that it had echoed between them.
“You need sleep, Niko,” Vari had finally said. “We can’t go on, now. You must rest, little brother. Rest for a while and then we will talk again.”
And he was right of course, Nikolai knew that. So he had managed somehow to lift himself unsteadily to his feet and follow his old partner along the hall to the spare room, collapsing on the covers of the bed, broken with grief and exhaustion. But even there, in the cool, still darkness, alone for the first time in so long in a place so strangely calm and silent, his mind would still not stop.
There was no pain now, just numbness. All the guilt and the despair and the rage fused together into a single raw mass at the core of his being. A reality so dark that there was nothing left to imagine. He stared at the ceiling, listening to Vari’s words playing over again in his head.
“I told them nothing, Niko. As God is my witness, I promise you. About Ivankov, the tapes, Hartman… nothing! That was our agreement and I kept it. Why would I tell them anything?”
Why would he? It was a question Nikolai had asked himself over and over and over again. He caught Vari’s eyes searching his own.
“Christ, Niko!” The older man’s voice flared with anger. “Whose fucking side do you think I was on?” He spat the words. Let them hang in the air then turned aside as they faded, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, little brother.” His tone softened. “So much happened that night. More than you understand. More than I understand.” He looked aside, his jaw moving behind closed lips, his eyes looking inwards, scanning his memory. Then he turned back slowly, gripping Nikolai’s gaze.
“The Americans double-crossed you, Niko. They sold you out.”
The words settled over Nikolai without impact. It was what he had expected. What he had always known. Vari watched him, reading the understanding.
“Don’t ask me what really happened, Niko, I’m not sure. All I know is that everything turned to shit. That night after I took you home I got a call from Hartman wanting to meet. He tells me there’s a problem and he needs help. A car and a driver. Someone who can handle himself and the cost doesn’t matter. Someone who will do whatever he’s told without asking questions. So I did it, Niko. I busted my guts and put it all together because I thought I was helping you and Natalia and then…” He spread his hands and stared at Nikolai. “Christ! I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck happened.
“The next thing I get home and there’s this crazy, hysterical message from Natalia on my machine so I race for the car and blue light it across town to your place and its fucking chaos. Police and MVD everywhere and the street’s cordoned off and your building’s sealed and some guy with half his head blown off is lying outside.” He stopped to pull a breath. “My badge gets me through the line but no one’s talking and I don’t have a clue what’s happening. So I race upstairs to your place and those MVD bastards are already there and they’ve got Natalia bailed up inside and they won’t let me near her, so I have to cool my heels until they finish and then they won’t let me talk to her until they interview me. So I’m trying to work out who knows what, and what I’m going to tell them because I’m expecting the third degree, and then when they do start questioning me you know what happens? Fuck all, that’s what happens. They’re as meek as little lambs. All they want to know is when I last saw you and whether you’ve been acting strangely and shit like that that doesn’t go anywhere and then they just say, ‘Thank you, Mr Vlasenko; we’ll be in touch,” and…” He tossed his hands in the air. “… then they’re gone! Nothing about the tapes or Ivankov or Hartman or anything!
“It didn’t make sense.” He stared at Nikolai and shook his head. “I couldn’t work it out. Then finally I get a chance to talk to Natalia and she tells me the fucking MVD’s got you and then, Niko, that’s when it all falls into place. That’s when I realize they didn’t want to ask questions because they didn’t want answers. All they wanted was a nice simple interview statement to pin on the file and cover their asses.” He slumped. Tossed his head in disgust and stared at Nikolai again. “It was all just a fucking game, Niko. Someone up above had told them how to play it and that’s what they were doing.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Following instructions.”
Images faded by time ran through Nikolai’s mind. Viktor Patrushev, the Deputy Minister of the Economy. Aleksey Stephasin, secure in the top echelon of the FSB. Friends in high places. How many more had Ivankov had, he wondered. And who else perhaps, even above these? With people like that to look after the details, how easy it would have been.
“Natalia was in a bad way, Niko.”
Nikolai looked up sharply.
“So was the child,” Vari breathed. “I had to do something. There was a doctor I knew named Aleshkin who used to work for the KGB and lived not far away. I tracked down his number and called him and he came around right away and gave them something to calm them down then while he was still with them I went upstairs and I took the tapes.”
Took the tapes… Nikolai blinked.
Vari leaned towards him, insistent, shaking his head. “I had to, Niko. Don’t you see? I had to take them because they were all we had. I had to use them to protect us.”
Nikolai’s mind ran to the interrogation at the Ministry. To the two hard-faced men from the Prosecutor’s Office who had listened to his story then returned from their search empty-handed, their faces twisted in contemptuous sneers. You were lying, Aven. There’s nothing there… nothing anywhere. Would it have changed things, he wondered? If they had found what they were looking for would it have made a difference? Would they have given him back his life? And now, how would he ever know? He shook his head and stared back at his former partner.
“And how exactly did that work, Vari?” His voice was edged with a tone of deadly calm. “I’ve spent nine years in hell and now you tell me Natalia is dead, and so far I don’t even know what’s happened to my daughter. So how did that work? Exactly how did they protect us?”
Their eyes locked and held through a long silence before finally Vari answered and when he did it was hardly an answer at all.
“Just be patient, okay, Niko,” His eyes were steady; his voice was measured and controlled. “Just be patient and hear me out.”
Three weeks. That was how long it took. Enough time for the dust to settle and a cloud of uncertainty to start gathering in its place.
Had he made a mistake, Vari wondered?
And if he had, then what happened next?
With the MVD and the police still crawling all over Niko’s building and the street, and with Ivankov’s own
people scattered around God knew where, it was too big a risk to try and carry the tapes out himself so he’d cut a deal with old Dr. Aleshkin. Given him three thousand rubles to put them in his bag and walk them, no questions asked, through the security line. Then a few days later Aleshkin had left them for him, as they’d agreed, at the little shoe repair shop a block from his apartment and he had picked them up on his way home from work, wrapped up in brown paper tied off with twine, so that even if someone was watching they wouldn’t have made the connection. And after that he had disappeared them. Disappeared the tapes where no one would ever find them and waited, because he knew then it would only be a matter of time.
It was a Monday, sometime after midnight, at the bar on the embankment. He was sitting alone by the window lost more in alcohol than thought, since thought hurt too much, he’d found, and solved not much at all, while alcohol – though it still solved not much at all – at least lessened the urge to think.
He had visited Natalia every day for the first week, then every few days. And now? Now he had stopped because… what use was he anyway? Aleshkin was still dropping in to check on both her and the little girl each afternoon and reporting back to him, and according to the old doctor they were coping now, as well as could be expected, anyway. And the woman from downstairs, Raisa, was still helping out with the child and doing the cooking and cleaning so what more could he do?
Vari didn’t see the stranger to begin with.
Didn’t notice him enter the bar or walk across to the table until he happened to glance up from his almost empty glass and found the man standing there, staring down at him from his pale blue, expressionless eyes. And then the effect of the alcohol retreated as rapidly as if he had plunged into a frozen stream and as his mind swept clear it occurred to Vari that perhaps this man wasn’t a stranger after all. Perhaps he was familiar. The lean, rigid face; the broad, square shoulders; the razor-cut blond hair. Perhaps he had seen all these features together somewhere before and he wondered where, until his eyes fell to the man’s hands and it came to him in a sudden flash. The leash. The Doberman. The house in Prechistenka.
The recognition must have registered on his face since at that point the man took a step closer, smiled at him deliberately, then just as deliberately, made a point of letting the smile die. Then a moment later he spoke, his voice as soft as the sound of rustling silk.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Vari’s eyes trailed across the man’s features, down to his feet and back up again. He thought a moment then he shook his head. “Sorry,” a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, “You’re not my type.”
The blond man made and unmade the smile again, let the bait pass and continued just the same. “My employer feels you may be able to help him locate some materials that belong to him.”
Vari’s eyes travelled over him again, inspecting the cut of the suit, the silk shirt, the designer tie, coming to rest on the outline of the gold Rolex that hung beneath the blond man’s cuff. “Looks like your employer pays well.”
The man shrugged. “He can be generous.”
Vari took time out to consider the response. Kicked back the empty chair opposite and pushed the bottle forward across the table. “You’ll have to get your own glass.”
The blond man cast around, caught the bartender’s eye, held up a thumb and forefinger pretending, then eased the button of his jacket and slid into the seat, folding his hands on the table, waiting for the glass to arrive and its bearer to depart. He reached for the bottle, poured for himself and looked up with a question.
Vari shook his head. “I’ve had enough for now.”
The other man shrugged. Lifted his glass and downed its contents in a single motion. Ran a knuckle across his lips and spoke again. “A hundred thousand rubles.”
Vari ran a thumbnail between his front teeth; inspected it, wiped it on his shirt. Repeated the number as a question. “A hundred thousand rubles?” He sniffed loudly. “That’s not very generous. I bet you get more than that each time you suck his dick.” He saw the color rise in the other man’s cheeks. Watched with amusement as he struggled against instinct, bringing his anger to heel. It took a while.
“Okay.” The blond man drew a breath. Clasped his hands at the edge of the table again and leaned forward, fingers tensed. “A million. That’s it.”
Vari lifted his glass. Tipped it side to side, weighing the offer. “Quite an improvement in two minutes. I’ve got plenty of time. Another hour or two and we might start making some progress.”
The pale blue eyes streaked with anger.
“Don’t overplay your hand, old man. Look at yourself. Who do you think you are?” The blond man’s face twisted in a sneer. “You’re a fucking mussor, that’s all. A fat, worn-out, dog-eared old cop. You’re not worth shit. Take what you can get and be grateful. A million’s the limit.”
Vari steepled his fingers, considering again. After a moment he shook his head. “You know… I don’t think that’s right. I don’t think there is a limit.” His leg shot out and hooked the other chair, throwing it sideways, sending the man opposite sprawling to the floor. The bar fell silent. From the corner of his eye Vari saw Leonid reach beneath the counter, preparing for the worst, but there would be no need for that. That was the one good thing about the ex-Spetsnaz clowns. They were predictable. Trained to exercise restraint.
The blond man staggered to his feet, kicking the chair aside, brushing down his jacket, his face livid with controlled rage. Vari smiled to himself and spun his interest back to his drink, swiveling it around between his fingers. Didn’t bother looking up.
“Now I have a message for you to take back to your boss, little boy.” He kept his voice soft and low, limiting its reach. “You tell your Mr Ivankov that his tapes are quite safe for now, and they will stay quite safe unless anything should happen to me, in which case arrangements have been made for them to be released to the media.” Now he looked up. “And I don’t mean the Russian media, you understand?” His eyes slid back to his glass. “And you tell him that when he wants to discuss this matter sensibly he can call me and make an appointment and then he and I can talk personally, face to face. Man to man. With respect.” He lifted the glass, rolled it back and drained it, throwing the messenger a final dismissive glance. “I don’t deal with lapdogs. Only their masters. Now get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”
“It took a while.”
Vari rose from the couch and walked to the window, staring out across the river. “I thought it would. You get to know how they think, Niko. Ivankov wanted to let me know it didn’t worry him. That he wasn’t in any hurry. That there was no urgency.
“Then one day about a week later I answer my cell phone and it’s him. Ivankov. Pleasant as can be. I don’t know how he got the number but there was a message in that as well. He asked me to meet him at the Tretyakov Gallery, Room 42 that afternoon at three and I agreed. He was there already when I arrived, standing in front of that picture with the man and woman flying through the sky.”
“Lovers Over the City” it was called, Nikolai remembered. One of Natalia’s favorites. The artist, Chagall, and his wife soaring together above the landscape. Love and freedom.
Vari swung back from the window to face him.
“I told him the price for his precious tapes, Niko. I told him the price was to let you go and he just looked at me and laughed.”
Vari’s jaw set in a grim smile. “Like I said, it was afternoon and the room was full of schoolkids and Ivankov nodded his head towards the painting and asked me what I thought of it and when I didn’t answer he just smiled and told me that was the problem: that I couldn’t see far enough; didn’t understand what it was all about. How could he be certain that if you were set free you wouldn’t start after him again and then he would have to have you killed, and even with his connections that wasn’t a risk he was happy to take because then others might start asking questions. Not that he was worried about having y
ou killed, just about others asking questions. Like why you had been arrested in the first place and who had given the orders. And then things could get very difficult. Uncomfortable, he said. If I wanted money for the tapes, sure he’d give me money, that was no problem. Money for me; for your wife: that was just business. All I had to do was say how much. But if I was expecting him to let you go, that was a different matter. He just smiled at me and gave a little shake of his head. You were his insurance, he said. That I should put myself in his position. Would I give you up? Would I want you flying free over the city?”
Nikolai rebuilt the scene in his mind then tried to play it out. “You could have threatened him.” He looked up. “You could have told him you would let the tapes go anyway. To the media. The Americans.”
Vari snared a breath. “I did, Niko. And you know what his answer was to that: ‘Think of the wife, Vlasenko.’ Then one of the schoolkids stopped in front of him and I remember he reached down and stroked her head and turned to me and smiled… I’ll never forget that smile, little brother… ‘think of the little girl, Vlasenko.’” Vari turned slightly, leaning in closer. “So, are you starting to understand now, Niko? Are you starting to get the picture?”
Issues of state security. I regret that we are unable to discuss this matter with you, Mrs. Aven, since it involves issues of state security.
Was she going insane? Why wouldn’t anyone tell her what was happening? Tell her anything?
For Natalia the first days had been a nightmare without end and without Vari she wondered how she would have even survived.
It was Vari who had arranged for the doctor to call each day, and for Raisa to move in with them until Natalia started to pull herself together. Then when she did he had managed to organize a meeting for her with Tsekhanov at the Bureau and gone along with her to support her and back her up. But Nikolai’s boss had been as oblique and guarded as everyone else and it occurred to Natalia that was in part, at least, due to his discomposure. His embarrassment that the whole matter had been judged by someone above him to be of such consequence that even he had been left in the dark.
