by Greg Wilson
Nikolai rocked slowly on his heels, considering. “But you assumed I would have them copied, didn’t you? That’s why you left them with me.”
“I knew what they were planning, Niko. I knew they were afraid of Hartman.” Vari smiled. “Vitaly had organized everything so all I had to do was persuade him to give my people the details. That wasn’t hard. After that I became your guardian angel.”
“And then,” Nikolai nodded, “and then you assumed that Hartman and I would end up comparing notes and that I would give him the copies of the tapes and he would use them to finish off Ivankov.”
Vari shrugged. “You know how it goes, Niko. You make your plans. Maybe they work; maybe they don’t. If they don’t, you think of something else. If something had gone wrong I would have found another way around the problem. But I didn’t think it would, because you were always predictable, Niko. Tenacious but predictable, that was your great weakness. Although,” he grimaced slightly, ‘tonight I’m not so sure. Maybe you’ve changed. Maybe you’re more complex now.” He paused. Lifted his brows in speculation. ‘The urgent message to meet Ivankov here… I presume he won’t be joining us?”
“You’re wrong.” Nikolai watched the flicker of doubt cloud Vari’s face. He smiled. Walked slowly across the room, took the leather chair by its back and spun it around. “He’s here already.”
Vari stared at the seated figure. Marat Ivankov was dressed immaculately in a dinner suit, propped upright, his head tipped slightly to one side, his eyes closed, hands resting calmly in his lap. A dark, crusted halo of blood encircled the single hole at the center of his brow.
Nikolai stood behind him, his fingers clasping the leather above Ivankov’s shoulders, regarding Vari across the distance that separated them. “You know… All these years and this is the first time I have ever seen him in the flesh.”
Vari’s startled eyes swung up to Nikolai’s. “How…?” His mouth fell open.
Nikolai smiled. “Nine years in Russian prisons, Vari. That sort of experience provides all sorts of useful contacts.” His smile folded. Vari was recovering from his surprise, his right hand moving towards the edge of his jacket. Nikolai shook his head. “too late, old friend.” His eyes lifted to a point beyond the other man’s shoulder. Vari started to swing aside then froze as the barrel of a pistol came to rest against his left temple. Zalisko’s gloved hand swept around his chest, dragging his own weapon from the holster beneath his arm.
Nikolai was walking back across the room now, taking his time. His right hand dropped to the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew again, his fingers clasping a plastic syringe. He stopped, examining the uncertainty and the fear in Vari’s eyes as Zalisko wrapped his hands behind his back, locking them together in a set of black steel cuffs.
“It was you who killed her, wasn’t it, Vari? You killed Natalia.”
Nikolai’s head twisted aside, his eyes following the older man down as Zalisko forced him to his knees. “You know how I know that?”
He set the syringe down on the sideboard and reached towards Vari’s throat. Zalisko’s hand closed around the crown of Vari’s head, blocking his attempt to draw back. Vari’s eyes fell to Nikolai’s fingers, following their path as they edged towards his neck. They slid beneath the gold crucifix and pulled hard away, bursting the chain. “This is how I know.” He held the Russian cross before the other man’s eyes.
“The anniversary? The one I forgot? This was her gift to me. And you know what I did with it? That night – before Hartman came – I was worried I might lose it so I gave it to Natalia to keep for me and she took it and she promised me that she would. Always.” Nikolai turned the cross in his fingers, running his thumb across the engraving. “And she did, didn’t she, Vari?” His gaze swung back to the figure kneeling before him, his voice running cold. “For as long as she was able.” He slipped the crucifix into his pocket and reached for the syringe.
Vari’s eyes flashed in denial. “It wasn’t me, Niko.”
For an instant Nikolai’s fingers froze on the plastic cylinder. Then Vari’s head slumped and he left out a heavy sigh.
“I could never have done it. It was the doctor, Aleshkin. He looked after it for me.” He threw his head back again, staring defiantly at Nikolai.
“She was crazy, Niko. She wouldn’t stop. All the time demanding. Telling me I had to do something! I tried to reason with her but she wouldn’t listen, then Ivankov started to get nervous. Natalia was talking to too many people; asking too many questions. He insisted she couldn’t be allowed to go on like that. She was my problem, he said. My responsibility. Either I stopped her or he would. I had no choice, Niko. Nowhere to go.” His voice trailed off. “But the crucifix…” his brow creased with puzzlement, his eyes drifting aside as he tried to shape sense from the impossible.
“I didn’t take it. She gave it to me. The last time I saw her, the day before…” His voice ran to nothing and for a moment he was silent. When he spoke again the words fell out in a sudden blunt whisper of realization. “She knew.”
His eyes swung back to Nikolai’s. “She told me it was her gift to me – a gift for everything I had done – and she made me promise that I would wear it. That I would always wear it.” His lips creased in a bitter smile. “But it was something else, wasn’t it, Niko? It was her message. Her message to you.”
A shiver rose across Nikolai’s shoulders. For an instant he was somewhere else. Another place in another time, Natalia’s eyes shadowed with fear, clinging to his as he turned away. He shuddered as Vari’s voice came again, his tone now flat with acceptance.
“So now what, Niko? Now you kill me? Is that how it ends?”
Nikolai blinked. Shook the memory aside. Looked down at the syringe for a moment then drew a breath and slowly slid the cap from the needle.
“No, old friend. That’s not how it ends.” He lowered the narrow plastic cylinder to the side of Vari’s neck. “It doesn’t end for a long time yet.”
“You’re quiet this morning.”
Kelly was propped beside him, resting on one elbow, her gray eyes tracing his. Nikolai turned his gaze from the ceiling to look at her. Lifted a hand and stroked her hair away from her face.
“Just thinking.”
Everything was done now. No reason to stay any longer so they had rebooked on an earlier flight. It was snowing heavily, too cold to go out so they had slept in instead. Half an hour and they would have to start packing.
Kelly wrinkled her nose. “What’s that in your hand?”
Nikolai’s eyes fell to his fingers working against the sheet. He opened them on the crucifix and looked at it. “Something I found last night. I went out for a while when you and Larisa were at the ballet.”
Kelly’s brow furrowed. They’d had tickets for the Bolshoi. They were all going together but just before they were due to leave Nikolai had opted out.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well?”
He drew a breath and let it go. “I wasn’t. I just needed some air.”
Kelly reached down and took the cross from his fingers, examining it. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”
He looked at her. “Somewhere you wouldn’t expect. I noticed it back in July. I decided then that Larisa should have it.”
Kelly looked surprised. “And it was still there? Where you saw it?”
He nodded. “It was still there. I knew it would be.”
From outside in the living room the chime of the doorbell rose above the TV.
“I’ll get it,” Larisa called. A moment passed. The clatter of a trolley being wheeled into the Metropol’s suite. Then the sound of the door closing and Larisa’s voice calling again. “Breakfast!”
Kelly passed the pendant back to him and bounced out of bed. “I am famished!” She scooped up the toweling robe and dived into it, wrapping it tight. “I’ll bring ours back here, okay?” He smiled, watching her, nodded and set the crucifix aside. She was gone longer than he expected. When she returned the
re were no dishes or plates in her hand, just a newspaper. A copy of The Moscow Times. She was walking slowly, reading it, her brow bunched in a tight frown, her eyes tracing back and forth across the page.
Nikolai sat up. “What is it?”
She stopped. Looked at him. “Marat Ivankov.”
Nikolai’s gazed narrowed. “What about him?
She turned back to the newspaper, her voice ominously quiet. “Marat Ivankov was killed last night.” She took a step closer and pressed the paper towards him. Nikolai took it, her eyes holding his.” A man by the name of Vari Vlasenko has been arrested for his murder. Why is it that name rings a bell?”
Nikolai broke her gaze and looked down at the folded page. Kelly stood motionless, watching him as he read the story. A minute passed and she sank slowly to the bed. She tipped her head to one side and turned towards him, her lips pursed in supposition. “Now there’s a coincidence,” she said, “wouldn’t you agree?”
Larisa’s voice rose from beyond the door. “Come on you two. It’s getting cold.”
Nikolai set the paper aside and looked at her. “And what? You think I had something to do with it?”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Why would I think that, Nikolai?” She shrugged. “After all, this is Russia, right? These things happen.” The corners of her mouth glided upwards in the faintest smile.
“Come on.”
She tossed her head across her shoulder.
“You heard your daughter. Breakfast is getting cold.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Greg Wilson is an Australian entrepreneur and author.
Originally from Melbourne, after leaving university he spent a decade gathering experience in a variety of fields before finding his niche in the world of property and finance.
Since then, through his own private development and investment company he has undertaken dozens of property development projects and been involved in a range of other business and technology ventures worth hundreds of millions of dollars, often involving complex negotiations with investors, bankers and lawyers spread across four continents.
His first-hand experience in this fascinating fast-paced world of money, deals and extraordinary characters now provides a rich source of material for his intriguing international thrillers.
He currently lives in Queensland with his partner, Vicki, dividing his time between providing strategic advice to a number of private clients and pursuing his passion for writing.
The Domino Game is his third novel.
Learn more about Greg Wilson at www.GregWilsonBooks.com
