East of the Sun

by Janet Rogers

  ‘It’s Preston. I’m English.’

  ‘How interesting.’ He inclined his head slightly to one side, a small smile playing on his bloodless lips, his manner a mixture of condescension and distaste.

  Amelia felt the tell-tale heat of anger start to pulse in her face, but she didn’t reply to his comment, only too aware that the relationship between England and Russia had become increasingly complicated in recent years. At this point, it would definitely not benefit her to be defensive about her nationality or country.

  She knew he was playing the age-old Russian game of intimidation. By trying to put her a few rungs below himself, he was hoping to prevent her from making life too difficult for him. She made a quick decision: if it meant that she could get information out of him, she would play along for a while. At least his English was good, she thought, relieved that she wouldn’t have to make her case in her limited Russian.

  She waited, wanting to see how he was going to play things. After much fussing with the items on his desk, he looked up from the arrangement of office paraphernalia, now organised into neat lines and stacks in front of him. He sat a little straighter in his chair and stared at her for a few seconds before he cleared his throat.

  ‘Why have you come to see me?’ His tone held a note of impatience, of incredulity at her impertinence. As if he didn’t know why.

  She’d known her best chance to catch him would be early in the day, before he could claim to be gone on ‘urgent police business’. She’d also known that she would most likely have to go through the unpleasant process of convincing someone to let her see him, of encountering unhelpful attitudes and hostile stares, and very possibly a long wait before he would see her. All of that had indeed been the case, but miraculously her persistence had resulted in success.

  There would probably only be this one chance and limited time, because once he knew she was in Moscow, hunting for information, he would do everything in his power to avoid her. She would have to make the most of this meeting.

  The man’s office was bare and surprisingly cold, the normal stifling, overheated air Russians favoured indoors in winter absent. A tall steel cabinet stood in one corner and a heavy old wooden desk, bearing the signs of many years of service, filled most of the floor space.

  She could smell not only stale cigarette smoke that had infiltrated every thread of his clothing, but also a faint body odour that hung in the air. He hadn’t offered to hang up her coat on one of the wooden pegs mounted on the greyish-white wall, had in fact barely invited her in. Clearly he had no intention of having a long meeting with her.

  His desk was bare save for a computer, his stack of newly arranged, official-looking papers and a nameplate that read A. Kiriyenko. She remembered that the A stood for Alexander and had heard his colleagues call him Alexei, but she knew better than to address him by his first name. He leaned back a little in what looked like a very uncomfortable, hard chair and contemplated her.

  Everything about him – his pale hair, skin and washed-out eyes – suggested that he was a man past his prime, a man with little energy or fight left in him. Once he would have been a proud young policeman, but now he had let himself thicken around the waist and allowed his shoulders to slump. The visible signs that he had been beaten by the system to which he belonged gave him an air of neglect and defeat, but she knew that he, purely by virtue of his position, still had power over her. It was as simple as that. If he could resist the urge to wield that power and if she could control her own urge to make angry demands, she may have a chance at achieving something in the short audience he would grant.

  ‘Detective, I’m here because I’d like to find out what progress has been made in my husband’s case.’ She tried to keep her voice neutral so that he wouldn’t feel threatened or criticised in any way.

  Impassively he watched her, and then a slight frown appeared on his forehead. For a moment she thought he was actually going to deny knowledge or memory of Robert’s case, but instead he sighed, turned his back to her and opened the third drawer of the steel cabinet. For five minutes he riffled through the contents, saying nothing. Finally he pulled out a depressingly thin, yellow folder and threw it down on the desk with another sigh. She had to exert all her self-control not to say something to him about his childish performance.

  ‘What do you know?’ he finally asked, as he lowered his body heavily into his chair again.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me everything that’s in the file?’ she countered as gently as she could.

  He looked as if he was about to laugh at her brazen suggestion, but then lowered his head and flicked through the thin pile of papers.

  ‘One the evening of December 14th, your husband’s car was found on Denezhniy Pereulok, a side street near the Canadian embassy. The driver’s door was open and so was the left back passenger door. There was nobody in the car. What looked like blood could be seen on the back seat. This was tested and was proven to be your husband’s blood.’

  He glanced at her briefly, seemingly keen to see the effect on her of his reference to blood. She kept her face expressionless.

  ‘Fingerprints?’ she asked, although they had told her the previous year that the prints they could find were mainly those of Robert, his driver, and presumably those of colleagues who had also made use of the car on occasion.

  ‘Nothing that could lead us anywhere,’ Kiriyenko replied.

  She waited. He continued flicking through the scant contents of the file.

  ‘We found the driver,’ he continued.

  Her head whipped up as she stared at him disbelievingly.

  ‘You didn’t know?’ he asked and she could see the glee hovering behind his eyes. He had the upper hand now.

  She swallowed and shook her head. ‘Please continue.’

  ‘Yes, we found the driver in Krasnogorsk. It’s a neighbouring city of Moscow—’

  ‘I know where Krasnogorsk is.’

  Kiriyenko sat back and stared at her, saying nothing more. She shouldn’t have cut him off so abruptly.

  ‘How did you find him?’ she tried again, more gently.

  ‘We were lucky,’ he replied cryptically.

  Amelia hesitated, wondering if she should press him on the point, but decided against it, mainly because she suspected it would be a futile exercise.

  ‘And? What did you find out from him?’

  Detective Kiriyenko paused, licked his lips and tapped on one of the sheets of paper in front of him.

  ‘The man appears to be crazy, Mrs Preston.’ The faint smile was back on his lips.

  ‘Crazy?’

  ‘Yes. He could remember nothing of that evening. We interviewed him for a long time, but it was of no use.’

  ‘Nothing?’ She hated how desperate she sounded.

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing. Nichevo. The driver was not saying anything that made sense. We had to put him in a mental institution. A “nuthouse”, I believe you say in English, yes?’ His smirk was taunting.

  Amelia shivered, not taking his bait, wondering what level of ‘interviewing’ the poor driver had really been subjected to. When Kiriyenko said nothing more, she prompted him again.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Mrs Preston, you have to understand there is very little to go on. We have found no eyewitnesses. We have spoken to the people who attended the event at the hotel that evening, the ones we could get hold of. It is so difficult with all these foreigners coming and going these days,’ he said, glancing at her. ‘I have nothing else to tell you.’

  When she slumped in her chair, he closed the file and leaned his elbows on the desk. He gave a rough snort and cleared his throat noisily.

  ‘There is no conspiracy,’ he continued, as if she’d asked the question. ‘It could have been anyone. We think it could have been a Mafia crime. I’m sure you know about the Mafia’s activities here.’

  ‘Do you honestly believe that?’

  He shrugged. ‘It is a strong possibility.’

&
nbsp; And an easy way out, she thought. ‘On what evidence do you base that possibility?’ she asked, aware that aggression was creeping into her voice.

  ‘Your husband seemed to be a popular man – he doesn’t seem to have had enemies. We haven’t come up with anyone who had a clear reason and wish to hurt him.’

  ‘That may be so, but what about the things he was working on?’

  He smirked at her question. ‘With respect, Mrs Preston, the Canadian embassy has not shared very much information with us. Perhaps you should take your questions to them? They may be more helpful when you ask them?’ The smugness of his smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was clearly enjoying pointing a finger in the other direction.

  ‘Why was I not informed of your new findings about the driver?’

  Kiriyenko sighed. ‘Again, Mrs Preston, when you left Russia last year, we passed on everything we found to the Canadian embassy. If you are not aware of new information, you should take the matter up with them. You came all this way to ask me all these questions when all you could have done was request the information from your own people.’ He opened the file again at the first page and tapped his finger on one sentence. ‘Mr Patrick O’Driscoll has all the information.’

  Patrick? That didn’t seem right. Wouldn’t he have told her about the driver? It didn’t seem possible. She looked at the detective whose blank face made her feel suddenly disheartened. She’d so desperately hoped for more information from the police. This was clearly a dead end.

  Wordlessly, she started gathering her coat and bag. She would never know why Kiriyenko started leafing through the file’s contents again. Maybe he saw something in her face that caused him to take pity on her, or perhaps he secretly hoped his own wife would also care enough to go to great lengths to find answers if something were to happen to him. Whatever the reason, he suddenly spoke as she stood up.

  ‘There is one more thing . . .’

  She lifted her eyes to him, not expecting much.

  ‘There was more blood in the car, just a drop or two. It did not belong to your husband or the driver.’

  Moscow – A few minutes before midnight

  He heard the mobile phone that was hidden in his desk drawer ring. It hadn’t done so for many months, but he’d kept it active nonetheless, switched on at all times, yet hoping that it would prove to be an unnecessary precaution. He pulled open the drawer and looked at the screen: caller unknown. Only a few people knew the number and he was relieved that he was prepared and available at the moment that one of them was calling. He’d thought – hoped – the need to contact him would not arise, but the flashing screen told him otherwise.

  ‘She’s back.’ No preamble, not that he’d expected any pleasantries from this particular caller.

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A slight pause. ‘This isn’t good.’

  ‘It’s not necessarily a reason to panic.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  He didn’t answer the question. Or say anything else.

  ‘No, you can’t be serious! Do you actually think we . . . ?’ The caller didn’t finish the question.

  Still he didn’t answer.

  ‘You’re thinking we shouldn’t do anything?’

  He suppressed a sigh. ‘No, we shouldn’t.’ He waited for the predictable reaction.

  ‘If we don’t do something, this could bring us down.’

  ‘It won’t come to that.’

  ‘How can you be so damn sure? We’re not exactly containing the situation by sitting back and doing nothing. What if it gets out of control? Don’t you realise how fucking disastrous this could be?’

  ‘I won’t let it. Remain calm and leave it to me. Do nothing. And let there be no misunderstanding about what I say this time. We do nothing.’ He hoped the caller was paying attention to his words.

  A long pause followed by a heavy sigh. ‘Fine. I don’t agree, but I’ll go along with this for the moment. Let me know if anything changes.’ The call ended abruptly.

  He didn’t put the phone back into the drawer. Instead he slipped it into his jacket’s inner pocket. He would have to carry it with him from now on.

  6

  As she rounded the last corner before reaching her hotel room, Amelia stopped. From a few metres away, she considered the room’s door. She’d hoped that a long walk would get rid of the increasing questions and anxieties weighing on her, but it had only resulted in a thoroughly chilled body and none of the calm she was hoping for. She was desperate to get into a warm bath, but the sight of the door stopped her in her tracks. What if another message was waiting for her? Or worse, what if someone was waiting for her inside? What if it wasn’t safe?

  She paused to consider the situation.

  She’d already been warned once, so if it happened again, at least she wouldn’t be surprised again. Then there was the fact that she’d been warned, but not hurt. Did it mean that the author of the note, whoever it was, didn’t intend to cause her harm? Or was that wishful thinking? She glanced up and down the empty hotel corridor, not knowing what to do.

  This was ridiculous. Could she really afford to stop in front of her door and agonise over potential threats every single time she returned to it? Weren’t considerations about safety futile anyway? Isn’t that what she’d told Mara? There was no point to her indecision. It wasn’t as if she would let anyone scare her away now.

  What will be, will be. She took a deep breath and reached for the door knob.

  The room was silent and appeared undisturbed. Feeling foolish about her overactive imagination, she nevertheless checked the bathroom, all the closets and the safe that held her documents. Just to be sure.

  She didn’t quite know how to look for more subtle interferences, but apart from a flashing red light on the telephone, everything appeared to be as she’d left it a few hours before.

  Hearing Mara’s voice on the voicemail was a relief.

  Amelia, it’s Mara here. I hope you’re doing all right. I’m calling because I have a small problem and I hope you can perhaps help me out. I’m hosting an important dinner party tonight and I’ve just received word that one couple can’t make it. I really need to make up the numbers and I was wondering if you’re free. You would be doing me a huge favour. Besides, it would give me a chance to see you again and Wilfred is insisting on seeing you while you’re here. Could you please call me back when you get this? Thanks, dear, I’ll speak to you later.

  Amelia smiled at the thought of Wilfred Tshabalala, but groaned at the invitation. It was the last thing she was in the mood for, but both Mara and Wilfred had been so kind to her in the past that making small talk for one night was the least she could do for them. She played the message a second time and knew there was no way out of it without being rude. She would have to go.

  Hours later, however, as she stepped through the door of the South African ambassador’s residence and felt anxiety take hold of her, the evening ahead didn’t seem like such a small favour anymore. She was no longer, perhaps never would be again, an easy socialiser. The days when it had been second nature, an integral part of her daily life, were gone forever. Looking at the room full of well-dressed people, she felt stiff and awkward in her skin, unable to retrieve the easy social persona she’d once been able to summon so easily.

  There were more guests than she’d expected and as she made her way through the press of people, her dread increased. Many of the faces were familiar to her. The silent tide of curiosity that followed her as she passed through the room was almost tangible.

  Some nodded a polite greeting while they continued their conversations, others stared in surprise. After a year, she was still amazed at the level of discomfort people showed around someone who had experienced unexplained, unsolved loss of some kind. To them she was both an object of interest and someone to be avoided, an almost unreal character whose past made her fascinating, yet untouchable.

&nbs
p; With as much composure as she could, she met people’s eyes, smiled and kept moving, certain that she would be approached later, that there would be some who would be unable to stop themselves from asking the questions they’d been dying to ask for a year. Those would undoubtedly also be the ones who would enthusiastically recount the details of their encounter with her to all and sundry the next day.

  Despite feeling obliged, she knew now she really shouldn’t have accepted Mara’s invitation. This wasn’t the small dinner party she’d anticipated. She had so hoped to be able to keep a low profile and focus on her quest for as long as she could, but after tonight even more people would know that she was back in Moscow and speculation about her return would inevitably surface in the expat community.

  ‘There you are!’ Before she could locate the owner of the voice, Amelia felt an arm around her shoulder and found herself pressed against Wilfred Tshabalala’s ample stomach. His face was shiny with pleasure as he stood back and looked at her.

  ‘It is very, very good to see you, Amelia.’

  She returned her host’s smile automatically. She’d almost forgotten how he rolled his staccato r’s. It never failed to make him sound jolly. She knew that his easy manner meant that people frequently underestimated his intelligence. She also knew that he deliberately chose to do nothing to rectify their misconceptions.

  ‘It’s good to see you too, Wilfred.’

  ‘I was very happy when Mara told me you’d be here tonight, that I would have a chance to see you and talk to you. I didn’t know until this evening that you were in Moscow.’

  Before Amelia could reply, a tall blonde man walked up to them and shook Wilfred’s hand.

  ‘It’s good to see you, Wilfred. And always such a pleasure to be invited here to sample Mara’s delicious food.’

  In answer, Wilfred patted his stomach with a grin. Amelia watched as the two men exchanged pleasantries and vaguely registered the realisation that, contrary to Mara’s claim, Wilfred had obviously not been the one who’d requested her presence here tonight if he’d only learnt of her return a few hours earlier.