by Janet Rogers
She didn’t hear the call behind her immediately.
‘Meessis Preston!’ She turned around and saw Yuri, the security guard, rushing towards her.
‘Yuri, Zdrastvuitye. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’
‘Nichevo, Meessis Preston.’ He stopped in front of her, puffing as if he’d run more than the hundred metres from the embassy’s door.
‘What is it, Yuri?’ Amelia asked as she saw the concern on the old man’s face.
‘Meessis, Preston,’ he started, hesitated, looked behind him quickly and then back at her, ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘What is it, Yuri?’ Amelia asked, feeling alarm at Yuri’s unusual behaviour.
‘Not here, Meessis Preston. Let us walk around the corner quickly.’ He didn’t wait for her, but started hurrying away down the street. Amelia almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as she followed him as fast as she could.
She bumped into him as she rounded the corner where he stood waiting for her, panting with urgency. He beckoned for her to follow him into the slightly receded doorway of the corner building. She followed him and saw what he was trying to do. They were now half-hidden behind heavy pillars that stood on either side of the building’s covered entrance.
‘What is it, Yuri?’ Amelia asked again, her heart racing as she sensed his worry.
‘I heard something.’
‘What?’ Amelia almost shook the timid old man to get him to spill it out. He seemed paralysed with the magnitude of his message, but after a few gulps of air he managed to speak.
‘I have something to tell you. Someone told me that he maybe knows something about Meester Preston,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.
Amelia reeled. She couldn’t find the words to urge him to continue.
His eyes weren’t still for even a second, but darted to and fro, scanning the street behind Amelia continuously. ‘It is not safe, it is a bad man who tells me this, but . . .’
‘But what, Yuri?’ Amelia found her voice again.
He looked down and swallowed, his next words clearly requiring considerable effort from him. ‘He says he will meet you. Novodevichy cemetery, on Tuesday, he says, in the afternoon at four o’clock.’ Amelia stared at him, scarcely believing what she was hearing.
‘The man also says you must bring sixty thousand roubles,’ Yuri swallowed audibly and continued hurriedly. ‘But it is not safe, I think you must not go.’
‘Yuri, who was this man?’ Amelia peered into the ageing man’s face, but all she could see there now was fear and a perhaps a measure of relief that his message had been delivered. He’d probably been threatened himself.
‘I do not know,’ he said, clearly getting anxious to end the conversation. ‘A, how do you say? A shestyorka. A bad man, a messenger from gang, maybe from Mafia, I think.’
A gang? The existence and far-reaching influence of criminal gangs were common knowledge in Moscow, so Yuri’s suspicion that it was a gang member who had come to his apartment was reasonable. Had Kiriyenko been right all along? Had it all been about Mafia activity? Was someone about to make a demand?
‘Do you know this man, Yuri?’
‘No, he comes to maya kvartira, to my apartment. He says, he says he knows where I work. He only speaks for two minutes and then he goes quickly.’ Yuri was getting agitated. ‘It is not safe, I have to go now,’ he said as he started to walk away quickly.
‘But who is he, Yuri?’ Amelia called.
‘I do not know. He said his name is Mikhail. He will find you at the grave.’
‘Which grave?’
‘The grave of Molotov. You can buy map at cemetery to see where it is.’
Moscow – Mid-afternoon
When the call came through on the second mobile phone, he had to excuse himself from his meeting to take it in the adjacent room.
‘Are we still doing nothing?’
The caller sounded on the edge of distress today. It was imperative that he took time with his answer.
‘I’m working on something. Everything is under control.’ He kept his voice low, conciliatory.
‘Why is she still here then?’ There was anxiety in the voice, but also the desire to be reassured.
‘We have to ride this thing out. You especially. If you appear to panic, someone will sense it. Let her sniff around. She’ll find nothing.’
‘And if she does?’
‘She won’t.’
‘But if she does?’
‘I told you I’m working on something. We’ll handle it.’
‘Like the last time?’
‘No. Certainly not like the last time. I think you’ll agree that when people take things into their own hands and things get handled like the last time, without reason or mandate, this will never go away.
Silence.
‘I had no choice.’
‘That’s arguable. I’m going to repeat this, so we’re both clear: do nothing about her. If you do, there can be no guarantees. About anything.’
This time he was the one who clicked off without waiting for a reply. A bit of intimidation often worked wonders.
14
The name sign for Igor Popov’s office was so discreet that Amelia had to check a few times to make sure that she’d found the right place. The bottom floors of the towering building held an upscale shopping centre, several restaurants and a staggering number of smaller businesses that somehow managed to afford the steep monthly rent. Above that, the building’s twenty-odd floors housed the offices of those who, like Popov, were more cautious and infinitely more powerful.
This early in the day the silence in the shopping centre and first few floors was unnerving and made her feel far too noticeable. There were still too few people around to make it possible for her to blend in or enter inconspicuously. Worse, on almost every floor there were numerous black-suited guards standing around idly. She would have to get this right the first time. Given the level of security, second chances were unlikely.
What’s more, she had no idea why Popov’s office had been so obstructive. When she’d called to try and secure an appointment with him, her request had been denied unceremoniously. No matter how many different meeting times she’d suggested, the esteemed Mr Popov never seemed to be available and it didn’t sound as if his diary would free up anytime soon either. His fierce assistant had made that abundantly clear.
Sensing difficulty ahead, Amelia had dressed carefully, hoping to maximise the impact she made and therefore increase her chances of seeing him. In Moscow, appearances were everything and if she could flash a high-end label or two to those around him, she would stand a better chance of seeing Igor Popov. Going for a severe business look with a hint of femme fatale, she’d opted for a sharply tailored black suit and designer bag finished off with sleek high heels, slightly heavier make-up and the haughtiest expression she could summon.
A quick glance at the reception area of his suite of offices told her that Popov was a man of traditional Russian tastes. Judging by the gilded, ornate furniture and the selection of classical Russian landscapes on the wall, Popov’s consulting company, or the real business behind it, was doing nicely. The room was empty and so quiet that she could hear the gurgle of a hidden mineral water tank somewhere in a back room. The receptionist looked up when Amelia stepped through the door and watched without expression as she approached the reception desk.
‘Amelia Preston to see Mr Popov,’ she announced as coolly as possible.
The woman made no attempt to conceal the appraising up-down look she gave Amelia. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes.’
The woman looked at her computer, then opened a black book with golden edges and trailed a long, manicured nail down the entries.
‘I don’t see an appointment. When did you make it?’
Amelia dug deep for the actress in her and tried to show disdain and a hint of impatience. ‘Weeks ago.’ When she’d called to try and set up an appointment, she’d purposely u
sed a false name, so the woman wouldn’t recognise her name or spot the lie now.
‘Take a seat,’ she commanded and left the room.
Several long minutes passed before she returned with a look of barely hidden triumph. Immediately Amelia knew that she’d failed.
‘I’m afraid you are mistaken. There is no appointment and Mr Popov is not available.’
‘This appointment was made several weeks ago and I’ve come all the way from England to see Mr Popov.
The receptionist didn’t reply, simply shook her head and looked Amelia in the eye, daring her to argue. Her cool denial was impressive.
‘Could you make sure he heard my name. Amelia Preston. I’m sure he will see me.’
‘He cannot. It will be impossible.’
‘This is important.’
‘The next time make sure you make the appointment properly. Mr Popov never sees anyone who has not followed the right procedures,’ the receptionist said and sat down, making it clear that the final word had been spoken.
‘This is outrageous!’ Amelia said, staring down at the woman who was ignoring her completely now. Sensing that it was futile to try and press the issue further, she turned and quickly scanned the office. On a side table she saw what she was looking for. Without another word, she walked past the table, picked up her last hope and left.
She had to see Popov and it had to be now. He would undoubtedly know she was here now and if his resistance to seeing her was this high already, she could only imagine what it would be like if she tried again another day.
She stepped into the lift and went through her options. The most obvious was in her hands. She opened the booklet she’d picked up from the side table in Popov’s office and flicked through it. No matter how much they valued their privacy, powerful people liked to boast about their achievements somewhere.
Her instincts paid off and she found what she was looking for quickly. A photo of a group of men, two of them shaking hands. She read the caption and as she’d hoped, Popov was one of the central figures, ostensibly sealing or celebrating some deal.
The photo gave her one slim advantage that she didn’t have before. Now she knew what he looked like. She also knew that he would have to leave his office at some point. It didn’t look like the building had any hidden, internal lifts, so her task might not be impossible after all.
She found what she was looking for on the ground floor – a small seating area opposite the lifts. As far as she could tell, it was the only exit to the street from the offices above. She pulled out her laptop and immediately started working on it. The ubiquitous security guards would definitely be doing their rounds on every floor, but she should be able to get away with her pretence until lunchtime at least. She looked at the lights above the lift. Even if it took hours, she would try to see Popov.
Of course her plan was flawed. She knew that Popov or any of the people in his office could use the lift and go straight down to the underground parking garage. If this happened, and if she didn’t pursue traffic from his floor quickly enough, she might miss his departure, but she had no better idea at this point.
She was relying on one other thing: the Russian love of a substantial lunch outside the office. This was the most likely route that would be used to leave the building for lunch. Crucially, she was banking on the belief that none of Popov’s staff would dare leave for lunch until he did.
After a couple of hours and more than a few rounds by security guards, her nerves were frayed. She didn’t know how much longer she would be able to sit there without raising suspicion. She had tapped away at her laptop, made several pretend phone calls just to keep the security guards from talking to her, but soon, soon someone would approach her.
And then, just a few minutes after 12:30, there was movement. In disbelief she watched as the ninth floor’s button lit up. At last! Someone was on the move. But instead of going down, the tenth, eleventh and each consecutive button lit up until the elevator came to a stop at the 22nd floor.
What was there? Quickly she got up and scanned the information board opposite the lifts. Zolotaya Zvezda Restaurant, just as she’d hoped. If she was in luck, Popov had finally gone to lunch.
It was important that she found out quickly if it was him, but still she forced herself to wait a few minutes. There was no other movement up or down from the ninth floor, so she decided to make a move. She didn’t think he knew what she looked like, so while it was slim, the chance of seeing him face to face still existed.
Amelia took a deep breath as she pushed open the restaurant’s door. She stepped into a reception area that was heavy with the silence of a pretentious Moscow restaurant. She couldn’t imagine that any of Popov’s administrative staff would have come here, because one meal would probably cost them the equivalent of half a month’s salary. Her heart beat faster at the thought of meeting Popov. He would definitely possess a piece of the puzzle, of that she was sure.
After checking in her coat, she was taken through a second entrance area from which a short passage led into a spacious room divided into several different eating areas. One section, appearing to be the designated lounge area, held deep black leather couches while another to her left contained a long, polished marble bar. Quickly she scanned the rest of the room.
Relief. Her plan had actually worked.
At the far end of the room she spotted the man she was now able to identify as Popov, seated in one of two dining sections. With him were two other men. She studied the little group for a few moments and noticed something else, something that obliterated the relief she’d just felt.
It was impossible to miss the presence of several security men who surrounded the threesome at a discreet distance. Their eyes kept flitting to and from the table the men occupied. No wonder he wouldn’t see her without the correct procedures. This was a clearly a man who felt he had much to protect.
A waiter led the way to a table near the window, far away from Popov’s. She glanced over and saw that the bodyguards had sat down at a table once removed from that of the three men, but they were still near enough to be a cause for concern. Amelia knew there would be no time to waste. If she was wrong, if Popov knew what she looked like, she would not get a chance to approach him again if she didn’t do it immediately. The waiter lingered to take her drinks order.
‘A glass of white wine, please,’ she said and as fluidly as possible, she gestured in the direction of Popov’s table, smiling briefly. ‘I just want to go greet someone over there.’
There was the briefest hesitation, but then the waiter nodded, left the menu on her table and walked away.
Amelia looked over. The two other men were engrossed in something Popov was saying. He had heavy, meaty limbs, a large round head and a protruding belly that forced him to sit an awkward distance away from the table. Evidently a wealthy man who enjoyed the good life. She took a deep breath: this was it, her one chance.
Quickly she walked over, injecting as much confidence as possible into her step. She stopped dead next to Popov’s table and could sense rather than see the security men’s agitation as she started to speak.
‘Mr Popov, my name is Amelia Preston. I’m the wife of Robert Preston, the Canadian Ambassador to Russia. You had some dealings with him last year. I apologise for interrupting your lunch, but it is imperative that I speak to you.’
First Popov’s jaw went slack with surprise, then his fleshy cheeks turned red, his irritation immediately evident.
‘I thought I made it clear that I was busy.’ His voice was gruff, but Amelia interrupted him before he could continue.
‘I believe you have some information regarding my husband’s disappearance.’
Popov jumped up and rather than speak, he stabbed the air in front of her with a heavy hand, as if he physically wanted to obliterate her words. The bodyguards had followed their boss’ example and were hovering with eager faces, ready to pounce, barely able to wait for the word from him.
Instead, Popov tu
rned to his two companions who were still seated at the table.
‘Friends,’ he said in Russian, his expression blank, ‘please excuse me for a moment so that I can take care of this.’
This. His insinuation was clear – this repugnant insect that has entered my sacred space.
As he turned to her, Amelia could see that she had stirred up more anger than she’d anticipated, but all that mattered to her was that her plan had worked. She’d managed to see him face to face and now she had to seize the moment. Before she could move, however, Popov gripped her arm and led her away roughly. When they reached a safe distance, far enough away from his lunch companions, he dropped his hand. His face was thunderous. ‘How dare you intrude like this? What do you want?’
‘I would like to talk to you about—’
‘What do you want?’
She squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Information.’
Popov took a step back. In an instant his whole demeanour changed. As if a switch had been flipped, he started to laugh.
With clear merriment he said. ‘Do you remember the nineties, Mrs Preston? Some called Russia the Wild West then. And oh, it certainly was wild. You come here and ask for information. Do you know that people were killed for much less than a few pieces of information back then? Do you remember? But that has changed, people say, don’t they? Well, I’ll tell you.’ The anger was back now. ‘Even as recently as three, four years ago, there were about 5000 contract killings a year in Russia.’ Popov gave her a thin smile. ‘Something to think about, isn’t it? You should know that things haven’t really changed that much. Think about that before you pester me again.’
Amelia had to stop herself from stepping back in shock and distaste. This – he – was nastier than she could have imagined, but she would not heed his attempts to deflect her.
As if she’d heard none of what he’d said, she continued. ‘When relations between Prism and Sibraz started to deteriorate, I understand that you represented Sibraz and Robert was asked to assist Prism. Could you tell me why relations broke down?’
