The Moscow Code

by Nick Wilkshire

Sophie shrugged. “Not like I’m doing anything else.” She fiddled with the scarf she had set on top of the coat. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s just that the investigator I hired seems to be sitting on his ass, whereas you …” She smiled. “Anyway, yes, I would like to meet Steve’s girlfriend. In fact,” she added, her expression turning serious, “I’d like to talk to anyone who can provide some kind of explanation for why he died, other than this bullshit suicide theory.”

  “I understand you’re frustrated, but don’t lose hope.”

  “Never.” The determined look that had become her hallmark returned.

  “There’s something else. Did you know anything about a trip Steve took to Paris a couple of weeks before he was detained?”

  Sophie shook her head.

  “Or another one to Astana in early August?”

  Her surprise turned to pure befuddlement. “Where the hell’s Astana?”

  “Kazakhstan.”

  “Did this Shakirov guy tell you all this?”

  “Sort of.” Charlie got up and walked by her to close the door. “I just know he spent three days in France — starting and ending in Paris — and less than forty-eight hours in Astana.”

  Sophie frowned. “No, he didn’t mention either place to me, but then I’m not even sure exactly when I last talked to him.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “If the co-worker didn’t tell you, then how do you know?”

  “I checked his passport activity, so there’s no doubt he was in both places within weeks of being detained.”

  “Shit, Charlie, maybe I should fire my PI and hire you full-time.”

  “I told you not to lose hope.”

  Charlie and Sophie waited in the reception area of the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs office. Housed in one of the seven identical and enormous spired monstrosities commissioned by Stalin to dominate the Moscow skyline — known as the seven sisters — the MFA building was only a couple of kilometres from the Canadian Embassy. Sophie had been game to walk it, especially when Charlie informed her that Moscow traffic could often make the drive thirty minutes or longer. He thought she seemed surprisingly well rested when he saw her sitting in the waiting area at the embassy, though he knew it was more reflective of her desire to focus on getting answers than any lessening of her grief over her brother’s death. They had floated some theories about Steve Liepa’s puzzling itinerary on the walk over. A fresh dusting of overnight snow intensified the brightness of the winter morning and made the walk down to the Moscow River relatively pleasant, spoiled only by the odour of gasoline that seemed to permeate everything in the city’s congested core.

  He was trying to think of something to break the silence that had descended on them as they sat there waiting when a stern-looking woman approached, greeted them perfunctorily, and beckoned them to follow her down the hall from which she had just emerged. Turning a corner beyond the reception area, they emerged at the foot of a wide staircase, which led them up to the next floor, past enormous paintings depicting a procession of scenes, from pastoral to military, and ending with a nineteenth-century painting of St. Petersburg. At the top of the landing, their guide paused and pointed to a small meeting room with an elaborate fireplace and gleaming parquet floor, centred by a cherrywood table with two chairs on either side. A man and a woman stood inside the doorway and stepped forward to greet them.

  “Mr. Hillier, Dr. Durant. I am Anatoly Federov, from the Protocol Department,” the man said, shaking their hands, then stepping aside to let them in. “And this is Dr. Nikulin, from the legal branch.”

  Charlie and Sophie shook hands with the lawyer, whose severe expression didn’t change much despite what might have been an attempt at a smile. Her blond hair was pinned back so tightly that it seemed to stretch the skin of her cheeks. After some awkward initial banter, Federov gestured for them to take a seat. When they were all settled, Federov got down to business.

  “Allow me first of all to express our deepest condolences to you, Dr. Durant, for your loss,” he began. His English was excellent, and other than an occasional harsh edge, Federov could have passed for a Briton. Charlie guessed he had been educated at Oxford or Cambridge. Sophie acknowledged the statement with a brief nod.

  “Thank you.”

  “And we must also apologize to you both, on behalf of the state medical authority, for this most unfortunate error.”

  “We appreciate that, Mr. Federov … May I call you Anatoly?” Charlie asked.

  “Of course.”

  “We appreciate that, Anatoly, and we understand that accidents happen.” Federov bowed his head in acknow­ledgement and allowed Charlie to finish his thought. “But as you can imagine, Dr. Durant has some questions about what actually happened in this particular case.”

  “I can tell you that an investigation has already been concluded, and the finding was of a very unfortunate, but essentially simple, error. A matter of a form being improperly completed. Steps have been taken to ensure this doesn’t happen again, naturally.”

  “You’ve completed your investigation already?” Sophie looked across the table, first at Federov, then at the lawyer. Whereas Federov was smiling, Nikulin was not, and her expression seemed to chill a few degrees with every second that she returned Sophie’s gaze.

  “We are nothing if not efficient, Ms. Durant,” Federov said cheerily. A little too cheerily.

  “Oh, really —” Sophie began, before Charlie cut her off, sensing a heated exchange that could only result in stonewalling from across the table.

  “I think we’re both a bit surprised,” he said, “at how quickly your investigation has concluded. We’re used to a … different process in Canada.” He tried a disarming smile. “It would be very helpful if we could have a copy of the findings for our files.”

  Federov’s smile remained unaffected as he and Nikulin exchanged a quick glance. “I can certainly request the report, although this is not usually disclosed.”

  “We would appreciate it,” Charlie said. “We also requested Mr. Liepa’s entire file from the correctional authority and the prosecutor’s office, but were told we would have to make an official request.”

  “Again,” Federov said, “those files are not usually disclosed, but I can ask my colleague, Dr. Nikulin, to make inquiries on your behalf.” Charlie wondered whether he would ever stop smiling. Nikulin scribbled something on her pad and looked up, stone-faced.

  “I still don’t know why he was even in jail in the first place,” Sophie said.

  “Detention,” Nikulin corrected her. Her own accent was harsher and matched her demeanour perfectly.

  “Whatever you want to call it,” Sophie continued. “He was locked up for a week without any charges. We have this thing in Canada called due process —”

  “We were wondering if you could tell us more about the charges pending against Mr. Liepa,” Charlie interjected, seeing Nikulin’s features hardening. Even Federov’s smile was beginning to show signs of cracking.

  “I can assure you that he would not have been held if charges from the prosecutor’s office were not imminent,” he said.

  “What charges?” Sophie was staring at Nikulin again.

  “Drug-related.”

  “What — smoking a joint?” Sophie scoffed.

  “Your brother was a regular drug user, then?” Nikulin smiled for the first time, but it was limited to her mouth. Her eyes remained icy.

  “Maybe we should wait until we get the report.” Charlie put his hand on Sophie’s forearm. She brushed it off.

  “No, I want to know now.”

  “Perhaps some answers are better not known,” Nikulin said.

  “What the hell does that mean?” Sophie was leaning over the table now.

  “Though,” Nikulin continued, unfazed by the menace in Sophie’s tone, “we will, of course, endeavour to assist you in your inqui
ries. I will contact a colleague about your brother’s file as soon as I return to my office.”

  Charlie turned to Federov. “We would really appreciate your help, especially since Dr. Durant’s time in Moscow is limited.”

  “We will do our very best,” the protocol officer said, his smile restored to its full wattage.

  Chapter 18

  Back at his embassy desk, Charlie was reading through the search criteria for the new embassy site that he and Brooker had discussed. He glanced up at the clock, as though doing so might cause it to hit five sooner. His mind kept replaying the meeting at the MFA and Sophie’s reaction afterward. He had to admit, it didn’t look promising. What were the odds that the Russians would give full disclosure of what was in the files of the prosecutor’s office or the correctional authorities, even if they were dealing with an unfortunate accident, not some cover-up? This was Moscow. If he and Sophie were lucky, they might get a heavily edited report before her visa ran out and she had to get on a plane back to Canada with nothing but a jar of her brother’s ashes. She’d told him she understood the way the system worked, but he could tell he had disappointed her at the meeting. He knew she had wanted to bound across the table and wipe that smirk off Federov’s face the whole time, and he couldn’t blame her. Worse than that, his own playing by the rules just made him feel part of the problem for her, not the solution. They had parted on the steps of the MFA building and promised to meet up after five to go pay a visit to Tania Ivanova.

  Charlie sighed and flipped the piece of paper he had been reading on top of the property file on his desk and was sorting the documents back into the folder when he noticed the letter from BayCo describing the Petr Square development. Something about the letterhead had seemed familiar when he’d first noticed it on Brooker’s desk, and it struck him again as he stared at it, trying to place where he had seen it before. He was still staring at it when he called Sophie’s hotel and got connected to her room.

  “Hi Charlie.” She sounded flat.

  “I’m just wrapping up here. I’ve located the address, just on the other side of the Garden Ring — we can take the subway, but I’m thinking we should give her time to get home from work, assuming she works.”

  “Makes sense. Why don’t we meet in the hotel bar here. I don’t know about you, but after today, I could use a drink.”

  “I’ll meet you there in half an hour,” he said, eyeing the property file on his desk. “And bring Steve’s postcards.”

  “His postcards — why?”

  “I’ll see you soon.”

  Charlie had no trouble spotting Sophie as soon as he walked into the lobby bar, sitting alone in the corner in jeans and a roll-neck sweater. He felt the rush of attraction, then reminded himself why he was here.

  “How are you?” he asked as he sat opposite her.

  “I’m okay.” She tried a smile, but he could tell she was still angry with him. Maybe disappointed was the better term, and that felt even worse. “I’ve already ordered,” she added as a server approached. Charlie ordered a beer and took off his coat.

  “Did you bring the postcards?”

  She reached into her purse and brought out the postcards from her brother, then laid them on the table in front of him. He sifted through them and plucked out the one Liepa had sent from Astana, showing the city skyline at night. He looked at it again and pulled a copy of a letter from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table next to the card.

  “What’s that?”

  Charlie turned the letter around so the text was facing her. “It’s a letter from a property developer, wanting to rent us space for our embassy in their new development. I thought I’d seen it somewhere before.”

  “The logo on the building? Yeah, I guess it’s the same. So what?”

  Charlie turned the postcard over and reread the conclusion of the note from Liepa to his sister aloud. “‘Sometimes the answers are right in front of you.’”

  Sophie reached for the postcard, glanced at the words, then flipped it over. “You think this means something?”

  “I don’t know. You said Steve could be cryptic. This was the last postcard you got from him, right?” He watched her nod, but she didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm. Maybe he had been reading too much into it, but he wasn’t prepared to give up just yet. “You said he wanted to be a journalist, right?”

  “Well, I think I said writer or a novelist, or both.” She laughed, then her smile faded. “You think he might have been writing something about this —” she turned the letter around to read the name at the top “— BayCo?”

  “You knew him a lot better than I did. What do you think?”

  “You want to know what I really think?”

  He nodded, though he had the sense he may not.

  “I think I’ll never find out what happened to my brother. I think they’ll give me the runaround until my visa expires, and then they’ll send me back to Canada.”

  Charlie considered the statement and interpreted the look on her face as blaming him as much as the Russians. “Look, Sophie, I know you’re frustrated with the process, but you have to understand —”

  “I know, this is Moscow, and you’re supposed to smile and say thank you while they fuck you over, but how could you just sit there and accept being lied to like that?” Her anger had made its way into her voice now and her cheeks were flushed with emotion. He could tell she was biting back the stronger words he deserved.

  “We haven’t finished with them yet, I promise you,” he said, though he knew that if they stuck to the protocol playbook, they would get nowhere. As they sat there in silence, Charlie vowed he would not let that happen. He didn’t know what he was going to do exactly, but he knew he had to do something.

  Chapter 19

  Charlie led the way up out of Baumanskaya Metro station and started heading north. An icy rain had begun since they got on the subway near Sophie’s hotel, and the dimly lit streets didn’t make the unfamiliar neighbourhood any more inviting. As they got further from the Metro station and into an area with one high-rise apartment building after another, the side streets looked more and more ominous.

  “Cheery place,” Sophie muttered as they passed a trio of men standing on a street corner chugging beer from litre bottles. The men eyed the pair as they walked past, but did nothing more. Charlie felt some relief when he recognized the name of Ivanova’s street on a sign affixed to a wall and saw from the number on the corner that they weren’t far away. After a few minutes they were in front of a building of about eight storeys, with a directory out front by a locked main entrance door.

  “This is it,” he said, walking up the steps and scanning the directory until he found the button he was looking for and pressed it. They waited in silence as the rain intensified.

  “Maybe she’s not in,” Sophie suggested, pulling the collar of her raincoat tight to her throat. Charlie hit the button again, already working on Plan B when a crackly voice came over the speaker and said something unintelligible in Russian.

  “Tania Ivanova?”

  “What do you want?” The voice was lightly accented and tentative. She’d obviously recognized Charlie’s voice as that of an English speaker.

  “I’m a friend of Steve’s — Steve Liepa.”

  Charlie looked at Sophie in the silence that followed. The distorted voice returned.

  “What do you want?” it repeated.

  “I understand you knew Steve. I was just wondering if we could talk about him, if you have a couple of minutes.”

  “I’m very busy.” The woman’s tone suggested the end of any discussion, not the beginning. Sophie stepped up to the microphone and pressed the button.

  “This is Steve’s sister, Sophie,” she said. “Please … we won’t take up much of your time. I’ve come all the way from Canada.”

  Sophie waited by the door, staring at the litt
le square of cross-hatched steel that covered the speaker. Charlie looked on. Then they were both jolted by the sound of a buzzer and a loud click as the front door opened. Charlie grabbed the handle and pulled the door wide open, and they stepped in out of the rain. They shook the water from their coats and took one look at the elevator before opting for the stairs. On the fifth floor they entered a grubby hallway and walked down it until they found Ivanova’s apartment number. Charlie rapped on the door. He wondered if Ivanova had been toying with them when after a full minute, there was still no sign of life, but then he heard faint footsteps on the other side of the door and it opened slightly, still on the chain.

  “Ms. Ivanova?” Charlie said, seeing only an eye, a fair-skinned face, and blond hair. “I’m Charlie, and this is Steve’s sister, Sophie.” He stood aside so Ivanova could see her, and as he looked at her himself he realized for the first time the similarity of her features to Steve’s: the same aquiline nose and oval eyes. If Ivanova had any doubts, the sight of Sophie Durant seemed to remove them. The door shut and reopened a moment later, after the chain had been removed. Ivanova was almost as tall as Charlie, with long, blond hair and slender limbs. She was dressed plainly in jeans and a sweatshirt, but she was elegant nonetheless.

  “Come in,” she said, stepping aside and glancing out into the empty hallway. Charlie let Sophie go first, sensing Ivanova’s willingness to open her door came either from her trust of another woman or from a sense of obligation to Steve’s sister. The apartment was small but tidy, and though the furnishings were cheap, the room conveyed a feeling of warmth and that its owner took pride in the comfort of guests. Ivanova pointed to the sofa, while she sat in an adjacent armchair.

  “Thank for you seeing us,” Charlie began, searching Ivanova’s face for signs of comprehension. “Is English okay?”

  She nodded and Charlie continued. “We apologize for dropping in on you like this, but I didn’t have a phone number, and we’re also a bit short on time.”