The Moscow Code

by Nick Wilkshire

“You can probably find out all you need about the Cyprus one online, what with the big tax-haven fiasco,” Halston said, smiling.

  “I did find some of what I was looking for there, but not these two particular companies.” Charlie held out the sheet of paper.

  Halston took the sheet. “BayCo and Kvartal, eh? Sure, I can give it a try. I’ve got a contact at the main corporate registry. I’ll be seeing him tomorrow on something else and he owes me a favour, so you might get lucky.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  Charlie was at the top of the stairs when Irina called out.

  “The prison report just arrived,” she said, waving an envelope at him.

  “Can you make a quick translation — a rough one?”

  She nodded. “Give me twenty minutes.”

  Charlie frowned as he finished his scan of the mangled translation of the report. As difficult as it was to make sense of the stilted text, one thing was clear — the document was a whitewash. According to what he was reading, the result of the “interior analysis” of the circumstances surrounding the death of Stephen Liepa was that his death was accidental and that the prison officials had followed every conceivable procedure correctly. This, despite the fact that prisoner 421 had somehow managed to conceal on his person the shoelaces for the makeshift noose despite repeated searches. He had also managed to hang himself during an incredibly short time window, according to the report, which indicated that his cell had been visually inspected every five minutes. The report went on to praise the prison staff, who had apparently gone to heroic lengths in a fruitless attempt to save said prisoner 421.

  The more he read, the less Charlie believed. The idea that the guards had conducted a cell inspection every five minutes was pure farce, but from what Charlie had seen of Butyrka Prison, privacy and personal space were not high on the list of priorities. How, then, could Liepa have hung himself without anyone raising the alarm, even if it was only his neighbouring cellmates cheering him on? The medical portion of the report was as thin on details as the rest, and no more plausible. Liepa had died of asphyxiation. Conveniently there was no toxicology report, nor any mention of the puncture wound that Sophie had noticed on her preliminary, and only, inspection of her brother’s body.

  Charlie threw the report on his desk in disgust. He had been foolish to allow himself even the slightest hope that the report might actually shed some light on what had happened to Liepa. The prison had seen to it that it would not, and now all Charlie could feel was disgust — at the system that had killed Liepa, but also at himself, for being equally powerless in its face. At the sound of his phone, Charlie glanced at the clock, surprised that it was already past five o’clock. He registered the unfamiliar number and picked up the phone.

  “It’s me. I’m in the car. About twenty minutes away.” Sophie’s tone had regained some of its conviction.

  “Oh, hi,” he said, which led to a brief pause on the other end of the line.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “What? Nothing, I —”

  “Is it the report?”

  Charlie hesitated, considering a glossier facsimile of the truth, then decided not to go down that road.

  “It’s not very helpful.”

  “You were expecting something else?” Her tone was lighter than he had anticipated, almost positive.

  “How did your meeting go?”

  “Better than I thought. Do you want to meet at the hotel bar in half an hour? I’ll tell you all about it. And I’m going to have to ask you for another favour.”

  Chapter 21

  Charlie sat at a table in the corner, sipping his beer and trying not to feel self-conscious under the occasional, amused glances of the two leggy blondes at the bar. Probably high-end prostitutes, he decided with a quick look in their direction. When he turned back, Sophie was standing on the opposite side of the table.

  “Am I cramping your style?” She gestured toward the bar.

  “Oh, please,” he said with a little laugh. “I couldn’t afford them even if I wanted to.”

  “You might get a diplomatic discount, no?”

  “Very funny.”

  She smiled and took a seat. “So, let me guess. My brother’s death was self-inflicted, and that in spite of the prison and its officials following every rule and procedure to a T. And as for the cremation, we already know that was just an unfortunate accident.”

  He nodded. “I’m afraid that’s the gist of it, except the report doesn’t actually get into the accidental cremation.”

  Sophie raised an eyebrow.

  “Beyond the scope,” Charlie said.

  “Of course it is.”

  “I’m sorry. I had hoped —”

  “Don’t be. That’s exactly what Natalia told me they’d say.”

  Charlie looked away as the server arrived to take her order. Whether she had intended it as a barb or not, he couldn’t help thinking he should have known what was coming. So much for his consular expertise.

  “So your meeting went well?” he said after the server had left.

  “I’m going to get some answers, finally. Natalia’s got a source at the prison she’s sure will be able to tell me what really happened.”

  Charlie nodded. “By the way, I noticed Natalia’s name wasn’t on the list of Katya Dontseva’s referrals. Moscow private investigators don’t have the best reputation, generally. They also tend to be very expensive.”

  Sophie whistled. “You can say that again, but money’s one thing I’m not short of, thanks to my ex-asshole and the shark I hired to squeeze him dry after I found out he was screwing his residen —” She put her hand over her mouth, then removed it, to reveal a guilty grin. “Sorry. Forgot, you told me you’re a lawyer. Or used to be.”

  He considered her description and wondered whether it was accurate. Had he ever been a lawyer, or was he simply someone with an expensive education? “It’s all right,” he lied. “I have a thick skin.”

  “You’re too nice to be a lawyer.”

  He knew she meant it as a compliment, but he quickly changed the subject, anyway. “I’d just hate to see you taken advantage of,” he said, realizing how foolish it sounded coming from him. Sophie was more than capable of taking care of herself. Just ask her ex-husband.

  “My main concern is timing. I’m not sure how much she’s going to be able to uncover this week.” Sophie took a sip of her drink before continuing. “Which is why I was wondering if there was anything you could do about extending my visa?”

  Charlie’s heart fell at the optimistic look in her eyes. It had occurred to him, after she had mentioned the meeting with Natalia Povetkina, that if there was one way to ensure that the MFA refused her request for an extension, it was to hire a private eye to make trouble. This was Russia, after all, and the odds that they already knew about this afternoon’s meeting were pretty good — about as good as the guy sitting alone in the corner being with the Ministry of the Interior, or the Federal Security Service, or whoever it was that handled domestic surveillance these days, Charlie thought as he returned his focus to Sophie. With a face like hers, he could hardly blame her for assuming any man would move mountains to help her, and he was no less susceptible than the average Joe. Maybe a little more.

  “I’ve already sent a diplomatic note and I’ll do whatever else I can. I wish I could give you more, but I don’t want to promise something I can’t deliver.”

  “I appreciate it, Charlie. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” She smiled. “You probably can’t wait for them to kick me out, so you can get back to your work.”

  He laughed, but just the thought made Moscow seem unbearably dreary. Sophie watched as a server delivered a tray of food to a nearby table. “Have you eaten yet?” she asked. “The least I can do is buy you dinner, but I’m not sure the food here’s any good. We could go to the restaur
ant next door.”

  “What kind of food do you like?”

  “I like all kinds, but to be honest, I’m sick of eating here. Maybe you know somewhere nearby?”

  “I usually only eat out at lunch, and I’m not that familiar with the options in this area. Plus, I’m trying to expand my culinary skills.…” He stopped when he noticed her smiling, unsure why he thought she would give a shit about what he had learned in the couple of cooking classes he’d attended since coming to Moscow.

  “You a decent cook?”

  “I try.” He hesitated only for a moment before committing himself. “I’d be happy to cook you something Russian, if you’d like.”

  Sophie sipped her wine, then set down the glass and shrugged. “That sounds great.”

  Charlie scanned the back of the fridge, looking for the bottle of white he was sure was back there somewhere.

  “It’s a lovely apartment,” he heard Sophie say from the living room.

  “Yeah, it’s okay,” he muttered, moving a large jar of mayonnaise just as he recalled that he’d taken the Chardonnay to a dinner party. “Shit.”

  “Everything all right?” Sophie appeared as he closed the fridge door.

  “I thought I had a bottle of white wine in there,” he said just as he saw her eyes rest on the bottle of red sitting on the counter, unopened. “I’ve got red, or there’s beer.”

  “Either’s fine,” she said, scanning the kitchen with an appraising eye. “You eat in a lot?”

  “I’m trying to get in the habit of cooking more,” he said, noticing with alarm that the wine was Ukrainian. His one previous experience with Ukrainian wine was not good — it had tasted more like vinegar than wine. How could he not have noticed that on the label? Still, it had been expensive, as far as Russian corner-store wine went. “I joined a cooking class at the embassy, though I’ve only been to two classes so far.”

  “So you’re saying I’m your guinea pig?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep it simple tonight,” he said, uncorking the wine and pouring two glasses. He handed her one and discreetly sniffed at the other, relieved that it didn’t smell pickled. “Cheers.”

  They both sipped and he was pleasantly surprised not to see her spit it back out — it actually wasn’t bad. He set the bottle back on the counter and turned the label in as he pulled a head of lettuce out of the fridge.

  “Now, I want you to go and relax in there while I take care of this,” he said, trying to shoo her out of the kitchen, but she stood her ground, a determined smile on her face.

  “No, let me do something. I’m not much of a chef, but I can certainly wash lettuce.”

  Charlie shrugged and handed her the salad spinner, while he pulled a bag of beets from underneath the counter.

  “You like borscht?”

  Sophie nodded.

  “That’s really the only Russian thing I know. I was thinking we’d have chick —”

  “I’m not a picky eater, Charlie. I’m sure whatever you have in mind will be just fine.”

  As she washed lettuce and he peeled beets, they chatted about Russian cuisine, weather, and people, and anything else that had no remote connection to why she found herself in Moscow. She seemed keen to switch to slicing the beets, as Charlie turned his attention to the only edible recipe for chicken breasts in his repertoire. As the meal preparation advanced, he refilled their glasses and began to relax.

  “So tell me about Cuba,” she said as he crushed garlic for the salad dressing.

  “Amazing place. Wonderful people. Have you been?”

  “No, I could never convince my … It’s on my to-do list.”

  “Well if you do go, make sure you let me know. I can give you lots of tips on what to see and do in Old Havana.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “A little less than two years.”

  “And what made you choose to be posted there?”

  “Well, it wasn’t entirely my choice,” he said, stirring the borscht and sliding the tray of chicken in the oven. “There. We can relax now.”

  He led the way into the living room and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, Sophie perching herself on the sofa. That was the beauty of a posting for a single guy — the apartments were always better furnished than anything he could manage on his own, especially with the paltry collection of items left over from his divorce.

  “So how does it work?” She seemed genuinely interested. “Can they send you wherever they want?”

  “It’s not that bad. You choose your preferred locations, and they try their best to accommodate, within reason.”

  “So why doesn’t everyone go to Paris or London?”

  “Well, the larger posts usually go to the more senior people. And then there are some who prefer more exotic places.”

  “Was that why you chose Havana?”

  He laughed. “My career path was a little … different.”

  “How so?”

  He could see the mischief in her smile and he knew she was enjoying herself. He was happy enough to oblige, as long as it didn’t involve revealing too much about his disastrous past.

  “Well, I spent fifteen years — my entire career, actually — at headquarters, and the whole posting thing was sort of a late-career change. I had a friend in the assignments section who made sure I didn’t end up in Ouagadougou, but my other options were sort of limited. Havana seemed the best choice under the circumstances.” He paused to take a sip of wine. “And in retrospect, I have no regrets.”

  “And after you’re done with Moscow, where to next?”

  “I really don’t know. Under normal circumstances, I’d go back to Ottawa for a couple of years, but the Department is short of consular officers, so I could probably get cross-posted somewhere else.”

  She nodded. “You’re in no rush to get back to Ottawa, then?”

  “Not really.”

  She sipped her wine and looked around the room. “You’re not homesick at all?”

  He followed her gaze, noticing for the first time that the apartment bore little to no trace of anything personal. “No. I’m used to being on my own now.”

  “You weren’t always? On your own, I mean.”

  “Divorced.”

  She laughed. “I know all about that. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s okay. That was one of the reasons I left Ottawa in the first place.”

  “Well, she’s not going to find you in Moscow, that’s for sure.”

  “Her lawyer might.”

  They shared a laugh as he got up to fill her glass.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he said, prompting a puzzled looked from Sophie, “about your name.”

  “You mean why have I kept my ex-asshole’s name?” She gave a little laugh. “I just haven’t gotten around to changing all my documentation back to Liepa. Passport, banking, and then there’s the whole work side. Another legacy he’s left me,” she said, staring into her wineglass as Charlie cursed himself silently for bringing it up. “But it’s about time I bit the bullet.

  “So what kind of surgery do you do?” he asked brightly, trying to move off the minefield he had stumbled into. “I’ve always wondered what it must be like to have that sort of ability — power, really.”

  She smiled. “Are you mocking me?”

  “No, not at all. I mean, you literally have people’s lives in your hands.”

  “Don’t get carried away. I do mostly cosmetic surgery.”

  “Oh.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I didn’t mean —”

  “It’s all right. I’m under no illusions. I’m in it mostly for the money, though not all cosmetic surgery is about the money. Reconstructive surgery, for example.” She was smiling, but he could see that he had hit a nerve, and he was eager to
change topics again.

  “Excuse me for a sec. I’d better stir the borscht.”

  It was on his way back to the kitchen that he first noticed the smell. Like something burning. Like beets burning, actually.

  Chapter 22

  “Well,” Charlie said, tossing his napkin onto the table, “my apologies for the meal. Not exactly my finest hour.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Sophie said. “I’m pretty sure neither us will end up with botulism.”

  They both laughed. Gun-shy after having let the borscht burn on the bottom of the pot, he had so undercooked the chicken that he’d had to put it back in the oven before they could eat it. Fortunately, Charlie had used the delay for a toast with a shot each of iced vodka, à la Russian, and they were both smiling despite the culinary shortfalls.

  “Can I interest you in some dessert?” he said, taking her plate. “Don’t worry — it’s from a nearby bakery. An apple torte I’ve had before, and I can vouch for it being edible.”

  “Sure,” she said, starting to get up, but he insisted on her staying put. He returned a few moments later with the dessert, along with a bottle of cognac he had picked up on his last trip through duty-free.

  “I don’t know if I should,” she said, though she made no move to stop him pouring her an ample dose of the amber liquid.

  “Nonsense. It’s not like either of us is driving anywhere,” he said, quickly adding, “And I can do the subway ride to the Marriott with my eyes closed. Promise.”

  “Oh, look, it’s snowing out,” she said, pointing out through the tall windows into the night sky.

  “I heard we’re in for a dump of snow later in the week. Maybe this is the beginning.”

  They ate their dessert, then brought their drinks to the living room.

  “This has been really nice, Charlie. Thank you so much.”

  “Sorry about the food.”

  She smiled and gave him a dismissive wave as they sipped their drinks and watched the fat flakes of snow drifting by the window. Sophie sat back on the sofa, one leg tucked up under the other and her hands cradling the snifter to her chest. In the soft light of the living room — or in any light, for that matter — she was beautiful. Usually Charlie didn’t bother fantasizing about women who were so far out of his league, but he couldn’t help himself.