by G. D. Abson
Volkov cried out from one of the floors above her, his voice raging and anguished. She ran to the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time. At the first landing, she counted six rooms and stopped to listen. There was laboured breathing coming from the left and she drew closer to an open door. Next to the jamb, she saw an upturned wicker chair.
The floorboard under her foot creaked. She threw herself down the steps as a bullet zipped past her ear, embedding in the wall with a puff of plaster. The stairway exploded, sending splinters sharp as needles into her right shoulder. She lay sprawled on the landing and edged towards the bannister for cover.
‘Police!’ she shouted.
She heard Nahodkin’s voice. ‘I thought you were one of Volkov’s.’
He was half-hidden by the door, holding out a gun on a relaxed arm. His Grach was tucked in his waistband and she noticed the pistol in his hand had a brown Bakelite grip. She knew with certainty that Nahodkin wasn’t her guardian angel – he had her Makarov.
She guessed the rest. She would be Nahodkin’s final victim and Major Belikova would label her a crooked ment who had killed Volkov and his wife because she liked Dahl’s money too much; it was a neat way of taking the FSB out of the picture.
‘Come on ment, I won’t shoot.’
‘I’m unarmed.’ she called.
He tracked her voice and more plaster exploded over her head. Another bullet cut through the balustrade and embedded in the wall to her right. It was too close. She slid further down the stairs on her belly.
‘Stupid bitch.’
Nahodkin stepped out of the doorway and she heard a familiar click – the small, eight-round magazine of her Makarov was empty. He reached for the Grach in his waistband. She aimed at his wide torso and fired. One bullet missed, the other caught him in the gut and he staggered.
‘I lied,’ she called.
She ducked down as he fired repeatedly, sending splinters into her face and arms. There was a lull though she knew his clip would be far from finished. She raised her head once to check his position, then lowered it and emptied the Czech pistol at the doorway.
There had been the sound of a heavy body falling but Nahodkin was wily, and there was no guarantee he was dead, or even that he was alone. A full minute went by, then she crept slowly up the stairs, keeping low.
She found the FSB agent on his back, his body still twitching. She kicked his Grach beyond reach though there was little need when his face was already a ghostly white and a lake of blood was seeping through the floorboards beneath him. Beyond him lay Yuri Volkov, tipped out of the upturned wicker chair. The back of the gangster’s head was concave, and behind him a silk sheet was spattered with blood and grey matter. She hoped Nahodkin had delivered the coup de grâce but she wouldn’t lose any sleep if it had been her.
On the wall to the left of a vanity dresser was a print of an Amur tiger with its glass shattered and a gaping wound to the eye. The picture was swinging perpendicular to the wall, attached by a hidden hinge in the frame. Behind it, a safe with a number pad was exposed and empty. She was surprised Volkov had given up the code so easily. Perhaps, facing certain death, he’d decided to spare himself the pain.
A rucksack lay beyond Nahodkin’s outstretched arm. Inside, she found a plastic folder with certificates and a number of devices that looked like a cross between a stapler and a pair of pliers – presumably these were the presses used to create Thorsten Dahl’s company seals. She pulled it over her aching shoulders and fastened it in place. Her Makarov had been tossed to the floorboards; she bent down to tuck it in her holster, then pushed the empty CZ 75 in her waistband.
Looking around the bedroom, it was hard to reconcile Yuri Volkov’s psychopathic qualities with the petit bourgeois décor. Apart from the silk sheets, there were drapes with a bamboo pattern and a chandelier with electric candles. Above the vanity dresser there was a flower-bordered picture with the embroidered words “Visiting is Good but Home Is Better”.
She checked the other rooms on the landing then took the stairs to the top of the house; it was blocked by a single door. She tried the handle but it was locked.
‘Police. Open up!’
The house was silent now and she pulled a toothpick sized splinter from her forearm.
She counted ten seconds then put her shoulder to the door. The seal presses in the backpack rattled and a wrenching pain persuaded her not to do it a second time. She raised her foot and kicked at the lock. The door blew open.
The top floor was an attic room with framed black and white prints of Parisian street scenes from the Fifties and pictures of Hollywood stars of the same era. On the back of the door was a photograph of the members of One Direction wearing multi-coloured clothes.
By a bed interlaced with fairy lights was a wardrobe. She tapped on the door with her knuckles then stepped back. ‘You can come out now,’ she called in English.
There was a creak then a door opened. Zena Dahl stepped out of the wardrobe, her blonde hair was wild and there were lines on her face where tears had cut through her makeup.
‘It’s alright, Zena,’ Natalya said, continuing in English. ‘You’re safe. Are you hurt?’
‘No.’
Natalya nodded. ‘I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.’ She held Zena in her arms. The girl was stiff and unresponsive.
‘I’m a police officer. My name is Natalya Ivanova. Do you want me to take you back to Sweden?’
Zena Dahl mumbled something and Natalya had to ask for her to repeat it.
‘I can’t.’
‘It won’t be safe to stay here.’
Zena nodded slowly.
Natalya looked at the poster, ‘You like One Direction?’
Zena was silent for a long time then she said, ‘Yuri mistook me for a twelve-year-old.’
‘Your father?’ Natalya asked tentatively.
‘Yuri.’ Zena corrected her.
‘Was all this done for you?’
Zena nodded.
‘And it was like this when you first arrived here?’
Zena nodded again. ‘Yes.’
Natalya heard a car pull up then the sound of the garden gates creaking open. Heavy footsteps were on the stairs, along with heavy breathing.
‘Oh fuck,’ she heard Rogov call out from the floor below.
‘I’m up here,’ she called. ‘Don’t shoot.’
She heard him come up the stairs then he appeared in the doorway.
‘Shit, boss, I can’t believe it. Everyone’s—’
‘Dead.’ Zena finished for him.
Natalya glared at the sergeant then turned to Zena. ‘He’s right, a man killed Yuri.’
‘I heard it.’
Zena didn’t seem upset but her movements were slow and she wondered how much the girl could absorb.
‘What about Elizaveta?’
‘Yuri’s wife?’ Natalya asked.
Zena nodded.
‘She’s gone too. I’m sorry.’ Natalya put an arm around Zena to steer her out of the room then noticed she was shivering, most likely from shock. She took a blanket off the bed and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. By the bedside was a picture on a rosewood cabinet. It was a black and white photograph of a bride in a white lace wedding dress with the faintest of smiles.
‘Is this your mother, Kristina?’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s beautiful…you look like her.’
‘Do you think so?’ Zena said.
‘Yes, I do.’
The air seemed to deflate from the girl. ‘My father – Thorsten – he lied to me.’
‘I know.’
Zena’s tears came. Natalya nodded to Rogov who brought over a box of tissues from the windowsill. She pulled one out and handed it to the girl.
‘Yuri said Thorsten killed my mother and took me away.’
‘What do you think?’ She squeezed the girl’s shoulder affectionately and winced with the movement.
‘I didn’t trust him…Yuri I mean. He
wouldn’t let me go out. He said it was to protect me.’
‘Some men like to control. I heard he did that to your mother too.’
‘My mother.’ Zena’s voice was so quiet it almost a breath. ‘Did Thorsten kill her?’
Natalya sighed. ‘I think he loved her.’
Zena nodded to herself.
She sent Rogov ahead to block off the view to Volkov’s bedroom while she helped Zena down the stairs. Outside, the rain had stopped and puddles glistened with the sun’s reflection. Apart from the gulls it was still quiet and she wondered if the occupants of the other houses were at the White Nights festivities in the city. It was an ideal time of year for gunshots to go unreported.
‘You two wait here,’ she said to Rogov, not wanting Zena to see the mess Nahodkin had made of Volkov’s driver. At the back of the van she found Mikhail’s discarded raincoat and removed the soggy remainder of his Sobranies from the pocket. She found one that was smokeable and lit it then wandered back.
Rogov took out one of his Winston’s. ‘What do we do now, boss?’
‘Take her to your car. I’ll join you in a minute.’ She removed the backpack and held it out to him. ‘And put this in the boot.’
The sirens came soon after she had extinguished the cigarette. Mikhail’s Mercedes came into view and he sprinted from it when it had barely stopped. His gun was in his hands and he ducked behind the van for cover.
She watched him from a low stone wall, resting her back on the gates of Volkov’s house. ‘I bet I look sexy,’ she called over.
He stood up slowly, then ran to her and wrapped her in his arms. ‘Like an extra in a zombie movie.’
They had barely moved when Primakov arrived in his van. She watched him fiddle with his silver case before extracting a pair of blue overshoes from it. For some reason it seemed the funniest thing she had seen in a long time.
‘Captain, are you hurt?’ Primakov asked.
‘I’m fine.’
Mikhail sat on the wall by her side, his arm around her. ‘What’s going on, Natalya?’
‘I got Dahl’s company things. They are in Rogov’s car. I need you both to stay here and clean up.’
‘Angel, what are you talking about?’
She wondered why she felt so composed when she had just killed a man.
‘Yuri Volkov and his wife were murdered by an FSB agent. I think you’ve already met him, Leo’ – Primakov looked away – ‘he killed them with my gun.’
Mikhail rubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Shit, that’s great.’
‘My guess is the FSB couldn’t rely on Volkov to keep his mouth quiet. When it was over, I was meant to take the blame.’
‘So where is this bastard? I’ll put a bullet in him myself.’
‘He’s dead. I got to him first.’
Mikhail lit a cigarette and looked at her with something approaching awe. ‘Jesus Christ. You said he was FSB.’
‘It won’t make him any less dead.’
‘Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you?’
‘This is why I need you.’ She took out the CZ 75 from the waistband of her jeans. ‘This one killed the FSB agent.’ She slapped it in Primakov’s ungloved hand; he looked horrified. She removed her Makarov from its holster and handed it to Mikhail. ‘This one killed Volkov and his wife…and the driver of the van was probably killed by the agent’s Grach. I need you to fix things before Dostoynov finds out and reaches the conclusion I’ve gone on a killing spree. All the better if you can make the FSB agent look innocent.’
‘That’s easy,’ said Mikhail, ‘We’ll pile all the bodies inside and burn the fucking house to the ground.’
‘No, Major, with respect. That won’t work.’
‘Of course it will – as long as Vasiliev assigns the case to me.’
‘Please Major, we have to do this right.’
She stood, ‘I’m going now boys.’ She kissed Mikhail on the lips.
‘You taste of blood.’
‘I’m a zombie. That’s what we taste like.’
‘Are we good, Angel?’
‘We’re better than that. I’ll see you home tonight.’
‘You’re the expert, Leo.’ she said to Primakov as she walked away. ‘Don’t let him bully you.’
Rogov was at the wheel, smoking through the open window of the driver’s seat. He tossed the cigarette onto the pavement. ‘Where are we going, boss?’
‘Back to Piter.’ She glanced at his Makarov. ‘And we’re going to need that.’
Chapter 41
On Vasilyevsky Island, Rogov parked his unmarked Primera outside Veselnaya Ulitsa.
Natalya groaned as she took Nahodkin’s rucksack from the boot and slung it onto her aching shoulders.
She bent down to address Zena through the window of the back seat then realised she had no words of comfort for the girl. The curtains in the neighbouring apartment twitched as she approached; this time she knew it wouldn’t be Lyudmila Kuznetsova watching but one of the FSB agents.
‘Hello,’ she called out.
Major Belikova opened the door, aiming a Grach at her belly. ‘So, here is the late Detective Ivanova,’ she said in her sharp voice.
‘I’ve got one of those too, but let’s keep it civilised.’
On cue, Rogov leaned over the bonnet of the Primera, his long-sleeved shirt partially obscuring the barrel of his Makarov. He waved at the major with his free hand.
Belikova stepped back to let her inside the hallway. ‘Where’s Nahodkin?’
‘I killed him. To be fair, he was trying to kill me at the time. I’ve got some people cleaning up the mess he left behind in Volkov’s house. With any luck they’ll clean his conscience too.’
Belikova pursed her lips. ‘You did well, he was one of my best.’
Natalya unhooked the rucksack from her shoulders and dropped it on the floor. ‘Where’s her father?’
Belikova arched a single eyebrow. ‘Her father?’
‘Let’s not play games.’
‘Now you’re being boring.’ Belikova hammered on the door of Zena’s apartment with her fist. ‘Hey, Demutsky, wake up – you’re getting evicted.’
She nudged the rucksack towards Belikova with her foot.
‘Is that it?’ The Major tucked the Grach in her holster and opened the bag. She removed the plastic wallet and flicked through the papers, then examined the seal presses.
‘Hey, Demutsky?’ Belikova called through Zena’s apartment door. ‘Today would be nice. I want to be out of this provincial shithole.’
The door opened, shaking silver fingerprint powder to the floor. The thin agent yawned.
‘Get your coat. Hurry up.’
He disappeared, then re-emerged clutching a brown leather jacket. Behind him she could see an anxious Dahl, who appeared to be unharmed.
‘Our Swedish friend has agreed to keep his mouth shut,’ said Belikova, ‘and you kept your end of the deal.’ She lifted the rucksack onto her shoulders. ‘Tell me, Ivanova, weren’t you tempted to sell them yourself? You must know a few criminals.’
‘No,’ said Natalya, ‘I never even thought of it.’
Belikova pulled on the door. ‘An honourable ment,’ she sniffed and walked away, muttering something unintelligible.
She was on the E18 heading north, escorting Zena and Thorsten to the Finnish border; from there, Anatoly Lagunov had agreed to take them the rest of the way to Stockholm. Rogov was at the wheel with Dahl next to him, his huge frame folded to allow her to fit in the seat behind without crushing her knees. By her side, Zena was taciturn as they drove past the turning for Sestroretsk.
Natalya looked out of the rear window and saw a gelik, the nickname for a Mercedes Geländewagon. Those fancy jeeps were expensive; a basic model cost over a hundred thousand euros – though money wasn’t a problem for the FSB graduates who liked to flout traffic regulations in their geliki. This one had a tinted windscreen and she caught a Moscow region code of “99” on the number plate. There wa
s a possibility it was the same one she’d seen in the morning on the way to Dahl’s old headquarters. Had Major Belikova assigned a new agent to make sure Thorsten and Zena left the country, or had she planned something more sinister?
She tapped Rogov on the shoulder. ‘Does this thing go any faster?’
He took the hint, and she glanced behind to see the Mercedes pick up speed; it overtook a bus to catch up, then ducked behind a white, VW estate.
Dahl twisted in his seat to speak to her. ‘Those boys in prison for Zena’s murder.’
‘It’s a SIZO,’ she corrected him, ‘a pre-detention facility.’
‘Well, I’d like to set up an appeal fund for them.’
She vaguely promised to make some preliminary enquiries but the process always took months; by then, it was more than likely that both boys would be dead from drug abuse or from the hands of other prisoners.
The car was silent again and her thoughts returned to Mikhail. She hoped Colonel Vasiliev was tearing up her letter of resignation. That left Mikhail in an awkward position. It was unfair to make him give up his chance of running the Directorate; not only that, she imagined life would be intolerable for everyone if Dostoynov took over. She could submit a request to transfer to a local station, perhaps the one in Admiralty, where there were fewer social problems than the outlying districts. It sounded promising but she couldn’t give up everything she had worked so hard for. They were no closer to a resolution.
She looked for the Mercedes again. She hadn’t seen the gelik in nearly an hour but it didn’t take a genius to know which direction their Primera was heading – if it was following them, maintaining visual contact wasn’t necessary.
Rogov stopped at a garage to get fuel where Dahl made admiring comments about the Primera (“it goes very well, is it very fuel efficient?”) though it must have been a heap of junk compared to the vehicles he was chauffeured around in. To her, the entire journey seemed an exercise in talking about everything except what was on their minds.
They set off again. After approximately twenty minutes Dahl turned to her. ‘Captain, can we pull over, please?’
