by Mark McKay
‘Better get him to a hospital,’ said Nick. ‘Marielle, is there something we can use as a tourniquet?’
Marielle found a tea-towel in the kitchen. She passed it to Nick, who threw it to Rubashkin.
‘You do it,’ he said.
The big man attended to his colleague. There was a groan from the sofa; it seemed Max was about to re-join the gathering. Marielle sat down next to him and put her hand to his forehead. He opened his eyes and took in the scene.
‘Shit,’ he said, and then closed them again.
Rubashkin hauled the driver to his feet. He managed to open the front door. Nick accompanied them to the car and watched while Rubashkin manoeuvred his friend into the back seat, where he lay holding the tourniquet. He got into the driver’s seat and started the car.
‘I’ll remember you,’ he said. Then he reversed the car down the driveway and out on to the road. He put it into first and spun the tires as he accelerated away. Nick listened as the sound of the engine faded into the distance.
He went back inside. Max was still seated on the sofa, rubbing his jaw and drinking a glass of water.
‘Have they gone?’ he asked.
Marielle stood in the kitchen doorway, managing to look scared and defiant at the same time. ‘They know,’ she said.
‘Yes, they know. Now it’s time for us to follow their example and get out of here. Pack some clothes.’
She stared at him in silence for a while. Then she turned away and went up the stairs to her bedroom, to do as he’d ordered.
Chapter 8
Max spent fifteen minutes mopping up the blood as best he could, and then they left the house. Max and Marielle took her car, with the intention of checking in to the same hotel the two men had used in Charlottenburg. Nick was headed straight back to Heidelberg. They had agreed that Max would get in touch with Dubrovsky’s lawyer and find out what the Russian’s response to the re-stated deal would be.
There was no sign of the black Mercedes as Nick drove back towards Rostock. He wondered if they had gone to a hospital. It would involve some tricky explaining when Rubashkin’s colleague presented with a gunshot wound. Nick wasn’t about to lose sleep over it, those two Russians might well have turned Marielle’s place upside down and then shot everyone if they’d had their way. It seemed as though Dubrovsky had an inexhaustible supply of thugs at his disposal. Where were they coming from? He phoned Kamiko as he drove. When she answered he filled her in on recent events.
‘So we know who we’re dealing with,’ she said. ‘That’s progress.’
‘Yes. Can you do a deep background check on Yulian Dubrovsky for me? I want to know what his connection is to the criminal underworld. And anything else you can dig up.’
‘I will. So what’s this Marielle woman like?’
Nick smiled. ‘As beautiful as Max painted her. I think she and Max have some catching up to do. It’s a bit fraught between them at the moment.’
‘It’s been quiet here. Now you’re coming back alone, Max’s room will be available. That’s convenient.’
‘No need to move rooms on my account.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll start checking out Mr Dubrovsky. Get back soon.’
It was a long drive back to Heidelberg. He stopped for an hour at an autobahn service area, for a late lunch. The waitress who took his order spoke no English and he found himself pointing at what he thought was the nearest thing to an all-day breakfast on the menu. She returned in due course with a plate containing ham and sausage, fried-eggs and potatoes, along with plenty of bread and a generous mug of filtered coffee. It hit the spot. When he got back on the autobahn he thought it might be fun to see if the ten-year-old BMW could actually reach its top speed of 130 mph, and put his foot down. The car was doing fine at 110mph with more to come, when he found himself level with a sleek black Porsche in the next lane. The red-headed woman driving it looked across at him and flashed a condescending smile, before changing down a gear and pulling effortlessly away. He laughed; he could hardly compete with her. He watched as the Porsche receded elegantly into the distance.
At around 9pm, he knocked on Alix’s door. She spent what seemed like an eternity studying him through the spy hole and then let him in.
‘Sounds like you had a successful trip,’ she said. ‘And Kamiko’s been busy, too. I’ll let her fill you in.’
‘How have things been here? Anyone still watching the place?’
‘We don’t think so. But apart from the odd bit of shopping, we haven’t been out. Go and speak to Kamiko, she’s in your room.’
He went through to the bedroom. Kamiko was sitting at a desk in one corner, absorbed in whatever she was looking at on the computer screen. She turned to face him.
‘I’m glad you’re back,’ was all she said, before getting up to embrace him. He buried his nose in her luxuriant jet-black hair, smelling her scent.
‘What did you do while I was away?’
‘Not much. Alix has been teaching me card games. We went out once or twice.’
They released each other. ‘I’ve found out a lot about Yulian Dubrovsky,’ she said. ‘Sit down and read this.’ She handed him a print out.
He sat and looked at the photo on the first page; it was a head shot. Dubrovsky had a handsome, intelligent face. Brown-eyed with wavy greying hair, he looked at the camera with an expression befitting his position as Russian minister of culture. Serious, but not grim. Laughter lines around the eyes. A thoroughly decent face.
There was a written summary below the photo. Dubrovsky was 51, born in Archangel, about 1000 miles north of Moscow. Moved to Moscow as a young man to study journalism at the State University, specialising in the political discipline. Joined the ‘Free Russia’ party and became a media adviser. He had worked his way through the hierarchy over the years, and was now a senior figure. Was admired as the discerning ‘front man’ of his party, both at home and abroad. Spent a year in his only foreign posting in Berlin in 1995, as an adviser to the Russian embassy press office. A writer of several books with a political agenda; most notably ‘Power Politics In The New Russia’, which caught the attention of the president himself. He was known to be a close confidant of the president. He was also an avid sculptor and had exhibited with some success in Moscow. He’d been made Minister of Culture five years ago and had travelled widely since then, spreading Russia’s cultural message to the West, and elsewhere. Dubrovsky was married to Elena, a woman half his age and a dancer with the Bolshoi ballet.
‘Sounds like a runaway success story,’ muttered Nick.
‘Yes, apart from Liesa it seems like he’s had an unblemished career. Now, turn the page.’
Nick continued reading. Dubrovsky had joined the FSB, the Russian security agency, in 1999. Ostensibly as a ‘media adviser’, but in the opinion of whoever had written this report it was more likely that they wanted to tap his political writing expertise for the production of FSB propaganda. Still known to be an FSB officer, but probably at a mid-level rank. His personality was described as ‘publicly jovial’ and privately ‘volatile’. His marriage to Elena was only one year old and he had been involved with other young women, one of whom was allegedly badly beaten up when his temper snapped during an argument. The report writer had this information by word of mouth only, as it was common knowledge throughout certain circles in Moscow. The Russian media, however, had somehow not felt it newsworthy at the time. The report concluded with a short psychological assessment which described Dubrovsky as a mixture of artist, idealist and politician. He had the sensitivity of an artist, the high aspirations of an idealist, and a blatant obsession with politics and the exercise of power. But he was a pragmatist, and Western governments saw in him someone they might be able to do business with, should he in time become President of the Russian Federation.
‘No wonder he’s concerned about the tape,’ said Nick. ‘It could be the end of his unblemished career.’
‘He must be getting help from his FSB colleagues. The
y could use their own people, or they could employ freelancers to follow you around. They have a long reach.’
‘The two I met earlier today were Russians. I need to share this with Max. Then we need to confirm this deal with Yulian Dubrovsky and get on with it. As soon as possible.’
He phoned Max straight away. They’d succeeded in booking the next three nights at the hotel in Charlottenburg, in adjoining rooms. Max promised to contact Dubrovsky’s lawyer the following morning.
‘How well do you remember him?’ asked Nick.
‘Dubrovsky? He was a bit schizophrenic, I suppose. One minute he’d be lecturing you about Russia’s up and coming role on the world stage and then he’d want to go out chasing women. If I remember rightly, he only came back to the apartment with me once. He must have come to a private arrangement with Liesa after that. We know how that ended.’
‘Keep a low profile, Max. Don’t go out any more than you have to. In fact, don’t go out at all.’
‘We won’t. I just hope Dubrovsky goes for this deal.’
‘He’ll go for it. It’s that or face a murder charge. Even if it never comes to trial, his credibility will be shot to pieces. That’s the last thing he wants.’
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ replied Max. ‘Sit tight, and as soon as I know something, I’ll be in touch.’
They didn’t know how long they’d need to wait, and Alix needed to return to work. Nick drove her to the university every morning and picked her up when she finished her librarian’s duties. It really did seem as though anyone watching them had gone, now. If there was anyone the watchers needed to transfer their attention to, it was Marielle. Both she and Max were aware of this and had practically barricaded themselves in their Berlin hotel rooms. But it was only a question of time before they both started going stir-crazy. Max only left the hotel to call Dubrovsky’s lawyer from a pay phone and then he’d phone Heidelberg with an update. On the third day of waiting he had some news to share.
‘We have a response from Dubrovsky. He is prepared to bring Louisa only, on a private jet to Frankfurt. We meet him at a private address, he verifies the tape and we do the swop. No handovers in public, he doesn’t want to be seen.’
‘What did Marielle say?’
‘She wasn’t happy. She wanted all the women out. But she’s agreed. We’re going to Rostock to get the tape, tomorrow. Then we’ll come down to you.’
It made sense. Heidelberg was only an hour’s drive from Frankfurt.
‘When is Dubrovsky arriving?’
‘Day after tomorrow. It’s a late flight, comes in at 11.30pm. Then we meet at 2am. I have an address.’
‘He’s coming himself, that’s interesting. He’s taking this seriously.’
‘I want to watch the tape when we get to Heidelberg,’ said Max. ‘It’s pretty difficult to convict the man of murder without a body. I want to be sure that it’s obvious that Liesa is actually dead.’
‘Doesn’t really matter, now. Whatever Dubrovsky thinks is on that tape has got him scared enough to come and view it for himself. He won’t trust anyone else to do it. We hand it over, take Louisa home, and that will be that.’
‘I guess you’re right.’ Max sounded relieved. ‘Let’s just watch the beginning, to make sure it is him. I’d hate to go to Frankfurt and find out we just handed over a Donald Duck video.’
‘OK, I’ll see if Alix managed to get hold of a VHS player. See you soon.’
Max and Marielle arrived the following evening. Marielle looked stressed and tired and Max didn’t look much better. They were both irritable. After brief introductions, Marielle decided she’d like to get some sleep. Alix gave up her room. After ensuring Marielle had in fact gone to sleep, they played the tape.
The recording was clear enough. It was obviously Dubrovsky, somewhat younger of course. The two lovers were entwined on the bedspread and he had a scarf around her neck. As the tape progressed he tightened it, perhaps trying to heighten her orgasm. A few minutes later she was resisting, but he wouldn’t stop. He’d gone completely out of control, slapping her into submission.
‘Seen enough?’ asked Alix. Everyone nodded, and she stopped the tape. There was a prolonged silence, which Max finally broke.
‘Not Donald Duck, then. Bastard.’
‘Can we go out, Nick?’ said Kamiko. ‘I’m tired of being locked up here. I need some air.’
‘And I need a drink,’ added Max. ‘Fuck the watchers.’
‘You all go,’ said Alix. ‘I’ll hold the fort. Just don’t be too late back.’
The three of them walked to the Main Street, which pulsed with people. Nick couldn’t sense anyone around them who might be interested in their movements. His radar wasn’t infallible, but within the distance someone would need to maintain to track them through this crowd, it was generally reliable. They found an Irish pub and went in. It was busy, but they managed to grab a table at the back as a couple stood up to leave. They drank beer and watched German football and didn’t say very much. It was waitress service, so no one had to move to get another drink. After the third refill, Max started to look morose. His gaze was on the TV, but he was looking more through it than at it.
‘Max, you OK?’
Max stirred. ‘What? Yes, fine.’ He sighed. ‘Just thinking about Liesa and Marielle. They were best friends, you know. Almost like bloody sisters.’
‘Has she talked to you about it?’
Max shook his head. ‘No, she hasn’t said much about anything. Every time I went to check on her she had her nose in a book. She blames me.’
‘It was a long time ago,’ said Kamiko. ‘And she’s worried about her daughter. Give her time.’
‘She’s had 20 years already. Let’s get this swap out of the way and we can all go back to normal life. Whatever that is.’
‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘That’s exactly what we’ll do. Let’s go back, now. Tomorrow is going to be a very long day.’
They had plenty of time the next day to formulate a plan for the coming night. Kamiko would go to the airport and try to spot Dubrovsky and Louisa on their way out. They weren’t optimistic; his private jet could well be pre-cleared through customs and he’d just get straight into a waiting car. Whether she saw them or not, Kamiko would then meet Nick, Max and Marielle and they’d go to the address Dubrovsky had given them. Alix would stay behind. Nick, Max and Marielle would go into the house to do the swop. Kamiko would linger discreetly close by.
Marielle had perked up a little. She made small talk with the other women and wanted to know all about Kamiko and Japan. They went into a huddle in the kitchen. There was even occasional laughter. Max and Nick played cards, read magazines and drank coffee. In the afternoon everyone tried to get a nap in, with mixed success. Finally it was 10pm and time to go.
‘Let me know as soon as it’s done,’ said Alix, as she stood in the doorway to bid them farewell. ‘I’ll break open the champagne.’
Marielle gave her a weak smile. ‘You’ll be the first to know.’
Five minutes later they were in the BMW and on their way to Frankfurt.
At the airport, Kamiko drew a blank. No one resembling Dubrovsky came through arrivals as far as she could see. As the man didn’t want to be recognised in Germany he could even be in disguise, but Louisa should have been easy to spot. She had to conclude that they had exited some other way. Assuming they’d arrived, of course.
The address was an industrial unit, not far from the airport and close to the Main river. At 1.30am it was deserted, or certainly appeared to be. They’d picked Kamiko up in the city centre and driven out here. Now they were parked about 100 yards away from the premises and close to the exit road.
‘I’ll disappear now,’ said Kamiko. ‘I won’t be far away.’
She got out. Dressed all in black, she was soon swallowed up by the darkness.
‘I feel a little bit vulnerable in a place like this,’ said Max.
‘It’s far from ideal,’ agreed Nick. ‘But it cuts
both ways. If we’re vulnerable, so is he.’
Just before 2am, a black Mercedes arrived. It drove past them and stopped outside the unit. Four people got out. It was impossible to make out faces, but one of them was definitely female, her features obscured by a hoodie. Marielle had a sharp intake of breath, but said nothing. The three men looked briefly towards the BMW and then unlocked the door and went inside.
‘OK, let’s go,’ said Nick. ‘Got the tape?’
‘Yes,’ said Marielle.
They walked up to the door and rang the bell.
‘It’s open,’ said a voice.
Nick pushed the door. The lights had only been turned on in the entrance area, but it looked as though they were in a small warehouse. All he could really make out was what looked like an office door on the left and the shadowy outline of some empty storage racks, a few yards away. Most of the view in that direction was obscured by the sizeable form of the man who stood waiting for them.
‘Mr Rubashkin,’ said Nick. ‘I wish I could say it was nice to see you again.’
‘Likewise. But this is business. Come through.’
Rubashkin opened the office door. They walked into a small reception area with just a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet.
‘You are armed?’ asked Rubashkin.
‘We are,’ said Max.
‘Leave your weapons here, on the desk. You can collect them on the way out. I’ll do the same.’
Rubashkin placed his gun on the desk, and Nick and Max followed suit. Rubashkin gave Marielle a questioning look.
‘I don’t carry a gun,’ she said.
‘I must check you all,’ said Rubashkin. ‘You first, Ms Bach.’
Marielle stood with gritted teeth as Rubashkin patted her down. He paused briefly when his hand came in contact with the video tape in her jacket pocket, but otherwise he was quick and professional. He grunted in satisfaction, then repeated the action for the two men.
