by Mark McKay
‘How exactly will he release her to us?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. We need to prepare a list of questions and send them through Schmidt. Does he think we’re going to give him money and then just wait for him to hold up his end of the deal? No, we need to work out the details.’
Marielle nodded. ‘At least we have the money available to us. That’s a start.’
She had talked to her ex. Kurt Bach was a wealthy businessman. He was a senior partner in one of Germany’s top management consultancies. When he and Marielle parted ways, he’d bought her this house. And although he never saw his daughter, he felt some sort of obligation towards her. So he’d agreed to put up the 500,000 euros if Marielle would sell the house and repay him half that sum at a later date. She hadn’t argued about it. Now all they had to do was find some feasible way of ensuring that Louisa really would be exchanged on payment of the ransom. But once again, Dubrovsky was dictating the play. And Nick didn’t trust the man one little bit.
He reported all this to Mariko in their weekly call. When he’d finished summarising the situation he waited for a comment, but got only silence.
‘Mariko? Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. It’s unacceptable. How long did you say he gave you to find the money?’
‘Two to three weeks.’
‘OK. Stall him, say you’re still looking for the money.’
‘Why? It’s available right now.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I’ve been keeping tabs on Mr Dubrovsky. His movements have been noted by friends in Moscow. He’s been to Archangel twice in the last week.’
‘Isn’t that where he’s from, originally? Probably got family there.’
‘Yes, a brother I believe. How do you feel about going back to Russia?’
‘Not my favourite place. Last time I almost ended up in a Siberian prison myself.’
‘You’ll have me to look after you this time.’
He was intrigued, despite his worry over Louisa. ‘What are you up to, Mariko?’
‘This situation could work to our advantage. We will need to work out a few things in advance, but after that I think we should go back to Russia and talk to Mr Dubrovsky, face to face. What do you think?’
He felt a surge of excitement. ‘Sounds perfect. When do I leave?’
Chapter 20
Nick rang Herr Schmidt the next day, to confirm just how the exchange would work. The 500,000 euros would be placed in the care of an escrow agent, to be nominated by Nick and agreed by both parties. Once that was done Schmidt would contact Dubrovsky, who would tell him where and when Louisa would arrive. A representative of the escrow agency would be a witness to her arrival. After confirming her identity he would call Nick, who would tell him to proceed. Then Schmidt would email an account number to an agreed email address at the escrow man’s offices. The money would be transferred and everyone would be happy.
‘I could just hold this money on your behalf, you know,’ said Schmidt.
‘You’re a little too close to Dubrovsky, Herr Schmidt. We want someone independent. I’ve found someone in Luxembourg who will hold the money and also provide a man to identify Louisa Bach, when we get to that stage.’
Schmidt wasn’t the type to take offence easily. He promised to pass on the details and get back to Nick as soon as possible.
‘You should be there when Louisa arrives,’ said Nick to Marielle. ‘This time, we want to make sure it really is her. Though I don’t think Dubrovksy would try to fool us a second time.’
‘Yes, of course I want to be there. But where is ‘there’ going to be?’
They found out 48 hours later. Dubrovsky had agreed to the escrow arrangement and the money had been deposited. Schmidt called with an update.
‘A ship will arrive at a port in Norway within the next three to four days. Louisa Bach will be on it. Once the ship is on the open sea I’ll send you the exact destination, name of the ship and the time of arrival.’
Nick swung into action. Their most pressing problem was getting Louisa back from Norway to Germany without a passport. He thought Helmut Strauss might be able to help with that, and he was right. Once he’d contacted Helmut and explained the situation, he was more than happy to assist.
‘If you can send me some recent photos of Louisa and date of birth and so on, I can get someone I know to do a passport in the next day or two. Is there anything else I can help with?’
There was something, and Nick spent another half an hour explaining just what it was.
‘I’m asking a lot, I know,’ he told Helmut. ‘Feel free to say no.’
Helmut laughed; a deep, throaty sound. ‘It will be just like old times. Email me the exact details and I’ll let you know when I’m ready.’
Marielle was set to fly to Norway once they had confirmation from Schmidt. She had already primed a man named Frank Le Clerc at the Luxembourg escrow service to be ready to meet her there.
‘I have some photos Helmut can use,’ she told Nick.
‘Send them by courier. I think all you have to do is wait. There isn’t much time, though. I reckon it will be two days tops before that ship leaves Russia. We’ll have to move fast.’
His plane to Moscow was leaving in a few hours. Marielle put her arms around him and kissed him for a long time.
‘Be careful, Nick.’
‘I will. Don’t worry, everything will be just fine.’
He got into the BMW and started the engine. As he pulled away he could see Marielle in the rear vision mirror. She stood there with her hands by her sides, growing smaller by the second. He saw her raise a hand to wave and then he was out on the main road with his foot hard down on the accelerator, heading for the airport.
It was early evening when the plane touched down in Moscow. He was concerned that he might be on Russia’s most wanted list after his escape from the prison train, and he approached passport control with some trepidation. If they detained him he would demand to speak to Phillip Cooper at the British Embassy. But he needn’t have worried. The official on duty looked quite bored and gave him and his passport no more than a cursory glance, before waving him through.
When he got to the hotel he had a shower and then stood in the warmth of his room, looking out at a cold and grey November Moscow. Mariko would be arriving tomorrow. They would go over the plan one last time, and then put it into effect. He just hoped they hadn’t overlooked anything.
She knocked on his door late the following morning. When he opened it, he almost didn’t recognise her.
‘I’m in character,’ she said, amused at his astonishment.
Mariko was the image of the affluent executive. She wore an expensive looking dark pinstripe suit, with a white cotton blouse. She’d applied more makeup than he’d ever seen her use before, especially around the eyes. And she’d accessorized the look with ornate silver earrings and matching necklace. She came in and sat down on the bed.
‘These heels are killing me,’ she said, taking them off and rubbing her feet. ‘They are gorgeous, though. Jimmy Choos.’
‘You look amazing. Very glamorous. Who are you, again?’
She laughed. ‘Thank you. I’m Mariko Akiyama now, and I own an art gallery in Tokyo. I’ll show you my website later.’
‘I take it you had a good flight. Do you want me to order some coffee or something?’
She shook her head, suddenly all business. ‘No. Let’s discuss what we need to do.’
He sat on a chair, facing her. ‘OK. We know that Dubrovsky went to Archangel recently. There’s a good chance that’s where he’s holding Louisa. It’s a logical departure point for Norway, too. But even if we’re right about that, it’s unlikely that I could find her and snatch her away from him in the next day or two. How am I doing?’
‘You’re doing fine. Once we know she’s safe in Norway, it will be one less thing to worry about. Does everyone know what to do, once she arrives?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all set up. Do
you have any update on where Yulian Dubrovsky is at this moment?’
‘No, I don’t. His wife threw him out after she found out about the tape. He was staying with friends, but my source here tells me he moved out. He’s gone to ground somewhere and she hasn’t been able to track him down.’
‘Who is your source?’
‘Her name is Dominika. She runs a club, where a lot of Moscow’s artistic types go to get drunk on cheap booze. Even Dubrovsky on occasion. She knows them all quite well and so she picks up the gossip. Makes a point of it.’
Nick got up and poured himself a glass of complimentary mineral water from the mini-bar.
‘So, my job is to see if I can find out where he is,’ he said. ‘But discreetly. Perhaps I can start with Dominika.’
‘Yes, and in the meantime I’ll use my strategy to tempt him into the open. One of us must succeed. It’s just a question of how long it takes.’
‘Is your strategy up and running?’
‘Of course. My first appointment is tomorrow morning. I’m meeting a Mr Zakharin, who acts as an agent for all sorts of artists. He thinks I’m here to spend a lot of money on behalf of Japanese clients and he’s looking forward to advising me on just how I should do that. I’ve also made a point of telling him in advance that I’m very interested in contemporary Russian sculpture.’
‘Then I guess we’re as ready as we can be.’
Mariko stood up and stretched. She yawned.
‘We could have lunch if you like,’ she said. ‘Room service in my room. Better if you aren’t seen in public with me.’
He grinned at her. ‘So the glamorous Mariko Mashida is out of my league now, is that it?’
She smiled back. ‘Shut up, Nick. You know what I mean. I want to get out of these clothes anyway and into something more comfortable. We’ll have lunch and then you can go meet Dominika. OK?’
‘And to think last time we were here, we were about to be married. Order something nice for me and I’ll be along shortly.’
They had a leisurely lunch. Mariko had changed into jeans and a blue blouse, all very casual. The makeup was still on, though. Over soup and Chicken Kiev, they made a point of not mentioning why they were here in Moscow. It was an hour or so of pure distraction. Mariko talked about what her father was up to, which apparently didn’t amount to much more than teaching Aikido and advising certain influential political figures on matters of security. She never discussed CDS business directly, unless you were part of a particular operation. He in turn told her about his time with Marielle. The day to day stuff and the portrait painting. He neglected to mention that they were sleeping together and Mariko didn’t question him about their relationship. He was pretty sure she’d worked it out, though. When lunch was over, she wrote down the address of Dominika’s club.
‘I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming later today,’ she said.
‘Why did you change your mind?’ he asked, as he took the sheet of notepaper and stood up to leave.
She fixed him with her impenetrable black eyes. The sudden steel in her gaze made his blood run a little colder.
‘He killed Kamiko and Alix, they were both family to me. So my mind never changed, really. It was just a question of when to do something about it. I would have waited years, if necessary. Now he’s no longer a politically sensitive target, I don’t have to. Does that answer your question?’
‘Perfectly. I’ll see you later.’
He went back to his room. He’d forgotten to ask Mariko if Dominika spoke English. No, she’d have mentioned something like that. He thought about what she’d just told him, and almost felt a smidgen of sympathy for Dubrovsky. He had no idea what was about to hit him.
Dominika’s club was at the end of a cul-de-sac close to the Moscow river. When he got out of the taxi, he was greeted by an icy wind from that direction. Thick flakes of snow whistled through the air and splattered against his face. He wrapped the scarf he was wearing up to eye level and started walking. Although there’d been plenty of snow already in evidence on his arrival, today was the first time he’d actually seen it falling. Everything around him was slowly but surely turning white.
He only needed to walk across the street. A tall, brilliant-red door had a sign in English proclaiming it as the entrance to the ‘Rozanova Club’. There was something in larger Russian letters directly below that, which he assumed meant the same thing. He tried the door, but it didn’t budge. There was an intercom nearby, so he tried that instead. After a few seconds a rather deep but unmistakably feminine voice replied. He didn’t understand the words, but the tone implied that the place might just be closed.
‘Dominika? It’s Nick. You’re expecting me.’
There was a pause, then: ‘Oh shit, so I am. Push the door, darling.’
He heard a buzzing noise and then the door opened against his touch. He stepped into a large vestibule area; wooden panelled and with rows of pegs along the walls on both sides. For leaving coats and whatever other copious outer garments the residents of Moscow felt it necessary to wear to keep out the cold, he thought. The pegs were bare of even one such outer garment at the moment, so the place must definitely be closed. He took off his own coat and scarf and hung them up. Then he went through the double doors at the end and into the club proper.
He entered a bar area; all tables and comfortable armchairs, with a stage at one end of the room. The walls were covered with photographs of various people, some taken in the club. A dozen or so vividly-coloured paintings were interspersed between the photos. They were a mixture of multi-tinted abstracts and cubist-type portraits. There was also a bronze sculpture of a dancer en-pointe on a plinth in one corner, looking very much in the style of those he’d seen at Dubrovsky’s exhibition in London.
He took all this in, thinking Marielle would like this place. Then he focused his attention on the woman behind the bar, who stood polishing glasses and looking at him with a half-smile on her face.
‘Dominika?’
‘That’s me. You must be Nick. Come and have a drink, darling.’
Dominika was a generously proportioned woman in her mid-forties, or thereabouts. She wore a tight blue cotton dress and her face was pale and cherubic, with big eyes. Her hair was frizzy, down past her shoulders, and very red.
‘Just a small whisky, please.’
She poured it for him. ‘We aren’t open till 7pm, tonight. I’m just getting the place ready. Sergei is in the dining room, otherwise it’s just the two of us.’
She fixed herself a shot of what appeared to be vodka, then raised her glass. ‘Good health.’ They drank.
‘Who comes here?’ he asked her.
‘Lots of people. Painters, writers, actors. And many professional people. This place was built before the revolution, in honour of Olga Rozanova. Those are some of her paintings you were looking at. Not originals, though. But I think you’re more interested in sculpture, is that the case?’
‘Is that one of Dubrovsky’s?’ he said, indicating the piece in the corner.
‘Very good, darling. It certainly is. In fact it might even be for sale, but nobody can find the sculptor and ask him at the moment. And Mariko seems very keen to do that.’
‘We both are.’
She sighed and poured herself another shot. ‘Yes, it’s a shame. As the minister of culture he would come here quite often and the place would be full of artists asking him for favours. He was popular. Arrogant and selfish, but that didn’t stop anyone asking him for help. He enjoyed playing the patron.’
‘Until when?’
‘Well, until he lost his job. And the scandal, of course. We’re quite liberal here, but a video of him murdering his lover? Not that anyone ever saw such a video. Anyway, his popularity plummeted after that. We haven’t seen him since. But I hear the gossip.’
Nick held up his empty glass for a refill. ‘But the gossip doesn’t tell you where he is.’
‘Only where he’s been. Elena threw him out, that much I
do know. And even his friends found it hard to stomach him after the video accusations. Which many people here believe, by the way. No, if he’s still in Moscow he’ll be at his studio.’
‘What? Why didn’t you say so, before?’
She laughed. ‘Because nobody knows where it is, darling. Yulian made it a point of keeping its location a secret, so he wouldn’t be bothered by people while he was working.’
‘You think he’s still in Moscow?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The best thing you can do is keep an eye on the apartment. He may come back there to collect things. Or you could ask his wife where he is, of course.’
‘Maybe I’ll do that. Give me the address, I’ll go look.’
‘I’ll write it down for you.’ She reached for a pen. ‘Do you speak Russian?’
He shook his head.
‘Sergei!’ she shouted, in a deep contralto that any opera singer worth her salt would have been proud of. ‘Sergei is my brother. Just tell me when you want to go and he will drive you. Don’t worry, he won’t ask questions.’
He watched this Russian larger than life diva as she scribbled down the address. ‘How do you know Mariko?’
She paused and looked up, and her handsome face had become stern.
‘Her father saved mine from a KGB firing squad. Many years ago, now. I do what I can to repay that debt.’
She handed him the note and the smile was back. Sergei came through some double doors and looked enquiringly at his sister. He was younger and just as generously built as she was. They exchanged some words in their own language.
‘He wants to know when you want to visit the Dubrovsky apartment.’
He looked at his watch. It was 4pm, and he figured that even though it was pretty grey outside now, it would be better to wait for the cover of darkness.
‘In a couple of hours. Do you mind if I hang around till then?’
Sergei appeared to have understood. He gave the thumbs-up and then returned to whatever he’d been doing in the dining room.
‘Of course you can stay,’ said Dominika. ‘You can talk to me while I work. I’ll make us some tea, I think. You can have more whisky, but I don’t want you falling over in the snow and breaking your neck. Mariko would not be happy.’
