by Mark McKay
He laughed to himself. Did Mariko have this effect on everyone? ‘Tea is fine. Tell me all about Olga Rozanova, then. And when you’ve done that, tell me all about yourself. Only if you want to, that is.’
Dominika looked at him with a sparkle in her eye. ‘I think you’re flirting with me, darling. Alright, sit down and I’ll tell you everything. Prepare to be shocked. But first, we need tea.’
Dubrovsky’s apartment was in the Frunzenskaya district of Moscow. As they drove along the embankment and past Frunzenskaya station, Sergei pointed across the Moscow river.
‘Gorky Park,’ he said. ‘They made a movie about it, you know it?’
Nick remembered the story, vaguely. Something about mutilated corpses, mink smuggling and burnt out Moscow cops. He nodded.
‘Yes, I know it.’
Sergei turned off the embankment. He understood more English than he spoke, but they were managing to communicate. And he didn’t ask questions. He turned into a side street a minute later, and stopped.
‘Here,’ he said. There was an apartment complex just ahead and to the left of them. ‘Number 25. I wait for you.’
‘No, don’t do that. I could be here for a while. I’ll get the metro.’
‘I understand.’
Nick reached for the door handle, but Sergei put a hand on his arm and stopped him.
‘One moment,’ he said. He reached into the glove box and produced a handgun. ‘Makarov semi-automatic, one clip, OK?’
Nick took the weapon and weighed it in his hand. He doubted he would need a gun, but it might prove useful if something unexpected should happen.
‘Thank you. I will return it. Thanks for driving me.’
Sergei shook his hand and then Nick got out. He looked around. The area had quite a lot of large apartment complexes and it all looked very clean and modern around here. It was too cold to just stand around across the street and there were no coffee shops or bars to be seen. This might be a very short stakeout. He walked up to the apartment block and tested the doors. They were locked and you needed a swipe card to get in. He waited for ten minutes, until someone came out. He was just quick enough to slip inside before the door closed again.
The lobby was large and unmanned. The place had at least ten floors and you could take the stairs or one of three elevators. There was a sign telling you which apartments were on which floor; number 25 was on the seventh. He opted for the elevator. When he got out, he was in a hallway that stretched the width of the building. They must be big apartments, he thought. Numbers 25 and 26 were on this side, with the other two apartments facing them across the hall. Down one end there was what looked like a storage room. It was the only place that might offer some cover and he ran towards it and tried the door. It didn’t open. But down here there was a slight recess, leading to the fire stairs. This would do. He stood in his hiding place, and waited.
One hour later, one person had emerged from the elevator and gone into number 27. Two hours later and nothing else had happened to break the tedium. Hell, he thought. Dubrovsky could already be inside number 25, but he wasn’t about to knock. This wasn’t the time to confront the man, just to confirm his whereabouts. His patience was wearing thin, however.
There was a sudden ringing sound from the elevator and the doors opened. A man stepped out and went straight to number 25. It was him, alright. Dubrovsky looked rather tense and tired, even from here. He tried his key in the door and then started swearing in a low voice. She must have changed the locks, thought Nick. Dubrovsky started banging on the door. After a minute it opened and he saw the partial form of Elena in the doorway. The estranged husband and wife began to argue in rapidly escalating tones until she slapped him hard across the face and slammed the door. Dubrovsky held his hand to his cheek and stared at the door for a long minute. Someone poked their head out of number 27 and got a verbal broadside for their pains. The neighbour made a rapid retreat. Then Dubrovsky shrugged, straightened himself up, and marched back to the elevator. A minute later, he was gone.
We have to find out where that studio is, Nick thought. He certainly isn’t welcome here. He gave Dubrovsky a ten-minute start and then took the elevator back to the lobby. He was halfway to the metro, when the phone rang. It was Marielle.
‘We’ve had confirmation,’ she said. ‘Louisa will be arriving in Tromso on the ‘Sea Princess’ the day after tomorrow. At 14.00 hours, Norway time. Are you alright?’
‘Yes, everything is fine this end. Let Helmut know and get ready to fly out there. And the moment you see her, before you do anything else, call me. Please don’t forget.’
‘I won’t. We’re so close, Nick. Tell me it’s all going to go right this time.’
‘It will. Don’t worry, this time Louisa’s really coming home. Now call Helmut.’
‘OK, bye.’
He found the metro. He loved the underground stations here. They were so palatial with their arched marble hallways and chandeliers, unlike anywhere else on earth. Moscow was full of surprises, all pleasant so far. And in a few days their work here would be done. The net was closing around Dubrovsky. Now, all they had to do was make sure he didn’t wriggle out of it.
Chapter 21
He brought Mariko up to speed when he got back to the hotel.
‘So really, I’ve only got tomorrow to get this right,’ she said.
‘Ask this Zakharin man where Dubrovsky’s studio is,’ replied Nick. ‘He might be one of the chosen few who know.’
‘I prefer not to do that. If it becomes necessary, you can go back to the apartment block and get it out of Elena Dubrovsky.’
‘Yes. Let’s hope it doesn’t become necessary.’
Mariko just looked at him. He knew full well that if he didn’t ask Elena, she would. And she wouldn’t be nice about it, either.
He didn’t see Mariko the next morning. She had a 9.30 appointment with Mr Zakharin, and had arranged something in the afternoon with another agent who represented some other prominent Russian artists. She wanted Zakharin to think he was in a competition, to spur him along. All Nick could do was wait. Unless some choice piece of gossip revealing the studio’s whereabouts should suddenly come into Dominika’s possession, there was little for him to do.
The day dragged by. Early evening came and went and Mariko hadn’t returned. He stuck to his low profile and stayed in his room. At 10pm, there was a knock on the door. He opened it to see Mariko, once again resplendent in her pinstripe suit and Jimmy Choos.
‘God, what a long day,’ she said. ‘Make me a drink, please. Whatever they have in that mini-bar.’
He found some gin and a small bottle of tonic. ‘Well, how did you get on?’
She took the drink from him. ‘I’ve reserved ten pictures by three painters I’ve never heard of. And I absolutely love the bronze ballet sculptures that Mr Dubrovsky creates. Pure genius.’
‘Is that it?’
She laughed. ‘I had to work on Zakharin. I said I wasn’t going to spend money on ten bronzes without meeting the sculptor. He tried to deflect me, but I insisted.’
‘And?’
‘He went for it. I guess the prospect of $50,000 is a strong motivator. Louisa arrives in Norway tomorrow, which is Thursday. I meet Yulian Dubrovsky on Friday, at the Hotel Metropol. We’re having afternoon tea. I’ll be interviewing him and taking a few photographs. Then, I’m supposed to write Zakharin a cheque.’
‘So, we’re set, then.’
Mariko took a generous sip of her gin. ‘Yes, we’re set. The clock is ticking.’
‘You mean the meter’s running, I think.’
‘Whatever you say. I’m going to bed, now. See you in the morning.’
Moscow was two hours ahead of Tromso, so on Thursday at 16.00 hours Nick was fidgeting in his room and waiting for something to happen. Ten minutes later, he got the call.
‘I can see her, Nick. I can see her!’ Marielle was breathless with excitement.
‘Wonderful. You’ve got the passport?�
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‘Yes, I’ve got everything.’
‘Alright, take your daughter home.’
He hung up and sent Helmut Strauss a short text. Then twenty minutes later, Frank Le Clerc called him to say Louisa Bach was in Norway.
‘Thanks, Mr Le Clerc. Please, authorise the transfer.’
And that was it. Now, only one thing left to do.
The restaurant at the Hotel Metropol was a sumptuous place to meet anyone. Thick pile carpets, velvet upholstered dining chairs and heavy damask table cloths gave the place an air of opulence, without overstating the case too much. On Friday, Mariko Mashida sat at one of those damask covered tables as elegantly as her pinstriped trousers would allow, while Yulian Dubrovsky gazed appreciatively at her from the chair opposite. Tea had been served and they’d been talking for about ten minutes now, Nick thought. When she held up her arm with her index finger outstretched as if to summon a waiter, he knew it was his signal. He sauntered in to the restaurant, which was crowded with afternoon tea drinkers, and took a seat next to Mariko. Dubrovsky’s jaw dropped a fraction, and then he recovered himself. He stared at Mariko for a while and there was both confusion and anger in that look. Then he addressed Nick.
‘Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?’
‘I’d rather be here. You don’t mind, do you?’
Dubrovsky shifted in his chair. ‘You’ve got Louisa Bach. What are you going to do? Ask for your money back?’
‘No,’ said Mariko. ‘That’s not why we’re here.’
‘Just who the hell are you?’
‘It doesn’t matter who I am. You just need to know that you killed two very dear friends of mine.’
‘I see.’ Dubrovsky looked thoughtfully at both of them. His natural arrogance asserted itself. ‘And you’ve come here to kill me. Is that it? Do you think you can do that and get out of Russia without being arrested? What are you going to do? Shoot me, here in this restaurant?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Yulian,’ said Nick. ‘We’re here to tell you that Louisa Bach is back where she belongs and that you’ve lost the 500,000 euros you tried to extort from her mother. We thought you’d like to know that.’
‘Are you crazy? Schmidt sent through the account details when the escrow agent called him. The money was transferred. You’ll have to do better than that.’
‘Has the money arrived, yet?’
‘No. An international transfer takes three days.’ Dubrovsky was starting to look a little concerned.
‘Exactly, so let me enlighten you. When Mr Le Clerc gave Herr Schmidt the nod, a friend of ours was sitting in Schmidt’s office with a gun to his head. A friend whose daughter you murdered. The money was transferred, but not to you. It went straight back to Marielle Bach.’
‘Rubbish,’ scoffed Dubrovsky. ‘Schmidt would have informed me of any irregularity by now.’
‘Herr Schmidt is taking a few days off, at a country estate near Dresden. Our friend convinced him that a short break was in his best interests.’
Dubrovsky was angry, now. ‘You’ll never get away with this, you bastard. And as for you,’ he said, turning to Mariko. ‘You went to all this trouble just to bring me here to tell me this. I hope it was worth it, you bitch.’
‘Absolutely.’ Mariko looked at her watch. ‘Come on, Nick. Time we were leaving.’
Dubrovsky was taken aback. ‘Aren’t you going to shoot me? Or take me out of here with a gun in my back?’ He got no reply. ‘I suggest you leave Moscow. I still have some friends here who could make your life difficult.’
Nick and Mariko stood up. Mariko consulted her watch again.
‘In exactly one minute, Mr Dubrovsky, you will have a massive heart attack. I poisoned your tea. They won’t be able to revive you. Goodbye.’
They walked away, with an incredulous Dubrovsky staring after them. They stopped just outside the restaurant entrance and turned around to watch.
They saw Dubrovsky clutch his left arm. He pulled it into his chest and then hunched over, short of breath. With one convulsion he arched in his chair and then toppled off it, bringing most of the crockery and the damask tablecloth with him. When he hit the floor he shuddered for a moment, and then was still. There was a shocked silence in the restaurant, and then a moment later everyone began talking at once. Several people gathered around Dubrovsky and one began giving him cardiac massage.
‘Are you sure they won’t revive him?’ asked Nick, as he and Mariko walked calmly towards the exit.
‘No, he’s well and truly dead.’
‘What did you give him?’
‘An undetectable poison, in a powder. They won’t find anything when they do the post-mortem. It’s from an old Japanese recipe, all the way back to the 13th century. I’m not telling you the ingredients.’
They were outside, now. Mariko had wanted Dubrovsky’s death to appear to be from apparently natural causes, and for it to happen in a public place. That way, the chances of her involvement in it being discovered were reduced to near zero. Yes, she had met with him shortly before his unfortunate demise, but there was no evidence linking her to it. And the gallery owner from Tokyo would soon cease to exist, so there’d be nobody to ask, either. It was only if she hadn’t been able to meet with him that they would have taken more drastic measures at his studio, once they’d found it.
‘Remind me never to get on the wrong side of you,’ he said. She smiled, but her mind was elsewhere.
‘I must get back home,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the hotel and then straight to the airport.’
‘You haven’t told me what you want me to do,’ he said. ‘I’m flying back to Berlin, tomorrow. Then what?’
‘Spend a few days with Marielle. Then I want you in Japan. We have more work to do.’
‘OK. I’m going to see Dominika, now. There’s something I must give back to her.’
‘Give her my best, Nick. Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t come in person. Don’t mention Dubrovsky.’
She’d found a taxi. Before getting in though, she hugged him and kissed his cheek.
‘I’m glad he’s dead,’ she said. Then she was in the taxi and on her way.
He thought he might spend his last night here at the Rozanova club. He could talk to Dominika and get a little drunk on Russian vodka. It would be an acknowledgement of Dubrovsky’s death, not a celebration of it. Killing people, however repugnant they might be, was never a cause for celebration. But like Mariko, he was glad the bastard was dead.
When he arrived back in Berlin, it was with a slight hangover. He found the BMW in the airport car park and was soon on the road back to the house by the sea. It was crisp and cold outside, but the sun was shining in a cloudless sky and the world outside his windscreen seemed to shine right back. The autobahn and everything around it was just that little bit sharper and brighter. Or maybe it was just his mood making it that way. Something had shifted and released itself and he felt like someone who’d been underwater for too long and had just taken their first invigorating breath on reaching the surface. He felt quietly rejuvenated. Still sad at losing friends, but finally able to accept it. This must be ‘closure’, he thought, as the car sped towards Rostock. Whatever it was, he liked it.
Two hours later, he turned into Marielle’s driveway. He parked behind her Audi and got out. The air was fresh out here, with just a slight breeze from the sea. He took a deep breath and walked to the front door. Before he could knock, it opened. A younger and somewhat thinner version of Marielle stood in the doorway.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re Nick. Mama said you’d be here today.’ She smiled, but it came with difficulty.
‘Hello Louisa.’ He extended a hand, and she took it. ‘Nice to finally meet you.’
Louisa looked drawn and still fragile, but her eyes were bright. ‘Come in, out of the cold.’
They went into the lounge. ‘Where’s Marielle?’ he asked.
‘She went walking on the beach. She’ll be back soon. Do you want some coffee?’
She went into the kitchen to make it, and he followed.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked her.
‘It’s a bit like a dream, being home. I’m here and my friends are still in Siberia. It doesn’t seem real.’
‘It’s real enough. I guess it will take some getting used to though, after what you’ve been through. How are your arms?’
She put a hand to one arm, as though testing it. ‘I’ll have scars, but I’ll live.’
He wondered if she might have post-traumatic stress. Only time and therapy would heal that. He heard the front door open.
‘That’s Mama,’ said Louisa. ‘I’m going upstairs for a while. Thank you, by the way.’
She managed a real smile this time, and he saw her mother in her. She picked up her mug of coffee and left the kitchen. She passed Marielle on the way and they exchanged a few words. Then Marielle was in his arms.
‘I’m so glad you’re back. You obviously met Louisa.’ She kissed him.
‘Yes,’ he said, when she stopped. ‘She looks tired.’
Marielle led him into the lounge. ‘She’s tired and she’s disturbed. She feels guilty about being here when the other girls are still in jail. And at some point soon, the press will find out she’s back. So, we have all that to deal with.’
They sat together on the sofa and she leaned into him. ‘What happened in Moscow?’
‘Yulian Dubrovsky had a heart attack. He won’t be bothering you anymore.’
She gave him a long look of enquiry. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
‘On that subject, yes. It’s over. I want to spend some time with you, now. But I’ve only got a few days.’
‘Ah, yes. Mistress Mariko wants you back. I don’t know how I can compete with that woman.’
She kissed him again.
