She peered over her sunglasses. A clear blue sky was visible through a narrow, double-glazed window and she took a table beside it. When she sat down, she was surprised to see the bottom half of the window obscured by snow. She had almost forgotten she was in Moscow.
Which might have been because she was trying hard to ignore the fact she was fifteen hundred miles from London. While the hotel was a bubble of familiarity in an alien landscape, she knew that the bubble would soon pop.
In here they spoke English, automatically smiled at you as you walked past, provided English-language newspapers and BBC World News on the television.
But out there it would be different.
Her sense of dislocation was slight, but jarring. It was a lack of ease. It could be due to her sudden departure, the flight, dehydration. But she knew it wasn’t so.
London was at the core of her existence, a way of life carefully constructed to smother the anxiety that always seemed about to overcome her. She could navigate London’s streets, its codes and classes, its threats and unwritten rules, without thinking.
Here, she might not be able to find her way.
A waiter approached the table, clutching a coffee pot. She smiled and indicated her cup, but he didn’t smile back.
‘There’s someone to see you, madam,’ he said. ‘In the lobby.’
Berlin glanced at the clock on the wall. Unless she was totally confused by the time zones, Charlie was an hour early.
The person who rose to greet her in the lobby wasn’t Charlie. It was a scruffy man with blue eyes and drooping jowls. His suit jacket was taut across his belly.
‘Katarina Berlinskaya?’ he asked. Then stuttered, ‘My apologies. Katarina Berlin.’
Berlin nodded. Had she been palmed off on one of Charlie’s colleagues?
‘Major Alexander Utkin,’ he said.
Berlin saw the seams of his jacket gape as he reached into his pocket. He produced a shiny red-and-gold badge. The inscription, in Cyrillic, meant nothing to her.
‘I am operativiny rabotnik. Detective of Moscow Criminal Investigation Department,’ said the major. ‘Police use military ranks here. You enjoyed breakfast?’
Berlin wondered momentarily if Charlie had been in an accident. The way she drove, it wouldn’t be surprising. But Berlin immediately dismissed this explanation. Someone would have called; they wouldn’t send a detective. She wasn’t a relative.
‘Sit?’ Utkin gestured to the table he had been occupying, where a plate of small pancakes and tea in a glass cup were waiting. ‘I missed breakfast. You don’t mind?’
‘What’s this about?’ said Berlin. She noticed that the receptionists at the front desk were studiously not watching them.
‘Please,’ said Utkin, indicating the chair opposite his own.
Berlin sat. ‘How can I help you, Major?’ she said, pushing her still-damp hair back behind her ears.
‘Very likely I can help you,’ said Utkin. He popped one of the small pancakes in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully.
Berlin knew the technique. He would give nothing away. He would answer her questions with a question, or a response that was meaningless. In growing frustration, she would talk too much and tell him what he wanted to know. But what on earth could that be?
‘This is your first visit to Russia?’ asked Utkin.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Utkin paused, widened his eyes – a visual cue that she should go on, he was interested in whatever she had to say.
Berlin remained silent.
‘You are here on business?’ asked Utkin.
‘Yes,’ said Berlin.
‘Of what nature?’ said Utkin.
‘I’m here to conduct due diligence interviews with a Russian businessman, on behalf of a British company.’
‘His name?’
Berlin hesitated. ‘Mikhail Gerasimov,’ she said, finally. ‘Is there a problem here, Major?’
‘You very likely have an interpreter?’ said Utkin.
‘Yes,’ said Berlin. ‘She met me at the airport this morning.’
‘I see,’ said Utkin. He sipped his tea.
Berlin heard the lift doors open.
A uniformed officer strode across the lobby, bent down to whisper something in Utkin’s ear and put two transparent plastic bags on the table. Evidence bags.
One contained her blister packs of buprenorphine, the other her passport.
Berlin stood up.
‘Please sit down, Miss Berlin,’ said Utkin. ‘And please remove your dark glasses.’
‘What’s going on here?’ demanded Berlin.
She lunged for the evidence bags but in the process knocked over Utkin’s tea, which flooded across the table.
Utkin quickly lifted the bags out of harm’s way. He nodded at the officer, who very smartly put her in a headlock, knocking her glasses off in the process. Then he stood on them. The crunch echoed in the absolute silence of the lobby.
‘What the fuck?’ shouted Berlin.
The officer tightened his grip.
The sound of birdsong drifted from the dining room.
‘I want to speak to the British embassy,’ gasped Berlin.
‘Very likely, Miss Berlin,’ said Major Utkin. ‘But for them it’s Christmas Day.’
20
The hotel manager, whose nametag identified him as Artem, seemed more than happy to make his office available for Utkin. It was clear he just wanted them out of the lobby.
Berlin was surprised when a waiter brought two cups of tea and more pancakes, and set them on the manager’s desk. Behind it sat the apparently imperturbable Utkin with the two evidence bags. Berlin noticed that they weren’t sealed.
Utkin had taken her mobile and given it to his officer, who was already in possession of her new tablet. When the waiter had gone, Utkin offered her the plate.
‘Blini?’ he asked.
Berlin ignored the offer.
Utkin ignored her black eyes. He sat back and regarded her gravely. ‘You understand, Miss Berlin, that I must be seen to uphold Russian Criminal Code.’
‘Which I haven’t broken,’ said Berlin.
‘Very likely you have,’ said Utkin.
His English was excellent but somehow archaic, as if he had learnt it by reading Dickens. He took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket, put them on and picked up the bag containing her buprenorphine.
‘The story of drug addiction, narkomania, in Russia is sad,’ he said. ‘Penalties for possession are even more sad.’
‘It’s buprenorphine,’ said Berlin. ‘A prescription medication approved for the treatment of opioid dependence. It’s perfectly legal.’
‘Not here,’ said Utkin.
Berlin felt a flush rise in her chest and creep up her throat, infusing faded scars with the heat of fear and humiliation. She didn’t belong here. She belonged in the shadows, in the CCTV control room, not in business class.
It had all been a terrible mistake.
‘Your interpreter will arrive at what time?’ asked Utkin.
‘Eleven,’ mumbled Berlin.
Utkin glanced at his watch, removed his glasses, stuffed the evidence bags in his pocket and rose.
‘I must consult with superiors,’ he said.
‘I need a receipt,’ said Berlin. ‘For my confiscated property.’
Utkin tore a piece of paper off a pad lying on the manager’s desk. He scrawled some numbers on it and thrust it at her.
‘My phone number,’ he said. ‘I will be in touch.’
He left, taking her passport and buprenorphine with him.
Black spots danced before her eyes. She gulped for air.
When Berlin emerged from the office the manager, Artem, was waiting for her, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. She cleared her throat and tried to find a normal tone.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘A misunderstanding.’
Artem didn’t bother to deploy his professional smile. Then she noticed her bag be
hind the reception desk. Her overcoat and hat lay on top of it, along with her tablet and mobile.
‘Your company will be fully reimbursed,’ he said. ‘With the exception of a small administrative charge.’
‘What’s the problem?’ said Berlin.
‘Your visa. There is problem with your visa,’ said Artem.
‘Just a moment,’ said Berlin.
She grabbed her phone, selected Del’s personal mobile from her contacts list and hit ‘call’.
‘My visa is in order,’ she said as she waited for her call to connect. ‘It was checked by your staff when I arrived.’
She kept her gaze fixed on Artem as she listened to a message in English telling her in a cheerful voice that normal service would be resumed as soon as she paid her phone bill. She hung up.
‘Please show me your visa,’ said Artem.
‘The police have taken my passport,’ said Berlin.
‘Foreigners must carry their passports at all times. It’s the law,’ said Artem. ‘We must ask you to leave. Now.’
‘You know I can’t check into another hotel without my visa,’ said Berlin. ‘Where do you suggest I go?’
Artem muttered something in Russian. The receptionists, gathered together at the far end of the desk to enjoy the spectacle, sniggered.
‘Fuck you, too,’ said Berlin.
‘What’s going on?’ came a gruff voice from the other side of the lobby. It was Charlie. Berlin snatched up her things, pushed past the manager and marched across the lobby.
‘Come on,’ she said to Charlie as she reached the revolving door. ‘And don’t look at me like that.’
From a discreet position alone in his unmarked Ford, Utkin watched the two women emerge from the hotel and hurry to a black Range Rover. As was his habit, he made a mental note of its number. The women appeared to be arguing.
He wasn’t surprised.
‘You’ve been engaged to interpret,’ insisted Berlin. ‘Call Gerasimov and reschedule.’
‘You aren’t listening,’ protested Charlie. ‘It’s out of the question.’
Berlin was struggling into her coat and hat. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Lend me your mobile. I have to talk to Delroy. How far is the British Embassy?’
‘I don’t own a mobile,’ said Charlie. ‘Why do you want to go to the embassy? It will be closed, anyway.’
‘Surely there’s a night bell or an emergency number or something?’
‘You haven’t been abroad much, have you?’ said Charlie.
‘They’ve taken my passport,’ said Berlin.
‘Who’s they?’ said Charlie.
‘The police,’ said Berlin. ‘Who do you think?’
Charlie went white. She glanced around, clearly alarmed, then got in the car, slammed the door and started the motor.
It looked very much as if she was just going to drive off.
Berlin grabbed the door handle, yanked it open and threw herself inside just as the car began to move. This woman was her lifeline. She wasn’t about to let her disappear.
They drove in silence. Charlie smoked furiously and kept looking at Berlin as if she were a bomb that might go off at any moment.
‘How on earth did you manage to come to the attention of the police?’ she snapped. ‘You’ve only been here five minutes.’
‘It’s just some misunderstanding,’ said Berlin.
‘What about?’ said Charlie.
‘My visa,’ said Berlin.
Charlie scowled, but didn’t comment further. She drove like a lunatic, taking sharp corners, cutting in and out of lanes.
They passed the grand facade of a railway station. People were surging in and out, breaking like waves around a shuffling crone in a headscarf and ankle-length coat, who stood in their midst selling mandarins from a battered carton tied to a luggage trolley.
Berlin realised it was the third time she had seen her.
They weren’t going anywhere. Charlie was obviously just driving around, thinking about what she was going to do with her.
This suited Berlin for the time being. She also had a lot to think about – principally, what would prompt a police search of her room?
The only possibility she could come up with was that housekeeping had spotted the drugs while she was at breakfast. The cleaner might recognise buprenorphine if she was a snout. Perhaps the ingrained methods of a totalitarian state had been adapted to free enterprise.
Old habits die hard.
A network of informants in hotels frequented by foreigners could provide lucrative soft targets: gay couples and human-rights workers sprang to mind. In fact, anyone whom the authorities regarded as undesirable.
She relaxed a little. Utkin hadn’t arrested her. He was there with one offsider, not a squad. The evidence bags weren’t sealed, so presumably nothing had been officially recorded or logged, and the contents could simply be removed and the whole thing forgotten. The Russian police had a reputation for graft.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that it was a shakedown. She only had Utkin’s word for it that bupe was illegal in Russia. He would let her stew for a while, then return to collect the ‘fine’.
This was the price of doing business in Russia: hence the UK Bribery Act 2010 and her due diligence mission.
The only problem was she wouldn’t be able to put her so-called fine on expenses without exposing her status to Del’s firm. She didn’t know how much he had shared with them, but she imagined he would be circumspect with information about her addiction.
She was determined not to risk embarrassing him, or queering her chances of further work from Burghley, especially as she’d now jeopardised her pitch with Hirst.
Which brought her back to Gerasimov.
‘Right,’ she said to Charlie. ‘Let’s go to work.’
21
The foyer of Mikhail Gerasimov’s very modern building was pristine and anonymous. Charlie and Berlin got in the lift and travelled to the top floor.
When the lift doors opened they stepped out directly into an apartment. It was a dazzling melange of white marble, gilt and mirrors.
The many reflections provided no place to hide. Berlin dragged her fingers through her hair.
A short, bald, unprepossessing man greeted them in Russian with a warm smile. Introductions established that this was Mikhail Gerasimov. He was wearing a navy-blue blazer with gold buttons, a white polo-neck sweater and loafers with tassels. Berlin wanted to call him ‘Commodore’.
The woman in the smart charcoal suit who stood beside the little commodore was a good deal taller. Lithe and assured in her movements, she could have played a mean game of basketball for the Soviet Union if she’d been a couple of years older, Berlin imagined.
There was a good ten years between her and her husband, whom Berlin knew from her documents was forty-eight.
When she shook hands with Berlin her grip was firm. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Gerasimova.’
Berlin, puzzled, turned to Charlie, who told her that Gerasimova was the feminine form of Gerasimov, according to Russian custom.
Gerasimova then shook hands with Charlie and spoke to her in Russian. Whatever she said surprised Charlie, who scowled and informed Berlin, rather gruffly, that Mrs Gerasimova was going to act as her husband’s interpreter.
So that’s how it was going to be: interpreters at twenty paces, sir.
The room into which they were shown glistened: glass-topped tables, life-size ceramic snow leopards, fabrics that crackled when you sat down. It smelled like the interior of a new car – a combination of warm vinyl and formaldehyde.
The cloying odour was banished as soon as Charlie and the Gerasimovs lit up.
Utkin strode into the chaotic evidence room. Six new boxes sat on a bench. He lifted the lid of the first one and tipped it out onto the bench.
Plastic evidence bags tumbled out, stuffed with crushed drink cans, cigarette butts, used condoms, syringes, the remains of
Big Macs. All collected from the alley behind the nightclub, under the watchful eye of the sergeant. Or so Utkin hoped. He sighed.
He picked up each bag, peered at it and tossed it back into the box.
When he’d got through the pile, he put the lid back on the box and started on the next one.
Berlin powered down the tablet. The air was thick with blue smoke and confusion. A full complement of questions had been asked and answered, but she was no closer to any assessment of Gerasimov, who had nodded and smiled throughout the process.
Each question had been translated by both interpreters, then the same rigmarole had been repeated with the answers.
At times his wife and Charlie would bicker in Russian about a particular word. Berlin had to insist these lexical discussions be repeated in English.
And so it went on, Gerasimov smiling and smoking. Whenever he hesitated in his response to a question, Gerasimova would fill in the gap and Gerasimov would nod in agreement.
Berlin was relieved when the farce was over.
The couple escorted Berlin and Charlie to the lift, where Gerasimov shook hands with Berlin and said something in Russian.
Gerasimova translated: ‘My husband trusts you are satisfied that his responses were full and frank. He looks forward to your next meeting.’
Charlie began to speak, but Berlin raised her hand to silence her. She didn’t need to hear it twice.
‘He wishes you a merry Christmas,’ added Gerasimova quickly, making the most of her edge over Charlie. She pressed the button and the lift doors opened.
Charlie and Berlin got in and the doors closed.
‘That went well,’ said Berlin. ‘Now I need a drink.’
Strings of onions, garlic and blood-red chillies hung from the branches of a sturdy oak tree, whose heavy green canopy formed the ceiling of the large octagonal room. A rustic cart leant against the trunk. More produce hung from the giant cartwheels.
None of it was real. Berlin couldn’t read the specials board, but she knew a themed restaurant when she stumbled into one.
A Morbid Habit Page 6
