A Morbid Habit

by Annie Hauxwell

  The woman was gaining ground.

  Berlin ran through the exit, slammed the door and yanked the bolt across.

  The Russian words on the back had been conveniently translated into English: This Door Must Not Be Locked.

  Spurred on by the rattling and hammering on the other side, Berlin took the stairs two at a time and ran into the cargo bay. A lone forklift truck was executing a three-point turn. Its yellow warning beacon was spinning and it was emitting a high-pitched signal.

  The pulsating light and the noise gave her the cover she needed to cross the service apron and run around the corner of the building to the car park.

  A few rows away someone was hauling a suitcase out of his boot. He handed it to a smartly dressed businessman hovering impatiently nearby. The businessman strode away.

  Berlin slowed down and approached the driver, who was getting back into his car.

  ‘Chastniki?’ she said, holding up a fistful of roubles.

  The man frowned, then smiled. ‘You want lift?’ he said.

  Berlin slid into the passenger seat and didn’t look back.

  The helpful driver dropped her near the canal. She walked beside it, looking for water. The moon’s reflection failed at the line of demarcation between ice and liquid. When she reached a darker patch, she bent over the parapet and let something slip from her hands.

  The tablet barely made a splash.

  Her feeling that she hadn’t just been caught up in a random immigration sweep at the internet café had proved correct. She had been using her computer. The bright, shiny new device that had arrived after hers had been nicked.

  It came via Burghley, but a device could have been planted by the client, the frontrunner being Hirst.

  They’d failed at the café, so they had set up the airport scam. The Russians weren’t the only people she had to worry about. The British were after her too.

  She had reached the point where there was no-one she could call on for help without putting herself, or them, at risk: anyone could be watching or listening.

  The ice crept across the water, sealing the breach. The canal was once again a seamless grey mass; all traces of its recent rupture had been obliterated.

  Berlin’s spectral status was now absolute. For all intents and purposes, she was dead.

  She walked back to Charlie’s, a ghost of her former self.

  The fighter

  53

  Delroy waited impatiently in the Cheshire Cheese, a bog-standard pub in Crutched Friars, underneath the railway arches. Hirst’s representative didn’t want to meet at the office, or during business hours. He was looking to distance the company from Burghley and its subcontractor. As if somehow this was all Berlin’s fault.

  Del hadn’t actually met him before; everything had been done at the last minute, over the phone. But when a tall bloke in an expensive suit walked in, he looked straight at Del and nodded, then went to the bar. He brought back two doubles, put one in front of Del and offered his hand.

  ‘Peter Green,’ he said.

  Del took his hand and shook it without any warmth. ‘Delroy Jacobs.’

  The Sentinel was spread out on the table.

  Del couldn’t restrain himself. He went straight for it. ‘You knew that Berlin and I went back a long way,’ he said. ‘You knew she wouldn’t question the gig if it came from me. You were watching her.’

  Green sat down. ‘We were protecting her.’

  ‘I should have paid more attention,’ said Del. ‘One of the partners told me the job was coming and to run with it. That was it. I thought it must have been because of Christmas.’

  He took a long drink. He could see Peter Green wasn’t going to say anything. He was all corporate restraint.

  ‘I wanted to believe it. But I’ve been around long enough to know that when a job from a big client gets flicked to the new boy, it’s because he will be easy to sacrifice if it goes pear-shaped.’ Del jabbed a finger at The Sentinel. ‘And it has gone pear-shaped, hasn’t it, Green?’

  ‘Don’t blame yourself,’ said Green. ‘Your boss says jump, you say “How high?” We’re all the same.’

  ‘Berlin trusted me,’ said Del. He gulped his Scotch.

  ‘You should know, Jacobs, your firm has the confidence of the Ministry. They all went to school together.’

  Del realised that Green was trying to tell him something. ‘There’s no paperwork, no contract? It’s all been done on a nod and wink through the old boys’ network?’ he asked.

  Green nodded, confirming it.

  ‘What about the fee? Berlin’s advance, her expenses?’ said Del.

  ‘I imagine someone gave you a Post-it note with the bank account details?’

  Del stared at the bottom of his empty glass.

  Green went to the bar. When he returned with two more doubles, Del drank his down. He wasn’t drinking to savour the flavour.

  ‘So when did you last hear from her?’ asked Green.

  ‘There was a message not long after she arrived.’

  ‘The one that said the job was going okay?’ said Green.

  ‘She emailed the interview transcripts, too. I forwarded them to your office.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She’d left the hotel.’

  ‘A heads-up at that point would have saved us all a lot of trouble,’ said Green.

  ‘Why would we bother the client with that sort of detail? She changed hotels, no big deal.’

  ‘But it was a big deal,’ said Green.

  ‘It was only when she mentioned the interpreter that a flag went up,’ said Del. ‘I just didn’t put it all together.’

  ‘She didn’t use the bloke you’d booked?’

  ‘No,’ said Del. ‘It was someone called Charlie Inkpin. I thought he must be one of Gerasimov’s people.’

  ‘Right,’ said Green. He finished his drink and glanced at his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Jacobs, I have another —’

  ‘Not so fast, Green,’ snapped Del. ‘I sent Berlin to do a straightforward job that was a sham.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ said Green. ‘We had to do due diligence on a prospective business partner.’

  ‘But you must have known that if this got out, Berlin would be in the worst possible place.’ Del picked up The Sentinel and thrust it at him.

  ‘Steady,’ said Green. ‘It only got out because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. We were just asked to keep an eye on the warehouse.’

  ‘Who by?’ hissed Delroy. ‘The so-called Ministry?’

  Del could see the smooth company-man façade was crumbling. Green’s knuckles were white. He was sweating.

  ‘We’ve done everything we can,’ said Green. ‘The British embassy is moving heaven and earth to find her. We’re giving them every assistance.’

  ‘Hirst knew about that unscheduled delivery,’ accused Del. ‘Christ! According to newspapers the fucking British government knew! Where did the tip-off come from?’

  ‘The intel was offered to us to sweeten a business deal. We just passed it on.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Del. ‘It’s all about money.’

  ‘Fear was a factor, too,’ said Green. ‘A quick exit from Russia was necessary. The source knew Whitehall would expedite the process for someone who brought a little something with them.’

  ‘So where is your source now?’

  Green looked down at his drink.

  Del took a deep breath. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Of course. Gerasimov.’

  ‘It’s all about national security.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ snapped Delroy. ‘It’s all about the so-called national interest. Which means the City. It’s not the same thing.’ Delroy thumped the table.

  A few patrons looked around.

  Green stood up and strode away.

  Delroy leapt up and ran after him. He grabbed Green as he was opening the door and they spilled out onto the pavement. Passers-by gave the two men a wide berth as they tussled.

  ‘What about Berlin’s i
nterest in staying alive?’ shouted Del.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate,’ said Green. He tried to extricate himself.

  ‘You’re not my mate,’ said Del, fierce. ‘What happened here? What are we going to tell her mother? Oh, sorry, we sent Berlin to Moscow on a job and it doesn’t look like she’s coming back. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What the fuck can I do about it?’ said Green. He punched Del in the sternum. Del staggered, winded.

  Green held on to him and got right into his face. ‘Do you want to be next, Jacobs?’ he whispered. ‘Or Linda and the baby? You need to start coming to terms with the fact that it’s over.’

  He pushed Del up against the wall and let him go.

  Del’s knees buckled and he slid to the ground.

  Green straightened himself up and walked away.

  ‘What?’ gasped Del. ‘What do you mean, “it’s over”?’

  Fagan glanced back at Delroy Jacobs, slumped against the wall of the pub. The bloke had been exploited, and he knew it. A strange sensation gripped Fagan. After a moment he identified it as empathy. It wasn’t helpful.

  Berlin’s last known position was a canal in the middle of Moscow. It wasn’t conclusive – she was a smart operator.

  It wasn’t quite over, but thanks to Jacobs it soon would be.

  54

  Mrs Muir regarded the man and woman who stood in front of her with ill-disguised contempt.

  ‘This is the best you can do?’ she said. ‘A civilian who doesn’t know the city or the language manages to give you the slip. Twice.’

  The woman shuffled, shamefaced.

  ‘We could ask the locals for help,’ ventured the man.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Mrs Muir. She arched an eyebrow. ‘We know how that will end.’

  ‘Why haven’t we got backup? This is highly irregular. I don’t understand what we are supposed to do if —’

  ‘Behave like professionals,’ said Mrs Muir.

  Their faces hardened. Their eyes conveyed exactly what they thought of her, sitting in a nice, warm office, giving them orders. Mrs Muir was unconcerned. She was used to it. The problem nowadays was that life imitated art, and mediocre art at that, far too often.

  The men failed to shave, apart from their thick skulls, then bought designer suits and thought the job was half done. The women, bitter at being patronised by their inept older male colleagues, just wanted to shoot someone. They were loose cannons, in every sense of the word.

  ‘Our involvement is off the record, so we can’t employ the usual methods. That would require a paper trail. Do you understand? Just find her.’

  The two operatives stared at their feet.

  ‘Why are you still here?’ said Mrs Muir.

  They stomped out.

  The old-fashioned phone on her desk rang. She kept it as a reminder of simpler times. She picked up and listened. When she replaced the receiver she turned to her computer and set up a query. While the servers in some remote, heavily fortified location were doing their work, she considered her options.

  Delegation was perhaps not the wisest choice, given the unreliability of her subordinates. Sometimes, if you wanted a job done, it was easier to do it yourself.

  Her team would report a fruitless search. They had tried, and failed. They wouldn’t be covered in glory, but they were used to that. Failure was the best option, officially. The computer pinged: a result.

  Unofficially, she now had other plans.

  55

  Berlin limped out into the bright Moscow day. She felt stronger; she had slept more soundly. Anyone tracking her electronically now had a problem.

  Charlie hadn’t seemed that surprised to see her back again; in fact, she was almost enthusiastic about Berlin’s reappearance. Had she known about the airport set-up?

  The tension in Berlin’s damaged tendon eased as she lengthened her stride, following the curve of the canal, which would guide her back to where she had begun.

  When she reached the main road, cops on motorbikes were holding back vehicles and pedestrians to allow a motorcade of black limousines to pass unimpeded. Russian flags fluttered on the bonnets. The traffic was gridlocked in all directions. She shuffled from foot to foot, trying to keep warm among the crowd of scowling, grumbling Muscovites.

  It was clear that their chagrin was directed at the occupants of the vehicles, but it made her nervous.

  The chemicals were leaching out of her system and fear was colonising the empty places. It was the kind of terror that chased out normal, everyday anxiety about such things as not speaking the language, getting lost in a strange city or being a person of interest to shadowy authorities.

  These things were trivial by comparison.

  This was the kind of angst that could only be kept at bay with action. She had to do something. The sweats and weakness would claim her again at some point, but she would just have to ride it out.

  In the meantime she would find out what the hell was going on: her self-respect rested entirely on her professionalism. If she lost that, she might as well retreat into a pleasant narcotic haze until the day she died.

  The arse-covering exercise was over – theirs and her own.

  The image of her grandfather came to mind: posing in his long johns, bald head cocked and fists raised. She would follow Zayde’s example.

  Come out fighting.

  Artem, the hotel manager, was very surprised to see her. He took a step back behind the reception desk as if she were infectious.

  ‘How may I help you?’ he said.

  The lobby was bustling with European businessmen checking out. An American tour group was checking in.

  ‘I can happily make a scene here, or perhaps we could go somewhere more private?’ said Berlin.

  From the hasty fashion in which he lifted the barrier, allowing her to pass beyond the desk, his choice was clear.

  Artem didn’t sit, nor did he invite Berlin to do so. No-one was going to bring blinis.

  She had returned to the place where it had all started, only a few hours after she had arrived in Moscow.

  Without Utkin’s intervention she would never have known that Charlie wasn’t the interpreter assigned by Burghley. The major had taken her passport and her drugs, but he hadn’t asked her for anything except information.

  All his actions since their first encounter had kept her out of trouble. It had dawned on her that if Utkin wasn’t actually her friend, he was certainly the least of her enemies.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Artem.

  ‘I want you to make some calls and find the policeman that was here. Major Utkin. Then let me speak to him.’

  ‘Why don’t you just call him yourself?’ asked Artem.

  It was a reasonable question. If she hadn’t lost the piece of paper with his number on it, and thrown away her mobile, she wouldn’t have to take this circuitous route. The stress had obviously got to her and she had made some stupid mistakes.

  ‘I lost my mobile,’ said Berlin. ‘I don’t have his number and my Russian consists solely of da, nyet and vodka.’

  Artem sighed, sat down and picked up the phone.

  56

  The gilded dome was Berlin’s beacon. More copper than gold beneath the slate sky, it was the only one she could see with four blue domes standing sentinel around it. Utkin’s description of the place they were to meet was apt.

  Artem had clearly known where to look for the major, and after a couple of brief conversations he was put through and handed the phone to Berlin.

  Utkin had been solicitous; he’d asked if she had come to the hotel alone and how she was feeling. His directions had been clear – he’d told her to keep to the road – and she had left the hotel with a small sense of achievement.

  Every investigation was about making the small connections and letting them build into the big picture.

  The policeman was the first piece of the puzzle.

  Berlin made for the dome as quickly as possible, but the footpat
h was treacherous. Short, tentative steps seemed to work best on the ice. Her Peacekeeper boots were standing up to the snow well, but it had never occurred to her that she’d be doing so much walking. Del had told her that the interpreter would have a car that would be at her disposal. So much for that.

  In fact, he hadn’t told her anything she really needed to know. That’s what it looked like. There was a very good chance that the client had blindsided Burghley, too, relying on its impeccable reputation to deflect any suspicions she might have harboured.

  Utkin had said it should only take her twenty minutes to reach the church, which he had described perfectly. She followed the road around a bend and up a hill, looking down on a large frozen pond, and a track around it that led up to the sheer, whitewashed wall. That was the short cut she would have been tempted to take.

  Something trotted along the track that ran beneath the wall. It could have been a Shetland pony, but it was a brindle mastiff. Even at this distance, Berlin could see the drool hanging from its jowls. At the end of a very long rope was an old man. It looked as if the dog were leading him.

  She was grateful that Utkin had emphasised the necessity of sticking to the road.

  Finally she reached a pair of massive timber gates. Beyond them were whitewashed buildings reminiscent of a medieval village, with the exception of the church, which loomed over them.

  Berlin was an atheist, but she was moved by the dignity of the grand building in its somewhat tatty state. She admired persistence. The enduring legacy of faith always amazed her, and the testimony of its mute, corporeal manifestations was never less than impressive.

  A faded wooden sign beside the gates was in Cyrillic, but beneath it a plastic box held damp, yellowing tourist maps of Moscow sights. ‘100R’ was scrawled on the box. Two quid. There was no-one about.

  Berlin hesitated, then took off a glove, fumbled in her pocket and found the required fee. She was her mother’s daughter.

  A small symbol on the map informed her that the church, a katholikon, was the first in Moscow, built in the fourteenth century. The fortification was constructed in 1640. It was the Novospassky Monastery, the Monastery of the New Saviour.