She hoped it would live up to its name.
The gloomy interior of the labyrinthine place of worship was the perfect setting for a brooding policeman. He patrolled the walls, peering at the icons. Berlin walked with him.
‘History of this place is history of Russia,’ said Utkin. ‘But no tourists come.’
‘Why not?’ said Berlin.
‘Kremlin, Kremlin, Kremlin,’ said Utkin. He spoke with disdain.
‘You know it well?’ said Berlin. The urgency of her situation seemed to have dissipated in the atmosphere of candle smoke, incense and dusty parchment.
‘I worked here long time ago,’ said Utkin.
‘You were a monk?’ said Berlin with surprise.
Utkin chuckled. ‘After revolution, Bolshevik prison. Later, drunk tank. That was my time,’ he said. ‘I was cadet. Then soon it was museum. Church got it back in 1991.’ He made the circular motion with his hands. History: the wheel turns.
Berlin found the flat iconic images oddly compelling. She gazed into the almond eyes of the Slavic Christ and thought of the pink baby Jesus.
‘Can you tell me any more about my grandfather?’ she said.
‘Very likely he did hard labour,’ he said. ‘His nakolki, his tattoos . . .’ He stopped walking and turned to her.
‘Yes?’
‘That isn’t why you contacted me.’
They were standing in darkness in an alcove decorated with a faded fresco. A shadow moved swiftly in the periphery of Berlin’s vision.
Berlin took a step closer to Utkin and leant in, as if about to kiss him. ‘No. But before we go any further,’ she whispered, ‘do you carry a gun?’
It was Utkin’s turn to be surprised. ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘Of course.’
‘Then I strongly advise you to draw it,’ said Berlin. ‘Because someone just came in through that side door. With a weapon in his hand.’
They both shrank back further into the alcove. Footsteps approached softly from behind the altar and another figure emerged into the flickering candlelight, meeting up with his colleague.
Their shapes huddled together, indistinguishable in the shadows. A hiss of whispers rose into the dome above them. The pair then separated and began a systematic search. It was only a matter of time before they reached the alcove.
A heavy iron grille hung about four feet from the wall, protecting the fresco. It created a cell between the two massive columns that formed the recess.
Utkin nudged the grille with his hip and, to Berlin’s amazement, it silently swung open. His stint at the drunk tank had paid off.
It was tight, but he and Berlin were able to squeeze beyond it. Utkin pushed the grille back into place and they crouched together behind the pillar.
Berlin smothered a giggle. Utkin frowned at her. It wasn’t funny. Her reactions were all over the place.
Footsteps approached, paused, then moved on.
Berlin craned her head. She couldn’t see the men, but it seemed they were no longer concerned with keeping a low profile. Their voices carried in the empty stone space.
‘What are they saying?’ whispered Berlin.
‘He made mistake. No-one here,’ Utkin whispered.
A door creaked and a shaft of light fell across the flagstones, then disappeared as the door closed behind them.
Berlin and Utkin crouched in the dark alcove under the saint’s baleful gaze, waiting.
57
Charlie thought she was hearing things. A knock on the door. But the second time there was no mistake. One of the most dreadful sounds. There was no point in ignoring it. She swore, strode to the door and flung it open.
A middle-aged woman gave her a wintry smile. ‘Charlotte Inkpin?’ she said.
Charlie stared at her.
‘Allow me to introduce myself,’ said the woman. She was holding a black briefcase. She offered Charlie her other hand. ‘Mrs Muir.’
Berlin sat in silence beside Utkin. The wide road ran parallel with the Moskva. They were driving in the direction of a massive statue of a man on the prow of a galleon. It loomed out of the water, the rigging towering above him. Peter the Great. A useful landmark, Charlie had said. She was right.
They drove over a bridge. Utkin pulled up in front of an archway under a broad flight of stone steps. A bloke leaning against the wall nodded at Utkin and he drove slowly through the narrow gap. They followed a route down, marked by concrete pillars. At each level the air became danker and the temperature rose.
When Utkin finally stopped and turned off the motor, Berlin could hear the drips of condensation hitting the car’s roof.
‘They were looking for you,’ said Utkin.
Berlin nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said.
‘Do you know why?’
She hesitated. She could see furtive figures darting about, caught in the blue bars of fluorescent light, getting in and out of cars, ignoring each other.
It was a dead zone. No signals could penetrate at this depth, in either direction. There was no quick escape route. You came down here with someone you trusted, or not at all.
‘The official at the British embassy told me I was being investigated by the SVR,’ admitted Berlin.
‘That’s why you asked me,’ he said. ‘I should have realised.’
Even in the dim light Berlin could see his pupils dilate. He rubbed the back of his neck, where no doubt his bristles were standing on end.
‘I thought it was over,’ said Berlin.
‘It’s never over,’ said Utkin. ‘Maryna Gerasimova. Colonel, SVR.’
‘Jesus,’ said Berlin. ‘Do you think she murdered her husband?’
Utkin gazed out of the window. ‘Not with her own hand,’ he said. ‘So now, Miss Berlinskaya, tell me everything.’
There was no point in being coy. ‘I think it all started when I was working in the CCTV control room on an industrial estate in London,’ she said. ‘I saw two men make a delivery to a warehouse. It didn’t appear on any schedule.’
‘You were suspicious?’ said Utkin.
‘It was odd, that was all. But alarm bells began to ring when the supervisor offered me a bribe to keep quiet.’
‘That’s unusual in London?’ said Utkin.
Berlin shook her head. ‘It was what he said that surprised me; he said they were stealing from the warehouse. But I knew they had actually unloaded something.’
A poxy night shift at a miserable north London industrial estate had led to all this.
‘The bloke who was supposed to work the shift in the CCTV control room, someone called Raj, had called in sick at the last minute. I imagine they were confident that he would turn a blind eye.’
‘Most people would, yes,’ murmured Utkin. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t keep quiet.’
‘I passed the information on to a friend, a journalist. He found out the van belonged to the Russian embassy.’
‘What was in it?’ said Utkin.
‘That’s a very good question,’ said Berlin. ‘Whatever it was, it’s unleashed a shitstorm.’
Utkin raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘It’s an expression,’ said Berlin. ‘A lot of trouble.’
Mrs Muir sat at Charlie’s table. The file that she had produced from her briefcase was open in front of her.
Charlie sat opposite her, rigid, as Mrs Muir perused the file.
‘. . . and we see here that you have a son,’ she said. ‘And where is he?’
She looked up at Charlie.
Charlie felt a sweat break out on her top lip, despite the frigid temperature. She licked at it.
‘I’ll just go and get him, if you like,’ she said.
‘There’s no need,’ said Mrs Muir.
‘No, really. You should meet him,’ said Charlie.
She stood up and with much less equanimity than she felt, crossed the room. She had to do something, and fast. She closed the double doors behind her and slipped her phone out of her pocket.
Utkin had produce
d a bottle of vodka from his endless supply in the boot of the Ford. Berlin longed for a good single malt. She took a swig and handed it back. Utkin drank deeply, then wiped the back of his mouth on his sleeve.
‘The reporter’s former editor, Carmichael, has been murdered,’ said Berlin. ‘And the newspaper has been bought by a man named Joseph Kalandarishvili.’
‘Ah,’ said Utkin. ‘I know of him.’
‘You know I was sent to interview Gerasimov.’
‘Who was already dead,’ said Utkin.
‘I don’t think they knew that,’ said Berlin. ‘There was another angle.’
‘They wanted you out of the way,’ said Utkin.
‘It was more than that. I’m here for a reason.’
Saying it out loud and piecing it together for Utkin while huddled in this subterranean realm, the conclusion was inescapable. If she became a threat, they wanted her where they could shut her down, permanently, and control the subsequent investigation.
From the way Utkin was looking at her, he was reaching the same conclusion. Very likely, she thought. After all, he was a detective.
‘I think I might be the only one who can identify the men in the van,’ said Berlin. ‘Apart from the supervisor, of course.’ Her memory of the two stocky, unshaven men with identical pudding-basin haircuts was vivid.
Utkin nodded. ‘You said intelligence firm sent you here.’
‘But they were acting under instructions.’
‘From who?’ said Utkin.
Berlin could see the fifty quid lying on the console and smell the threat that had accompanied it.
‘Hirst Corporation. The world’s leading international security solutions group.’
She was a risk, and she had been managed. Hirst was protecting Gerasimov’s warehouse, which the Russian Embassy was using for an illegal operation.
Hirst had the perfect cover: a legitimate job in pursuit of a business venture, undertaken by a respected, impartial third party – Burghley.
But if something went wrong, the only witness to the warehouse delivery could be eliminated by their Russian partner.
No doubt there was no paper trail of Hirst’s request that Burghley use Berlin. That decision would rest on Del’s shoulders.
She looked Utkin in the eye and laid it out.
‘Find the men from the church and arrest them,’ she said.
It was a challenge and a plea.
‘What?’ protested Utkin. ‘We didn’t even see them.’
‘There must be cameras in the area,’ said Berlin. ‘They didn’t walk there. Find the car and you’ll find them. Men carrying guns aren’t beginners; they’ll have history, previous convictions. You could track them down.’
Utkin shook his head, his expression grave.
‘You misunderstand. If they are SVR, even if I could find them, they would laugh at me. Arrest them for what? You are criminal here.’
‘For God’s sake, do you want to catch this killer?’ said Berlin. ‘You’re after whoever murdered Matvienko and Gerasimov. The men looking for me could have useful information. At the very least.’
Utkin frowned. ‘But there’s only one connection,’ he said. ‘You.’
The way he said it gave Berlin the chills.
‘You’re wrong,’ she said. ‘Gerasimov owned the warehouse in London.’
Utkin started the car. ‘Where can I drop you?’ he said.
58
Charlie sat at the table with her forehead resting on her arms, her eyes shut tight against the awfulness of it all, struggling to breathe. Her chest ached with the effort. She couldn’t take much more.
Nikki sat next to her and gently stroked her hair. She was always amazed and grateful when he showed such sensitivity. She sat up and he wrapped his arms around her. A shoulder to cry on. She hadn’t had one of those for a very long time. Leaning into him, she began to weep.
‘My dear boy,’ she said. ‘It will soon be over.’
Berlin thought it was less than gentlemanly of Utkin to dump her in the middle of a metropolis when she was being pursued by armed thugs.
Her assumption that she was in central Moscow could, of course, be entirely wrong. The city was vast and gave no quarter to strangers. In that respect it reminded her of London.
She focused on Peter the Great in the distance. He would guide her back to the canal, and thence to Charlie’s. As if that were a refuge; the woman could be one of her enemies. They seemed to be multiplying.
Only two people knew what she’d seen at the warehouse: Magnus and the supervisor. It was very unlikely that Magnus would have mentioned her name to anyone.
Gerasimov was dead before she arrived. The revelation of the deception, the Potemkin village, confirmed it. Perhaps, like Berlin, he had also known the identities of the men who made the delivery to the warehouse.
Gerasimova and the lookalike little commodore had been forced to put on a show when they found out she was coming to interview him. If Gerasimov hadn’t appeared, it would have sent up a flag.
But to whom? Hirst? Maybe. Their joint venture would have died with Gerasimov. It was a necessary condition, but not sufficient.
Gerasimov’s death would have come out sooner or later; Hirst could find another partner. Something of much greater significance than a company merger had to be on the line.
Berlin was surprised to find the chain on the gate hanging free. Exhausted, she limped up the garden path and into the lobby. In the murk it was able to hide its dilapidation and project a semblance of its former grandeur.
Each rise of the broad staircase challenged her sore Achilles tendon. When she finally reached Charlie’s imposing entrance, the door stood ajar. Stepping inside, she crossed the vestibule and entered the reception room.
The reek that assailed her was familiar. The room was dark, except for the glow from the wood stove.
Berlin felt for the switch and flicked on the electric chandeliers.
Charlie was sitting at the table. Nikki was beside her.
A dark line joined them as if they’d been struck by lightning, which had scorched a continuous pattern across their chests.
Berlin moved closer. The streak was damp. Blood.
Charlie looked to her left.
Berlin followed her gaze.
Mrs Muir lay on the floor, her throat slashed. Blood had pooled around her.
The bloody line that joined Charlie and Nikki was spatter thrown from a knife at the end of its arc.
Then Berlin noticed something lying on the table.
It was Mrs Muir’s tongue.
‘They thought she was you,’ said Charlie.
59
Berlin sat on the stone steps beneath the faded pink portico, trying not to think about Mrs Muir. The poor woman’s death had given Berlin a chance at life: if Berlin’s would-be assassins thought she was dead, she was safe for the moment.
It was an uncharitable thought. But not quite as uncharitable as to wonder how they could have confused her with the desiccated civil servant.
It was a thought she decided not to pursue.
Mrs Muir’s hideous death couldn’t be reported to the police, or the embassy, without exposing Berlin. Struggling with nausea Berlin had rolled up the threadbare rug on which Mrs Muir lay and dragged her to the furthest wing of Charlie’s apartment. The temperature was in their favour.
The tongue she had delicately scraped off the table with an old Pravda and dumped in the garden, after which she had quietly been sick. No doubt scavengers would consume both. There was no shortage of them.
Charlie thought it was unlikely anyone would know of Mrs Muir’s visit. Mrs Muir was intelligence. Accordingly, she would have played her cards close to her chest. She had come alone for a reason.
She would be missed, but no-one would necessarily know where she had gone. Her colleagues would eventually assume the enemy had got to her, one way or the other.
Berlin remembered an article about a Russian defector, Oleg Gordievsky, who
claimed there were as many Russian spies in London now as during the Cold War.
Gordievsky had been the KGB’s station chief in London and operated as a double agent for more than ten years. When his superiors became suspicious they recalled him. The Brits smuggled him out in the boot of a diplomatic vehicle.
In 2007 Gordievsky had been awarded the Order of St Michael and St George by the Queen. In Russia he had been awarded a death sentence.
A wheeze and shuffle heralded Charlie.
‘Mind if I join you?’ she said.
She sat down and lit a cigarette.
Her hands shook and she was deathly pale. Hardly surprising: a woman had been murdered in her living room.
‘How on earth did she find out I was here?’ murmured Berlin.
There was a long silence. Not companionable. They were both still stunned.
‘She had my file with her,’ said Charlie, finally. ‘She knew everything. I suppose it makes sense they would keep track of someone like me.’
Berlin let this sink in. ‘Are defectors always spies?’ she said.
‘Not invariably,’ said Charlie. ‘But it does tend to go with the territory. One has to offer one’s host something.’
A sacrifice.
‘The tongue. What was that all about?’ said Berlin.
‘It was a warning,’ said Charlie. ‘Not to wag mine.’ Charlie lit another cigarette from her stub.
Berlin nearly asked for one.
Charlie had insisted that it was a coincidence that the killers had turned up while Mrs Muir was there. Berlin didn’t believe that for a moment. Charlie had tipped them off.
‘What’s the siloviki?’ asked Berlin.
‘Where did you hear that?’ said Charlie. She glanced left and right, as if someone might be lurking in the bushes, listening. It was clear that just the word made her nervous. ‘Men of power.’
‘Men of power?’ echoed Berlin. ‘Like the old boys’ network?’
Charlie’s chuckle was grim.
‘In the old system it was the party apparatchiks who ruled. In Yeltsin’s time he empowered the oligarchs. But when Putin’s turn came he appointed his old KGB comrades to run the police, the military, the bureaucracy and, of course, the so-called new intelligence services. They’re all still there. Collective noun: siloviki.’
A Morbid Habit Page 17
