A Morbid Habit

by Annie Hauxwell

  Utkin turned. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said.

  ‘Where is she?’ said Yuri. He was breathing heavily, as if he had run a mile.

  ‘There was nothing in the system,’ said Utkin. ‘I believe they let her go.’

  67

  Berlin limped into the apartment.

  Charlie dropped her spoon into her soup and stood up. ‘I thought you’d gone,’ she exclaimed.

  Berlin sat down before she fell.

  ‘What on earth are you still doing here?’ said Charlie. ‘You should be moving on.’

  ‘But I haven’t even seen the Kremlin yet,’ said Berlin.

  ‘You’re a fool, Berlin,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but you should get out while you can. And take my boy with you.’ Her wheezing was worse than usual. She came and took Berlin’s hand, softening her tone.

  ‘My dear,’ she said. ‘You don’t value your life enough. This is your last chance. Don’t you understand that?’

  Berlin tried to move away, but Charlie hung on. ‘Mrs Muir told me an SVR colonel was running the operation you disrupted,’ she said.

  ‘Gerasimova,’ said Berlin.

  ‘Acting with the highest authority.’

  ‘The siloviki,’ said Berlin.

  Charlie nodded. ‘They don’t fear the law. They are the law. You saw the result lying on that table.’

  Berlin shrugged her off. ‘What have I got to lose?’ she said. ‘I’m already dead.’

  Yuri went home to kiss his daughters. Daria would be at work, but there was no school. It was crisp and clear. The last day of the year. The blue sky could fool you into believing it was the beginning of something, not the end.

  The market near his home was still open. He went in and bought a huge bag of groceries: cheese like string, for his youngest, who loved it; chocolate for the teenager, who would complain it made her fat; and persimmons for his wife.

  The apartment was warm. The girls were watching TV, talking on their phones, playing on their computers. Multitasking. Most incredibly, in separate rooms. He had grown up in a two-roomed apartment with his parents, his grandmother and his two brothers. No-one complained. Privacy was bourgeois.

  His father had fought in the Great Patriotic War, defending the motherland. Millions had died, a fact conveniently forgotten by Russia’s erstwhile allies. If Russia had fallen, the West would have followed. It was an object lesson in the shifting nature of alliances.

  For his father, the war was never really over. The enemy just spoke a different language.

  ‘Tell your mother I may be delayed at work,’ he said. He put on his cap and saluted his children.

  They stared at him as if he were mad.

  ‘Be good, work hard. Happy New Year.’

  Gerasimova stared at the computer screen, watching prime minister’s question time on the BBC News site. An opposition MP had alleged that Britain’s intelligence services were engaged in a cover-up of recent activity by the Russian delegation.

  A British citizen who could identify the participants was in Moscow, unable to leave. She was being pursued by the authorities there and at risk.

  The MP sat down.

  The prime minister rose. ‘These are scurrilous rumours,’ he began. There were loud boos. ‘This is the high price we pay for a free press. If the Honourable Member has any evidence to support these wild allegations, let him produce it. All he and his cronies have done is manage to insult the Russian president and cost this country millions in lost trade opportunities . . .’

  The tumult in the House grew. The Speaker called for order. Gerasimova shook her head in disbelief.

  ‘. . . all because of a personal vendetta by the proprietor of a newspaper, who is himself in exile from Russia because he is being pursued by the authorities for tax evasion. If they have a witness, let them produce her.’

  The prime minister sat down.

  Gerasimova wondered again at the inability of the British government to control their press. The liberal democracies had failed; they offered sanctuary to foreign freeloaders who wished them ill, and were paralysed by their fear of feckless public opinion. Nationalism was a dirty word to these effete states.

  The Russian government was not afraid of international disapproval. They were used to it. The embassy in London had issued a statement saying that the allegations were politically motivated. No British citizen was being sought by Moscow authorities.

  Gerasimova reflected that this was because the British citizen was dead.

  Her mobile rang and she picked up. It was Yuri.

  ‘Maryna,’ he whispered. ‘How will you ever forgive me?’

  68

  Berlin ate her share of the tinned kasha, a kind of porridge that Charlie had dished up for the three of them. It was a meal conducted by the light of a hurricane lamp. Charlie was of the opinion that the snow had brought down the power line, which was no doubt illegal and would not be repaired until the thaw.

  It was still daylight, but with the windows blacked out the gloom inside was pervasive. No-one spoke. Nikki never uttered a word anyway, so his silence was unremarkable. But Charlie’s forced cheerfulness had evaporated. She couldn’t keep it up now. She seemed preoccupied.

  It added to Berlin’s sense of foreboding.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about your krysha any more,’ she blurted out.

  Charlie looked at her, impassive, her eyes blank.

  ‘He’s in the hands of the authorities now,’ said Berlin.

  Charlie’s lips twitched. She put her hand to her mouth. She shook.

  Berlin realised that she was laughing. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, and shoved her bowl across the table and stood up. ‘I’m going out. This is a madhouse.’

  Berlin limped down the sweeping staircase and immediately wished she’d never left the warmth of the stove. She was disturbed by Charlie’s sceptical reaction.

  Berlin had flushed out the rat-faced officer, so surely Utkin would act. He was driven by his pursuit of a killer; she was just driven.

  Standing for a moment beneath the portico, the cold air cleared her head.

  Soaring cranes on building sites across the canal reached out to each other across the slate sky, keeping a mournful balance, swaying slightly in the wind, closer to God than the ancient domes that swelled beneath them.

  She was a junkie. Her perception was shot, her guesses were wild. She couldn’t rely on her own judgement.

  She’d missed something.

  Charlie glanced at Berlin’s bowl on the other side of the table. It was still half full.

  ‘Waste not, want not,’ she said. She reached over and pushed the bowl towards Nikki.

  ‘Eat up, darling boy,’ she said. ‘You’ll need your strength. A walk tonight. A journey tomorrow.’

  Something lying beside Berlin’s bowl caught her eye. It was her own mobile. Berlin must have left it there. She scrolled through the log. Berlin hadn’t taken it to make calls.

  Good Christ. The realisation struck Charlie with full force. Berlin had set her up. That’s what she’d meant when she said that her krysha was in the hands of the authorities.

  Charlie ran from the apartment and took the stairs as fast as her legs would allow. But by the time she emerged onto the portico there was no sign of Berlin.

  God only knew what the woman had done now, but whatever it was it could only make matters worse. She hurried down the path, squeezed through the gate and peered up and down the road, but Berlin had gone.

  There was no way to warn her.

  69

  The traffic was more chaotic than ever. Berlin noticed that the shoppers streaming in all directions were clutching huge bags of food; queues were spilling out of the shops and onto the streets. Everyone was preparing for midnight. The excitement was palpable.

  Brilliantly lit skyscrapers jostled the heavens: pinnacles of luminosity, bright blue against the black sky. Stalin would have been proud.

  Massive, silent screens c
arried images of luxury vehicles hurtling across the desert. Strings of pearls glistened in store windows, draped across tiny, exquisite shoes and handbags.

  Berlin felt a pang of nostalgia for Soviet utilitarianism, which was ridiculous, because this was her first visit. The European Mall beckoned, offering the bounty to be acquired by individual enterprise, not collective endeavour.

  Across the busy boulevard the McDonald’s was packed.

  The girl was outside the door, begging with her paper cup, just as Berlin knew she would be. They were all creatures of habit. Berlin waited for the lights to change and crossed over.

  The girl recognised her immediately. She stood still, glancing over Berlin’s shoulder, probably to see if the fat policeman was lurking behind her.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ asked Berlin.

  The girl didn’t respond, but she didn’t run away and the look in her eyes was alert, intelligent.

  ‘I’d like to give you a thousand roubles,’ said Berlin, quickly.

  A slow smile spread across the girl’s face. She had understood every word and knew it was a test. She got the joke.

  ‘For what?’ she said.

  The girl said her name was Anna. She led Berlin back across the road and into the railway station behind the Mall.

  Berlin was astonished by the beauty of the iron and glass dome and the huge, elaborate murals. Her failure to have paid this extraordinary city even the slightest bit of attention suddenly depressed her. Clarity had its downside.

  Anna weaved through the throngs of passengers to a line of small kiosks, where she ordered hot pastries filled with cheese. Berlin paid for them.

  They sat nearby on upturned crates and ate in silence.

  Anna showed no signs of the agitation that Berlin would usually have associated with a street junkie who was chasing. It was also clear, when Berlin had the opportunity to look at her in a decent light, that she wasn’t a girl. She was a young woman in her mid-twenties, her wasted flesh evidence of years of neglect.

  ‘Where did you learn English?’ said Berlin.

  ‘At school, then at university,’ said Anna. ‘I was student of biochemistry.’

  She gave Berlin a wan smile, aware of the irony.

  ‘No more krokodil ?’ said Berlin.

  Anna shook her head, sombre. ‘Pasha died,’ she said.

  As if that explained everything.

  Anna was getting clean. She was begging for money for food, not dope. Hence their visit to the kiosk.

  The frail young woman brushed the crumbs from her grubby jacket. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she said.

  70

  Yuri could hardly meet Maryna’s stony gaze. His men, stinking of alcohol, stood as far away from her as possible. Their celebrations were premature. She beckoned them forwards, but her eyes were on Yuri. They shuffled closer. She pointed at a photocopy of Berlin’s passport photo on her desk.

  ‘Is that her?’

  The men peered at the picture.

  ‘It could be . . .’ muttered one.

  ‘Is that her?’ reiterated Maryna.

  ‘No,’ said the other one. He looked at Yuri, his eyes pleading for support. ‘We had an address and a description. She was English and the right age.’

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel Lukov’s contact, the old fat one, was present. She confirmed the target,’ added his colleague.

  ‘What did you do with the body?’ said Maryna.

  The two men stared intently at the floor.

  ‘Get out,’ she said.

  After his men had gone, Yuri expected Maryna to give full vent to her anger. But she barely raised her voice.

  ‘The other matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Everything is ready for tonight,’ said Yuri, eagerly. Perhaps she realised it wasn’t really his fault.

  ‘Good,’ said Maryna. ‘Now go and end this.’

  Yuri didn’t move. ‘How will I find her?’ he said.

  Maryna swivelled her computer screen to face him.

  It displayed a map of Moscow. She pointed to a dot pulsating in one corner of the screen.

  ‘There was activity less than thirty minutes ago on one of the accounts. So start there.’

  She began to shuffle papers on her desk.

  He was dismissed. His heart was bursting.

  ‘Maryna,’ he said.

  She looked up. ‘I don’t think I heard you correctly,’ she said.

  ‘My apologies, Colonel,’ said Yuri. He put on his cap and snapped out a salute.

  71

  Utkin sat in his car and watched the front of the internet café. The heater wasn’t the best. The Ford was from the car pool and had been treated poorly, like most police vehicles. Nobody wanted it, so they didn’t mind Utkin using it as his personal transportation.

  Business wasn’t brisk, but he had seen a few slouching youths coming and going. Terrible. They should have been celebrating with family, preparing for dinner after the fireworks.

  Revellers were erupting from clubs and restaurants nearby, singing the national anthem. That is, those able to remain upright. They were all heading for Red Square, to watch the fireworks. He glanced at his watch. Berlin and the drug addict had gone into the café nearly an hour ago. He took another sip from his flask.

  A black van pulled up. The side door slid open. Two men in camouflage and balaclavas, clutching automatic weapons, jumped out. One ran down the street and turned into an alley.

  Yuri got out of the front, glanced left and right, and strode inside. The other man took up a position at the entrance. No-one could get in or out.

  Yuri shoved the cold metal barrel into the nape of the girl’s scrawny neck. The wasted junkie raised her arms very slowly. He grabbed her by the hair and threw her to the floor.

  The computer she had been using presented him with an image of a monkey running uphill while trying to avoid the rocks that were raining down on him.

  He jiggled the mouse. Behind the game Berlin’s email was sending another ‘Happy New Year’ message.

  Yuri glared at the girl at his feet. ‘Are you sending these emails?’ he asked.

  ‘It was like that when I got here,’ she said, dismissively. ‘The last person must have forgotten to log off.’

  Yuri sneered. ‘And who was this person?’

  The girl shrugged.

  Yuri raised his boot above her face.

  ‘I don’t know!’ exclaimed the girl. ‘A foreigner.’

  ‘And who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘No-one. I was begging, that’s all.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Outside the McDonald’s at the Mall of Europe. She gave me some money.’

  She was telling the truth.

  He let his boot fall anyway.

  From her position in the shop doorway across the street, Berlin had watched Charlie’s krysha enter the café. The sharp smell of gunpowder hung in the air. The continual pealing of bells, the crack and whine of fireworks and the surging, cheering revellers gave her great cover. She needed it. If she was seen, it was over.

  But she had had to find out if she could trust Utkin.

  Now it was clear she couldn’t.

  The rat-faced policeman knew she was still alive and kicking in Moscow or he wouldn’t be looking for her in the café. It had been less than an hour since she had logged on to her email and sent a message. Fast work. They clearly had access to sophisticated signals intelligence.

  He wouldn’t be in there long.

  Sure enough, he reappeared and scanned the street.

  She shrank back into the shadows. Even at this distance she could see his body was taut with rage.

  Berlin suddenly realised that Charlie might bear the brunt of it. Something had to be done about this bastard. But she was on her own. Utkin had given her up.

  The bloke who had run down the alley to the rear of the café came back. The krysha conferred with the two men for a moment, then they got into the back of the van and he got in the front. It too
k off at high speed.

  Berlin left the doorway. A vehicle was cruising past; the driver intent on the road ahead.

  Utkin.

  Berlin stepped back smartly.

  The vehicle accelerated, following the van.

  Utkin had used her for bait. Berlin didn’t know what his game was, but she was just a pawn in it. At least she had found out before she made another move.

  She was concerned about Anna, but couldn’t risk going into the café. The young woman was tough. It was cold comfort. It meant Berlin was no better than Utkin.

  She cut through an alley and at the other end walked into the midst of a raucous, happy throng. She let them carry her along. At least now she had the true measure of her enemies. But that was all she had.

  While logged onto her email she had collected one from Magnus with the subject ‘Can you ever forgive me?’ The body of the email contained nothing but a link to The Sentinel. She clicked it and read:

  The Russian president has cut short the trade and security talks and returned to Moscow overnight following this newspaper’s exclusive revelations about suspect shipments to a north London warehouse.

  We approached the president’s office for a response before publishing, but our request for an interview was declined.

  Whitehall has allowed the Russians to leave the country, despite knowing that members of the delegation were responsible for the alleged illegal activity.

  A D-Notice, seeking the cooperation of the press in not disseminating this information, has been invoked by the government.

  However, we do not believe issues of national security are at stake. Millions of pounds in deals were on the table during the talks. This government has demonstrated that its priority is trade, not justice.

  She hadn’t known about the D-Notice. It was rare for a newspaper to defy one.

  A reliable source saw a Ford Transit van, registered to the Russian embassy, making the delivery in question to a Park Royal warehouse owned by Russian interests.

  Hirst Corporation, the company providing security at the site, declined to comment except to say that no irregularities had been reported at Park Royal.