A Perfect Likeness

by Roger Gumbrell

  *

  ‘I’d best be off,’ said Rawston gently easing Sylvia Page’s head from off his shoulder. He got up from the settee and stretched. She looked into his eyes with a longing that almost made him change his mind. ‘It’s alright for you two, I’ve got a journey home and an early start in the morning.’

  ‘Tough life, Tom. See you in the morning,’ said Edward Page without taking his eyes from the paper he was reading.

  ‘What’s the matter with Edward, he’s been very quiet all evening?’ asked Rawston as he and Sylvia Page cuddled by the front door.

  ‘He has a lot on his mind. You know that his wife was killed by a speeding car not long after they were married.’

  Rawston nodded.

  ‘Well, after all these years he’s been told who it was who was driving the car and he needs to go to Moscow to carry out what he has been promising to do. To make the driver pay with his own life. The chiefs in Moscow have said they would deal with it, but Edward has made it clear he has to sort it out himself.’

  ‘What’s the problem? We can manage while he’s away.’

  ‘It’s not that, Tom. The driver is now a senior member of the Politbureau and access to these people is not easy. He was, at the time he killed Edward’s wife, a young up-and-coming politician, but was having an affair with a married woman. He wasn’t married, but is now. The woman has had another recent affair and her husband has kicked her out. She now needs money and has resorted to blackmail. The politician refused to pay up so she’s allowed certain facts to come to light. He’s denied everything and the Party is standing by him. So is his family. Mafia investigators are confident he was the driver and are planning his assassination. The problem is that Edward could take risks because he’s not bothered if he gets himself killed in the process. As long as he gets his revenge.’

  ‘I can understand how he feels,’ said Rawston squeezing her even closer. ‘I would do exactly the same.’

  They kissed for several more minutes, until Sylvia Page prised herself from his grip, tapping the glass of her watch.

  ‘No more. Tom, we haven’t time. And Edward could come out at any moment.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought we might pop into the scuba store for five minutes.’

  ‘Why, Tom Rawston, do the rubber suits turn you on?’

  ‘No, but you do.’

  ‘No, Tom, tomorrow, after you come back from the early trip. I’ll be waiting for you. Just think, a little more business followed by a lot more pleasure. Sounds much better, don’t you think? And I’ll make sure it’s all well worth waiting for.’

  Chapter 21

  Edward Page was chauffeured from Sheremetyevo airport in the back of a new Gaz Volga limousine, accompanied by two members of Moscow’s Solntsevskaya Mafia. He was briefed during his journey to the city centre. The target was staying in a small, elegant, block containing only four apartments, one on each floor. All were used by senior politicians as their weekday home, but tonight the target would be the only one there. The others were attending meetings in St. Petersburg and Nizhniy Novgorod and wouldn’t be returning until the following evening. They drove slowly past the residence of his prey, situated in a tidy, tree-lined side street between the Bolshoi Theatre and the Supreme Court. He noticed the police guard at the door; a member of the elite Berkut force. Page glanced towards his companions.

  ‘What about the guards?’

  ‘Don’t worry about them,’ said the round, swarthy man sitting next to the driver. ‘It has all been taken care of. Twenty-four hour guard, changed every two hours during the night. The Berkut are a powerful force, but when it comes to women they are like all Russian men. And our women are very beautiful and very persuasive. Five minutes before you get there, two of our best women will divert the guard’s attention and keep him occupied for twenty-five minutes. That should be enough time for what you want to do. Your man is on the third floor.’ He told the driver to stop the car. ‘We’ll drop you off here at 2. 15am. This area is not part of the night scene so there will not be many people about. The guards will have changed at 2am prompt so by the time you have walked the hundred metres to the apartments our girls will be making sure he is having a night to remember down the steps at the side of the main entrance. In the basement store. Here is the security key for the main door and the key to your target’s apartment. We have made sure the inside bolt has developed a fault making it impossible to use.’

  Page took the two keys. ‘I’m impressed, you’ve thought of everything,’ he said.

  ‘Everything,’ the man repeated, as if insulted by the need to mention it. ‘We will pick you up outside the all-night bar over there, at 3am.’ He pointed across the road to a neglected building with the entrance surrounded with bright coloured lights. It appeared completely out of place in this more preferred area of the city. ‘It is being closed down next month, a top fashion designer has bought it. We’ll give you your gun later. Choice of two, select the one you prefer. Both will be fully loaded and silenced.’

  ‘I only need three bullets, said Edward Page. ‘Both knees and the head.’

  ‘Fine, that is your choice, but we will leave it loaded just the same. Your insurance.’

  Page was taken to his hotel, the Rossiya, on the banks of the Moskva river at the north end of Red Square. After a shower and change of clothing, Page spent the remainder of the afternoon making contacts at the Moscow Boat Show. The reason he had given to the airport immigration officer as the purpose of his visit.

  At 10. 30pm Page left his hotel, telling the receptionist he would not be back until after three. ‘I have an invitation to see the Moscow night-life with one of the exhibitors at the boat show.’

  ‘Very good, Sir. I hope you enjoy our city. I’m sure you will. Mind our girls though, they can be very tempting.’

  He climbed into the back of an older styled Lada with a continuous rattle from the rear end. He couldn’t decide exactly where from, but it didn’t detract from his enjoyment of the journey. He was back home, in his precious Moscow, and that was all that mattered. Despite what was going to happen in a few hours time he was savouring every minute.

  They drove alongside Gorky Park, passed the Mining College and the Academy of Science before cutting through the park on Vorobyevskoye Shossé. Even in the night sky he could make out the distant shape of the Moscow State University with its massive Stalin Gothic Tower. He knew it well, with those panoramic views over Moscow from its location on Sparrow Hills. He disliked the new name of Sparrow Hills, much preferring the original Lenin Heights and never understanding why it was changed. The Lada groaned as it stopped outside a bar close to the Kiyev railway station, where he was met by a long time friend and senior mafia member.

  The two men spoke, drank vodka and smoked. Edward Page had given up smoking in his thirties, but it felt right in this company and in these surroundings. The bar was underground and had only two low watt lights working, one at the entrance and the other lost in the smoke above the bar. The other lights were either not switched on or out of action. There were recesses along both side walls, some with thick felt curtains for concealment. There was only one way into the bar and the same way out. Except, that is, for the disguised half door above the bench seat on which Page was seated. A safety measure for mafia members. The bar took up two thirds of the end wall, the other third being the open kitchen and a single toilet right in the corner with only a curtain for privacy. Smoke and smells lingered, unable to penetrate the grease covering the vent above the vintage Russian cooker.

  Top of the agenda were ways to expand business within Britain, and specifically southern England. Both agreed drug smuggling was becoming more risky, but the profits achieved were high. ‘People smuggling’ was much safer and working well between Africa and Europe. Most were going into the Canaries. The boats used were patched up and totally unsafe for such a journey. Heavy loss of life was regularly reported on the Spanish news but it was not an important issue as fe
es were paid in advance and demand was constant. Another possibility was the kidnapping of wealthy businessmen or politicians, to be released only on payment of a large ransom. Although Page disapproved of kidnapping, more risky than drugs smuggling, he was to consider these, and other options, and send his report via London.

  During general conversation, Page learnt of the recent problem in Spain. An agent had died following a car accident when being chased by local police. It was the woman who had helped Sylvia Page during her recent trip to Galicia. He knew it would be hard to tell her, but it was not to be worried about at the moment.

  At 1. 50am Page squeaked on to the black plastic rear seat of the Lada, he gave a one finger salute to the friend he knew he would not see again for at least six months, or ever if the assassination did not go as planned. The driver told him there was a package under the front passenger seat. He removed the contents, a pencil torch and two guns. He tested the torch and put it in an inside pocket. He lifted both guns, one in each hand. The dim interior light of the Lada was enough for him to check them over. An easy choice he thought. The Makarov was a useful little pistol, used by the Russian Secret Police. Ideal for stopping people in their tracks, but it didn’t always kill. Not what he wanted. This target was to die. It had to be the Beretta. Italian but made in several other countries and perfect for use with the silencer provided.

  Page wrapped the Makarov and returned it to its place under the seat. He removed the silencer from the Beretta and put both into his coat pocket. He would refit the silencer once inside the apartment block.

  Edward Page sat back in his seat. Calm and relaxed. No fear, no apprehension. The outcome was clear in his mind. The man who had killed his Olga was going to be eliminated within the next few minutes and it was going to make him feel so much better.

  ‘I expect you chose the Beretta?’ said the driver.

  ‘No other choice,’ confirmed Page.

  At 2. 15am he got out of the car and walked the final hundred metres. He chose a brisk pace to allow as much time as possible with his target. He knew the girls would have done their job. They had, there was no guard. He climbed the four steps, unlocked the door and entered without hesitation. His target was the only person in the building and, with luck, he would be asleep. Page refitted the silencer as he went up the stairs to the third floor apartment of Anton Chernov. No light shone under the front door. He listened, turned the key and opened the door. Happy not to hear any squeaks, but happier still to hear a loud snoring to guide him to the bedroom. He switched on the light and Chernov, lying on his side facing away from Page, didn’t move. But the snoring had stopped. Page noticed a small hand-gun on the bedside table and in one swift movement leapt across the room and knocked it on to the floor. A fraction of a second before Chernov’s hand sprang out from under the bed-sheets and crashed down on to where he’d placed the gun before going to bed. The same place as he always put it as it enabled him to sleep with greater comfort.

  Page pressed the Beretta’s silencer hard into Chernov’s temple. ‘Relax, Comrade Chernov, or I’ll pull the trigger now.’ Page took hold of the sheet and blanket and, as he stepped back, pulled them clear of the bed, exposing his target. Chernov had rolled over on to his back, arms down by his side and the palms of his hands flat against the sheet. An overweight man with round face and deeply sunken eyes. Eyes still getting used to the sudden light but already showing intense fear as a result of looking directly in to the barrel of the Beretta.

  He was wearing a string vest, boxer shorts and socks. At that moment the Rolex on his left wrist was the only indication that he was an affluent Russian. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know why you didn’t stop after you had run over and killed Olga Andrekova thirty-four years ago?’

  ‘What are you talking about? I’ve never killed anyone,’ he shouted in defiance as he made a movement to get off the bed.

  ‘Get back as you were, Comrade Chernov, and don’t move again.’

  He obeyed, his resistance defeated by the sight of the Beretta pointed at his head. ‘Who are you?’ he tried again, more reasonably. The police? The television, or the press?’

  Page did not answer his questions. He asked again. ‘Chernov. Why did you not stop after killing Olga Andrekova? I know you killed her but I want you to admit it.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘My itchy finger will do what it is desperate to do, squeeze the trigger a fraction harder.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. It was such a long time ago and everyone has forgotten about it anyway.’

  ‘I have not forgotten, Comrade. And, believe me, as I have just told you, I’m longing to pull the trigger. To show you I mean business try this my friend.’

  Chernov screamed and clutched at his smashed knee. ‘She was only an ordinary girl, not as though she would be missed for long and I was just getting recognised as a politician. Couldn’t ruin my chances, could I?’

  Page fired again. The other knee.

  ‘Aaaagh,’ Chernov screamed again. ‘No more, no more. Please. Yes, It was me. I was wrong, but I was more worried about my career than a girl. That’s all she was.’ Pain and fear were engraved all over his face. ‘Please,’ he continued. ‘Who are you?’

  Page dropped the gun to his side, turned and walked towards the door. The fear eased on Chernov’s face. He thought he might just get away with his life.

  Page turned on reaching the door. ‘Comrade Chernov, we’d been married just three months when you killed my beloved Olga. I’ve waited thirty four years for this moment and now I am going to kill you for what you did to her.’ He raised the Beretta, aimed and fired in one continuous movement.

  Chernov had no time to speak, but a fraction of a second to understand his life was about to end. Just what Page wanted. Chernov’s head crashed hard against the headboard, his body jerked twice as a trickle of blood oozed out of the entrance hole above his left eye.

  Page took a photograph from his pocket and placed it on Chernov’s body. It was of Olga and him on their wedding day. He’d written a message across the bottom: ‘Sorry it took so long, my darling. The man who took you from me has now been punished.’

  He checked his watch by the light of a street lamp as he walked to the bar. Twenty-four minutes. Pretty close , he thought.

  *

  Deckman couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until deciding to go downstairs. He did not wish to wake his wife. He could not believe he had allowed Edward Page to leave the country. Maybe Fraser was right , he thought, not all of Moscow are mafia . He licked his dry lips and thought a Scotch might help. He decided a coffee would be better and to hell with the caffeine. Deckman could not recall ever having such a hard time.

  The alarm went off at six. Jenny Deckman was not over pleased at being woken. She always found early morning was a problem. Her right hand searched for her husband, but without success. She sat up and switched off the alarm. Jenny went to the landing and saw a glimmer of light under the living room door. She found her husband asleep on the settee, covered only by the throw-over and using one of Purrington’s many cushions as a pillow. The, almost full, cup of cold coffee was on the carpet.

  She bent down and kissed his forehead. ‘Come on, Terry, it’s time to get up. You must be freezing.’

  ‘Another kiss and I might consider it.’

  She obliged.

  ‘Sorry, Jens, I had a pig of a night. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I forgot the alarm.’

  *

  For Edward Page the following twenty-four hours went by slowly. He had breakfast at nine and visited the location where Olga had been killed. It didn’t resemble how it was all those years ago, but it was where she had died. He knew he was taking a risk. He didn’t care. He’d done what he had set out to do. Cautiously, he left a single red rose under the metal band holding a speed limit sign to a tree. He was pleased to see the stem of the one he’d left during his previous visit, almost f
ive months earlier.

  The news of Chernov’s assassination was first broadcast on national news at 11am. His driver had arrived to collect him at 9. 30am, as he always did. Chernov was always waiting. This time he wasn’t. The driver waited five minutes and, feeling concerned, he asked the Berkut guard to check.

  The news reports simply stated he had been murdered during the early hours of the morning. No mention of how, of the photograph or how the assassin managed to avoid the guard.

  Page used up an hour of the afternoon being driven around Moscow with five Japanese tourists in a bus that, at one point, stopped at the end of the road where Chernov had lived. It was still crowded with police and television crews. The bus driver, who appeared to have every fact available, went into the greatest of detail as to how this prominent politician had died. Page decided there must have been a second politician murdered last night. It certainly did not sound like the one he knew about.

  From 5pm to 7. 30pm he was making further contacts at the Boat Show, gathering more brochures that would be discarded once he was back in Draycliffe. He dined alone in the hotel restaurant, not speaking to anyone. He listened to the one topic of conversation between the Russian speaking guests and hotel staff. If he killed the girl, he got what he deserved, was the general consensus. Page was happy. A Muscovite through and through. Despite all its problems and its particularly bad winter weather, he adored the city, the history and, above all, the people.

  The following morning he picked up two national newspapers and read them in the taxi as he was driven to the airport. All featured the death of Anton Chernov and questions were now being asked. How could anyone get into the building? Where was the Berkut guard? Why was the photograph left on the body and where was the husband of Olga Andrekova?

  Edward Page was unconcerned that one of the papers, Russia Today, had a large picture of him in the centre of the front page. Across the top in large print… ‘WHERE IS THIS MAN’. And below his picture was written,‘Yaroslav Andrekov, wanted for murder’. The photograph was taken during the time he was a serving member of the armed forces, not long before his transfer to the KGB. He’d changed a lot. Much more weight, much less hair and no moustache. And thirty years older.