Her face fell. “Oh. But …” She broke off.
“But what?” said Maxim, sharply.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” he said, sternly.
“There’s an old lady my mother knows – she’s a wise woman, sees things – and she said she had seen it in a dream.”
Maxim suddenly felt like Alice in the Land of Miracles, a book he’d read in his youth. “Seen what?”
She looked at him, wide-eyed. “That it was true. About the sorcerer.”
Maxim wasn’t surprised to hear this talk of sorcerers. He knew that before the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution, every village had its resident witch or wizard. Under the Soviets, such traditional practices were banned and persecuted, like religion. But the Soviets were still fascinated by things like telepathy and remote sensing, investigating them as mind-control tools. Maxim remembered going to a lecture at school on paranormal phenomena and how they might be used to the advantage of the State. And now the Soviets had gone, traditional magic had come surging back, alongside continued scientific exploration of the paranormal.
Like most Russians, Maxim didn’t dismiss the reality of the supernatural and the occult. He didn’t think it was irrational to believe in such things. Life itself was irrational, after all. But experience had taught him that all too often people claiming to have supernatural powers were just unscrupulous crooks looking for easy marks, and he usually reacted poorly to such claims.
But he didn’t want to take out his feelings on poor Norova again. Instead he said, “I see. Thank you for being so helpful, Anastasia Kirillovna.”
For the first time, she gave him a smile, a faint, timid little smile, but a smile nevertheless. “I am glad to be of help,” she said, simply. “And if perhaps you’d like to speak to the lady in question – her name is Feshina, Olga Sergeyevna Feshina, she lives in –”
“Thank you,” said Maxim, hastily. “I will see about that later. In the meantime, I am going out. Please be so kind as to inform the kitchen that I will be requiring both lunch and dinner today.”
“Oh yes, of course, sir,” she said, with a bright, darting look at him, and he knew that while he might have wasted time listening to excitable guff about sorcery, at least he had repaired last night’s mistake. And that could well stand him in good stead in a small provincial backwater like this, where gossip ran like wildfire, and an unfortunate reputation as a contemptuous city cop might well close doors and lips that might otherwise have opened.
*
He was sitting over a very good brew of thick dark tea and fresh rolls and cheese, leafing through the crashingly boring local newspaper (which did not have a single mention of the Makarov mystery) when it suddenly struck him – Koldun, of course, meant “sorcerer”. He hadn’t thought twice about the name, before, just accepting it to be a code-name but after the conversation with young Norova this morning, and remembering that ekstrasens and her prattle about sorcerers, the name seemed more meaningful. But could it be more than mere coincidence? Could it be there was a connection between a file named “sorcerer” and an actual sorcerer? Could the Trinity partners have been employing a sorcerer in secret?
The thought was stunning, but also made a strange kind of sense, and a prickle of excitement ran up his spine – after all, Trinity had used just about every other covert means at their disposal: surveillance and computer hacks, bugs and blackmail. Why not magic?
Maxim had once arrested a man who had made a pretty good living practicing a kind of hypnosis which had been described by his victims as “real sorcery”. Using a honeyed voice, a stream of gibberish and a penetrating stare, he had spellbound them into handing over their wallets. Sometimes, under the same spell, a victim would take him back to their apartment and hand over all their remaining valuables. It was a clever trick; for he couldn’t be accused of either mugging or burglary. He had only been small-time, and he had been caught when one victim, less frightened and ashamed than the others, had gone to the police. But it had worked well, in its limited way.
What if the Trinity partners had found someone with much less limited skills? Someone really gifted in the black arts of sorcerous persuasion and mind-control, perhaps even a person who combined traditional magic with the more scientific paranormal, and who might give them the ultimate advantage in their information-gathering. He’d never met anyone like that himself, but he remembered hearing from an veteran cop about a woman he’d once questioned in the backblocks of Voronezh over a moonshine-distilling racket. She had a reputation locally not just for racketeering but for foretelling deaths. The old cop had told Maxim how he’d never forgotten the look in her eyes when she’d turned to his colleague and hissed, “September twenty-fourth.”.
“And on that very date,” the old cop told Maxim, “my poor friend was felled by a massive stroke. He was only forty-two. Coincidence, you might say; but some things, you just can’t explain. She was a real old villain, that one. But she had something. Something real.”
And Maxim remembered, too, that lecture on the paranormal at school, and how it mentioned that people with psychic gifts had been employed by intelligence services to track down American spies, amongst other things. Those cases were real enough, even if they might have been overblown for propaganda purposes. So – what if the Trinity men had found someone like that? Someone whose identity had been kept top-secret, which is why he’d found not a trace of them – apart from that one cryptic reference in Barsukov’s email.
In a society as superstitious as ours, he thought, even a person with fake psychic powers can make a tidy living. But if a person had real powers, then that person could be very useful to a company such as Trinity. And dangerous, too. Maybe very dangerous. But useful. Worth trying out, anyway. He – and the word Koldun indicated a he, not a she – was so important his identity was not shared with anyone other than the inner circle – or rather, the triangle – of the three founders.
And if that was the case, then the leak referred to in Barsukov’s email might well have been fatal. To Barsukov and Makarov. More than ever now, Maxim was convinced that the answer lay in the files Makarov had destroyed the night before his death. They might not exist anymore, but the only person who might know – who had been described as someone who was not “much grieved for his father” – was still very much alive, and it was time to visit him.
*
The gates of the Makarov house were closed and everything looked quiet when Maxim pressed the buzzer. A sharp voice said, “This is private property. No salesmen or canvassers.”
“I am neither,” said Maxim, calmly. “My name is Senior Lieutenant Maxim Antonovich Serebrov, of the Criminal Investigation Department, Moscow. And I am here to speak to Alexey Ivanovich Makarov.”
There was a small silence. “He’s not expecting you.”
“No, that’s right. But I am here to speak to him nonetheless. Tell him it’s urgent.”
Shortly, a burly young man appeared, shoulders big in a sharp suit, fair hair harvested to a wheat-field stubble. He asked for and was shown Maxim’s police card, opened the gates for him, and once Maxim had parked the car, the man ushered him into the house, saying, “Wait here,” leaving Maxim standing in the hall. Like a servant, he thought, with an inward smile. He knew the type well. They served the true masters of the universe, the rich, so why should they be impressed by a mere policeman?
He could hear voices coming from down the hall. Whoever it was wasn’t speaking Russian, but English. A language he knew, having studied it at university. He moved closer to try and catch what was being said, but before he could do so, the tough returned. He wasn’t alone. With him was a familiar figure. Trinity’s manager Nikolai Volkovsky.
“Senior Lieutenant Serebrov! What a surprise! Please excuse us for keeping you waiting.”
His wasn’t the voice Maxim had heard. And he decided to keep his knowledge of English quiet for the time being. Aloud, he said, smoothly, “Something’s come
up. Something I need to check with Alexey Ivanovich, regarding his father.”
“I see,” said Volkovsky. “It must be important, to bring you all the way from Moscow.”
“Yes,” said Maxim, ignoring the implied question, and following Volkovsky as he led the way down the hall and opened the door to the living-room.
The first thing Maxim noticed was the almost dead quality of the room, with its chilly paleness and impersonal surfaces. It made the bright spots of color – the icon of the Trinity, and the two young people sitting on the sofa – all the more striking. Not that they wouldn’t have been striking in any circumstance – the slim young woman with her rich dark red hair and big brown eyes, wearing a little yellow dress that could only have suited someone of her coloring and shape; and the young man, tall and broad-shouldered in an open-necked blue shirt and black jeans, and the strong, hard, handsome face of a legendary hero, a bogatyr, under a thatch of thick blond hair.
“Senior Lieutenant.” The young man advanced toward Maxim, extending a hand. “I’m Alexey Makarov. And this is my friend Yelena – Helen Clement.”
This must be the foreign girlfriend Anastasia Kirillovna had mentioned, Maxim thought. He was a little surprised to see the disconcerted expression on her face, surely more disconcerted than the situation merited. But he showed no trace of curiosity as she stammered some kind of broken-Russian answer to his formal greeting.
The young man hadn’t noticed his girlfriend’s reaction. He said, in Russian, “You have come a long way, Senior Lieutenant. So whatever you have to say must be important. Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you,” said Maxim, doing just that. There was a photograph in the Ivan Makarov file, a copy of an ID photo of the KGB major, his father. It was uncanny how much this young man looked like him – how those striking looks had jumped a generation to land on the grandson Mikhail Petrovich Makarov had never met. In the grandfather’s case, good looks had gone with a merciless heart, an unswerving devotion to the Party, and an intuitive intelligence so sharp it was feared even by his colleagues. How many lives he’d destroyed Maxim didn’t know, but his formidable reputation remained decades after his death. Who knew, Maxim thought, perhaps the major had handed more than looks down to his grandson. He’d certainly given a ruthless legacy to his own son, even if Ivan Makarov hadn’t followed the same path.
Alexey said, “Is there new information perhaps, Senior Lieutenant?”
“It could be,” said Maxim. He glanced at Volkovsky, who said, smoothly, “Of course you’d like to speak to my godson in private, Senior Lieutenant.” And motioning to the girl, he left the room with her.
Turning back to Alexey, Maxim said, “I’ve come to ask you personally if you have any idea what was in those files your father destroyed before his death.”
Alexey shook his head. “You must know I don’t. I told the inquest so.”
Maxim cut in. “Perhaps it just slipped your mind. Or perhaps you might have remembered since then.”
Alexey stared. “No!”
Maxim’s voice was hard as he said, “Please think carefully before you answer my next question. What is Koldun?”
Alexey said, stiffly, “Is this some kind of joke?”
“Not at all. Did your father ever speak to you about a project, a person, or a file called Koldun?”
“My father never spoke to me about his business,” said Alexey, tightly.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Did you dislike your father?”
“No. Yes. What business is it of yours?”
“Very much my business. I am investigating your father’s death. I discovered a passing reference to a certain Koldun – and I learned that your father destroyed files just before he died. I wonder if perhaps, living in the same house, you might know what –”
“I don’t,” cut in Alexey, sharply. “As you must know, I was nowhere near home that week. Not that any trace of the shredded files was found. You must know that.”
“You seem very informed on everything in the case, Alexey Ivanovich.”
“For God’s sake!” exploded Alexey. “Of course I am! I might have disliked my father – even hated him, on occasion – but he was still my father! I want to know what happened to him! And now you accuse me of, of having a hand in his death. It makes me feel sick.” His color was high, his eyes flashing.
Maxim said, with a faint smile, “I am not accusing you of anything. I simply want to get to the truth.”
“So do I,” said Alexey, softly. “So do I.”
“Then search your memory. If you have not heard of Koldun itself – perhaps you might have heard of something connected, whose significance you did not realize. Had your father recently shown any sign of interest in the occult? Had he for instance mentioned visits to psychics? Started consulting astrological columns in the newspaper, even? Did you come across anything that might indicate he was taking an interest in such things?” He was fishing in the dark, he knew that, but it had a completely unexpected result.
Alexey stared at him. Then he said, slowly, “I thought maybe he’d been trying to – to contact my dead mother or brother.”
It was Maxim’s turn to stare. “What?”
“The business card I found, when I was sorting through his books – none of which were occult, incidentally. Dad’s reading taste was for business biographies and Russian history. I found the card in a book about the siege of Leningrad.” He paused. “It was the business card of a psychic, specializing in contacting the dead, according to the card.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to the police at the time?”
“In God’s name, why would I think it could have any possible connection? I thought – well actually, it touched me, rather.”
“Didn’t you find it surprising?”
“Absolutely. Dad had never shown much interest in psychic things. That is, we never discussed it. Not ever.”
“And what about you, Alexey Ivanovich? What do you think of such things?”
“Me?” Something flickered in the young man’s eyes. “I suppose I’m with Hamlet.”
Maxim quoted, softly, “There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
The young man showed no sign of surprise. Hamlet is popular in Russia, like many of Shakespeare’s plays, which have been brilliantly translated. He said, “Exactly.”
“And what did you do with the card?”
“I am afraid I – I threw it away. It just seemed too personal. There had been so much stripped bare, at the inquest.”
“I understand,” said Maxim, very gently. He added, “What was the name of the psychic?”
Alexey frowned, thinking. Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. A Russian name. But not Koldun, I’m certain of that. I’d have remembered someone who called himself the Sorcerer!”
“It was a man, then?”
“I’m not sure. There was no first name spelled out, only initials. V. K? L. B? I don’t remember, sorry.”
Maxim sighed. “Perhaps you remember something about the address, then?”
“There wasn’t an address. Just a phone number. And that tag line, about contacting the dead.”
“Was the phone number from Moscow? Petersburg? Somewhere else?”
“I don’t remember that either. It was a flimsy thing. Badly printed, the type was smudged, it was like it had been run up on one of those old Roneo machines.”
“I see. There was nothing else you remember? No picture, or logo?”
“No. Not that I remember. I’m sorry. I wish I could remember more,” said Alexey. “Do you really think it might be important?” There was a wistfulness in his voice that Maxim, disappointed though he was at a promising lead going nowhere, found touching. He said, honestly, “I can’t be sure. I don’t know yet.”
“But what do you think it means?”
And so Maxim told him.
Chapte
r 12
Helen told Volkovsky what she’d seen last night, in the lane. “Are you absolutely sure he’s a policeman?” she finished. “He looks more like a thug.”
Volkovsky smiled. “I’m sure that doesn’t hurt, in his line of work. But I can assure you, Helen, that he truly is who he says he is. He’s interviewed me. He’s been on the Trinity case since the beginning.”
“But why is he here now?”
Volkovsky looked at her. “I fancy he may suspect Alexey of having something to do with his father’s death.”
Helen gripped the arm of the sofa. “But that’s absurd!”
“Of course. And the Australian police found nothing to link Lyosha in any way with his father’s death. But that is precisely what worries me now.”
Helen swallowed. “You don’t mean that you think that man has uncovered something incriminating? Surely – surely you can’t believe that.”
“Helen, I know poor Lyosha is innocent as a lamb. But it is my duty to try and protect him, and to do so I must try and think like that man out there. He’s no fool, that is certain. But I think he could be ruthless. Even – unscrupulous.”
Helen breathed, “Do you mean he – he could be trying to frame Alexey to get … a result on the case?”
Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1) Page 11
