Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)

by Sophie Masson

  He scrolled on. Another image appeared on the screen. More script. “If there were secrets in my father’s life, I did not know them. That is, I know there were secrets, but they were secrets of his profession, things he wouldn’t have told even under torture. But secrets about himself, I do not know. He never had a mistress, of that I am sure. He was not a man for women. Not for men either, I hasten to add, just a solitary man. He had made his choice with my mother, and he stuck to it. To do otherwise might have jeopardized his work, left him open to manipulation, and that was anathema to him. I know nowadays people like him are painted as cruel monsters, but in his own way he had a pure heart, which sought only the good of the motherland. He could not be corrupted, by money or influence or even mercy. With me, however, he was not unkind.”

  He scrolled onto the next image. Not script, this time, but print, a paragraph from a book or journal article which had been heavily underlined before it was photographed. Alexey read it out, blankly: “Disturbing dreams about the dead usually indicate unfinished business with the dead person. More rarely, they may indicate an actual haunting, with a message from beyond that must be deciphered. Even more rarely, they may point to a form of psychic attack, for example, possession, or a curse. If such dreams persist, professional psychic help should be urgently sought to determine an accurate diagnosis.”

  They looked at each other. Alexey said, quietly, “This has nothing to do with Trinity. This can’t be the Koldun file. It’s totally personal. That psychic’s business card I found … Dad must have been having dreams about his father. That stuff he wrote – it must have been something he was trying to work out in his own mind. My God, Helen. I had no idea. He never said anything. I wish – I wish he had. It would have made him more – more human. More approachable. I could have understood, if he’d only trusted me with it.”

  Helen put an arm around him. “You don’t know what he was going to do with this. Maybe he was writing it down for you. Maybe he was going to give you this, if he’d had time.”

  “But why hide it, Helen? That’s what I don’t understand. Why hide it at all if ...” He broke off, with a startled exclamation. The next image had appeared. It wasn’t handwritten and it wasn’t a memoir, but a typewritten cover sheet.

  “What is it, Alexey?” she said.

  “Helen, I was wrong. Quite wrong. This is it. Listen.” He pointed at the screen, and read out, translating, “Koldun Psychic Unit, First Planning Meeting. Present: I. M. Makarov, S. D. Galkin, S. G. Barsukov. My God, Helen, it wasn’t just one sorcerer they were planning to employ. They were putting together an entire psychic unit!”

  “Freaking hell,” breathed Helen.

  “That date – that was a few months before Galkin died,” said Alexey, scrolling to the next page, which was back to handwriting. “Let’s see what they – oh shit!”

  “What’s up?”

  He pointed at the screen. “They’re not proper words. More like a jumbled collection of letters – and see – numbers here too. It looks like some sort of code.” He scrolled on to the next image, but it was similar, and so was the next and the next and the next at least ten or fifteen pages after.

  “That’s all we bloody need,” Alexey exclaimed. “Can’t make head or tail of this stuff. Never was any good at puzzles and crosswords and things. How about you?”

  “Not great either.” Helen thought rapidly. “But look – I’ve got this idea – I saw a film once where spies made a really tough code using a particular book or something as a key. They took bits out of it and jumbled the letters around and the numbers referred to pages, something like that.”

  “Trouble is,” said Alexey, sighing, “if Dad and his partners did use a book code, it’s just about unbreakable, unless by some miracle you can find out what book they were using as a key. And if only they knew that, then it’s going to be just about bloody impossible. I mean, we’d have to wade through just about every book they might have read or have on their shelves or ...”

  “Or there might be a clue somewhere on this card,” said Helen, thoughtfully. “For example, what about that extract you read out before, about dreams? Maybe if we can find out what book it came from – like maybe if we put that extract into Google and see what comes up.”

  “Yeah,” said Alexey, “it’d be great if it could be as easy as that. But somehow I doubt it. Let’s see if there’s anything more on the card first.”

  He scrolled on. Blank image. Another blank. Another, and another. And then suddenly, there was a photo.

  Not a written item, this time, but an actual picture. A bizarre but oddly beautiful photo, of a man’s face, rather out of focus, but gazing steadily at them, behind a wash of brilliant colors in a kind of halo effect all around and over his head – pale yellows, reds and purples, with irregular black spots at intervals.

  Alexey said, blankly, “That’s Dad.”

  He scrolled on. Another similar photo. The same man’s face, still out of focus, behind a veil, a wash of color. The next was similar. Each photo was slightly different, with the colors changing shade a little, but otherwise they were all exactly the same format.

  Helen said, “What on earth are they?”

  “Kirlian photographs,” said Alexey, quietly.

  “Kir what?”

  “Kirlian photographs. Named after the Russian guy who invented them, Semyon Kirlian. I forget exactly when it was but I think it was in the 1930s or ’40s that he discovered a strange photographic process. It doesn’t use an ordinary camera but connects electric voltage to an object – living or non-living – on a photographic plate. The image created then shows all those colors.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing,” she said. “Very artistic.”

  “It wasn’t about art. Kirlian thought it proved the existence of auras. Everyone’s supposed to have one. They’re invisible to most people, but it’s a rainbow of colors that comes off you. That’s supposed to show the inner you. Your health, your emotional state, your spiritual state. It’s your – presence, if you like. Your psychic signature. And each color means something – each shade is supposed to be a pointer to something going on inside you. There are psychics who specialize in reading them, either from what they can see of your aura, directly – or from interpreting a Kirlian photograph.” He shook his head and stared at the image on the screen. “Heaps of people go to aura-readers here. But I never in my wildest dreams would have imagined Dad, of all people ... Why would he want a photograph of his aura?”

  “Because of those dreams,” she said.

  “You might be right. But it’s just so … hell, after all this I feel more than ever that I never really knew him at all.” He paused. “Well, we’d better have a look at what else is there, I suppose.”

  The next image was blank, and the next, and the next, and so on for a few more, until suddenly, up came an image with a sign reading “Quick Time Movie”. It was one of those short videos you can take with a digital camera. But there was a problem.

  “The display thing won’t play it,” Helen said, “you need a computer for that. Or a camera,” she added, excitedly. “Mine’s got a card the same size so it should fit. Hang on, I’ll get it out of my bag.”

  She ejected her card and inserted the Koldun card. Turning on the camera, she clicked rapidly through the images, with Alexey looking over her shoulder. The “Quick Time Movie” logo appeared. Helen said, “Ready?”

  He nodded. She pressed “play.” And the video started.

  There was a bird, in a little cage that was sitting on a table. The camera zoomed in on it; an ordinary bird, a sparrow, actually, sitting on a perch, hopping nervously about. A second or so of that, and then suddenly the sparrow stood stock still, staring. It began to twitch, to jerk – and then it fell off the perch, crumpling into a pitiful little bundle of feathers at the bottom of the cage. And then the video ended.

  There was a stunned silence, then Alexey said, blankly, “That was deliberate – the bird, it looked like … like it
was poisoned, and just, just … to watch it die, to make a video of it … It’s revolting. Oh my God. Why – why would he have done that?”

  Helen’s stomach churned. She faltered, “You – you don’t know who made that video. You can’t see the person behind the camera.”

  “No,” he said, sadly, “but it’s on Dad’s card. It’s got to be him.”

  She looked at his stricken face, their eyes met and she knew what he wanted her to do. Picking up the camera, she brought up the video, looked at him again and, when he nodded, she clicked the delete button. And the horrible little video was gone. Forever.

  Alexey took her in his arms. Kissed her, fiercely, desperately, without a word. And she didn’t speak either, but kissed him back, her arms around his neck, his heart pounding against her chest.

  Presently, he sat up and said, very quietly, “Thank you.”

  “What for?” she said, lightly.

  He smiled. “For understanding. For being right.”

  She smiled back. “Careful. I might hold you to that.” She paused, and said in a rush, “Alexey – I – I think we shouldn’t mention that clip to anyone. Not ever.” The vision of that poor little bundle of feathers came into her mind and she shuddered. “I think we should … try and forget it.”

  He looked at her, for a heartbeat of time. Then he nodded, and the last of the shadow vanished from his face. “Yes. Of course. We must.”

  Chapter 20

  Maxim hated flying. Nobody knew, because he’d never told anybody, and when he had to fly – which was rare, thank God, because of police budgets – he had learned to hide his anxiety to such an extent that not even Marina had ever realized it, attributing his reluctance to take the package holidays she dreamed of to his miserliness, another of her complaints about him. Now he sat with a stolid face and still hands in the narrow, uncomfortable seat, the very picture of Zen-like calm. Because of their last-minute booking, he and Volkovsky had had to take separate seats rows apart, and so he was wedged in between a preoccupied Italian-suited businessman fiddling with his briefcase, and a long-legged teenage boy plunged in a fat book with a lurid cover of vampires and werewolves. Trying to distract himself from his discomfort and the cold churning of his stomach, he turned over in his mind the events of the last couple of days, and what they might mean.

  The Petersburg incident had puzzled him from the start. Yes, it was true that Boris Repin was known to be an aggressive acquirer of shares in other people’s businesses, by way of extortion, bribery, blackmail, mysterious fires, assault and intimidation of all sorts, so trashing an office would be right up his street. But he usually limited his attentions to certain types of business – up and coming restaurants, new clubs, small building firms. Easy prey. Trinity was a quite different proposition. Sure, young Makarov might be a less formidable opponent than his father, and sure, he might not have as many connections; but would Repin take the risk? Maxim’s feeling that it was out of character for Repin only grew as he talked to the Trinity staff, and viewed the security footage of the incident.

  His thought that Repin’s thugs wouldn’t announce that they were delivering a message from their boss had been backed up by his friend Zaitsev in the Petersburg police. They wouldn’t need to, Zaitsev had said. For Repin’s heavies did not go about masked and disguised. No, quite the opposite – their faces were well-known, for that was part of Repin’s hold on potential targets. If you saw those ugly mugs in your doorway, you’d know what to expect, if you didn’t do what the crime boss wanted. But though Zaitsev agreed this could be a sign that this incident wasn’t of Repin’s doing, he also cautioned against Maxim ruling it out altogether. “They say only the grave cures the hunchback,” he said, “but you and I both know, Maxim, that you can never rule out the unexpected. And if young Makarov’s right and Repin was behind one of the takeover offers he received, then Repin’s ambitions have diversified, so why not change tactics, too? Perhaps he thinks this sort of thing would frighten the eggheads in Trinity more. Sinister black clothes, balaclavas, gloves – the whole silly caboodle that whizz kids like that would be familiar with from movies.”

  That was true. More than one of the shocked workers had even said how it was just like in the movies. Simultaneously alarmed and excited, they weren’t the easiest or most reliable of witnesses to interview, and he was glad that Volkovsky had offered to sit in, because his knowledge of the staff might help in clarifying Maxim’s own mind, and dispel the nagging suspicion that somebody knew more than they were letting on.

  Volkovsky had told him that the Petersburg office had a different focus to that of Moscow, not only more high-tech, but also handling most of the foreign clients. It was a smaller staff than in Moscow, mostly young – the oldest, the manager, Feodor, having only just turned thirty-five. They were fluent in more than one language – English, German, French, Danish – and up to date and sophisticated, except when it came to knowledge of the underworld of their own city, in which they appeared to be innocent babes in arms. Except for Feodor. And the nightwatchman, Andrei.

  Maxim had checked all the staff. Nothing jumped out at him. He’d had his suspicions about Andrei at first, until Zaitsev told him that the man’s uncle had been one of Repin’s victims, and that Andrei would no more do Repin’s work than he would cut off his right arm.

  But though the feeling of a false note, somewhere, persisted, Maxim had got nowhere in pinning down where the source might be, and Zaitsev’s informers hadn’t yet come up with any proof of Repin’s involvement or lack of it. In the city’s underworld, there were whispers about what had happened, but nobody knew the truth of it. Repin ran a tight ship. But even if the Petersburg attack wasn’t down to him, Zaitsev said, once Repin heard about it, he’d be weighing up his options – find and punish the cheeky beggar who’d taken his name in vain, or allow people to think it was him, for his own reasons. “What’s more, even if this isn’t down to him, it might well give him ideas,” Zaitsev said, “which could be the worst outcome for Trinity. So tell them to beware.”

  Which was exactly what Maxim had told Volkovsky, as they’d sat comparing notes in a hotel bar the previous evening. “Repin and his like are sharks attracted by the scent of blood – they scent weakness – and it’s striking that from what you and the others have told me, in the past you have not had such incidents. But now …”

  “This is the first serious incident,” said Volkovsky, defensively. “The other things – the calls, the attempted break-in – they were minor. Very minor.”

  “Yes, but it’s escalating, and you know that, Nikolai Pavlovich. In the old days, nobody would have dared. I know you’re doing your best to keep a lid on things, but from the outside it must look like Trinity’s lost its way with your impulsive young dreamer of a godson who, it might be said, doesn’t understand what he’s doing and has made the company fair game.”

  “Oh no, no, no,” said Volkovsky, firmly. “People who think that are quite wrong. Alexey may be young, yes, but then so was his father when he started Trinity. And he’s a lot like his father.” He smiled, thinly. “And people like Repin – or whoever’s behind this – will learn that soon enough.”

  “Then what about the girl?” asked Maxim.

  “What about her?”

  “How long has he known her?”

  “Not long. He met her just a few days ago. Love at first sight, he told me.” He smiled. “She is very beautiful. And my godson has a passionate nature. It’s all or nothing, for him.”

  “That doesn’t worry you?”

  “No. He’s been through a difficult time. And he’s been thinking too much about Trinity, not enough of himself. A romantic fling won’t do him any harm.”

  “Nikolai Pavlovich, even from the little I observed, it can hardly be called a fling. They seemed exceptionally close.”

  Volkovsky said, drily, “My friend, they are young. In love. They think it’ll last forever. Don’t you remember what that’s like?”

  Maxim ignored
this. “He’s the owner of Trinity. And in a short space of time, she has become very close to him, so close he lets her in on his business secrets. And when I arrived and she realized I was a policeman, she seemed bothered, to say the least. It all makes me feel unsettled.”

  Volkovsky burst out laughing. “Maxim Antonovich, you speak as though she were some kind of spy! Some sort of honeytrap.”

  “It has been known to happen,” said the policeman, stiffly.

  “Not in this case. She was bothered to see you, as you say, because she’d seen you before, Maxim. Skulking in her lane in the middle of the night.”

  For an instant Maxim had no idea what Volkovsky was talking about. Then he realized. He said, defensively, “I couldn’t sleep. Went for a drive. What the hell was she doing anyway, spying out of her windows that time of night?”

  Volkovsky shook his head, smiling. “You are a stubborn man, my friend. But I can assure you that Helen is exactly what she appears to be.” He paused. “You see, as soon as Lyosha spoke so glowingly of her to me, I had her checked out discreetly by Pasha – Pavel Dutov, that is, our senior investigator in Moscow. Everything is fine. I also had Pasha check out the bona fides of the person at whose place she’s staying at – Professor Bayeva Simmons – and that checks out too. She’s a respected American academic with expertise in folklore, who’s writing a book about bears in Russian history and myth.”