Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)

by Sophie Masson

  “Nothing’s up. But I just need to ask you a question. Is that okay?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Since you’ve been in Russia, has anyone approached you about writing a book about Trinity? Its history, famous cases, et cetera? Someone claiming to be a writer of some sort – a journalist, even maybe?”

  Alexey sounded startled when he answered, “Well, I’ve had calls from journalists wanting to know what I was going to do with Trinity – but Kolya fielded all those. You can ask him if you like. But a book on Trinity – no way.”

  “Did anyone ever approach your father about such an undertaking? Either a book – or a series of in-depth articles?”

  “Not as far as I know. And he’d never have agreed, even if such an approach had been made.”

  “It would have been couched in highly flattering terms.”

  “Dad didn’t care about flattery. If you think that’s how the killer might have wheedled his way in, I really can’t see it. Dad would have smelled a rat at once. He’d have suspected espionage of some sort.”

  “What about the others? Galkin and Barsukov?”

  “Well – I can’t say. But I doubt Dad would have let them. He was pretty much on top of things, you know.”

  “Even though he didn’t live in Russia anymore?”

  “Well, they might have done something behind his back – but why would they? If they were working on their unit plans – and they wanted to keep that really secret – they’d hardly want to go blabbing to the press, would they? But Maxim – why on earth do you ask? What’s happened? Who have you been talking to?”

  Chapter 29

  Alexey clicked the phone off. “That was Maxim,” he told Helen. “He went to see these two guys …” And quickly, he recounted what Maxim had told him of his visits to Nevsky and Oberlian. “But he started with this strange question – about whether anybody had contacted me about writing a book on Trinity. Or had contacted Dad and the others. He has some idea that this could have been a way to get into the inner circle.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “No, I don’t. It’s an ingenious theory, but I don’t think it stands up. They’d never talk to a writer about Trinity. But it’s made me think. What if it had been about something else? About a hobby, say? Dad had no hobbies, and anyway he’d have just said no on principle, he hated talking about himself, his instinct was always to be secretive – but the others – I’m not so sure. Galkin, for instance, he fancied himself as a big-game hunter. So if somebody claiming to be, say, from a hunting magazine had suggested doing an article about him – he’d probably have agreed. Say then that they suggested doing it in the field – actually following him on a hunt – then they might have had an opportunity to …”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t he have talked about it? And wouldn’t someone have seen him going off with this person?”

  “Yes. You’re right. It doesn’t really work.” He paused. “The aura-reader told Maxim he thought Dad had been somehow … working on his psychic powers. That he’d been practicing. I – I – I thought at once of that – that video we saw.”

  Helen saw the shadows in his eyes. She said, “Did you tell Maxim about it?”

  “No. I can’t. Stupid of me, but ...”

  “No,” she said, putting an arm around him, “it’s not.” Tenderly, she added, “But it’s late, and it’s been a tiring day, and we shouldn’t think about any of this right now, but just go to bed.”

  “What, are you sleepy, Lenochka?” he said, kissing her hair.

  “Who said anything about sleep?” she murmured, taking his hand and leading him up the stairs to their room.

  *

  In the early morning, Helen was having a dream about crossing an iced-up river on a troika, when there came a sharp cracking sound. The ice was breaking up, and she’d be drowned, she thought, terrified, and jerked herself awake, only to realize that the sharp sound hadn’t just been in the dream. She heard it again. Her half-asleep mind tried to understand it. A car backfiring, a firecracker going off, a gunshot. A gunshot! She sat up like a jack in the box.

  “Alexey! What’s that?”

  But his side of the bed was empty. She jumped out of bed, flung a cardigan over her nightie and ran barefoot down the stairs. As she did, the clock in the hall struck seven.

  There was no one in the living-room or the hall or the kitchen or any of the other rooms. But the back door was open. She ran out into the overgrown garden, and saw Slava, gun in hand, bending over something lying on the ground. Shock made her yell, and he turned. His impassive gaze swept over her body in the thin clothes and she felt herself shrinking from him. But all he said, pocketing the gun, was, “Better you go in, Miss.”

  But now she could see what was on the ground. A body, yes. But not human. A dog. One of Oleg’s dogs. A little further, another body. The other dog. She stared at Slava. Whispered, “What … what have you done?”

  “He had to do it. They attacked Oleg,” said Alexey, from behind her, and she jumped. He was pale, grim, his lips set.

  Beyond Alexey, Oleg was sitting, propped up in Katya’s arms under a tree a short distance away. His eyes were closed, his skin was gray, there were bloodstained towels wrapped around his legs, and one arm. Katya’s face was blotched with tears, her eyes glassy. Helen whispered, “What … what happened?”

  “Oleg went to feed them as usual and for some reason they just went berserk. I’d got up early, heard him scream and ran out, and with Slava and Katya we managed to drive the dogs off, and then Slava shot them.” Alexey swallowed. “He’s bled a fair bit, that makes the wounds look worse than they are. I’ve had a look, I think they’re not deep – the doctor’s coming, anyway, so we’ll know soon. But I – I think he’ll be okay. As long as the dogs didn’t have rabies.”

  “Rabies?” Helen said, aghast. She remembered a story her grandfather had told her once, about when he was young and one of his village friends had been bitten by a mad dog and nearly died. He’d foamed at the mouth. Needed three people to hold him down. Was brain-sick for ages, and never the same again. La rage, rabies was called, in French. The same as rage, as wild anger. She’d thought it never happened anymore.

  Alexey saw her expression. “It’s very unlikely indeed, but better to be safe than sorry. He’d had those dogs years, Katya said, they’d never gone for him before.”

  “Well, maybe not him, but other people, yes,” said Helen, shivering a little as she pulled the shawl closer. And she told a startled Alexey then what had happened the other day. As he listened to her story, his expression darkened.

  “Then they were already out of control, and Oleg must have known that,” he said, tightly. “I wish you’d told me.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But I didn’t want to get Oleg into trouble. Him and Katya – I got the impression they really needed their jobs.”

  He flashed out, “For God’s sake, I wouldn’t have sacked him for that!”

  She swallowed. “I wasn’t hurt, so I thought it was best.”

  He looked quickly at her. “Forgive me, Lenochka. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. Of course you did the right thing at the time. It’s just that I’m a bit – shaken – and thinking of what might have happened.”

  “I know,” she said, gently, “but it didn’t happen to me, but to poor Oleg, and at least you got to him in time.” At that moment the doctor came into the garden, a thin little woman with a harassed expression. She went briskly to Oleg, bent over him and examined him, spoke to Katya, and to Alexey, who had approached them. He beckoned Slava over, and together he and the bodyguard carried a now conscious but groaning Oleg gently out of the garden, and the doctor, Katya and Helen followed.

  They laid him in the doctor’s car on the backseat and Katya went with him to the hospital. After Helen had dressed, she and Alexey followed in the Mercedes – stony-faced Slava had stayed behind to bag up the dogs’ corpses and bring them in for pathology testing. At the hospital, Oleg was
given painkillers and a sedative, and his wounds were dressed, the doctor confirming Alexey’s judgment that they weren’t nearly as bad as they looked. And after he had been thoroughly examined, they were also told that neither he nor his wounds were showing any sign of rabies infection, that it was pretty much certain he didn’t have it, which was a relief, but not a surprise to Oleg himself, who, weak though he was, had recovered a spark of indignant energy when he heard that’s what they’d suspected. “As if my dogs would have such a thing! As if I wouldn’t have known!” he’d protested to anyone who would listen. But if there was no rabies there might be other dangers, said the doctor, firmly, and she ordered that a tetanus shot be given to him. As they hovered in the corridor waiting to be allowed to go back in, Alexey said to Katya, “You must tell me if there is anything I can do for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Katya, and then she hesitated and went on, in a rush, “You do enough already. You pay for extra care. You are very kind. But …”

  “What is it, Katya?”

  “I regret, Alexey Ivanovich,” she said, formally, “but we cannot stay in Uglich. We go back to Moscow as soon as Oleg is well.”

  “I see,” said Alexey, tightly.

  “It is not you. You are good boss. But the dogs, you see ... they were Oleg’s – friends. He works with them years. And Slava – he just shoot them.”

  “They were dangerous! He had to do it. Surely you understand that. Not only did they attack Oleg, but I hear now they also went for Helen.”

  Katya flushed and shot Helen a sideways glance. “Yes,” she whispered. “But never they are like this before. And – and Slava – you did not ask him to shoot, he just does it. Ask no questions. Give no mercy. We cannot work with him anymore.”

  “I see,” repeated Alexey. His tone was icy. His eyes flashed.

  “I am sorry, Alexey Ivanovich,” she said, helplessly.

  His voice was hard as he said. “Very well. I’ll make sure you are paid all you’re owed. You can collect your things when you want.” And he turned his back on her and stalked off, away up the corridor toward the exit.

  Helen turned as if to follow him, but checked herself. Something bothered her. Something which scratched at her instinct like a splinter under the skin. Impulsively, she burst out, “There’s something else, isn’t there, Katya? Something you didn’t tell Alexey. Something about Slava.” She remembered the way the man’s eyes had crawled over her. “Katya, did he try to …”

  Katya met her eyes. She shook her head.

  “Then what is it?”

  “Dogs never do this before,” Katya said. “Slava, too. He know Oleg long time, but he does this. I think there is badness in that house.” She paused. “People say, a curse …”

  She broke off, but Helen had heard enough. She said, sharply, “That’s rubbish. The newspapers dreamed all that up. Look, Katya, I’m sorry Oleg got hurt, but it was his dogs did it, no one else and you shouldn’t try and blame it on –”

  Katya cut her off. “If you please,” she said, coldly. “I go back to my man now. Goodbye.” And she left Helen planted there.

  Alexey was just outside, by the car. He opened the door for her to get in, and got into the driver’s seat. He looked at Helen. Took her hand. “I’m sorry, Lenochka.”

  “About what?”

  “Walking off like that.”

  “It’s okay,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I – I just stayed to try and get some sense out of Katya. I had the impression she was hiding something.”

  “And was she?”

  “Well …” She hesitated, but didn’t want to lie. “She said your place was cursed. That it made the dogs go mad. I think that’s what she meant, anyway.”

  Alexey looked at her. He said, very quietly, “I thought it must be something like that.”

  “What? You knew?”

  “I guessed. The way she kept harping on about this being out of character for the dogs.”

  Helen said, “You know, Katya said that Slava had behaved oddly too.”

  “Hell, she’s just trying to pin the blame everywhere but where it belongs,” he snapped. “Any old story will do.” His lips were set again in that thin line, his face hard as stone. Helen thought, shakily, I can almost imagine being frightened of him, when he looks like that.

  But he must have sensed what she was feeling, for he stopped the car. Turning toward her, he held out his arms. He murmured, against her hair, “Forgive my bad temper, Lenochka, this has all shaken me up more than I like to admit, but I’m not making it easy for you, and I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said. “It’s all right. I understand ...” She hesitated. “Did Slava have a theory, about why the dogs had gone for Oleg?”

  “No. Slava doesn’t do theories.” He gave a crooked smile. “He just acts.”

  At that moment, his phone rang. It was Volkovsky. “Slava’s just called,” he said, without preamble. “Told me what happened. Are you and Helen all right?”

  “Fine,” was the laconic answer.

  “I never thought much of that young man. Oleg, I mean. No judgment. But how is he?”

  “He’ll live. In fact it’s not nearly as bad as it might have been.” A pause. “But he and Katya have resigned.”

  “Really?” said Volkovsky, sharply. “Then that saves us the trouble of sacking them. Now then, I’m going to arrange straight away for someone to take Oleg’s place, and –”

  “No,” said Alexey.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “Exactly that.”

  “Look, Lyosha, I know Slava’s reliable but he can’t be everywhere at once. It’s a lot of work for him on his own. Let me arrange for ...”

  Helen held her breath as she saw the pinch of Alexey’s nostrils and feared an explosion. But all he said was, “Slava will be enough. Thank you, Kolya.”

  “If you’re sure …”

  “I am,” he said, firmly. “Now, Kolya, any news at your end?”

  “Well, I’m at the Peters office right now, going through the CCTV tapes for the hundredth time, I’ve got Feodor with me, he’s much better by the way, sends his greetings.”

  “And mine to him,” said Alexey.

  “Good. Yes. Oh, and you remember that advertisement we placed in that English-language magazine some years ago? Well, Zaitsev tells me that one of his contacts told him the woman who wrote it had an affair with Repin later and they’d talked about Trinity. It doesn’t prove anything but it is interestingly suggestive. I’m following it up, going to see the woman tomorrow, she’s not with Repin anymore, and he’s still away on holiday in Egypt, so she’s willing to talk, off the record.”

  “She’s brave then.”

  “No, in need of money,” said Volkovsky, drily, “if I have your permission to spend some funds that way, Lyosha.”

  “Of course. If you think it’ll help.”

  “Every lead is worth following at this stage,” said Volkovsky, and rang off.

  Chapter 30

  They had just finished a simple lunch of sandwiches and salad when Slava came in to tell them that someone was at the gate, asking for them. An old lady. No, she didn’t want to come in, he said, in Russian. She was in a hurry.

  So they went out, and there was Olga Feshina. Looking more frail and birdlike than ever, she was in the passenger seat of an old gray car, with the driver, a disinterested middle-aged man, sitting reading a newspaper. She introduced him as her son-in-law, Vanya, he was taking her to her daughter’s, she said, it was her granddaughter’s birthday and she’d be staying there a couple of days. Then she drew Alexey aside and talked to him for a short while; and though Helen couldn’t hear the words or wouldn’t have understood if she had, she could see their effect on Alexey; his expression was grim again. What could the old woman be telling him?

  Olga Feshina’s speech came to a halt. She looked at him, and put a hand on his shoulder, briefly. He looked at her without a word, his expression blank. She sighed, and raising a ha
nd in farewell to Helen, the old woman turned and got back into the car. Her son-in-law barely looked up from his paper. Whatever Mrs. Feshina had come to do was of little interest to him, clearly. Not so for Helen, who burned with anxious impatience to know. But Alexey’s expression was hardly inviting, and it wasn’t until the car had turned the corner of the street and disappeared that she managed to say, “What was that all about?”

  His face was still closed. “Nothing important.”

  “Come on. This is me you’re talking to!”

  “You don’t want to know,” he said, harshly.

  Her heart raced. “Please, Alexey. Please don’t shut me out.”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “It will only upset you more, after what happened this morning. And I don’t want –”

  “No. This is upsetting me. That you don’t want to tell me. Because you don’t trust me.” She was on the verge of tears, where hurt mixed with anger.

  He grasped her hand. His eyes were full of pain. “No. Never think that. Never. I trust you absolutely. More than anything. More than anyone.”

  “Then tell me. Alexey, please.”

  He looked away for a moment. Then turning back to her, he said, heavily, “She told me she’d had one of her dreams. But this time, it was different. Because it was, she said, not a dream that came from her. It was an actual message from beyond the grave.”

  The very roots of Helen’s hair seemed to grow cold. She stared at him. She couldn’t speak.

  He went on, in a strange, hollow voice, “She saw Dad. He was kneeling in a snowy field, full of crosses. A kind of graveyard, out in the wilds. He carried a gun, as if he’d been hunting. He wore a fur hat, and an old, shabby fur coat over his clothes. And all of it was sticky with blood. There was blood on his face, his hands, and staining the snow at his feet.”

  Helen’s throat tightened.

  Alexey said, tonelessly, “My father was kneeling in the blood, among the crosses, and she saw he was weeping, the tears mingling with the blood. Then he put his head down and when he raised it again, she saw that –” He broke off.