by G. D. Abson
‘I concur,’ added Major Belikova.
Natalya stared at the television; it had moved on to show the latest Donald Trump revelations, but she was thinking about the man with the bristly hair. ‘Zena was two years old in 1999, you can’t be her father.’
Dahl sank in his chair as if his two metre-frame could possibly become less conspicuous. ‘No, I’m not her father.’
‘Did you steal her?’
Belikova ran a tongue over her teeth, ‘There’s no need to get excited, Captain. He won’t face any charges – as long as he’s a good boy. I would be more worried for yourself. Unless you do as I ask, it will be you in prison and your stepson, Anton, fighting Ukrainian fascists in the Donbass People’s Militia.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Tears were in her eyes, betraying her weakness. She tried to blink them away and they rolled down her cheeks.
Belikova twisted her head. ‘Nahodkin, did you hear anything?’
‘Not me.’
‘So let’s get this right,’ said the Major, ‘Zena is Yuri and Kristina Volkov’s child?’
There was an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by the television in the apartment next door as the volume was turned up to near maximum volume. Nahodkin finished off Lyudmila’s vodka, sniffed at the whisky bottle then put it down with a look of disdain.
‘Her birth name was Ksenia…Zena was the closest equivalent.’
‘Thorsten,’ Natalya hissed, ‘did you steal their child?’
‘No.’
‘But she wasn’t yours.’
‘This isn’t easy,’ Dahl said. ‘The last person I told was my father, over seventeen years ago.’
‘Just tell me the fucking truth for once.’
He tried to placate her. ‘Anatoly told me not to trust you, but I wish I had done it sooner.’
She snapped: ‘Don’t flatter me, Thorsten. If you hadn’t lied, Felix Axelsson and Yulia Federova might still be alive. I thought Zena had been abducted and you didn’t feel it was relevant to mention you once screwed a gangster’s wife? Are you stupid? You didn’t think it was worth telling me you stole his fucking child?’
‘Please let me explain.’
‘Hey, Nahodkin? Give the Captain her clip back, I think she’s going to shoot him.’
‘Keep it, I don’t trust myself.’
Dahl offered a weak smile as if she had made a joke; Natalya glared at him until the smile died on his face. ‘I didn’t tell you about Yuri because I didn’t think he was a threat. Kristina and I were careful. Yuri never knew I had Zena.’
‘Well, I’d say he does now,’ said Belikova.
‘Yes,’ Dahl poured more whisky, ‘he does now.’
Natalya heaved a sigh. How had she got herself into this mess? She needed to warn Mikhail about Anton.
Belikova sucked on her cigarette. ‘I adore love stories. What happened after Kristina left the Astoria?’
Dahl was morose though he had no right to be. Zena was alive and the FSB weren’t threatening to send her to a war zone. ‘I thought Kristina had done it to break off our affair. At the beginning of October I left for Yekaterinburg – Anatoly had discovered a gas pipeline manufacturer going out of business with no debts and a full order book.’ He shook his head in amazement. ‘When I returned to the Astoria, a letter was waiting for me. It was from Kristina, she told me her husband had been arrested. She had left a mobile number and told me to only use it for urgent messages.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘I asked to see her straight away. The next day I got a reply telling me to meet her at a café near the Eliseyev Emporium. It was the middle of December and she was dressed like a Siberian Yupik. She couldn’t stay long – her husband had assigned a pair of young bulls to guard her and she had managed to lose them.’
‘And?’ asked Belikova.
‘They were not there to protect her; they were her jailers.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Thorsten,’ shouted Natalya, ‘not them, her. What did she want?’
‘She was in shock – her husband had been charged with killing a man.’
‘What had he done?’
‘She thought Yuri was a businessman, maybe a little crooked sometimes, but she had no idea he was trafficking girls from Moldavia. One of them was the thirteen-year-old daughter of a local police chief. He managed to track down Yuri then got murdered for his trouble. The chief’s family caused a scene. Yuri got seven years.’
‘So while he was away you tried to steal his wife?’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ he snapped. ‘Kristina asked for my help. Yuri used to beat her. While he was away she was kept as a prisoner in her own house.’ He held up his glass to check the contents, then finished the remains of his whisky and reached for the bottle.
Natalya pulled it away. She measured one finger of whisky into his glass then handed it back to him. ‘Now slow down.’
‘Natalya, how can you understand when you’ve never been in love?’ He turned in his chair, knocking over the glass and spilling whisky across the table. He picked it up and cradled it in his hands. There were dregs of whisky left and he put the glass to his lips. ‘I still haven’t told you everything.’
Natalya rolled her eyes in contempt. She figured it was the reaction he’d wanted all along. Dahl needed her to despise him in order to consolidate the way he felt about himself.
‘You don’t understand,’ he repeated, then grabbed the bottle and cradled it in his arms. ‘I killed Kristina.’
Chapter 35
After his big announcement, Dahl fell silent.
‘So, to recap.’ Belikova said. ‘Mister Dahl has confessed to kidnapping a child and killing her mother. There are a number of unanswered questions, chiefly: why is he still alive? But, actually, I have little interest in that. What I want is—’
Dahl shook himself from his reverie. ‘Me?’
Belikova clapped. ‘A dancing dog, how delightful. No, my preference is to put a bullet in your head and blame it on the homo. Regrettably, I am constrained by orders.’
‘I haven’t got anything left to give.’
Belikova put her hand on her heart. ‘My poor rich man, you don’t understand the Russian way. Let me explain.’ She gave Dahl the smile of a bear observing salmon swimming upstream. ‘The FSB has many divisions. There is counter-terrorism, border control, and internal security to name a few. My own is called the Economic Crimes Directorate. Until recently we have been out of favour with the president. Now we have an opportunity to embrace his warm breast and suck the cream from his teat.’
‘It’s always about money and yet you call yourselves patriots.’ Natalya said.
Nahodkin appeared at her elbow.
‘No, leave her. See if the old woman has got any beers.’
Nahodkin returned a moment later and shook his head. ‘No beer.’ He leaned past Natalya with deliberate slowness to take the lighter from the table.
‘That’s a shame,’ the Major said. ‘Now let me finish my story. On Sunday night, my colonel tells me the police have found a dead girl in St. Petersburg and there’s a rumour her father is having difficulty selling his Russian companies. We put the two together and decide the girl’s death is connected to an extortion attempt. He orders me to intercept the criminals—’
‘So you can steal his companies yourself. You’re too late – Thorsten ransomed them for Zena yesterday morning.’
‘Shit,’ the Major hissed. ‘Dostoynov didn’t tell me this.’
‘And I might have stopped the exchange if you hadn’t been so busy trying to scare me off the case.’
Belikova was unmoved. ‘You were in the way, nothing personal. We’ll just have to take them using another method. I assume Volkov is behind it?’
‘It makes sense,’ Natalya said grudgingly.
‘Yuri was the kidnapper?’ Dahl asked, shaking himself from his stupor.
‘Yes,’ said Natalya, irritated with the Swede, ‘that’s how he answered the proof of life question; he simply a
sked Zena.’
Belikova addressed Dahl in English. ‘If you cooperate, you can go home.’
‘That’s not enough, I want Zena.’ He stabbed himself in the chest with his finger.
‘You can’t have her, she’s with her real father.’
‘I would give my life for her,’ Dahl slurred.
‘Pointless but sweet,’ said Nahodkin.
‘Actually,’ Natalya said, ‘Zena is an adult so it’s up to her if she wants to see you. There is one way I can help you though.’
‘What?’ Dahl asked.
‘I have contacts in the Punishment Fulfilment Service. I can get you moved to a prison near her.’
‘I’ve already told you, he’s not going anywhere,’ said Belikova.
‘Doesn’t anyone care that he stole a child and confessed to killing her mother?’
‘Hey, what happened to the mother?’ asked Nahodkin. ‘I thought you were in love with her. Did you get bored? I get like that sometimes.’
‘That’s why I need to see Zena. I need to explain myself to her.’
‘That’s one conversation I’d like to hear,’ said Belikova.
‘Come with me.’ Belikova led Natalya into Lyudmila’s kitchen. ‘I’ve got a job for you, Captain. It’s going to be more dangerous than a dip in Lake Karachay without a lead bathing suit, but if you do it right I’ll leave you and your stepson alone.’
‘What is it?’
‘I want you to find everything Dahl gave to Volkov and give them to me.’
‘Why not do it yourself?’
Belikova yawned. ‘Isn’t it obvious? If I screw up the President will hear and I’ll freeze my tits chasing bootleggers in Irkutsk.’
‘What about me?’ she asked, stepping back into the living room. ‘What choice do I have?’
Nahodkin slid the clip of her Makarov across the table to her, then lit another cigarette. ‘Basically, none.’
Chapter 36
It was late now. The sun was at its lowest ebb, barely visible over the horizon and the lampposts were still grey and unlit. In her mirror, headlights followed at a discreet distance; she didn’t care enough to try to lose them. The analogue clock on the Volvo’s dashboard showed one a.m. but it was always slow and she hurried to catch the Palace Bridge before it was raised. She found a parking place on the road, then climbed out of her Volvo and slammed the door. As she crossed the street, the empty night carried the noise of another car door closing. A moment later, the huge bulk of Nahodkin stepped into the open to show himself before disappearing in the shadows.
She climbed the stairs wearily and at the third floor heard dance music that grew louder as she approached her apartment door.
She let herself in. ‘Misha?’ she called.
‘Here, Angel,’ he shouted.
Mikhail was sitting in his customary chair next to a fresh collection of Ochakovo bottles on the coffee table.
‘Hey, did you see the Sven on the news? Can you believe Zena’s alive…and Dahl?’ Mikhail shook his head. ‘What a bastard.’
She ignored him. ‘What’s with the shit music?’
‘The radio.’
‘Then why—’
Mikhail beckoned her over then pointed to his phone on the table. She leant over so he could cup a hand to her ear. ‘They can hear us even if it’s switched off,’ he said. ‘I’m making their ears bleed.’
Another time and she might have dismissed his comments as paranoia. Now, she went to the kitchen, returning with some silver foil. After tearing off a sheet, she wrapped Mikhail’s phone before doing the same to hers. She put both devices inside her microwave oven and closed the door.
She tapped the power button on his stereo to kill the music. ‘Misha, don’t make me listen to that shit again.’
‘What have you done?’
‘A Faraday cage kills the phone signals. It’s not perfect but it’ll do the job. Just don’t switch the microwave on.’
‘You were always the smart one.’
‘No, I read it on an American website.’ She looked around and saw how tidy it had become in her absence. ‘Misha, it’s late, why haven’t you gone to bed?’
She heard a toilet flush then taps running as someone washed their hands.
Her eyebrows came together. ‘Is someone else here?’
The toilet door opened and Rogov stepped out. He wafted his hand in the air. ‘Shit, I think something died in there, Misha.’
Mikhail coughed.
‘Natalya, what are you—’
An Ochakovo bottle arced in the air before bouncing off Rogov’s skull. He staggered and held an arm out to ward off more blows.
Another was in her hand before she knew it. Mikhail was tugging on her arm. ‘Tasha, No!’
‘That bastard set me up.’ She tried to jerk her hand clear from Mikhail’s grip but he was too strong and took the bottle from her.
‘I’m sorry, boss.’ Rogov’s hair began to glisten. He dabbed his head with the back of his sleeve then frowned at the red smear on his shirt.
‘You want me to stitch that for you? I’ve got some knitting needles here.’
‘Stepan was doing as he was told by Dostoynov.’
‘Rogov, you tried to put me away.’
Mikhail was speaking in a reassuring manner that made her even angrier. ‘Angel, they were going to sack him.’
She looked around for something new to throw. A glass ashtray looked solid enough. She tipped out the ash and cigarette butts onto the table then felt its reassuring weight.
‘Angel, don’t – you could kill him.’
‘That’s the idea.’
Mikhail placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently before enveloping her with his arms in an embrace or restraint; she wasn’t sure which but it still felt good. The heat from her anger was cooling, turning into guilt.
In Lyudmila’s apartment, Thorsten Dahl had asked if she had ever been in love and she had responded by calling it a psychosis. As he held her, Mikhail’s stomach filled the space between her breasts and lower ribs, fitting perfectly. She remembered how, in bed, he cradled her from behind and his outstretched fingers were the same length as hers; his chin touched the top of her head. Mikhail was an old cardigan that was snug in the right places. She felt nauseous, remembering that she loved the stupid, big-bellied ment.
‘I’m OK, Misha.’
His arms relaxed and she pulled free then twisted to pitch the glass ashtray Frisbee-style at Rogov. This time her aim was sure, it caught him in his gut and she had the satisfaction of seeing him double over, clutching the wall for support.
Her arms went up in surrender. ‘I’ve stopped now…promise.’
Mikhail seemed oblivious to his friend’s pain. ‘As I was saying, Angel. Stepan was trying to help.’
‘By making it look as if I was threatening Yulia Federova. Was it you who got her neighbour to lie?’
Rogov straightened. ‘Dostoynov spoke to him – it was nothing to do with me.’
‘Don’t get angry with Stepan, he’s keeping me informed. He’s on your side.’
‘Can I use this?’ Rogov had stepped into the toilet and retrieved a hand towel,
‘Sure,’ said Mikhail, and Rogov pressed the towel against his bleeding scalp.
‘Give me your phone.’ She held out her hand.
‘Shit, boss, this really hurts.’ He winced as he reached into a trouser pocket with his free hand and handed her his mobile. She placed it in the microwave oven with the other two.
Rogov sat down heavily in the chair next to Mikhail’s. He stretched over the table to pick up a near-empty Ochakovo.
‘I thought Muslims didn’t drink?’
‘This one does.’
Curiously, she sensed that for once he was telling the truth. Rogov seemed to exist between two contradictory positions, unable to be one thing or the other. And it wasn’t just him, the whole country was doing it. She doubted Colonel Vasiliev’s United Russia badge was any less genuine than h
is old membership card for The People’s Freedom Party; Primakov was gay yet lived a life of denial as a straight man; Mikhail had wanted to be a decent ment but was compromised by corruption. As for her, she pretended to be a European liberal while bribing her way through life like everyone else. That’s what happened when old KGB men were put in charge of a country. News studios pretended propaganda was the truth. Elections pretended to be fair. Everyone pretended to be someone else, and nobody knew who they were any more.
‘What’s going on, Tasha?’ Mikhail asked, taking his seat.
‘Where’s Anton?’
‘Still at Dinara’s.’
‘He’s in danger.’
Mikhail shook himself out of his lethargy; the Ochakovo bottle in his hand forgotten. ‘What?’
‘Unless I do what they say, the FSB are going to wrap him in a uniform and present him as a gift to the Donbass People’s Militia.’
Mikhail was silent and his pupils seemed to shrink.
‘The FSB are evil bastards,’ volunteered Rogov.
She went to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Satrapezo before pouring out a generous measure into a wine glass. In the fridge she took an Ochakovo, ripping off its ring-pull and dropping it in the bin.
Her intention had been to give the beer to Mikhail but Rogov looked pathetic holding a bloody towel to his head. She placed it in front of Rogov as a gesture of goodwill and put her wine glass on the table before making an elaborate bow.
‘Now we’re all friends again,’ Mikhail said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Can I trust you both?’
‘You can trust me and most of the time I trust Stepan.’
‘Well, if that’s the best I’ll get.’ She saw a pack of Sobranie Classics on the table and took one.
‘Still smoking?’ Mikhail arched an eyebrow.
She ignored him and leant towards Rogov’s extended lighter, keeping her hair away from his bloodstained hand.
She sucked in the smoke and exhaled heavily. ‘Zena’s real father is called Yuri Volkov; he was a gangster in the 1990s.’
Mikhail sat down and reached for his cigarettes. ‘Yeah, I saw him on the news outside some DNA clinic. He said he was a businessman but he has that look about him. They say Dahl stole Zena when she was two years old. I hope that mudak gets what he deserves.’
