by G. D. Abson
She frowned. ‘You know something? I don’t understand why Volkov didn’t take Zena back years ago – it makes no sense. Also, why is Thorsten even alive?’
Mikhail snorted and shook his head. ‘Volkov and Dahl can fuck themselves for all I care. Why is the FSB threatening Anton to squeeze you?’
She puffed on the Sobranie. ‘Remember I told you that Dahl gave up his company seals and documents as a ransom for Zena? Well, Volkov was behind it.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Mikhail.
‘The FSB want me to get them back.’
‘You?’
Rogov said it with such a pompous tone she was tempted to hit him again with the ashtray.
She had never seen Mikhail look so concerned. ‘How are you going to get the documents?’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
‘Angel, whatever you do it won’t be safe.’
Rogov’s belly rippled as he let out a sardonic laugh. ‘Now you won’t be needing it, boss, can I have that fancy wine of yours?’
Mikhail glared at him and Rogov held up his hands in surrender. ‘Only joking, she’s got balls though.’
‘They weren’t there the last time I looked. Besides, I won’t be alone.’
She smiled at Rogov. He looked even paler than usual and she wasn’t convinced it was due to blood loss.
Mikhail patted Rogov’s knee. ‘Of course we’ll help, won’t we, Stepan?’
‘If I get the documents, Volkov will come after me. I need someone to stop him.’
‘That’s me,’ offered Mikhail.
‘Thanks.’ She puffed on the Sobranie. ‘And I need to get Zena to safety.’ She turned to Rogov who didn’t react.
‘Stepan is going to kidnap Zena Dahl?’ Mikhail put a hand on his head. ‘Well, at least it won’t be a novel experience for the girl.’
‘She’s an adult. All you need to do is persuade her to go home. Thorsten is at her apartment, entertaining some FSB guests.’
‘Any idea where Zena is now?’ asked Rogov.
‘No, you need to find where Volkov lives.’
She closed her eyes and felt sleep try to overwhelm her. ‘Rogov, you remember that nice lady at the office in Sestroretsk?’
‘The sixty-year-old virgin? I told you she didn’t know anything.’
‘That’s because we didn’t have the right questions. Now we do. Zena’s real name is Ksenia Volkova, her parents are Kristina and Yuri Volkov. Whisper sweet things to the lady and check out any address she gives you. Go through births, marriages, and deaths.’
Mikhail lit up the Sobranie. ‘Deaths?’
‘Thorsten Dahl left with Zena in December 1999. Before then, he killed her mother.’
Mikhail glared at her. ‘You’re joking. We should be placing his head on a spike and you want us to give him Zena?’
‘Boss, I feel the same. From what I saw on TV, that piece of shit needs to take a bullet.’
‘And you believe everything you watch on television?’ She raised a hand in defence. ‘If you ask me she was a lot better off with Dahl. Volkov was not going to be father of the year – he was a sex trafficker for God’s sake; he did prison time in Krasnoyarsk for killing a police chief.’
Mikhail asked, ‘And who told you that? Dahl?’
‘Dahl’s weak but he’s a good man – I believe him.’
‘But, still.’ Mikhail shook his head and drew on his Sobranie.
‘I know it looks bad for Thorsten, but it’s what I’m doing. You have to trust me…like I’m trusting you.’
Rogov rubbed the blood off his hands with the towel. ‘I can’t do it.’
Mikhail put a hand on his knee again. ‘I don’t want to hear it, Stepan. You owe Natalya for not defending her in front of Dostoynov – the Colonel told me what happened. What about Primakov?’
She didn’t know what to say. Leo had set her up but then Rogov hadn’t exactly been on her side either. It was also churlish to take it personally when very few people were strong enough to go against the authorities.
Mikhail sensed her indecision. ‘Let’s keep Primakov out of it, he is a scientist after all.’
‘Agreed,’ she added. ‘We all need some sleep. Rogov, head to Sestroretsk first thing and go to all the addresses you can find for Volkov. If you come across him, keep out of the way and tell Misha immediately.’
Rogov didn’t move. ‘You need to go home. Oksana will be worried.’
‘I think she prefers it when I’m out.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘That wasn’t what I was saying.’
‘Oh.’ Rogov finally took the hint and she watched him perform an elaborate stretch in the chair.
His shirt was hanging out and spotted with blood, there was a congealed mess in his hair, and his eyes were red from tiredness and drinking. ‘Oksana doesn’t know what she’s missing,’ she added.
‘Yeah, right.’
Rogov drained his Ochakovo.
Chapter 37
Mikhail’s snores woke her but it was time to get up anyway. Four hours in bed had been barely enough and she had slept for less than two by the time she had calmed her racing mind. She took a quick shower, getting dressed in the bathroom before retrieving her phone from the microwave.
‘Hey,’ she kissed Mikhail on the lips.
His eyes remained closed. ‘You’re up,’ he mumbled.
‘It’s already after eight.’
He dragged his fingers over his face as if he was rubbing his skin off. ‘Jesus. What day is it?’
‘Friday.’
‘Come back Tasha.’
‘To bed?’
‘Yes, and all of it.’
‘Give me a reason.’
Mikhail opened his eyes. ‘The pawnbroker’s widow.’ He stretched like a child with his arms extended. ‘I found her yesterday. She lives in Poselok Lenina.’ He sat upright, showing his almost hairless chest. ‘I’ve been thinking about it. When this is over, I’ll give her the money I was paid to keep the two bratki out of prison…I’ll tell her the truth.’
‘She won’t forgive you.’
He fixed her with his grey-blue eyes that for once didn’t seem wolfish. ‘I’m not looking for forgiveness,’ he said; she wasn’t convinced.
‘You’ll do that if I come back?’
‘I’ll do it anyway.’
She kissed him again. His hand worked its way under her shirt and cupped her breast; his left arm slipped around her waist to pull her closer to him. She put a hand on his chest to stop herself falling. ‘Misha, I have to go.’
Outside, there was a heavy squally rain and she stole a raincoat from the back of the apartment door; it was Mikhail’s and came down to her knees but she took it anyway. In a pocket she found a pack of his cigarettes and a lighter. She caught her breath at the bottom of the stairs then put one of his Sobranies to her lips. If the FSB or Volkov killed her, at least she wouldn’t have to go through weeks of torture to break her reignited nicotine addiction. She smiled grimly at the thought as she pulled the coat’s hood up before running for cover to her Volvo. For part of the journey she sang along to her Leningrad CD, hoping it would hide the foreboding she felt, or at least drown out the monotonous screeching of her worn wiper blades; it did little to mask either.
The downpour caused the morning traffic to be heavier than usual on Nevsky Prospekt but she was still able to observe a Mercedes SUV sticking close to her, even after she had slowed down and given it an opportunity to overtake. She presumed it belonged to Nahodkin, but the rain and tinted glass made it impossible to know for sure. His role, she figured, was much like that of his NKVD predecessors: to hold the front line and stop deserters by any means necessary.
She parked and got out, feeling the calves of her jeans grow damp and stiff as they absorbed the horizontal rain. At Vosstaniya, she kept her head down and her body tensed to buttress herself against the spray that came with every gust of wind. As she passed Dahl’s headquarters, she tilted her head to see under the oversized hood
of the raincoat. The exterior glass was water-smeared and she had to squint to see the man in the moon, the red-haired security guard at the crescent-shaped reception desk. He was there, in his brown uniform, and staring at his phone looking bored.
She kept on walking. At the end of the block was a padlocked metal gate that led, in all likelihood, to the back entrances of several buildings like a lot of the older streets in Piter. The archway above the gate looked as though it might provide some cover from the deluge and she took shelter under it, feeling for the soggy packet of Mikhail’s Sobranies. She examined them one-by-one until she found a dry specimen then blew on the lighter to clear it of water.
The cigarette lit first time and she puffed on it while re-examining the reasons that had brought her to the building. In the 1990s the mafia took over most of the major industries; they stole company documents and seal presses, and had tame politicians and korruptsioner in the Federal Tax Service ready to sign everything over to them. Anatoly Lagunov had spent eighteen years hiding Dahl’s businesses in plain sight; that took a lot of skill and he would have a good idea of which corrupt government officials needed sight of the documents to legitimise Volkov’s takeover.
She sucked on the Sobranie, feeling the hit from the nicotine. Above street level, the blocks rose five storeys. She felt vulnerable and leant against the archway wall while she studied the rows of balconies with stone balustrades and windows in shade. Apart from those administrative formalities, the company was as good as Volkov’s and it was inconceivable that he wouldn’t have someone here, keeping an eye on his new acquisition. Perhaps they were already watching her, their curiosity drawn to a woman loitering in the pouring rain. On the opposite street an old woman cradled a small dog in her arms while queueing on the steps of a bakery. A mixed group of four office workers approach her in a diamond formation; they hurried past with their shoulders hunched and heads down, paying her no attention. There was no one who remotely fitted the profile of a gangster. She shook her head quickly – she really was becoming paranoid.
In her experience, criminals tended to favour luxury cars or SUVs. She scanned the street but the rain had made all but the dirtiest and most decrepit vehicles look like possibilities. Still, to see none had a crew or even a driver at the wheel was reassuring.
Satisfied there was no obvious danger, she stubbed the cigarette on the pavement then doubled back. At Dahl’s headquarters she pressed the buzzer, disturbing the security guard who looked up from his phone. Natalya pulled out her ID card and pressed it against the glass. The door clicked and she went inside. ‘Senior Detective Ivanova,’ she called out, wondering briefly how many more times she would get to say it. She approached the desk. ‘Oleg isn’t it?’
He nodded.
‘Is Mister Lagunov in?’
‘He’s clearing his desk.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know anything…he doesn’t speak to me.’
As a direct employee of Thorsten Dahl it made sense for Lagunov to get out. She was surprised he hadn’t left on Wednesday when Dahl gave away the documents and presses.
‘What about other idle chatter, Oleg? What have people been saying?’
He leaned towards her and lowered his voice in the faux-reluctant manner of a practised gossip. ‘Daria, Mister Lagunov’s secretary, well…she told me the new owners didn’t want him. I always thought he was in charge but Daria told me it was that Sven on television.’
‘Yes, Daria’s right. His name is Thorsten Dahl.’ It was hardly a state secret and might buy her a little grace.
‘It was in the papers this morning about how he took that girl. He pretended she was his daughter.’
‘I can’t talk about it.’
‘Well, it’s sick. He’s a paedophile if you ask me.’
She shook her head, there was no point arguing with someone who believed what they read in the newspapers. Besides, with Oleg, any defence of Dahl she offered could be halfway around Piter before the day was out.
‘I saw her,’ he blurted out.
She turned, catching a guilty expression on his face for gossiping. ‘Who?’
‘That girl on television.’
‘You mean Zena?’
‘That was her Swedish name. You can’t call her that—’
‘You saw Ksenia Volkova here?
He nodded.
‘When?’
‘Not for a long time.’ Oleg glanced at the sun chandelier. ‘Maybe September last year. I remember she came when they were replacing the bulbs. She only came once and Daria was waiting for her. She said…’
Oleg trailed off.
‘What did she say?’ Her voice came out sharper and louder than she had intended but Oleg was distracted. He twisted his head then flicked his eyes to her to indicate she should follow his gaze.
Over her shoulder she saw a man wearing a leather cap and a leather jacket; he was bald and had a long, straight nose, reminding her of the actor from Day Watch, Gosha Kutsenko. There was an ID badge hanging over his neck and he held it up.
‘He’s supposed to be with maintenance,’ he whispered, ‘but something isn’t right.’
The resemblance to the actor confused her momentarily, and stopped her from seeing him for what he really was – a gangster. He removed his cap in an easy-going manner.
Her hand went to her hip, reaching for her Makarov. She found it instantly but it was inaccessible beneath Mikhail’s raincoat. The Gosha Kutsenko lookalike pulled out a pistol from the pocket of his overalls.
‘Come with me, Detective.’
Chapter 38
The gangster led her down the stairwell then pressed his ID badge against a door sensor. As she entered the enclosed courtyard at the rear, the building’s high walls blocked the wind while huge steel drainpipes directed torrents of water off the roofs and into gullies. There was no bad without the good, she thought, even if the only positive aspect to this miserable affair was a little protection from the driving rain. The bald man pulled her wrists behind her back and took out a cable tie.
‘You won’t get away with this.’
He fixed the nylon strip in place then yanked it tight. ‘I’ve heard that before.’ He patted her down, lifting the bottom of Mikhail’s raincoat to remove her Makarov from its holster and her iPhone from her jeans pocket.
There was a dirty white van in the courtyard, the doors were open and she could see the interior was bare except for a PVC-covered bench running lengthways on the right-hand side. He pulled a black hood over her head then shoved her forwards. Her shins caught the van’s metal step bringing tears to her eyes.
‘Get in.’
She stayed on the wet floor, ‘No.’
A gun was jammed in her face, the barrel grinding against her cheek bone.
‘Get in or I’ll put a bullet through you.’
She guessed he had killed Felix Axelsson, leaving the circular mark around the entry wound. It meant he wasn’t bluffing. She got to her feet and stood on the step that had caught her shins, then ducked inside.
She heard a door open. Someone had been sitting in the van’s passenger seat. There was a murmur of conversation then boots scuffed on the floor as he climbed in the back with her. The doors were slammed shut and the engine started. She took a deep breath to calm herself but it had the opposite effect – the hood had lingering traces of perfume and the iron of blood. Her fingers groped for the edge of the bench seat.
‘Not there. Get on the floor.’ It was a deep, rough voice and she wondered if it was Yuri Volkov.
‘Where are you taking me?’
He said nothing.
They travelled for ten metres or so, then stopped. The driver’s door opened and she heard the creak of gate hinges.
A shoe heel pressed between her shoulder blades.
She twisted against them. ‘Volkov, get off me.’
He laughed and the weight was gone. So it was him.
Riling him wasn’t going to help though. ‘You know I was t
rying to find Zena too. We’re on the same side.’
‘You stupid bitch,’ he said, ‘you can’t even say her name.’
The van drove over a kerb and her forehead smacked the metal floor. ‘Her real name is Ksenia Yuryevna Volkova.’
‘Who are you?’ he spat. ‘A ment out of her depth. You don’t know anything.’
The van turned right, then left. ‘Then tell me.’
‘Why should I? You were going to take Ksenia back to that prick Dahl.’
She slid back as the van accelerated hard then braked, pitching her forward. She was thrown to the left as the car turned right. The Gosha Kutsenko lookalike at the wheel was a native Pitertsy or else he favoured his chances in the Russia Rally Cup. At least his aggressive driving made it easier to work out the direction of travel. She was certain they were on Liteyny Prospekt heading north.
The van hit a straight patch of road and the high-pitched scream from its abused engine dropped to a whine. She pushed herself against the wall, opposite Volkov on the bench seat, splaying her legs to stop herself being thrown around. She took another breath, catching cheap perfume – after all these years he was still trafficking women. The hood was for the ones who fought back.
‘Why did you leave Ksenia with Dahl?’ she asked.
‘None of your fucking business.’
‘I know you’re going to kill me. You’ve done it before. Didn’t you get seven years in Krasnoyarsk? Seven years, that still left plenty of time to get your daughter. You could have come for Ksenia a decade ago.’
He paused. ‘Clever ment.’
‘So Ksenia was nine then.’
‘You’re questioning me, cheeky bitch? You know why I didn’t come for her and kill that Sven piz’da when I got out?’ Volkov snorted and spat noisily.
The moisture from her breath was bringing out the blood in the mask, it wasn’t a good omen.
‘It was on Defender of the Fatherland Day. I was stuck at the workshop in Krasnoyarsk taking this fucking GAZ-44 to pieces. One of the guards came up and told me my wife and daughter were dead – then he ordered me to carry on working.’
