Motherland

by G. D. Abson

  ‘That was February the twenty-third, 2000?’

  ‘Yes…they’d been dead a few months by then. I hired a couple of bulls to look after Kristina and Ksenia when I was inside – they were killed for fucking up. The guard said the menti found my wife half-eaten and Ksenia’s body had been taken by wolves. I was trapped in a human sewer with their deaths for company. I couldn’t speak of it to anyone. Inmates love news like that – it’s a knife to them.’

  The van accelerated, and over the stink of the hood she smelled the sea – they were crossing the Neva on Liteyny Bridge. She tried to remember the sequence of directions. The theory at least was clear – knowing the destination improved the odds of survival. But she doubted it had helped in more than a handful of cases. Instead of spending their final moments with memories of children or lovers, how many victims had wasted their time plotting traffic lights and turnings?

  ‘So you didn’t know Zena – Ksenia – was alive?’

  ‘No, but does it matter? She’s doing fine now. You know I was watching her?’ He laughed; it was a deep, unsettling sound.

  Natalya tried to focus on Volkov as well as the road. ‘You were there the night Ksenia went missing?’

  ‘Dahl, that stupid cunt, what was he thinking letting her run around the city on her own?’ He exhaled heavily; it sounded like a pair of piston bellows. ‘It wasn’t how I wanted it. Two gopnik scum were on her… well, those roosters will be crowing soon.’

  ‘You saved her from them?’

  ‘The ungrateful bitch keeps whining about going home. I told her this is her fucking home now and she needs to get used to it.’ He snorted and spat. ‘I thought it would be different but she’s not a little girl any more. Nah, I’ve said enough.’

  Maybe she would be the lucky one and knowing the route was going to save her. At the end of the bridge the E18 looped in a tight, three-quarter bend to the right if they were heading north. She felt the van turn and pushed her feet flat on the floor as she was squeezed against the bare metal wall. It was north – she didn’t know whether to be relieved or not.

  ‘What happened to Yulia Federova?’

  ‘That wasn’t me.’

  In the darkness, Volkov was silent but he had to be lying. The Hermès Sellier Kelly – that powder blue handbag of Zena’s – hadn’t got to the murder scene on its own. It could only have come from him.

  ‘Then who did it?’

  ‘The driver.’

  She was stunned by the casual admission. ‘The one who looks like Gosha Kutsenko? What’s his name?’

  ‘Where you’re going, ment, you don’t need to know.’

  ‘Why kill Yulia, she didn’t do anything.’

  ‘It was a favour.’ He brought up phlegm and spat noisily. ‘My wife, Elizaveta; she runs a business taking pictures for catalogues. I used her email to make that stupid little bitch think she had won a free fashion shoot.’

  In the darkness of the hood it was easy to conjure up the image of Yulia leaving the Krestovsky Metro station in her designer clothes. She must have thought her luck had changed. ‘Why did your driver burn her and leave Ksenia’s handbag behind? Why did you want people to think Ksenia was dead?’

  ‘Enough. It’s my turn.’

  The road straightened and the engine whined as they accelerated. She struggled to hear what Volkov was saying and twisted her head. ‘I hear that Sven prick is still in Piter. Tell me where he is and I’ll make it quick for you.’

  They were on the E18, she was sure of it. The driver had discovered the gear stick and the ride became smoother.

  ‘Start talking.’

  There were two distinct double-beeps. Her mobile had received a text message – the driver must have given Volkov her phone.

  ‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath.

  Volkov grabbed her feet and dragged her towards him. Her lips scraped against a bolt fixed to the floor and she cried out. He pushed her face down with a palm then yanked her arms up by the wrists until she screamed out. She felt him grip her right thumb; he pressed it against something flat. She squirmed, realising too late that it was her mobile’s fingerprint reader – he was in her iPhone. He let go and she fell on her face.

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation,’ Volkov said. ‘That message was from Stepan Rogov – your fat sergeant.’

  How did he know so much about her?

  ‘Do you want to hear it?’ The derision in Volkov’s voice was unmistakeable.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He says the sixty-year-old virgin is putting out.’

  The van braked hard and she jerked forwards. Her body folded against the metal wall. Volkov waited until she propped herself up.

  ‘Now what the fuck did he mean by that?’

  The van accelerated and she had to shout to be heard over the whine of the engine. ‘Stepan is screwing a librarian.’

  Volkov dragged her back to the centre of the van and turned her face-down. ‘I’m typing a reply. What shall I say? I know, how about: “Stepan, you are disgusting.”?’

  He was quiet for a moment, then, ‘There, I’ve sent it. Let’s wait.’

  She tried to calm her breathing and tasted blood on her lips from the bolt on the floor. The next woman to wear the hood would taste it too. Her phone double-beeped to indicate a new message had been received.

  There was a crack of the seat as Volkov’s weight shifted. ‘Stepan agrees with your description of his character…Now for another one.’

  He was leaning over her as he typed; his breath smelled of raw onions.

  ‘Stepan’, he recited, ‘where is Thorsten Dahl?’

  ‘There. Now let’s see who talks first – you or the sergeant.’

  She felt a crushing weight on her hips as he sat on them, grinding her into the floor. Something hard cracked the back of her skull.

  ‘You bastard,’ she cried out.

  In the blackness of the hood she saw white flashes; a split second later the pain followed – it felt as if her head had been ripped open.

  ‘Tell me where Dahl is and I’ll make it quick for you. Believe me, that’s a good offer.’

  If she failed, the FSB would hand Anton to the Donbass People’s Militia. She pictured his corpse being tossed into a makeshift grave and fixed the image in her mind. She would die before she let that happen.

  Her phone beeped again.

  Chapter 39

  Needles of rain fell on the metal roof, sounding like ball bearings. Her cheek was pressed against gritty cloth, and she felt curiously refreshed. At least she did until her head exploded in pain, bringing with it the memories of her failed mission to save Anton. There was no feeling in her hands where the cable tie had cut off her circulation. She turned her face to wipe the blood from her lips onto the hood.

  Before the van stopped there had been a long silence that lasted for thirty minutes or more, followed by an excruciating blow. It was good she could remember her head being smashed – less chance of brain damage – not so good that with every heartbeat a volcanic eruption went off inside her skull. She listened intently but could only hear the rain.

  ‘Volkov?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Are you there?’

  Her head pounded for five explosive beats.

  ‘Hey, you with the shrivelled dick.’

  There was no creak of boots. No kick. No punch. No onion breath. No crack on the head with the barrel of a gun or whatever he had used – she was alone.

  She scrambled onto her front then brought her legs forward to manoeuvre herself to standing. At once, she felt dizzy, turning in time to slump on the bench seat. She tipped her head between her knees as ten thousand wasps swarmed in her body’s empty shell. A few stale perfume breaths and they started to fade. She gripped the top of the hood between her knees and slowly straightened her body. Her ears rubbed against the material as the hood came loose, then fell to the floor.

  The windowless van was just as dark as before but the air was fresher and she suc
ked it in greedily. There was a lull in the rain; herring gulls squawked noisily above her.

  Even if she could, she fought the desire to get out and run away – her arms were tied and she had little idea what was waiting for her. She rotated her shoulders to draw some circulation into them, then froze. There were footsteps behind the van. They stopped then she heard a twist of gravel behind her. A gun fired a metre from her head, its echo in the van the toll of a bell.

  Frantically, she brushed her body against the walls, hoping to find something sharp to cut through the cable tie. She dropped to the floor and pushed herself under the bench, feeling with her cheeks for any metal with an edge. Her foot caught the bolt on the floor which had torn her lips. She scrambled to it and turned on her back to drag the cable tie over the bolt. She braced her feet against the base of the bench seat and strained. Her shoulders drew behind her like a bow, thrusting her pelvis in the air. A volcano at the base of her skull erupted and she knew she couldn’t go on. She collapsed to the floor.

  The rain had stopped and the herring gulls were quiet too – no doubt alarmed by the gunshot. She’d made enough noise but Volkov or his driver hadn’t come for her. She used the bolt to work the cable tie into the narrowest part of her wrists. It bought a centimetre’s worth of space and she used the gap to work the tie with the bolt as far as it would go on the fleshy part of one thumb. She placed her feet against the bench seat again, and strained. Her back arched and her shoulder blades came together. The cable tie slipped, then she fell backwards as it came free.

  Natalya crawled to the van’s rear door, rubbing her wrists urgently to bring the circulation back. There was heat, then a stinging pain, and she massaged and stretched her fingers until they were only half-numb. She patted the door until she found the release catch. Her fingers curled around a steel lever and the door groaned as it opened. She climbed out, squinting in the bright light. A spray of rain mixed with seawater caught her in the face, the salt finding its way onto her lips and scalp sending fresh electricity through her nerves.

  The van was on a coastal road. Stretched ahead of her, a row of eight or ten grand houses with gates and private drives faced the agitated Baltic. Behind, kilometres of winding road hugged the shoreline. A spray of brine brought fresh knife jabs of pain. Escape wasn’t an option, however tempting, when she still had to find Dahl’s documents. Without them, Anton would never be safe.

  She edged forwards, thinking of the driver. In the van, Volkov had admitted sending the Gosha Kutsenko lookalike to kill Yulia Federova. It left more questions than answers but there was no time to consider them. On the driver’s side she glimpsed a leather cap protruding through the open window. The cab smelled of cigarettes and the acrid odour of a bullet’s propellant. She crept lower, praying he was too distracted to notice her.

  She had the element of surprise, but it was hardly a comfort when he had his gun as well as hers. One more step then she checked again. He hadn’t moved. She pressed herself against the door. The wind caught Mikhail’s raincoat making it flap noisily like a canvas sail. The leather cap was still. She shifted position to see his face in the wing mirror – he was slumped forwards. She stood up.

  An “O” of frozen surprise was on the driver’s mouth. On the side of his head, a bullet had left a neat black hole in his leather cap. The relief made her want to laugh out loud. She opened the door and prised a gun from the dead man’s hand. It had a full clip and “CZ 75 P-01” etched along the barrel. It was a well-made Czech pistol that had worked its way from the police force and onto the black market. She ripped off Mikhail’s raincoat and threw it to the floor, then fixed the dead man’s gun to the holster on her belt.

  Her teeth chattered and she shivered although it was warm enough. A fresh spray of rain caught her as she started walking. Tall grasses gave way to a deserted beach, and with the beach came the houses; the first one she passed had an ornamental fountain and a Maybach on the drive, but where had Volkov gone?

  An ancient vagrant wearing a blazer with a nautical badge was hiding from the squally showers under a decaying bus shelter that hadn’t been used in years.

  ‘Police – have you seen anyone come this way?’

  He didn’t react and she touched him lightly on the shoulder, making him jump.

  ‘Please, where did he go?’

  He turned to show a weathered face and patches of grey hair through burnt skin, then dismissed her with a flick of his finger towards the end of the street where the beach turned back to grass and the houses stopped. Even in the mist she could see little cover for someone of Volkov’s size. She nodded a thanks, realising the old man was unreliable.

  A phone started ringing. She recognised the tone and started running to the van, guessing it had come from there. Flares exploded in her head with each footfall. A few seconds later the ringtone was drowned out by a howl of wind.

  On the passenger side, the window was stained red and when she pulled open the door, drips of coagulated blood shook free of the dashboard. She heard her mobile beep to alert her to a new text message and she reached for the glove compartment. Inside she discovered her iPhone. A text on the screen alerted her to a missed call from Mikhail. At the side of the van she sheltered from the rain and called him.

  ‘Misha? Is it important?’

  ‘Hey Angel. I did what you asked. That crazy woman cost me my wallet and balls… she’s going.’

  It took her a moment to realise he was speaking of Dinara. She was leaving the country with Anton and a pile of Mikhail’s money.

  ‘Thank God,’ she said.

  He paused. ‘Have you found the documents?’

  ‘I’m not even close.’ The van door slammed with the wind. ‘Volkov found me.’

  ‘Jesus…are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she looked at the dead man through the window, ‘I had a guardian angel. Actually, he might be an Angel of Death, it’s unclear.’

  ‘Anton’s safe, just get away.’

  ‘From the FSB? He’ll never be safe if I don’t do this.’

  ‘Wait for me.’ She heard echoes of footsteps and guessed he was racing down the stairs. ‘Tell me where you are.’

  ‘Go north on the E18 – I’ll text you the address when I find it. Where’s Rogov?’

  ‘I don’t know, he’s not answering. I’m worried Tasha, everything’s fucked.’

  ‘Bring Primakov – just the two of you. Don’t involve Dostoynov.’

  ‘Angel, stay where you are.’

  ‘I can’t. Something’s happening.’

  She ended the call.

  Before Volkov had hit her, there had been a text on her phone. She opened her messages to find her most recent conversation with Rogov:

  The sixty-year-old virgin is putting out.

  That was his adolescent way of saying the woman at the ZAGS office was being helpful. In the van, she had deliberately referred to Rogov as “Stepan”. Volkov had copied her, not realising she never called her sergeant by his first name. That must have given Rogov a clue that something was wrong. Volkov’s second text had then asked “Stepan” for Dahl’s whereabouts when she had already told him the Swede was in Zena’s apartment. That wasn’t a clue so much as a hammer blow to Rogov’s forehead that she had been compromised.

  She checked Rogov’s reply and allowed herself a smile. The address he’d given to Volkov was in Sestroretsk, where Zena had gone to the ZAGS office with Yulia. She guessed he’d got it from his sixty-year-old virgin. It made perfect sense too, because Dahl was just about brave and stupid enough to go there looking for Zena – it was Volkov’s own house. She forwarded the address to Mikhail as a gunshot rang out from one of the properties, then two more followed in rapid succession.

  Chapter 40

  Heavy gates blocked the entrance and the steel fence surrounding the property had spikes that were meant to look decorative to a casual observer yet lethal to anyone thinking seriously of climbing it. She noticed a broken branch on the ground and looked up to s
ee a security camera knocked out of alignment so that it focused away from the main gates and out to the Baltic. She tried the gates and was relieved to find them unlocked.

  Her feet crunched on gravel and she quickly moved onto the grass verge, seeking out cover among the trees that skirted the driveway. She ducked from one to another holding the Czech pistol outstretched in both hands and angled towards the ground. The house, as she approached it, was three storeys with a light blue wooden façade and white shuttered windows. It looked more like a holiday home than a permanent residence and she wondered if that accounted for the silence in the rest of the street. At the entrance was a solid oak door with steps leading up to it and a pair of sculpted, stone tigers on either side – it was ajar.

  As she entered the house, a squall brought a spray inside, soaking her shirt. The hallway was wide and tiled, with a staircase to the right. She saw three open doors: two to the left and one ahead. She jerked her head inside the first, seeing a Persian rug over stained floorboards and a black leather corner unit. There was no one there and she moved to the next, finding an empty dining room. Straight ahead, she saw wet footsteps on the floor and followed them to a kitchen: it was handmade and centred around a stove that was old and spotless. A large pan lay on a work surface filled with vinegar next to a row of empty pickling jars.

  The kitchen led to an external door which was clattering in the wind. A woman lay face down on the garden path outside. She had tan tights and moccasin-style slippers, and wore yellow, rubber kitchen gloves on her hands. Natalya stopped to feel for the woman’s carotid pulse and observed a thick line of red, cauterised skin where a bullet had grazed her neck. Another two had left glistening holes in her sea-green cashmere top; they were three centimetres apart and had hit her from behind, the shooter targeting her heart. Natalya removed her fingers from the neck. The body was warm; there was no pulse.

  Volkov cried out from one of the floors above her, his voice raging and anguished. She ran to the hallway, taking the stairs two at a time. At the first landing, she counted six rooms and stopped to listen. There was laboured breathing coming from the left and she drew closer to an open door. Next to the jamb, she saw an upturned wicker chair.