by Rik Stone
Chapter 51
“Vasili Samprov,” Andrei said, as he came into Otto’s office.
“What about him?” Otto replied, without much interest. Irritation had rubbed him up, without reason. The Jew was off his back, and because of that so was Petrichova. So his irritation must be because it was too hot in here: the radiator valve had jammed and the heat was overpowering. He would have to get hold of the maintenance supervisor and burn his ass. He’d make him see what “too hot” felt like – but he’d had that in mind all week and hadn’t gotten round to it yet. No, it wasn’t the heating anyway, he was just irritable.
“Our local militiaman in Ostrov didn’t know Vasili had moved over to Nabokovski, and he’s been in touch to tell me that he’s been murdered… Have you turned the heating up?”
Otto’s head whipped up – no, leave it. And who cares about Samprov, he thought. But for some reason the news added to his sour mood.
“How?” he asked, frowned and brushed a hand over his flat-top. He halted the move halfway. He had to stop doing that.
“Shot in the limbs and then finished off with a bullet to the head.”
“Ouch, nasty, but… he isn’t our business.”
Otto thought of his former comrades and his mood eased a bit. He’d known Vasili and Stefan for a long time and they had a habit of getting into knife fights – very good at it they were too, but someone not so good probably got hold of a gun to level the odds.
Thoughts veered: he had a new scam in mind. He turned the conversation and told Andrei the details. Ten minutes passed and he’d convinced himself of his own brilliance – and then the phone rang.
“Yes?” Impatient again, face set, but Otto calmed when he heard the voice on the other end. “Stefan, that’s a coincidence. We were not long talking about you – well, Vasili anyway. How is it up there with the big boys?”
Stefan cut straight to the chase, giving him a detailed outline of what had just happened. Otto knew he was saying too much on an unsafe line, but froze when Stefan described the man responsible. Then he shuddered when he heard the message he was given: ‘Tell Nabokovski that Otto wants his operation back.’
“What, no, of course it wasn’t me. Why would I? Was this man able to get any information about me?”
The phone went silent... “No, how could he have? There’s nothing here about you.”
“You say you’re in the hospital in Balashikha. Look, some of the phone conversations here are listened in on. This is a covert operation, so I’ll come and see you there. I have a photograph I’d like you to look at. Oh, and thanks for letting me know so promptly.”
Otto hung up and felt his shoulders sag. He walked to the window. The rain pissed down and clouds hung low, and that just about summed up his mood. And he was due to see his mother. It couldn’t be more depressing. But then sourness turned to apprehension. What had gone wrong? Surely the bastard couldn’t still be alive? That wouldn’t be possible; they’d obliterated the area. No one could live through such a bombardment.
Flaring up a cigarette, he dragged long and hard before exhaling smoke in a powerful blue line. When the line wavered, he saw his own nervousness. A second drag took smoke down that didn’t resurface. If it was the Jew, he must’ve killed Vasili and left Stefan alive so it would get back to him. The little bastard was after him. A new version of an old sensation gripped him – fear. He let his head hang loose, relaxed his shoulders and tried to calm himself. But that was a waste of time. He was scared shitless.
Andrei came up behind him and stood close. “What’s wrong, Otto? What did Stefan say?”
Otto’s voice quivered. “I think that fucking Jew might still be alive; and if he is, he’s after me.”
Andrei pulled back and Otto turned to see he’d stiffened.
“What! No, no, no, that isn’t even vaguely possible.”
The right words, but they could’ve been said with a little more conviction. “You would think so, but it certainly sounds like him. What does that fucking man have? It’s as if he’s superhuman.”
Fear squeezed Otto’s chest. His imagination watched the Jew grow into a monster. He shook the thought away. “But you’re right. I’m probably jumping to conclusions. I must calm down, think logically. I’ll go to Stefan. He’ll at least be able to confirm if it’s him or not. I want you to go to the plains that we bombed. Make a line from that point to where Vasili was killed. Plot the journey the way you would if you were travelling commando. He would be capable of living off the land, but there’s been a lot of snow about and he’s trained to take the easiest option. And that would mean he stole from farms as he went. Check with the local militia stations and see if anybody has reported theft. If they have, see if they gave a description.”
“I’m on it, Otto.”
Andrei sighed as he turned to leave, but Otto’s thoughts had gone into overdrive. And they told him his visit to Stefan might be a trap.
“Wait, Andrei, come with me to see Stefan first. If this is a set-up, it will be easier for us to sort it out together.”
Chapter 52
Since he’d dealt with Stefan, Jez had spent a number of days at the Korbet cabin. The slug had ripped right through his flesh and probably buried itself in the fire door behind him. He’d been lucky; the lesion produced no evidence of lead particles. At first he’d looked after the wound himself, but then Rula stepped in as nursemaid and cleaned and dressed the arm at the same time each day.
He continued with his tasks, splitting logs with an axe held in his left hand. After an afternoon at work, he became sweaty and took off his shirt. Rula popped her head out of the cabin door.
“Jez, would you like tea or a cold drink?”
“Water would be good,” he said.
A couple of minutes later, Rula came out with two cups of water.
“You look fit,” she said, and gave him the once over.
Little warning bells chimed. “Years of army training; I don’t look any different to the other soldiers at camp,” he said, and split another log.
“Take a breather. I don’t get to speak with many people my own age.”
He put the axe down. “Hardly your age: there are quite a few years between us.”
She giggled. “You know what I mean. I get a bit lonely. I suppose that’s why I was smitten when Vasili plied me with his charms, him telling me all those lies, saying how beautiful I was.”
“You are a lovely girl. He wasn’t telling lies,” he said, and immediately regretted it.
She moved closer, looking up at him differently from usual, but before it could go further her mother popped her head out of the cabin. “Come on you, oh…” she coughed and laughed. “Come on you two, supper.”
The evening passed quietly. Rula hooded her eyes a couple of times when their gazes met, nothing more. But what if she was to – what of Anna… oh shit… But then, maybe he’d misread the signs. After all, he wasn’t exactly Comrade Experienced. Forget about it. Carry on as normal.
Three days of the same old routine and he realized he’d been wrong. She’d only tested him to see if men thought her attractive.
Darkness fell, and he’d washed. He looked at his reflection mirrored in the blackened window and tensed his right arm to make sure it had healed without complications. That was when Rula walked in on him. She’d bathed and dressed the wound at the same time every day... It was his fault: he should’ve been ready for her. Now, his cheeks burned as she stared floor-ward and giggled. She got nearer, but then her breath caught and she shrank back.
Embarrassed, he didn’t know what to say. “Hello, Rula, sorry, I forgot the time,” he mumbled into his chest.
As she cleaned the injury she usually told him some old wives’ tale her mother thought true: like that only a silver bullet could kill a vampire – a vampire, of course they must exist, otherwise not even a silver bullet could kill them. He felt the heat of her body and the close proximity brought awareness. Suddenly the silence deafened him.
>
She dabbed at the injury with a towel, but gazed into his face. Her eyes widened and smoldered and something stirred in him. For a moment, his eyes returned the same passion. Animal instinct rose, almost drove him into pursuit. But he couldn’t. Anna’s face came into his vision and Rula’s charms dimmed. He turned away and put his shirt on, but in the rejection he caught a glimpse of her shame.
“Rula, I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I’ve become very fond of you, but I’m not Vasili. I don’t take advantage of people at vulnerable times in their lives. I really am so very sorry, but I’ll be off tomorrow and it’s unlikely I’ll return.”
She didn’t reply, just gave him an awkward smile, gathered the towel and basin and hurried from the room. He thought she might have been crying. He lay on the bed, his heart a dead weight. The last thing he wanted was to hurt these people: the only ones who’d believed in him. And now he’d caused Rula distress. But he suddenly sat up and shook his head. He couldn’t afford to be maudlin: think of the mission. Because of the new information, he had to alter his plans again. Another of Poppa’s expressions came to mind: “Where there is no vision, the people perish”, and he saw the unearthing of Jacob Bernstein as part of a new vision.
Without doubt, as a soldier Mitrokhin knew all the moves. And though Jez had less guile and experience, he’d handled himself well since he’d escaped the pothole. He’d managed to stay one step ahead, and attributed his successes to a balanced attitude between commitment and detachment. After he’d embraced the mindset of a fugitive he’d done the unexpected, and this new idea would certainly be that.
He had to go to Leningrad, but he couldn’t quite make his mind up about his quarry. Would he be able to enlist the accountant’s help, or have to terminate him after he’d done his bidding? He could certainly justify killing Bernstein. In his own way, he was as guilty of abduction as Vasili.
*
By now Mitrokhin would be aware that Jez had survived the bombings, and there would be military checkpoints, especially on public transport routes. But he needed to get to Leningrad… Think about it: Stefan wouldn’t have told Otto that Jez knew of the accountant’s existence, or he’d have betrayed the fact he had information that could be used for blackmail. No loose ends there, but Mitrokhin was nobody’s fool. There’d be every chance he’d suspect he was using the Glebska persona.
Question: what did it actually mean to assume the search was still on? …It meant they would pick up a trail at some point. So, he’d travel west to Smolensk as Glebska, become Vasili at the terminal and travel north to Leningrad. The manpower used to hunt him would be limited, or else Mitrokhin would have had to admit that he’d got it wrong when he’d reported him dead – and he would have done that for sure. To start, before Jez went any further he needed to change appearance.
A subdued Rula cut and styled his hair: back and sides not much more than a centimeter, but the top was still long and fashioned similar to the way Vasili had worn his, slicked back and pulled forward. He wanted to look like a high-ranking city worker, so he bought new clothes in Ostrov; but with the clothes available, he’d have been lucky to get away with being a lowly clerk.
When he left the Korbets, Jez walked into Ostrov and caught a bus south to the Kashirskaya metro station. The line came back through Kolomenskaya metro on the way to central Moscow, which would have been quicker, but he didn’t want to sit on the platform there and bump into those he had no desire to bump into: the youths from Nadia’s Plattenbau, for instance. In the capital, no one took notice of anyone and he caught the mainline express to Smolensk. He left the terminal without having to show identification. A few hours in doorways and alleys, and he resumed the journey to Leningrad as Vasili. Although he arrived late, the mid-May twilight was lingering – summer, the time of white nights when dusk prevails until daybreak. Again, he left the station without being asked for ID, and he smiled. If he hadn’t been on the run, he would consider it his duty to beef up security.
On to Leningrad’s Nevsky Prospekt and then Uprising Square, where he looked back to the Moscovsky Railway Terminal. The last time he’d stared at a station like that, Anna had been with him.
Most of Russia’s major cities had waterways. One of Leningrad’s was the Neva River. He walked along the bank, and emotional forces brought his thoughts to the embankment in Minsk. He’d strolled hand in hand with Anna and love had been reborn. The thoughts waxed poetical for a few minutes and resolve grew, but the cold bit into his bones. He had to move on. A metro took him to the north of the city and on to the suburbs where the accountant lived.
From the station, a five-minute walk turned to ten because the world-traveled soldier took a wrong turn. But he managed to find a multitude of low-rise tenement blocks that brought him to the address he wanted. Bernstein’s apartment building told a different story to that of Nadia’s Plattenbau. The foyer smelled fresh, the floor was herringboned oak and the lift button brought the cage down to the ground floor almost instantly.
But the corridor on the second floor wasn’t so upmarket. Half the lights were blown. The air was thick and musty, and the paintwork was old and worn. Just for a moment, the closeness of the walls and the poor lighting shifted his mind back to being trapped in the pothole. Momentary panic nipped his senses and he was glad to come to stare at number 232, the door of the accountant’s apartment. He knocked for a whole five minutes before he heard someone shuffle on the other side of the door.
“I’m coming, I’m coming. Stop before you wake the dead. Who is it at this ungodly hour anyway?” a voice croaked.
“My name is Alex Glushchenko, and if you’re Jacob Bernstein then that name should be meaningful. I’ve been sent from Moscow on business.”
The door opened and a cast of light slithered out to split the gloom of the passageway.
“Are you Jacob Bernstein?” Jez asked.
The door opened enough to make out a man staring at him suspiciously. He wore a long, black, silk dressing gown that looked almost new, and though Jez had got him out of bed he appeared groomed, well presented. The man’s straight hair had taken on a steel grey and fitted neatly around a narrow, angular, but pleasant enough face. When the door fully opened, Jez could see along the passage as far as the lounge.
“Yes,” Bernstein answered, his distrust evident, but there was no fear in his eyes.
“Stefan Polanski sent me about the funds he’s given you to process for Mitrokhin.”
Jez’s only notion had been to get a foot over the threshold and physically take control of the situation. He hadn’t given enough thought to how the conversation should go, and quickly realized it could be flawed.
But he was wrong. “Come in,” Bernstein said. “After waking me up like that, I could do with a cup of tea. What about you?”
“Yes, that would be welcome, thank you.” Jez was parched. He would take Bernstein down after he’d quenched his thirst.
The accountant shuffled his average height and willowy frame along the short corridor. He dragged one foot exaggeratedly and Jez smiled. The stance, the slim-fit black silk robe, Bernstein bordered on the macabre rather than looking the part of an accountant in a low-rise apartment block in Leningrad. Probably around his mid-forties, but the bent body, frail in appearance, gave the bearing of a much older man, maybe a reaction from being woken in the middle of the night.
Jez placed the documents from Stefan’s nightclub on the floor beside where he sat. They were wrapped in brown paper and tied with a piece of string that appeared to have grown hair. He’d wanted to buy a briefcase at the same time as he’d bought the clothes in Ostrov. But not being that sort of town, brown paper and string had to do; still, that was more in keeping with the clothes.
Bernstein disappeared into the kitchen and Jez sat back and looked around. Pristine: even the worn square of carpet in the centre of the lounge was without a speck of dust. The old furniture was polished, and a clotheshorse was filled with freshly pressed shirts. Some of them were frayed a
round the collar.
Bernstein shuffled his way back in with a tray. Jez watched him cross the room as he tried to balance the two cups of black tea and a plate with several crumbling old biscuits. His gait hadn’t been from tiredness; it was that of an older man, or a man who’d spent too much of his life bent over a desk.
“Other than when I served in the army, I’ve never seen an apartment so spotless. I commend you.” Jez sipped long at the tea: an unfamiliar taste that didn’t suit his palate, too bitter.
“Thank you, it hasn’t been so long since I lost my wife. It’s been a difficult time of adjustment and I tend to do almost more than I’m capable of, just in case I slip into being slovenly. She wouldn’t approve of that.”
The tea wasn’t hot enough. Jez didn’t like it. He drank it in two swallows.
“No, I suppose not, but there’s not much fear of that b-y-y the look of… eve-ry-thing.” His brain floated upward and his mind hovered overhead, as if he was on the ceiling. His words were slurred and didn’t seem to come from his mouth. His spirit became detached from reality.
The journey had taken more out of him than he’d realized, but then hopeless dizziness came over him and the colours in his vision blurred – he’d been drugged. He pushed up from the chair, but his body was a tonne weight. Bernstein stared blankly at him. Jez couldn’t hold on – falling – temptation to sleep – eyelids heavy – too heavy to resist.
Chapter 53
“Ah, Comrade Glushchenko, you’re back,” Bernstein said softly.
The words were like déjà vu, the previous incarnation being under Smersh interrogation. Jez tried to shake sense into his thoughts, but his mind fuzzed, and dried saliva made his swollen tongue too big for its confines. His eyes stung when he opened them and grit on the lids pricked uncomfortably. Consciousness flooded back, and pain hammered in his skull. His wrists and ankles had been bound behind him. His body was bent backwards as hands and feet were drawn together.
