Sunstroke

by Madge Swindells

  ‘Madame is a tourist?’ the police officer asked, in passable English. From his expression I assumed that tourists and delinquents were virtually indistinguishable.

  ‘Yes. Where can I find a taxi?’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘To my hotel – the Cosmopolitan.’

  ‘May I see your passport and visa?’ He examined my papers with intimidating interest. ‘You have been in Odessa for five days and yet you have no sun-tan. What have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘I was ill – food poisoning.’

  ‘Madame, please get into the car. I shall take you to your hotel via a trip to Headquarters. There is a militia post nearby.’

  This was the moment I had dreaded. I climbed into the back seat while my suitcases went into the boot. I had to do something.

  ‘Listen!’ I leaned forward to mutter in his ear. ‘Is your radio switched off? Can I talk? You must know that there’s no law against bringing Western currency into the Soviet Union. Your country needs dollars. I have ten million dollars in those suitcases. It is my job to deliver the cash to the Moscow headquarters of the International Bukharin Bank as soon as possible. I’m sure the bank would be grateful for your protection.’

  ‘Madame is a courier?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it exactly.’

  ‘That is not a suitable occupation for an unarmed, defenceless woman. In Russia there are no laws against depositing large sums of cash as yet, but we prosecute money-launderers. It is for you to prove that this is not drug money. I will take you to your hotel and we shall telephone the director of the bank after I have examined the contents of the suitcases.’

  Clearly he was a policeman, not a mugger, but some of the police were corrupt, I knew. What if he stole the money? My life wouldn’t be worth much when Cassellari found out.

  I leaned back trembling. I hadn’t told Borovoi about this trip, sensing that the fewer people who knew the safer I would be. Mikhail’s refusal to call a taxi had been suspicious. Perhaps he had notified the police. But since he, too, was a courier, what possible advantage would that be to him?

  Ten minutes later, when Inspector Anatoli Zhoglo had introduced himself and confirmed that the suitcases contained exactly ten million dollars, I became convinced that he, Mikhail and Borovoi were in some way connected. He asked me for the name and telephone number of Bukharin Bank, called them and asked to speak to Borovoi.

  The conversation was brief and I wished I could have understood what he was saying. When he put down the telephone, his manner had changed altogether. ‘Miss Hunter, I have decided to help you.’

  Help me? He was busy helping himself, taking bundles of dollar notes from the suitcase.

  ‘This is my fee of five thousand dollars to which the bank president has agreed,’ he told me, without a trace of shame. ‘He will pay five again in Moscow. I am your bodyguard, Miss Hunter. The mafiya know about the consignment. You are not safe. Please pack your things, we are moving elsewhere. I’ll wait downstairs.’ He gave a funny, old-fashioned sort of bow, but he could not control the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

  As soon as he had gone, I called Borovoi.

  ‘He is an inspector in the local police force,’ Borovoi told me. ‘I’ve just checked. He was tipped off. An inspector would never undertake traffic-patrol duties. We don’t have much choice since he has threatened to arrest you for money-laundering unless I pay for protection. There are always dangers in this business.’

  Inspector Zhoglo took me to his home for the weekend. He lived in a cottage by the sea on the outskirts of Odessa. His wife, Theresa, provided me with marvellous meals and his two children, a boy of twelve and a girl of ten, took me swimming daily in a pretty, sheltered bay. I was not surprised when ‘Uncle’ Mikhail came round for a drink the following evening. It was going to be all right, after all, I decided. I couldn’t wait to reach Moscow. It was almost time for Boris Borovoi to tell me all he knew about Wolf.

  Chapter 57

  The head office of Bukharin Bank was located in a four-storey building just off Pyatnitskaya street.

  The lift was being repaired and we climbed four flights of stairs, only to be stopped by heavily armed, grim-faced security guards, with an air of authority reminiscent of KGB days. They examined my identification papers.

  The central doors swung open and a fresh-faced young man strode out and shook hands with me and then Zhoglo.

  ‘You have the money?’ he said, in almost accentless English.

  I nodded. ‘I am Naomi Hunter. I was expecting to meet Mr Borovoi here.’

  ‘Come in, come in. My congratulations. Mr Borovoi won’t be long.’ He went to take the suitcases, but Zhoglo held on to them.

  ‘Only to Borovoi. Those were my orders,’ he growled.

  We passed into a hastily thrown-together office, with new, steel-legged beige Formica desks, brand new wall-to-wall carpeting, and some hideous modern reproduction paintings propped against the walls. The chairs were still flecked with plastic packing material, the pictures were still covered in plastic sheeting and the desks were thick with foam dust. Clearly everything had been delivered a matter of hours earlier. Instant banking. Nevertheless, tracklights on the ceiling, a large piece of modern metal sculpture, a Persian rug, plush sofas, and vases on occasional tables, plus several computers and rows of telephones showed that, give or take a couple of days, this bank would look impressive. Cassellari would be satisfied if and when he came here.

  Even the secretaries looked newly acquired, kitted out in smart clothes and shoes that could only have been bought in Western-currency stores in Moscow. I guessed they had received lessons in smiling, and clearly they were finding this an effort, although they kept trying.

  As we stood around, Borovoi came bounding in. ‘My dear Miss Hunter.’ He enfolded me in a crushing embrace. ‘Welcome, my dear, and congratulations.’

  ‘This is Inspector Anatoli Zhoglo, my guardian angel. He would like to get back to his job as soon as possible.’

  Zhoglo was paid, clapped on the shoulder and shown to the door, with the promise of further assignments in the near future.

  ‘An interesting young man. We could do worse than to ask him to set up our courier service. He has the contacts, the experience and the nerve. Now, Nina, let’s get down to business. If you had let me know you were coming I would have been ready.’

  I laughed. ‘I can see we weren’t expected for a couple of days. Never mind the furniture. Have you received your banking licence yet?’

  ‘Everything is completed, Nina.’

  I exhaled with relief.

  It was all over bar the negotiations. Borovoi wanted too much for the half share of his bank and my negotiating skills were weakened by his insistence that he was protecting me and my real identity. His were weakened by the fact that I knew he had put this bank together in a matter of weeks for an outlay of two hundred thousand dollars for the deposit and licence, plus the rent of the building, the renovations, the furniture and any bribes he had been forced to pay to speed up the red tape. Finally, we settled for a million dollars. The other nine million would be Cassellari’s first deposit.

  I made out the deposit slip, which was signed and stamped, but I wanted much more than this. I knew that the most dangerous criminal activity in the new Russia was taking place inside the thousands of newly established private banks. They were under-capitalized and they offered hardly any protection to the depositor. Like this bank, many were fronts for criminals.

  I listed my demands to Borovoi, talking and writing at the same time. ‘First, I need to have this deposit slip signed by you, as director of this bank. Next, I want a personal letter from you acknowledging receipt of the cash. Then I need Cassellari’s share certificates for half of the holding company. Have you set up the holding company yet, Mr Borovoi?’

  ‘Nina, Nina, relax. You can’t foresee every hazard. Cassellari’s best security is his reputation for instant annihilation of those who try to double-cross him.�
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  He grinned and slapped his knee, rather overdoing it, I decided, as I pushed the handwritten list towards him.

  ‘Now, Mr Borovoi, no doubt you will remember a certain night in Sardinia. We made a pact. I have kept my side of the bargain, so start talking.’

  ‘You are going to be disappointed, Nina. I have no idea where or who Wolf Moller is.’

  My disappointment felt like a physical blow. I was shocked and it showed.

  ‘You know that Moller was a brilliant industrial spy. When I was in the KGB I was his controller, but I never saw him. That was how Moller operated. The initial contact to supply us with American research came from him. He always operated by telephone and later by fax and e-mail. In the early days he used many go-betweens, but we never met the real man. He spoke Russian perfectly and I assumed that he had spent at least a part of his childhood in Russia, perhaps Siberia.’

  ‘But, Mr Borovoi, if you were in the Russian police and Wolf was working for you, why didn’t you know where to find him when he disappeared?’

  ‘When the Soviet system broke down, his network did, too. We were unable to get funds to him to meet our obligations, so he diverted the last shipment to the Chinese. He was well paid by them, I assume. I wanted to prevent this at all costs, but I was too late. My dear, I was sorry to hurt you. Until I saw the picture of your baby son I thought you were his accomplice. You must understand that we wanted that shipment badly.’

  I decided to ignore his apology.

  ‘Major Barnard told me that Wolf was picked up by a Russian fisheries search trawler.’

  ‘Not true, Nina. He has never allowed himself to be seen by any Russian agent. He has always been a freelancer, trusting no one. We believe that he made his way overland to Cairo.’

  With my baby? Had Nicky survived the journey? I began to feel sick. I had to get out of there. I stood up and forced myself to shake his hand. ‘Not much information for all the work I have done for you, Mr Borovoi. You owe me.’

  ‘I acknowledge my debt.’ He bent and kissed my hand flamboyantly. ‘Please call me Boris, Nina. We are friends, aren’t we?’

  Never, but I would keep that to myself.

  ‘I need the papers I listed for Cassellari. I’ll remain in Moscow as long as it takes.’

  ‘You are most welcome, Nina. Perhaps I can show you Moscow’s special attractions?’

  I longed to say no, but sitting in my hotel room would not help me to find Wolf.

  I remained in Moscow for ten days until I had the documents I wanted. True to his word, Borovoi took me to the ballet and opera, and wined and dined me generously.

  Before I left I contacted Inspector Zhoglo again. He had already planned a fast courier service to transport incoming cash to the bank’s Moscow headquarters. He and Borovoi deserved each other, I decided, and left them to sort matters out.

  *

  I flew back to meet Cassellari in Sardinia, knowing that I had done a good job for him. He and his henchmen were delighted with their acquisition.

  ‘You’ve done well, Naomi. There’s plenty more work for you now that you’ve proved yourself to be reliable.’ Cassellari paid me my cheque with a flourish.

  I decided to take my courage in both hands and press for some of the answers I badly needed. ‘Have you thought of trying Sarajevo?’

  ‘Where the hell is that?’

  Not a good start.

  ‘Bosnia, for God’s sake.’

  He scowled at me.

  I marvelled at his strange standards. Murder was acceptable, but blasphemy was not.

  ‘There’s a civil war there, Naomi.’

  ‘That’s why the interest is so high. Drug money is financing their civil war. They offer very high interest rates, but you have to invest for a two-year period.’

  ‘Forget it! I like my cash to be around when I need it.’ Cassellari’s scowl became more intimidating as he lost patience with me.

  I persisted. ‘Does the name Trans-African Foundation mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’ De Sica shot me a strange look, part suspicion, part irritation.

  ‘How about Wolf Moller?’

  ‘What is this? Twenty questions? Can we get down to business, Naomi? I want to discuss another approach. I don’t want all my cash to go through Russia. There’s another five million that needs to be processed. How do you suggest we play it this time?’

  I sighed. I hated this work. It was both boring and dangerous, involving long periods of waiting around for moments of intense danger, but I had to play along with Cassellari. He had a link with Wolf.

  ‘I want to find a new approach. I’ll come back to you in a couple of days’ time when I’ve sorted something out. Okay?’

  It was sheer bliss to get back to my Monaco apartment, which lately had been beginning to feel like home. I switched on the computer and keyed into the incoming e-mail. There was a message from Father.

  Dear Nina,

  An American private detective has been inquiring about you in the village. He obtained photographs of you from the local rag, the one taken of you when you won the women's canoe marathon. He has not had the nerve to come here yet. With Wattling $ help, I traced his employer – it is David Bernstein. Co-currently, the Mossad are making inquiries about you through official channels. I've asked Wattling to release certain info revealing your connection with British Intelligence. It might be an easier role for you to play than that of a con, in view of your friendship with DB. Clearly DB suspects that you are not NH. Hopefully, hell pick up the intelligence connection without learning of the South African fiasco. Take care.

  Love, Father.

  I switched off and remained sitting there, thinking of David. I knew that I loved him, but my love was tinged with shame and guilt. I was afraid he would condemn me for my past. ‘Afraid’ was too weak a word. I lived in fear of losing him when he found that I was, or had been, Moller’s wife and that I had systematically cheated him from day one. If only I could confide in him.

  Chapter 58

  For me, far worse than the hazards of money-laundering were the compulsory periods of fun. I had to be seen to be enjoying my supposed wealth, or else I would be suspect. I divided my leisure hours between lazing in the sun in Sardinia and the Caribbean, attending Monaco’s rich parties, or gambling my wealth away at the Monaco casino.

  Every wasted hour hurt me, but I never knew just when I might come face to face with Wolf. I knew there was a link between him ans Cassellari. So I kept in with Cassellari’s friends, jet-setted to concerts in Tel Aviv, or wherever, moving with the fashionable set, simply because it made sense for Naomi to do this. They were hell-bent on extracting the most satisfaction out of every minute, living each day as if it were their last, a realistic assumption, I guessed. Invitations poured in for dinners, for private cinema shows, which I avoided for they were both blue and boring, and for parties at all times of the day and night. Most of Europe’s rich and titled had holiday homes around the Mediterranean coast and they all gave or attended parties as a nightly ritual. I had to be seen, and I had to keep looking for Wolf, so I became a nightbird, allowing myself no more than an hour at each party and moving on until just before dawn.

  A once ravishing but now ravaged dark-haired woman surged towards me triumphantly. ‘My dearest Naomi,’ she bellowed. Who was she? Where was I? Panic surged for I could not remember.

  Glancing uneasily at my pocket diary lying open in my handbag, I saw that I was in the lavish Monaco home of Princess Nabila, a recipient of massive oil revenues. She shook hands, put her log-heavy arm around my shoulders and led me to her guests. One by one I met a team of robed negotiators and two beautiful film starlets, tagging along for a profitable ride.

  Uniformed stewards were helping the guests to roast beef, turkey, caviare, oysters, crayfish and a vast selection of salads. I wasn’t hungry, so I nibbled a crisp. The trick was to be seen to be there but to leave privately. Fifteen minutes later, I was driving to the next ordeal.


  It was three a.m. and I was walking to the car park, feeling pleased to be leaving the last party for the night, when I bumped into Sergei Romanovitch in the dark.

  ‘Naomi, my sweet, I’d given up trying to find you. This is fate. Come back with me, I have some urgent work for you.’

  I sighed inwardly as I was shepherded to his car.

  *

  Half an hour later, I sank into an easy chair in Sergei’s office. ‘A martini before we get to work?’

  ‘At four a.m.? No, thanks. Anything soft will do. When do you sleep, Sergei?’

  ‘Hardly at all. I don’t need much sleep. Are you going to pass out on me again?’

  ‘Soon, but not just yet. Let’s be brief.’

  He handed me a drink and smiled intimately. ‘I have a very comfortable bed.’

  ‘Thanks, but no. Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  He led me to his office. Flinging open the door, he pointed to three icons hanging on the opposite wall. ‘Feast your eyes, Naomi. I like to gaze at these while I work.’

  There were places for four icons, but the third was empty. Vertical in shape and larger than usual, they depicted the story of the birth of Jesus. They were lovely, but cracked with age. The first showed Joseph and Mary begging for a room at the inn. Next was the newborn baby lying in a manger and the wise men offering their gifts. After the empty space, came the fourth, a gruesome image of Roman soldiers slaughtering infants. The colours had darkened with age but the deep crimson blood was vivid enough.

  ‘As you can see, one is missing, Naomi. Can you guess which one?’

  ‘Possibly the flight to Egypt.’

  ‘Exactly. These icons are early fourteenth century, originally from Constantinople, created as a series of panels to separate the Eucharist from the congregation in a church that has long since disappeared. To have the entire set would be to own a priceless treasure. That is one of the reasons why I asked you here tonight. I suspect that the missing icon has been discovered in Turkey, of all places, and bought by a Moscow dealer. I want you to go to Moscow and purchase the icon on my behalf and bring it back to Monaco.’