by Keith Short
‘I just thought you ought to know about this. After all, we wouldn’t want Dabrowski to find out what was going on, would we? I could deal with it if you want me to. I suggest we—’
Malkin shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no, no. I don’t want any loose cannon security staff chasing him down like a pack of dogs. Leave it with me and I’ll take a closer look. You have more important matters to attend to.’
As soon as his young manager left the office, Malkin laid his wafer on the table. ‘Malkin,’ he said firmly.
‘Good day, Mr Malkin,’ said the Melomet. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Get me Ivan Kuzmin from security.’
While his security officer was carrying out his investigations in Poland, Oleg Malkin achieved little in the business sense. He spent his daytime hours in the pakhan’s office, searching the internet for information on Leon Dabrowski. He hardly slept and would often get up in the dead of night and wander around the deserted lower corridors; he had a bad feeling about this. After an absence of almost two weeks, Ivan Kuzmin finally returned to Goldhurst.
‘Good day, Kuzmin. Sit down. Let me know everything you’ve found.’
‘Good day, sir,’ Kuzmin replied, placing his ring binder on the desk and opening it at the first page.
The young man looked confident. And he’d had the good sense to turn out smart for a meeting with his superior. In fact, with his chiselled face and typical security officer haircut, he reminded him of a younger, slimmer version of Vladimir Chekhov. The file contained a sheaf about a centimetre thick. Malkin settled himself down for a long meeting. But he knew there’d be little wasted time this afternoon – Kuzmin had an outstanding ability to crystallise facts and draw focused conclusions.
‘Dr Leon Dabrowski has an impeccable CV,’ Kuzmin looked up from his file, ‘which does not include regular visits to brothels.’ He returned to the file and continued in his polished quick-fire style. ‘He was an exceptional student and after gaining a double first in physics and mathematics, he commenced research in nuclear fusion.’
‘Yes, yes, I know all this.’ Malkin was already getting impatient. ‘And he was good at sport, could have been a professional footballer and so on. Just tell me something I don’t already know.’
Kuzmin carried on unfazed. Not one to be easily harassed by a superior, thought Malkin.
‘As far as I could make out, there were no suspicious extra-curricular activities in his life. As you must appreciate, it’s not unusual for someone of his intellectual capacity to be approached by the Polish secret service, or even the KGB. But I could find nothing like that.’
‘His family, anything unusual there?’
‘His father is Szymon Dabrowski, a wealthy self-made Polish banker as honest and dependable as they come. Stepfather, actually. He married Lynne, an English immigrant, when her son, the subject of our investigations, was four years old.’ Kuzmin abandoned his file. For the first time, there was enthusiasm in his voice. ‘This starts to get more interesting. I’ve searched the records and found that Eva Lynne Clarkson registered herself and the six-month-old Leon in Poznan, Poland. The papers show Leon’s father Andrew Clarkson as deceased. I went online and trawled the British births, deaths and marriages records and found the marriage certificate of Andrew Joseph Clarkson to one Eva Lynne Jones.’
Malkin shuffled in his chair. He could tell from Kuzmin’s body language there was more to come.
‘Here the trail fragments,’ Kuzmin continued. ‘I could find nothing further on this particular Andrew Clarkson – no record of his purported death. As for Lynne, I did find something most interesting.’ He paused and shook his head as if puzzled. ‘The only Eva Lynne Jones I could find in the records died in the nineteen eighties at the age of twenty. She was cremated in Camden Town, not too far from where we are now. I could find no other relevant correlations.’
Malkin was beginning to feel nervous. ‘Surely the Polish authorities would have discovered this? They’d have checked her background for such anomalies.’
‘They wouldn’t have been interested. It was easy to register in Poland in those days. The European Union was on the verge of a massive increase in east to west migration and anyone arriving in Poland from the opposite direction would have been welcome to stay, especially if they had money. I can’t say whether that was the case with Leon Dabrowski’s mother. By the way, it may not be significant, but Lynne Dabrowski is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease.’
‘I’d like a little more time to study this myself. Your file, if you please.’
Kuzmin handed over the results of two weeks’ work. ‘I would draw your attention to one further issue,’ he said. ‘It perhaps isn’t important. But Leon Dabrowski’s girlfriend, Magda Tomala, an outstanding Polish mathematician, has mysteriously disappeared. You’ll find the relevant police records in the file.’
So that’s what Dabrowski’s up to. ‘Thank you, Kuzmin. You’ve been very thorough. Anything else?’ Malkin’s neck was becoming hot and he opened the collar of his shirt.
‘There is. It may not be significant but, on my return from Poland, I discover that a member of Fusion’s technical lead team, Dr Gunther Schroeder, has been downloading visitor records from the admin computers.’
‘Why the hell would he want to do that?’
‘I don’t know. He could be looking for a specific name. He may have spotted someone around the offices who shouldn’t be there, a known competitor perhaps. One of my men picked this up from browsing through our routine security checks and I thought I should let you know.’
‘You did the right thing, Kuzmin, as always. You may leave now.’ But Malkin’s thoughts weren’t about Schroeder downloading visitor records. He broke into a cold sweat at the realisation that his plans could soon be in tatters. And, what was worse, his life could even be at risk.
Oh, God! Leon Dabrowski is Abram Chekhov.
Malkin’s head felt like a boiler about to burst under pressure. He could almost feel the steam coming out of his ears. The results of Kuzmin’s investigations were shocking, but his own research in the days that followed showed that the situation was worse than he feared.
‘You mean to say we’ve abducted and incarcerated one of the world’s most prominent mathematicians. And what’s worse, we’ve fucked about with her mind and it hasn’t worked. She’s not responded properly to her conditioning and now we don’t know how she’s going to react. She’s a fucking loose cannon.’
As always, Rodin remained the epitome of calmness. ‘It was an accident, nothing more. Tomala was simply trawled up with a recent batch of recruits. I hadn’t realised who she was. May I ask how you came to discover this?’
‘Good question, Rodin,’ Malkin said sarcastically. ‘You provided the information yourself. You told me that one of the world’s most prominent nuclear physicists was looking for her and I’ve since looked through your database records and worked out she’s down there in Eight Over Nine. Magda Tomala – Ana to you – is Leon Dabrowski’s fucking girlfriend. So, where does this leave us? Well, I’ll tell you. We’ve forcibly separated two of the world’s most intelligent people. Interpol will no doubt be looking for Magda Tomala by now. Meanwhile she’s probably setting about a quantitative analysis of our operation while her boyfriend has lost interest in Vladimir Chekhov’s fucking nuclear power company.’ He knew he was shouting loudly and probably glowing red by now, but this state of affairs was just insufferable. ‘It’s a fucking time bomb!’
‘We could repeat the n-flash?’
‘Too risky.’
‘We could possibly have her . . . eliminated?’
Malkin glared at his director. He abhorred killings of any sort. No way was he going back to those hideous mafiya days. He needed to think this through.
‘I’m not going to have her killed.’
‘Our only other option is to keep her down there and
keep her occupied. It’s working so far but it’s going to be a huge drain on our resources.’
‘Just fucking do it.’
CHAPTER 20
Five weeks after going into hiding, Leon was receiving regular visits from Leonid Pavel. Pavel travelled to London on scheduled flights and they met on different days of the week at varying locations around the capital, avoiding a regular routine that could get them noticed. He was pleased that today’s progress meeting was in the penthouse apartment the Warsaw Policja rented for him. With its gated entrance and Melomet-operated alarm system, he felt safe. Leon greeted Pavel with a warm grin.
‘I’m glad I’ve managed to persuade you to adopt our team disguise.’
Pavel seemed in no mood for frivolities. ‘I’ll have you know I’ve had some explaining to do back in Poland. But I have to agree, your idea to blend in with this rapidly expanding subculture is a good one. Who would think of looking for Leon Dabrowski, the nuclear physicist, among this extrovert lot?’
‘Exactly. They got the idea from the northern soul scene that sprang up in the UK last century. “Why not identify with classical music in the same manner?” some upper-class bod said three years ago. And his zany style choice for attending classical concerts went viral.’
‘Yes, yes, and the next thing we have is dozens of bespoke Classico venues springing up in the big cities.’ Pavel was clearly grumpy. ‘It offers the perfect cover for us. Let’s get down to the business I’ve come over to discuss, shall we?’
‘Hundreds of venues, actually. And your estimate for the number of brothels is equally understated. There are more brothels than your list provides.’
Pavel gave Leon a stern look. ‘And your point is?’
Pavel’s haircut was so funny. But he’d agreed it was important that he looked no different from the other Classicos who lived in this part of the city. ‘I mean to say, you need to reconsider getting some of your men inside these establishments. I can’t visit them all myself.’
‘You know we can’t do that. If they were discovered to be Polish police operatives, there’d be a diplomatic war. MI5 must have men in there, of course, but I reckon they’re more interested in dipping their wicks than exposing illegal practices like sex trafficking. You have to keep going. I’ll reinforce the surveillance teams if you think that would help.’
‘It’s going to be better than nothing, but the ground we need to cover requires at least three times what you have at the moment.’
Pavel threw up his hands, clearly frustrated. ‘You know that’s not possible.’
‘I’m only telling you the facts,’ said Leon, apologising with an open armed shrug.
‘But what I can suggest is we start using our satellite surveillance system. We recently put a satellite into geo-stationary orbit over London and you’d be amazed at the resolution. I was going to discuss this later, but seeing as you raise the subject of surveillance—’
Leon opened his eyes wide. ‘How does it work?’
‘Ha! I thought you’d be keen. The data will come directly into our computers in Poland and we’ll forward an encrypted version to you by secure link. You can carry out your analysis in the luxury of your own apartment.’
‘This is a change of heart, isn’t it? I thought you people were neurotic about transmitting data like that?’
‘Actually, the software security is very good in this case. And who’s going to be interested in just another set of satellite surveillance photographs? MI5 wouldn’t be bothered if they stumbled on activities like this, as long as we weren’t literally treading on their toes inside the brothels. And I doubt whether Rodin’s lot would even think of looking. It would be up to you to request scan coordinates in advance and we’d need to set up a third-party means of doing that. For the foreseeable future, this will be the main task of the new system. I’ll sort out the approvals when I get back.’
This was good news. His visits to the sex-for-money underworld were becoming physically and mentally draining. ‘Sounds great to me. When do we get it?’
‘Sooner than you think. Our technicians are carrying out trials as we speak. We can install your monitoring software as soon as they’ve finished their soak tests. But we need to keep the ground surveillance and the personal visits going. Speaking of which, I’ve read the report you provided to Schumann. How many of these brothels do you think are run by Rodin?’
‘About a dozen, by my reckoning. But we still have a lot of potential Rodin-operated houses to visit. They aren’t hard to spot once you’re inside. They’re leagues above the rest in terms of opulence and clientele.’
‘OK, let’s go for them with our limited ground resources. In the meantime, I’ll be in touch about the satellite data.’
And I’ll go and collect my own data.
Leon studied Gunther Schroeder as he walked through the front door of Classico Lounge. Gunther looked straight at him but didn’t acknowledge him. He laughed to himself as his friend continued to survey the rest of the bustling bar. Satisfied that he hadn’t been picked out of the crowd, he waved to catch his attention.
Schroeder came across to his table. ‘What the—?’
‘Yes, it is me. How are things with you, Gunther?’
‘Well, I’m fine. But, what about you? What are you doing in a place like this? And . . . you haven’t joined them, have you?’
‘No, not joined the Classico fraternity,’ he grinned at him, ‘just merging with them. They provide me with great cover. I like to think I could walk out of the bar, straight past you, without you noticing.’ He rubbed his shaved head and scratched the four days of growth on his chin. ‘You like the stubble?’
‘Yes, it suits you. And those ludicrous braces. You’re well disguised if that’s what you mean. I wouldn’t have recognised you if you’d stopped me in the street and asked me how the stellerator runs were panning out.’
‘Thanks, Gunther. I’m pleased about that. I reckon some of the brothel security staff have been checking me over, so I thought I’d get a new image. In fact, the Russians are beginning to see Classicos as a lucrative source of clientele. Money talks. Did you manage to get the data?’
‘Yes,’ Gunther replied, dropping him the wafer-zip.
Leon mouthed silently to the barmaid. Two, he indicated with his fingers. She brought them two small beers.
‘The zip file contains everything you specified. Damien downloaded three months’ worth of desk check-ins, security pass requests, entrance door scan data, video footage, everything. I’ve also downloaded the pattern recognition software you asked for. I can’t imagine for one moment what you’re going to do with this lot.’
Leon ignored his implied question. ‘Are you sure no one detected what you and Damien were doing?’
‘Don’t worry. Damien knows the admin security system inside out and I had no problem getting the download out of Goldhurst. There are certain privileges that come with rank. Glad you didn’t ask me for stellerator data, though – that might have been a little bit tougher.’
‘Ah, I was just coming to that.’
They both laughed, although Leon didn’t feel much like laughing nowadays.
‘Are you going to tell me what you plan to do with Fusion’s visitor records?’
‘Not even sure myself. Let’s just say it’s a nosy scientist’s intuitive investigation. There’s something niggling me about that place.’
Schroeder seemed concerned. ‘You look healthier than when I last saw you, Leon. But are you really OK? Are you getting anywhere with all this surveillance stuff?’
‘Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I’ve recruited a few private agents to assist me. They’re doing most of my groundwork. And I’m just about to take delivery of a fancy bit of computer technology to help with my analysis. Main thing is I feel in control.’ Most of what he told Gunther was true, so there were no guilty feelings. He jus
t forgot to mention that the private agents he referred to were the Polish secret police and his new computer system was a sophisticated device that could stream data from their state-of-the-art satellite surveillance system.
‘Where are you living?’
‘Best you don’t know, Gunther. What about our project? Are we winning?’
‘We’re getting there, but progress isn’t good enough for Chekhov. Slavic has become head slave driver and I’m his taskmaster. The guys are pulling out all the stops, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we soon had a mutiny on our hands at this rate.’
‘I presume Slavic has noticed that I’ve gone missing? And Chekhov himself – what does he think of all this?’
‘I explained to Slavic at the outset that you needed a lengthy break before you cracked under the strain. He thinks you’re in a private health farm somewhere. He’s not happy about it, of course. He’s without his key man at a critical stage in the project. But I think I’m providing him with enough support to cover for your absence. As for Chekhov, he’s always asking why you’re never at the video conferences. We’ve appeased him by telling him you’re too busy with vital work. I must admit, Slavic looks uncomfortable every time he asks – he daren’t tell Chekhov the truth. And I don’t think Chekhov believes us for one . . . are you listening, Leon?’
Leon was listening, but not digesting what he was being told. He’d just spotted Pavel’s right-hand man, Schumann. The Policja agent indicated, with a flick of the eyes, that he was to get rid of his acquaintance.
Schroeder continued, ‘I’m not sure how long we can keep this charade going. At some stage, we’re going to have to explain—’
‘Sorry, Gunther. I am interested, but something has just come up. I’m sure you’ll understand.’ He could see that Schroeder knew better than to turn around and look at whoever had diverted his attention.
‘I get you, Leon,’ he said, with concern in his eyes. ‘You take care. You know how to get in touch with me.’
