Master of Starlight

by Keith Short

  He left the security compound by the emergency exit and made his way through Goldhurst’s entrance hall. The Fusion Ltd reception desk was deserted. What was going on? He found the wall panel at the end of the hall, checked that nobody was watching and pushed the large brown wood-knot at the panel’s bottom corner. The panel slid back and, for the first time since the old pakhan was alive, he slipped into the entrance lobby of the secret route into the underground complex. Which route had Chekhov taken to the old pakhan’s office? Oh, God, what’s going on?

  The lower corridor hadn’t changed since Vladimir Chekhov’s last visit to Goldhurst thirty years ago. Thank God I didn’t sell the paintings. Brushing back his hair with his fingers and straightening his jacket, Malkin hurried towards the door at the end of the corridor. With closed eyes, he took a deep breath and drifted back to that first meeting many years ago. He knocked on the door and heard again the penetrating voice of Vladimir Chekhov. He entered the room and walked towards the desk behind which Chekhov and Ivan Kuzmin sat. What’s he doing here?

  ‘Do take a seat, Malkin.’

  No first-name terms today, but Chekhov’s calm demeanour made him feel at ease. Malkin took his seat and realised he was sitting in the wooden captain’s chair which Anatoly Chekhov always used for his one-to-one meetings. Where has that reappeared from? Oh God, he’s going to ask me where the pakhan’s chair has gone. His face must be glowing red by now.

  ‘I’ve asked our head of security, Mr Kuzmin, to attend this meeting,’ Chekhov said in a matter-of-fact manner. Kuzmin raised his eyebrows as if to say I knew nothing about this. Chekhov studied Malkin for a while before getting down to business.

  ‘Following my investigation into our prostitution operation and into the background of the estate manager you appointed, Alexei Rodin is to be dismissed from my organisation with immediate effect. I will subsequently make sure she is discredited at the Russian Embassy. Do you have anything to say?’

  What could he say? God, how did he find out about Rodin?

  ‘Good, that is agreed. Next item, the whole fleet of London brothels is to be closed down and the liberated . . . inmates . . . are to be sent for rehabilitation before their repatriation, where that is applicable. Do you understand that, Malkin?’

  Although Chekhov remained calm, Malkin could tell his anger was building and that there was worse to come.

  ‘Sir, can I say I agree with your decision about Rodin. I was going to—’

  ‘Be quiet, man!’ Chekhov picked a thick sheaf of paper from out of a briefcase and dropped it on the desk. It hit the surface with a dull slap. ‘This is a printout of a database which my security staff found on the brothel’s computers. I still prefer paper records, myself. I don’t like working with electronic files.’

  Kuzmin raised his eyebrows again and slowly shook his head, as much as to say it was nothing to do with him. Kuzmin is loyal. He wouldn’t split on me.

  ‘It will give me great pleasure to hand this file over to the Polish Policja in person. Have you anything to say?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I did my best to make money for you. I realise I should have kept you informed. I—’

  ‘You stole most of my money, Malkin. Is that what you’re going to tell me? Well, I can save you the bother. I know about your special accounts and I’ve taken back what is mine – that is, all of it. Impressive, I must say. If ever I decide to restore the prostitution business, I may well consider using your excellent business model. Now get out of my sight, you little moron, while you still have your legs.’ He turned towards Ivan Kuzmin. ‘Would you please see Mr Malkin off the premises?’

  Malkin was in a state of complete shock as he stumbled into the elevator with Kuzmin. He looked with the eyes of a pleading puppy at his former security man, but realised he’d get no sympathy. Kuzmin was now Chekhov’s man. It went without saying that he would no longer figure in Chekhov’s will but at least he’d escaped with his life. And thank God Chekhov had no idea of his role in his baby son’s abduction all those years ago. He’d lost his current fortune – except for the few hundred thousand he’d placed in a contingency account; he’d have to make do with that for now. It was time to disappear into the sunset while he still had the chance – and his legs.

  CHAPTER 36

  I’m in Poland. What city is this?

  Magda’s sense of freedom was beginning to subside. Abandoned and shivering in an open field, she’d head towards the sunrise until a man-made feature appeared – there was bound to be a path. Follow the path to a junction, a road perhaps. Follow the road to a hamlet, but always in a direction away from that vile prison. Children – what were they doing out here by themselves, so early in the morning? They’re teenagers.

  ‘What city is this?

  ‘You been drinking, miss?’

  ‘She’s on the game. How about me, darling? Any chance of a freebie?’

  Laughter – all four of them. They’re English.

  ‘Look, guys, I’m lost. Just tell me where I am or I’ll tell your teachers you’re kerb crawling on those toy bikes of yours.’

  ‘She’s a nutter. Come on, boys, leave the bitch alone before her pimp turns up.’

  Follow the path to a junction. Magda walked at a brisk pace until she came to a boundary. A gate – with houses beyond. She ran for the gate and the sense of freedom returned. You’re free, Ana. No, not Ana – Ana was gone. The houses were distinctly English; a large park like this, cars driven on the left – from the whole ambience, it had to be London. She was in London, the home of Fusion’s headquarters. She walked along the empty street, relishing the feel of the pavement beneath her feet. An electric car swished by. The traffic was building a mile or so away; the shrill sound of distant horns intermingled with the cooing of pigeons – it was a Mozart symphony to her. A road sign – Highgate three miles to the left. That’s what she’d do, she’d find the Fusion building – Goldhurst, they call it? She followed the road for a mile, turned left at the next signpost and made her way through the suburbs. The sight of fine English houses with their long drives was reassuring. Yet with every step, a weight was building on her shoulders and her legs began to buckle under the strain. This is going back to where I started. They’d drugged her again. This was all a dream – she’d wake up in her private quarters. Sergei would arrive any time now and whisk her off to the gym. She sat down at the roadside and wept.

  ‘Are you all right, ma’am?’

  Magda looked up at the police officer. ‘What?’

  ‘I think you’d better come with us.’

  Midday – the sun burned in cold air. Please don’t let it disappear. The gravel crackled under the wheels of the police car. Magda’s heart was beating so fast that she felt it would slip its gear and stop.

  ‘You will stay with me?’ she asked the young police officer who was driving.

  ‘If you want me to.’

  ‘I don’t want you to leave me for one second.’

  Through the glazed entrance door, she could make out a tall and well-built man with short hair, standing at a reception desk on the other side of a large hall. ‘The scan will take a few seconds,’ the officer said. The door slid open. Magda and the officer walked into a vast hall with light pouring in from above.

  ‘Professor Tomala, I believe? I am Vladimir Chekhov. Please come this way.’

  Her escape with Sergei earlier that morning was all so hazy, but her sense of direction during the short journey from the police station told her this was the place. Her heart told her this was the place. This was the place. She took hold of the police officer’s hand and he smiled at her. Tightening her grip, she followed Chekhov past the reception desk, surprised at the rude manner in which he left them trailing behind. He was already sitting at the desk by the time they entered the large ground-floor office. ‘Do please take a seat, professor.’

  A chilling thought dawned on her
– beneath her feet was that crazy metropolis in which she’d spent months of her life against her will. All this time she’d lived under Fusion’s headquarters. Thank God they didn’t take me to an elevator.

  ‘The officer can stay if that makes you feel better,’ Chekhov said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve been through these past months and you have my profound apologies. I have only recently discovered for myself what is going on.’

  The police officer – he was familiar with the building entry protocol. ‘I don’t know who to trust anymore. If this is some ruse, I’ll commit a murder, I promise you.’ She let go of the officer’s hand.

  ‘Professor, you have my word – you are safe now. In fact, I’m delighted that you’ve come back to my company’s headquarters. It must have taken a lot of nerve, given the traumatic experience you’ve been through in that place below. I myself am devastated. When I arrived two days ago, I was appalled to discover what was going on in the complex I built for my family. The place even had its own name – Eight Over Nine, they called it.’

  Magda could see how they derived the name but was in no mood to appreciate it. ‘That place down there is just one huge nightmare. How could you have let that happen? Surely, you must have known what they were up to. You condoned this Eight Over Nine, didn’t you?’

  ‘Please, professor,’ Chekhov threw up both hands, ‘calm down.’ He patted the air in front of him. ‘For personal reasons, I conducted all my Fusion business via video link. I had no reason to visit Goldhurst. I really had no idea—’

  ‘Where is Leon?’ She could see that Chekhov was galled at being interrupted. Yet he remained so calm.

  ‘Ah, I’m glad you ask me that question because I would like to know myself.’

  ‘You mean he’s not here? Is he looking for me?’

  ‘One presumes that to be the case. However, I’ve been looking for him for months and come up with nothing. He’s well hidden in this large city and has obviously migrated within Melomet-space. I suggest you and I put our heads together and see if we can solve this problem.’

  ‘Surely someone in Fusion would know of his whereabouts? How about Gunther Schroeder? Leon and Gunther were inseparable.’ Chekhov wasn’t going to answer. The mist inside her head cleared and she analysed every word he’d just said – there was a lot happening here. She spotted Chekhov’s glance towards the man at her side. The police officer – he knows him. She had to get out before they grabbed her and dragged her back down into that infernal underworld.

  Chekhov was looking at her as if he could read her thoughts. From out of his desk drawer, he took a small piece of paper and a pen, scribbled a name and number and handed the paper to her.

  ‘This man works for the Polish police force. He probably knows where Dr Dabrowski is but he refuses to speak with me. You may have better luck with him.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll restore my wafer-set and feed the code for this Mr . . .’ she looked at the note ‘. . . Pavel, through the Melomet pi-protocol.’

  Chekhov pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I need to go.’

  ‘You are free to go any time, professor. Please keep in touch.’

  ‘I can make my own way out,’ she said, scowling at the police officer.

  Chekhov and the police officer exchanged glances once more, then Chekhov nodded to her. ‘I’ll give you some money,’ he said. ‘Good luck, Magda.’

  Leonid Pavel proved to be about as easy to contact as a member of the UK monarchy. Three days after Magda’s meeting with Chekhov, Pavel’s office finally called her to say he was back in Warsaw and acknowledged her message. Now she waited patiently in a Soho bar for him to return her call. She smiled to herself as the strains of Grieg’s Morning Mood filled her private booth. How she hated this piece; it was the first sound she heard when she woke up in Eight Over Nine and it had haunted her dreams ever since. But not anymore. It meant nothing to her now, she could dismiss the effects of their brainwashing at will – well, most of the time. Would Pavel call, she wondered? His secretary had suggested he’d be back in the office within the hour but that was two hours ago. She started people watching to kill time.

  These new music cafés were fascinating but what bizarre customers they had, all of them looking the same. She must stick out like a sore thumb in this place. Yet most of the customers were ignoring her, like you’d ignore someone wearing a casual suit at a formal gathering. There were mostly couples occupying the booths opposite. One booth at a time, she studied their body language; they were happy – with the music and with each other. She was drawn towards a man of about her age. The lighting was dim but from what she could see of him, he didn’t look happy. He reminded her a bit of Leon. I imagine he’s pretty miserable at the moment too. I’ve missed you so much, Leon. Where are you, my darling? But Leon would never have his hair cut like that. Besides, this guy’s body was distinctly scrawny in comparison to Leon’s athletic frame.

  ‘Call for you Miss Tom,’ said the Melomet, ‘Mr Pavel.’

  ‘Miss Tom, I presume. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I explained to your secretary that Vladimir Chekhov gave me your Melomet code. He said you might know the whereabouts of my boyfriend, Leon Dabrowski.’

  ‘He would do that, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Miss Tom, I presume you’re claiming to be Dabrowski’s fiancée, Magda Tomala. As you must be aware by now, I’m a senior officer in the Warsaw Policja and you have to credit me with some intelligence.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I am Magda Tomala. And I’m desperate to find Leon. I’ll have you know that over these past months I’ve been—’

  ‘Miss Tom,’ Pavel interrupted, ‘do you take me for a fool? You can tell your boss that, although I’m eternally grateful for what he’s done for my compatriots, I have my principles. I’m not going to help him track down a loyal colleague of mine.’

  ‘Look, Pavel, if you know where Leon is, you have to tell me. You can see me on the screen. What makes you think I’m a fake?’

  ‘You’re one of Chekhov’s agents. My policeman’s intuition tells me. The crafty old sod is trying to con me into revealing Dabrowski’s whereabouts.’

  ‘And how do I know that you aren’t one of Chekhov’s agents trying to home in on my wafer signal so you can follow me to Leon. Why do you think I re-registered under a different name?’ This is getting us nowhere. The man opposite left his booth and walked towards the exit. God, he does look like Leon.

  ‘I can see your location as we speak. You’re in Café Classico in the Soho area of London. Chekhov is killing two birds with one stone here. He has you trying to trick me and, at the same time, you continue your search for Dabrowski in the Classico bars . . .’

  Oh, damn! What have I done? Magda pocketed her wafer, burst out of the booth and ran for the exit. The street outside the café was crowded. Try right. She shot off down the road and the cars coming towards her blasted their horns. After a hundred metres she stopped and turned. Back – past the café, towards the end of the street. Run faster, for God’s sake. At the junction there was no Classico to be seen in either direction. Lost him. She put her head in her hands and started screaming. People were looking at her as if she was a lunatic. She collapsed to the pavement, sobbing. Leon, Leon.

  CHAPTER 37

  The days crawled by. These were the darkest days of Leon’s life. He’d spend his time moping about his London apartment and thinking of nothing but Magda. Had she been abused, tortured, killed even? There were occasional visits to one of the many Classico hangouts in the West End – the atmosphere cleared his head and helped him think. It was risky now that Chekhov knew of his disguise – his security officers would no doubt have his latest photo on their wafers. But what did he care? He cared about nothing to do with Chekhov – his security team, his nuclear data, his nuclear power company even.
He’d do anything to find Magda, even if it meant throwing caution to the wind. He needed Pavel to help him – but where was Pavel? Without him and Schumann, there was little point in continuing surveillance of the brothels. If Magda was still locked away in one of them, the only way of finding her would be by personal visits.

  ‘Video call for you, Mahler, from Pavel in Poland. Will you take it now?’

  ‘I’ll take it in the lounge.’

  Let’s hope he has some news for me.

  ‘It’s over,’ Pavel said. He looked like he’d lost ten years overnight. His face no longer gaunt, he even managed a smile. ‘We were right about Fusion’s headquarters. There’s a huge brothel down there the size of a town.’

  ‘It’s over?’ quizzed Leon.

  ‘Leon, it’s marvellous. They’ve let my people go,’ he said in biblical fashion. ‘Chekhov has gone in there himself and opened the gates to freedom for them all. He’s even arranged to start their psychological rehabilitation.’

  ‘Magda? Have they found Magda?’

  Pavel’s expression darkened. Once again, he became the embattled old police officer he’d worked alongside throughout this past year. It was bad news.

  ‘Chekhov’s evacuation team checked every individual in an attempt to find her among the brothel’s residents. They obtained a copy of her photograph from the university and showed it to everyone they interviewed. A few confirmed she was down there among them but none of them knew her current whereabouts. I’m sorry, Leon, she’s gone missing. I need to go. Pavel out.’

  A churning sickness filled Leon’s stomach. In the bathroom, he swilled his head and face with cold water, shook his head vigorously and swilled his face again. Think, Leon. Get that brain of yours working. Where could Magda have gone? They’ve taken her away? No, she wouldn’t have let them do that. She wouldn’t have waited in a line while they carried out a census, she’d have found a way to slip away from them. What would she have done next, he wondered? She must surely have realised he was over here looking for her and she’d have soon found out he was no longer welcome at Fusion. She’s found her bearings and she’s looking for me. So, where would she look? Magda was extremely bright, she’d think like he did. She’d ask herself what was the best way of keeping out of sight while searching for a lost person? She’s going to look for me among the Classicos.