by Nick Cook
There’s a note in a delicate hand tucked inside the flyleaf.
Doctor Cain – Joshua – please accept this with my apologies, as a gift for your friend. A memento of Russia.
With kind regards, Sasha.
I recover the list of numbers from the drawer.
I turn to page thirty-nine, count six lines down from the top, and trace my index finger past a couple of words until I reach the thirteenth letter, an ‘L’. I write it down. I repeat the process twenty-four times until I’m left with two words and three sets of numbers.
Leningradskiy Prospekt 56.
Today’s date, and a time: 21.30.
I look at my watch.
I have less than an hour.
52
I’M IN THE SUBURB OF SOKOL, SEVERAL LINE CHANGES AWAY ON the Moscow Metro and eight kilometers from the city center – not a poor district by any means, but a world away from the glitter of Tretyakovsky Proezd. Exhaust fumes hang in the air and stain the snow.
I take a left through a poorly lit park, avoid a group of drinking and smoking youths, and duck into a stairwell beside a dirty white apartment block to see if anyone is on my trail. When no one shows, I make for the street that runs parallel to Leningradskiy Prospekt, sticking to the shadows and steering clear of anything that looks like it could house a CCTV camera.
At the rear of No. 56, I ease past the barrier and a plethora of warning signs, and find my way to an open fire exit. I listen for a moment, then shine my cell’s flashlight up the stairwell. The beam sweeps across a huge pile of cinderblocks, so I head down instead.
I push through a set of double doors into a basement partially illuminated by vehicle headlights filtered through rows of glass bricks at sidewalk level. I can see a candle flickering in the far corner.
‘Doctor Cain?’ A pause. ‘Joshua?’
I move closer. Metal workbenches are bracketed to the walls at waist level. Broken equipment litters the floor. The last vestiges of a laboratory.
‘Were you followed?’
The candlelight throws uneven shapes across Sasha’s face as she steps out of the shadows. My breath catches in my throat. Just for a moment, I’m looking at Hope. She’s wearing jeans and a leather jacket. Her breath billows in the chill air.
‘I don’t think so. What made you change your mind?’
‘If Vladimir taught me one thing, it is the value of due diligence. You are quite famous, online. It seems that we have both suffered. You rather more than me. I am sorry for the runaround – is that the word? I needed to take precautions. Vladimir is an unpredictable man. Anya has worked for him since we separated. Anything suspicious, she reports.’
My phone-beam picks out the remnants of old fires and half a dozen discarded syringes.
‘Why here?’
‘You need to see this place before they turn it into million-dollar condos.’
Intuitives. That’s what they called them. People with the most extraordinary gifts.
When Yuri Andropov, the head of the KGB, decreed in 1971 that psychics should be drafted into the service of the state, schools, academies, universities and orphanages were scoured across the vast territories of the USSR for anyone with any gift that was out of the ordinary. It was the beginning of a top-secret recruitment drive that continued until the USSR collapsed at the end of 1991.
‘They stayed here, in a dormitory, three floors above the laboratory.’
She glances up, then looks back at me. ‘My father nicknamed them his vorob’i. His sparrows.’
‘How old were you?’
‘A teenager. Fifteen, sixteen, during the period Papa worked closely with them. I lived with my parents until I turned eighteen, which is when Vladimir and I married. You might wonder why, but he wasn’t always the way he is now. Ambitious, yes, but not cruel.’
‘The vorob’i …?’
‘My father would bring the little ones home so my mother could cook for them.’
She tells me about Kolya, who could slide a hand through a steel box and remove a key, a watch or a spoon from inside it. Andrei, who could extract a thought from her head and make it his own. He could put his thoughts into her head too. And then there was Artyom, who could bend iron bars by looking at them. Galina, who could turn lead into silver. And Vitaliy, who could see the future—
A noise.
In the shadows, somewhere behind her.
I point my phone-beam.
At the opposite end of the room to the stairwell, a couple of rats the size of cats pick their way through a pile of rubble at the base of a short flight of steps leading up to the prospekt.
I throw a brick at them and they scuttle into a vent.
Sasha holds up the candle and lights a cigarette. ‘Back then, it didn’t matter if you were an athlete, a chess player or a psychic – if you showed promise, the state took you to a school or an academy, groomed you, and turned you into something exceptional.’
The vorob’i, she says, were no different.
‘And Vladimir?’
‘Vladimir’s job was to account for every last kopek the state provided for the many projects it funded my father to carry out.’
She blows a thin stream of smoke through her lips.
‘This may sound strange, Joshua, but I don’t know how he made his money. I am very sure, however, it involved the vorob’i.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘When the USSR broke apart, my father was a sick man. He only had a few months to live. Vladimir was in the laboratory when his state sponsors, the KGB and the GRU, picked up the phones again.’ She sighs. ‘But in the new Russia, they want to know only one thing: how do we get rich?’
She drops the cigarette by her feet and glances up.
‘I was helping my mother to nurse my father a few days before he died. It was evening, and Vladimir arrived to take me home. When my father realized he was in the room, he asked my mother and me to leave the two of them alone. He wanted to talk to Vladimir about some business. I did as he said, but listened at the door.
‘My father asked Vladimir about his plans for the institute. It was very important, he said, now that the state had been replaced by the new system – now the Cold War was over – that the vorob’i went home, back to their parents. But Vladimir refused to listen.’
‘Why?’
‘He told my father that they were now imushchestvo.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Assets.’
A siren wails on the prospekt. She lights up another cigarette.
‘That was when I realized how much he had changed. Whatever his former sponsors were out to get, Vladimir wanted to have it, too. And it frightened me very much. He frightened me.’
For a moment, I think she is going to cry.
‘Sasha, are you aware of any payments made by Vladimir – any transactions at all – to a church in Jerusalem?’
I take a picture of the Church of St Mary Magdalene from my pocket and show it to her.
She studies it, then hands it back. ‘No. His foundation is nothing but a facade. I guess you know that. It is there to make him look good. And, for sure, there are business advantages.
‘There was only one church I know for certain he took a special interest in outside of his prestige project, the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity – and that’s St Alexei’s, a monastery in Sarov.
‘Two years ago, I saw a letter from the episcopacy on his desk. The Bishop of Sarov acknowledging receipt of his donation. Vladimir slid it swiftly into a drawer and asked if I had seen it. I said no, of course. The next day, he asked me again. I told him I didn’t know anything.’
‘Did it have numbers?’
‘It did. Hundreds of millions of roubles.’
‘Vladimir is a Muslim, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. His mother was Ukrainian. His father was a Tatar, from the Volga region, who was killed in a gunfight in Donetsk in 1996. All his life, Vladimir has wanted respectability. Coming to Moscow, acquiring th
e habits of Russians – being Russian, being accepted, giving money to the church – that was his game plan.’
‘Did he ever talk about someone called Al-Mohandis?’
She frowns.
‘It means the Engineer. I don’t know what it might be in Russian.’
‘The same. Inzheneer.’
‘A very striking individual. Dark hair. Pale skin. Blue, blue eyes …’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Because I believe this man may have been an intuitive. And I think Vladimir may be using him for something.’
‘Then it will be about money. Always it is about money.’ She grinds her cigarette underfoot. ‘His friends are very powerful.’
‘Powerful enough to smuggle and trade nuclear materials?’
‘If it pays, yes.’
‘What about his relationship with your father?’
‘My father was a very good man. It wasn’t just the fate of the vorob’i that they fought over. Toward the end, they barely spoke.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he accused my father of withholding data.’
‘What kind of data?’
‘Data that he claimed belonged to the state.’
‘Was he right?’
‘No. Papa was a patriot.’
‘Why did you agree to see me, Sasha?’
‘Because of what you said to me in the shop.’
‘About consciousness?’
‘About a particular aspect of it. You asked if I thought it persisted when we die.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my father believed it. And my father was a very, very rational man.’
‘He once spoke to my mentor about it.’
‘The friend you were buying the book for?’
I nod. ‘Ted van Buren.’
‘I remember him. He came to visit Papa before he died.’
‘Ted told me your father kept an archive. That you were its custodian.’
‘Part of the conditions of the divorce was that I hand it to Vladimir.’
‘Why?’
‘He was obsessed with it.’
‘Your father’s personal archive?’
‘Personal, but huge. Thousands of files. Very academic. Vladimir used to go through it. Always looking for something.’
‘What?’
‘I assumed the thing he accused my father of withholding.’
‘What did he think we were capable of, ultimately?’
‘My father?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you mean by “we”?’
‘We humans.’
‘He told me we have barely begun to know ourselves.’
‘Was he religious?’
‘He grew up in an era in which the state sought to eradicate religion, Joshua. We lived well. It would have been dangerous, given his position, for him to have discussed it with us. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘Before he died, he said it was important – no, vital – that we lead good lives, because, in the end, it is we who judge ourselves.’
I’m about to ask her what he meant by this, when we both hear a noise.
A dog barks and a flashlight snaps on.
53
I PULL SASHA BACK TO WHERE I’D SEEN THE RATS – THE SHORT flight of steps leading up to the prospekt. I turn to see a German Shepherd at the base of the stairwell.
Behind me, Sasha is trying to force the door. I pick up a brick, tell her to step aside, and smash it down. The lock clatters to the floor.
The flashlight sweeps toward us. The dog snarls, bounds across the room and leaps at me. I bring the brick down on its head. The animal yelps, hits the ground and doesn’t get up.
A second later, I am met by a blast of freezing air and the thunderous noise of the six-lane highway as Sasha kicks open the door.
She is through and out. I follow her.
It has started to snow. I look right and see the lights of the Metro station several hundred meters away. I grab hold of her arm and pull her toward it, but at that moment a group of men in long coats appear from a side street.
We turn and walk in the opposite direction, but the same thing happens. A man wearing a balaclava emerges from the basement. He is less than thirty meters from us, and holding a pistol.
I glance across to the far side of the prospekt, then pull Sasha through a momentary break in the traffic on the three northbound lanes. My leg almost gives out, but adrenaline forces me on. A truck barrels past. The snow catches in its headlights. A car swerves. Another blasts its horn.
We make it to the central barrier. I snatch another glance over my shoulder. Balaclava Man is where we left him – waiting for another break. I scan the southbound lanes, readying myself for the crossing, when I see two skinheads walking along its sidewalk toward us. There’s no mistaking their intent.
Sasha spots them. Lets out an awful cry. ‘I can’t … If he catches me …’
One of the men in long coats steps into the slow lane of the northbound and holds up a hand.
It’s gripping the butt of an automatic.
Tires squeal as the traffic grinds to a halt.
I turn back at the moment Sasha steps in front of a truck.
The driver slams on his brakes, but it still takes fifty meters to stop.
The vehicles behind do the same.
When I reach her, she’s lying face up in the center lane. The flickering lights of the prospekt make her eyes sparkle, but only for a moment.
She’s still alive.
I kneel beside her and brush a lock of hair from her face.
‘Sasha …’
She’s slipping fast.
Behind me, there’s a commotion. Shouting. Barked orders. I take hold of her hand, feel her pulse. It’s feathery. Almost gone.
‘Stay with me, Sasha …’
Somebody grabs me and clamps a hand around my mouth.
They drag me up and backwards. I fight, I bite, I kick. Not because I know I can win, but because I have just heard the words that I used to my dying wife.
Stay with me.
Something unforgiving crashes down on the back of my head.
The Jeep is slewed across the road and the roof has been torn off. It’s dark, except for the glow from one of the headlamps of the Kenworth, which has careered into a tree. Silence is now returning to this stretch of no-man’s-land – a shortcut between the edge of town and the interstate. Then the cicadas resume their singing.
Hope’s head has been thrown back. Her face is tilted my way. Her eyes are open. She’s bleeding heavily. Part of the steering wheel has sheared off and driven itself into her chest.
I release my belt. There’s a first-aid kit in the trunk.
I try to get out, but the left side of my body won’t work.
‘Oh, Josh …’
Her breath comes in tiny gasps. I can barely hear her.
‘Don’t …’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Please. Don’t speak.’
Tears are rolling down my face.
‘No … Josh. It’s … all right.’
I try to reach out to her. If I can just staunch the flow of blood from her chest …
‘Hang on,’ I hear myself saying. ‘Help will be here … any moment.’
But help doesn’t come.
I take her left hand in my right, the only part of me I can move. How did it get so cold already?
I look into her eyes. Feel her pulse weakening.
‘Look at me,’ I tell her.
She raises her eyes.
‘Stay with me. Help’s on its way.’
‘It’s OK … Josh. Everything’s … OK.’
‘Stay with me …’
I don’t know how, but she manages to smile. ‘Look,’ she says.
I raise my eyes.
‘See the stars …?’
I look away. I have never seen so many.
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And that’s when she slips away.
54
STAY WITH ME.
I’m saying it over and over as I come to. My face is wet with tears. There’s a patch of oil by my feet. I try to move, but I can’t. All I can do is fractionally raise my head.
I’m in some kind of warehouse, tied to a chair. I blink under the lights. When the color kicks in, I see that the oil is blood. My right eye feels like somebody has been using it for target practice. The place is dilapidated, semi-abandoned. I’ve been stripped of my jacket and am shivering uncontrollably. I don’t know how long I’ve been out. I glance through a hole in one of the shit-caked windows. I can see that the snow has stopped falling, but it is still night.
Sitting in front of me on some upturned wooden crates are three of the men I saw on the sidewalk. One of them clutches a wrench; another cradles a pistol. The third smokes while he stares at me.
I hear a car door open and close.
Footsteps.
A shadow falls across the concrete. The hairs lift on the back of my neck. The thug with the cigarette jumps up, but is waved back to his seat.
The Napoleon image in Gapes’s cabin didn’t do Ilitch justice. He’s tall, and workouts – aided by a little surgical intervention – have driven away the pasty pallor of his youth. He has to be sixty-five, but his swarthy complexion makes him look younger. A cashmere coat is draped across his shoulders.
‘What did you want with Sasha?’ His voice, heavily accented, is unexpectedly soft.
‘A book.’
He wags a finger.
The guy with the wrench gets to his feet.
‘Well, of course. Colonel Cain, the ex-personal physician of the President of the United States, just happens to be in town on a book-buying spree.’
I say nothing. The guy with the wrench flexes his fingers around its handle, like a hitter getting the feel of his bat.
‘I have good news for you, Colonel. My employees, as you can see, are only too eager to dispense some summary justice.
‘Some are old enough to remember Sasha extremely well. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t consider it disloyal if any of them were to tell me that they felt a little angry at being in the presence of the man who killed the woman they once adored.’