Moscow City

by A. R. Zander

  “Is he married?” said Bailey. “I mean outside of an operation.”

  “He was. It fizzled out last year. It’s not exactly easy to hold a marriage together in his line of work.”

  “Sadly you’re right,” said Bailey as she stood up and walked to the door. “Let me know as soon as he makes a decision. The Commissioner wants to get this off the ground.”

  - Chapter 3 -

  Tamara

  Harper pressed the buzzer and stood back from the door. The detached house was in a smart area of south London. You could almost forget you were in the city in an area like this. It was a village planted in the middle of the urban sprawl. The Force always offered to pay for therapy if anyone needed it. They took care of you like that. But he didn’t want it on his record, so the £100 an hour came out of his own pocket. It was pricey, but he was hoping it wouldn’t be forever.

  Tamara Wainwright opened the door and gave him a welcoming smile. The house had a certain smell to it. She had scented candles burning most of the time. It reminded him of a trip to Thailand. If she meant it to feel relaxing, it worked for him. It was his second visit. He took his shoes and jacket off and followed her into the room on the left. He sat down on the couch and she took her place on the leather chair opposite.

  “How are you feeling today Matt?”

  “Better than before, but not perfect.”

  “Are you sleeping?”

  “Sporadically. But enough.”

  Tamara sat and looked at him as he slouched on the sofa in front of her. She put her hands in her lap and gave him the chance to gather his thoughts and decide what he wanted to discuss.

  “I’ve got a bit of a difficult decision to make about work,” he said.

  “What kind of difficult decision?”

  “Another case has come up. It’s perfect for me and I am desperate work on it, but I don’t know if I could handle it with all this going on.”

  “With all what going on?”

  “The anxiety. I’m feeling a bit better, but the idea of getting back to work, I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

  “Why don’t you think you can handle it? What do you think might happen?”

  He checked himself as he thought of a way to explain things to her without giving too much away. They had agreed to leave out the details of his work and try to generalise instead.

  “I’m worried I’ll lose my poise in front of people,” he said. “It could be dangerous for me if I lose my poise.”

  She also considered her response carefully. Enough policemen had passed through her clinic that she had a good idea of some of the more secretive work they did. This game of cat and mouse was something she had perfected over the years for those with something to keep hidden.

  “Have you taken all the advice I gave you?”

  “I do everything you recommended, except giving up the coffee and the booze. But I’m working on it.”

  “You know you’re not helping yourself by using either of those things.”

  “Yeah, I know. But one step at a time right.”

  “Of course, it’s entirely up to you whether you take this job or not, but what is happening to you is perfectly normal and not life threatening. You can’t stop living your life because of this. I want you to keep that at the forefront of your mind.”

  “I just wish I could feel like I did before.”

  “And how did you feel before?”

  “I felt like nothing could touch me. I felt like I could take on the world and win.”

  “And why can’t you now?”

  “It just feels different. Like every step I take is like fighting my way through a wall of sand.”

  “That’s because you’re pushing too hard. You can’t fight against this. You can’t fight against yourself. Your body is telling you something is wrong. There is no need to change your goals. You just need to work out a different way to progress to the same point.”

  Harper sat quietly again and tried to take in what she was telling him. He knew it was the burning ambition and competitive streak inside him that were partly fuelling his problems. But he had never tried to dampen them before and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  “I’ve always worked hard. It’s part of me. I can’t just turn it off.”

  “I’m not asking you to turn it off. You just need to think why you are doing it in the first place.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What is driving this need to work hard? What is this need to always be first?”

  “It’s the way I’ve always been.”

  “And what happens if you take your foot off the gas?”

  “Mediocrity happens.”

  “And whose judgment call is that?”

  “Mine.”

  “Are you sure it’s your call? Or are you afraid of what others would think?”

  Harper paused as he digested the question. No one had ever called him afraid before. It’s one thing to be stressed and overworked, but scared? He wasn’t scared.

  “I think we’re getting off the point there to be honest,” he said, sitting up straight. “I’m just a bit burnt out. I don’t think we need to start getting into my childhood and all that.”

  “What are you afraid of talking about?”

  “I’m not afraid alright,” he said, slightly louder than he intended. She shifted in her chair and he felt immediately guilty. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. This is just all new for me. I’m not used to opening up like this.”

  “That’s fine. It’s a perfectly normal reaction. Just take your time. We’ll go at your pace.”

  Harper leaned further back and looked at the ceiling. “Look, Tamara, do you mind if we knock it on the head. I’m just not sure this was a great idea anymore.”

  “Matt, I think you should stay. You’ve only been here 10 minutes. We can just go over some more exercises if you like.”

  “No, I really have to get going.” He took the money out of his pocket and placed it on the coffee table. “Here’s the full amount. I appreciate your time, but I’ve got things to do.”

  She stood at the door as he walked down the path and crossed the road. He looked back. She looked good in her brown dress. And he could see she was for real. She wasn’t the type to feign interest in someone. She seemed to care. He hurried back past the other large detached houses and towards the tube station. When he turned the corner, he took out his phone and dialed Bailey’s office number. It rang several times before a woman’s voice came on the other end of the line.

  “The Deputy Commissioner’s office, how may I help you?”

  “This is DC Harper. I’d like to leave a message.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If you could just tell her I’d like to accept her offer.”

  - Chapter 4 -

  Vauxhall Bridge

  “Staaandaard!”

  The newspaper seller had become expert at spotting anyone interested in 85 Albert Embankment. The crowds that bustled around Vauxhall tube station contained a lot of tourists just interested in snapping a photo in front of the famous MI6 building. But occasionally, there was someone who lingered a bit too long, or took too many pictures. These were the people his contact in the service was interested in. If he saw anyone suspicious, all he had to do was point a little camera in their direction and get a couple of shots.

  “Get your Staaaandaaard!”

  At the end of the day, he loaded them onto a USB stick and handed it to the posh bloke in the hat with his evening paper. Some days there was nothing to report, but other days, there were a few. Easy money. His other talent was spotting people that worked in the building over the road. Just for fun. The chances of meeting one were quite high considering most of them had to come past his stand to get to work. The two standing in front of him now were not typical, but it was something about the way they spoke to each other. The hushed tones; voices careful and aware.

  Walker and Varndon kept talking in hushed tones as t
hey crossed the road and walked into the MI6 building. They made their way up to the fourth floor and weaved their way through the throng of people packing their belongings into boxes. The door to Alpha’s office was slightly ajar, but Varndon knocked anyway.

  “Come in,” came the voice from inside. They both walked in and took a seat opposite the head of their department. The old man was leafing through some files, sorting out what could be kept and what should be incinerated. “I think I’m the only one round here who still keeps anything on paper you know,” he said. “I just think some things are best left in their original format, don’t you think?”

  Both men nodded as he surveyed them over the top of his spectacles. He walked over and shut the door to drown out the noise coming from the main floor of the department. “This move should have happened a long time ago you know.”

  “Shows they’re taking the department more seriously,” said Varndon.

  “And so they should,” said Alpha. “Some of them laughed at me when I said we needed a Financial Security Division. And now the same people are knocking on my door and asking for advice.”

  “Which floor are we going to?” said Walker.

  Alpha pointed upwards. “High enough to stop the sniggers.”

  “The Cavendish house was a bit of a horror show,” said Varndon.

  “Did the police give you any trouble?”

  “They tried, but the call stopped them in their tracks.”

  “That’s good,” said Alpha. “There’s nothing worse than some blunt instrument of a copper sticking his nose into things way above his station. Hopefully they’ll get the message. If they haven’t, I’ve pulled a few strings to make sure they know we have our priorities on this one and they are second tier.”

  “So what now?” asked Walker.

  “I’m sending you both to Moscow.”

  “Which alias?”

  “The same. Bankers with deep pockets.”

  “I heard the Met are sending a team out there too,” said Varndon.

  “They’ll be gone in a week,” said Alpha. “If they show signs of making any trouble, you tell me straight away and I’ll make sure they’re hauled back here.”

  “When do we leave?” said Varndon.

  “Monday. But be careful. Our friends in the Lubyanka will be expecting you.”

  - Chapter 5 -

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Harper stared at the small bottle of pills, contemplating whether to take one. The broken light flickered on and off in the cramped plane toilet. He finally took the cap off, poured the contents into the toilet bowl and pressed the handle. The suction system pulled them down into the bowels of the plane, scattering them somewhere over the English Channel. He had already removed the label displaying his real name before he left the house, so he just threw the unmarked bottle into the small bin. The effects of the pill he had swallowed earlier were just about wearing off. It had reduced the anxiety, but it had also dulled his senses. He decided he would have to cope without them. He moved his face close to the mirror and examined the red lines streaked over the whites of his eyes. The dry air circulating around the plane made his skin feel tight and stretched.

  The lights had been dimmed when he stepped back out into the aisle. Some of the passengers continued watching films in the dark, while others fidgeted under their blankets trying to find a comfortable sleeping position. A baby that had been screaming during takeoff seemed to have settled down, much to the relief of its mother. Harper made his way to the back of the plane and sat down.

  He took out his tablet and opened the files on the dead men.

  Marcus Stewart. Veteran investor. Spent his business career investing in some of the world’s most hostile countries and coming away with a small fortune each time. Former British Army. Served with the SAS in Northern Ireland, the Falklands and Bosnia. Cavendish clearly wasn’t naïve. If you were going to spend time in the Russian business world, this is the type of man you would want to have sitting next to you. Harper turned to Luca Francini’s file. Born in Geneva. Grew up in Hong Kong. Worked for Goldman Sachs before joining Cavendish at Woolaton; the savvy and urbane frontman for the investors. The three of them had been in and out of Russia since the fund’s inception.

  Then there was Andre Katusev.

  The only information they had managed to dig up on Woolaton’s reclusive partner was from press reports. His own hedge fund was called Svaboda Capital. He had been touted as part of an emerging Kremlin inner circle. But there were no football clubs, no lavish yachts or public philanthropy. In comparison to his oligarch peers, he was like a ghost. The newspapers had nothing to get excited about, so he mostly seemed to stay off the front pages.

  Harper pulled the tablet to his chest as a passenger walked slowly towards the back of the plane. He waited until the man had started to walk back before he relaxed again. The seats directly to his left were empty and there was a young teenage couple asleep in front of him. He scanned the rest of the cabin, but nothing much stirred. He read over the short intelligence files a few more times and consigned the main details to memory before wiping them from the device. There could be nothing linking him to the job once the plane touched down in Moscow. From now on, he was Ryan Evans, a slightly disgruntled office worker who decided to jack in his life in the UK for a bit of adventure in Russia. He took out the fake passport and gave it another quick once over. Keep it together Ryan Evans, he said to himself under his breath. Keep it together.

  *****

  Cohen scrubbed the small window with his sleeve as they crawled slowly along the Moscow runway in the middle of the night. He managed to get a slightly better view, but there wasn’t much to see. A few orange lights flashed in the distance, but mostly it just looked like a white desert as far as the eye could see. He thought of Harper just a few hours behind them. Time was a priority, but it would have been seriously dense for them all to be on the same plane. He turned to look at Russell, who was still dozing in the seat next to him. Cohen elbowed him lightly in the ribs and he opened his eyes.

  “We’re here,” said Cohen.

  “Hallelujah,” said Russell. “I couldn’t be more thrilled.”

  The plane approached the terminal building and parked in a spot away from the other aircraft. The eager passengers jumped to their feet and began yanking their bags and coats out of the overhead lockers. Cohen glanced over his shoulder at the three more junior members of his team. There was a translator and two less experienced detectives with experience in finance cases. None of them looked happy about being on the trip. Cohen and Russell let the other passengers file out before they stood up and reached for their hand luggage. A few rows in front, one passenger was still seated. Cohen could only see the back of his head, which stayed perfectly still. The man looked towards the window as the five officers filed past him and towards the exit at the front of the plane.

  “Jesus wept, it’s Baltic,” said Russell as they stepped out onto the top of the steps.

  “Funny that,” said Cohen.

  As they reached the runway, Cohen felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see the man from the plane standing next to him. He was wearing a cheap business suit and carrying a brown briefcase. His face was grey and devoid of any distinguishing features.

  “You and your group will wait please Detective Sergeant Cohen.”

  “And who are you?” said Russell, turning around and facing him.

  “You will wait please,” he repeated.

  The group stood and looked at each other for a few seconds, unsure of what their next move should be. Just as Russell was about to speak, several overlapping wails filled the air and a small fleet of police cars emerged from the edge of the terminal building.

  “I really don’t see why they have to be so dramatic about the welcome party,” said Russell. “If they’re looking to scare us, they should just threaten to send us to dinner with Captain Charisma here.”

  - Chapter 6 -

  Kurskaya

&nbs
p; Harper took a seat at the back of the minivan and pulled up his hood. He watched the other teachers, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic, file in and sit down. The gruff driver did a final headcount and pulled off onto the motorway. Heat was blasting out of a vent at the front, offset by streams of cold air coming from rusted gaps in the chassis. The conversation died down and sleep took hold as they sped along the road towards central Moscow. Harper replayed the meeting with Bailey and details of the case started to fly around his mind. The driver picked up speed and Harper tried to ignore the sweat gathering on the back of his head and running down his neck. The road swept past in front and either side of him, every light and sound demanding his attention as they raced along. He looked around at the confines of the minivan and the walls started to move slowly inwards, tightening around him. Images of Cavendish and the others, bound and bloody, raced towards him out of the darkness up ahead. He squeezed his eyes closed and searched for the calm, but it was too late.

  “Stop.”

  The driver looked round and a few people raised their head from the slumber.

  “Can you stop please,” Harper repeated. “I’m gonna puke.”

  The driver lurched over to the right. A girl with short hair near the middle slipped forward and hit her head on the seat in front. In a few seconds, they were stationary at the side of the road. Harper bundled his way to the front and slid the door open. He rushed forward into the long grass and bent his head, mimicking a retching motion. The open air washed over him and the panic began to fade. He took some deep breaths and wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. He stood for a few seconds, with his hands on his knees, letting the grass brush against his fingers. As he turned to walk back, the concerned faces stared out of the window. He stepped back into the van with an apologetic look on his face.

  “Sorry folks. Just a bit of car sickness.”