Moscow City

by A. R. Zander

  Nikolaev cast an eye around the room and onto the effeminate foreigner sitting on the bed in front of him.

  “You are a gay?” he said, eliciting sniggers from his men.

  “No. What do you want?”

  “Oh, you speak Russian? That’s good. But you speak Russian like a gay. This is not how Russian is meant to be spoken.”

  Pavel lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. “Please, don’t hurt me. What do you want?”

  Nikolaev picked up Pavel’s passport from a bedside table. “Paul Murray. Teacher at the Westminster School of English, Pushkinskaya. Tell me, do you like working at this school?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to stay in Russia?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me where is Ryan Evans?”

  Pavel looked around the faces in the room. They were all scowling at him while they waited for an answer. “He said he was going to Kazakhstan.”

  Nikolaev placed the passport back on the table. “Almaty?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said.”

  “Which is his room?”

  Pavel showed them to the end of the corridor and opened Harper’s bedroom door. The men fanned out and rifled through the cupboards and drawers, but found nothing except clothes and a few teaching materials. Nikolaev picked up a tattered copy of Heart of a Dog from Harper’s pillow and flicked through the pages.

  “Mr Literature,” he said, chucking the book to one of his agents.

  Pavel looked at the stack of other titles next to Harper’s bed. There was more Bulgakov and several works of Turgenev. There was also Crime and Punishment.

  “There is one other thing you might be interested in,” said Pavel.

  Nikolaev stepped towards him. “Really? And what’s that?”

  “I’ll show you.” Pavel took Nikolaev and one of the agents out of the flat and across the children’s playground to the garbage area.

  “I saw him cut up one of his sim cards and chuck it in here the other day. It seemed very suspicious to me.”

  Nikolaev smiled at the willingness of the foreigner in front of him to throw his colleague under the bus. “So what are you waiting for?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Find it.”

  “What do you…” Pavel let out a small yelp as Nikolaev’s agent grabbed him under his arms and dumped him in the big metal bin. Pavel looked down at the bags of rotting food and old clothes.

  “Find it,” said Nikolaev, drawing his pistol and pointing it at his face.

  Tears started to stream down Pavel’s cheeks as he tore open the bags and fished around. He felt his hand plunge into something moist and pulled it up to find a baby’s nappy wrapped round his wrist. He kept sobbing as he searched and tried not to throw up. Fifteen minutes passed before he found the four squares of plastic sitting in a pizza box. He picked them up and handed them over.

  “This must be it,” he said.

  “Put this back together,” said Nikolaev, handing the shards to his agent. “And deport this fucking faggot out of my country.”

  - Chapter 18 -

  Almaty

  Walker snapped a couple of photos as the minibus wound its way up the mountain road. Varndon smiled politely as a father scolded his young daughter for pointing and giggling at the two Europeans. They continued on in silence until they reached the Koktebya, Almaty’s highest point and home to its looming television tower. They came to a stop next to a small fairground. The rides were static and tourists looked thin on the ground. The little girl dragged her father out of the minibus and ran excitedly towards a small carousel. The owners of makeshift market stalls looked hopefully at Walker and Varndon, waving their hands over the collection of horse statues and clothing colored with the blue and yellow flag of Kazakhstan. They both browsed a little before excusing themselves and taking the paved walkway into the small park.

  “They’re not very pushy these Kazakhs,” said Walker. “If this was Egypt, he’d still be walking alongside me, waving some piece of tat in my face.”

  “Well, it’s not Egypt, I can tell you that for certain.”

  The stalls and the rides disappeared as they made their way further into the park. Near to the end, the trees closed in and the path jutted off to the right. They ducked through and emerged out onto a viewing platform. A man in a leather coat stood facing out towards the panoramic view. A nearby office block mimicked the jagged peaks of the snow-capped mountains. The rest of the city stretched off into the distance, a footnote in the Soviet project, polished and modernized by the gushing tap of petrodollars. The man turned around. His Asian features gave him the look of some of the locals. Walker and Varndon hesitated for a second in case he was just that.

  “Guys relax,” he said in a New York twang. “The agency thought sending a Korean American out here would have its advantages. Fucking racist huh? I should sue their asses.”

  Walker laughed. Varndon said nothing.

  “I’m Billy. Lonaghan told me to take you through the operation.”

  “Operation?” said Varndon. “I thought you were just support. We already have an operation?”

  “Yeah, support, sure. That’s what I meant. But we didn’t think it would hurt to get started. After all, we’re all on the same team.”

  This time Varndon laughed. “Yeah, we’re on the same team, when it suits you people. When it doesn’t, the shutters come up.”

  “Look, I’m not looking for a fight,” said Billy. “We got our orders and we’re sticking to them. No one’s out to take anyone’s glory here. So you wanna know what’s going down?”

  “Course we do,” said Walker. “But aren’t we a little exposed up here? I know it’s out of season, but there were a few people knocking about back there.”

  Billy nodded his head through the trees. “My guys are on watch. They’ll let us know if anyone’s coming.”

  “Okay,” said Walker. “So, what’ve you got?”

  “Vitsin is here.”

  “How do you know that,” said Varndon.

  “He came in by train on a false passport. We’ve got some people on the payroll down at the train station. They gave us the security tapes and we spotted him. He had some weak disguise on, but it was definitely him.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Varndon moved and leant on the railings. “You don’t know? You mean you lost him?”

  “We never had him. I’m just telling you that he’s here.”

  “So how do you propose to find him? What tricks do you Americans have up your sleeves these days apart from chucking money at a problem? Check his facebook account maybe?”

  “That’s cute,” said Billy. “Maybe I’ll put on a tuxedo and crash a tank through a wall. Or sit in a casino somewhere getting a tight asshole about how my drink is made. That’s what you motherfuckers do all day right?”

  Walker stepped into the middle of Varndon and Billy. “Transatlantic tension. Interesting. I thought we were supposed to be fucking the Russians this week, not each other. Shall we start again?”

  Billy shrugged. “We’ve got surveillance on his family and known close friends. Luckily, there aren’t many of those. He’s not much of a talker by all accounts. If he turns up anywhere there, we’ll know about it.”

  “What about the Russians?” said Varndon. “I presume they’re watching too?”

  “It’s safe to say they will be, but we can’t do much about that.” Billy turned and looked through the viewing platform’s telescope. “He’s out there somewhere. We’ve spun our own web now. We just need to wait for him to fly into it.”

  - Chapter 19 -

  Bait

  Harper raised his empty glass and shook it at the barman. The young Kazakh ambled over, took it from him and poured him another beer. He took a banknote from Harper and threw his change down onto a plastic plate.

  “Service with a smile,” said Harper, spinning around on his stool.

&nbs
p; The Hotel Alma’Ata house band plucked at their guitars as they prepared to kick off the night’s entertainment. A tall Arab with tight denim jeans and a long ponytail took a swig of his drink and grabbed the microphone.

  “Good evening Almaty!” he shouted, raising a round of whoops and cheers from the ragtag bunch of prostitutes, office workers and oil riggers lounging on stools around the bar. “Welcome to the Detroit Tiger!”

  The classic rock exploded out of the speakers and the punters swarmed onto dance floor, grinding their hips and raising their glasses into the air. A burst of feedback scythed through Harper’s body and he arched his back as his nerves bristled.

  “Why aren’t you dancing?” said a girl to Harper’s left. “Are you grumpy?”

  “I’m not grumpy,” said Harper. “It’s just not my kind of music.”

  “What, you like dance music, all serious and no fun?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Sometimes, huh? What about a party? You wanna party with me? It can be cheap for you. You are young and good-looking, so only half-price. Sixty dollars.”

  “You don’t waste time,” said Harper, feeling her hand on the inside of his thigh. He waved at Garrett, who had just appeared through some double doors at the back of the bar. The girl looked slightly despondent at having her pitch spoiled by the prospect of company.

  “Any luck?” said Harper, as Garrett pushed his way through the writhing bodies.

  “I’ve got an address for the parents.”

  “Good man.”

  “And I’ve got a car. Real piece of shit, but it was all I could get at short notice.”

  “Perfect. A real piece of shit is better for our needs. Let’s go.” Harper slugged back the rest of his beer and placed the glass on the bar. He waited for Garrett to head off back towards the exit before he turned and gave his room key to the prostitute. She unfolded her arms and retracted her protruding bottom lip, before picking up her coat and walking towards the hotel reception.

  “Thought I’d lost you there for a second,” said Garrett, as Harper emerged from the bar, Bon Jovi blaring behind him.

  “Just settling up the tab.”

  They got into the black Lada and Garrett pulled off, fixing his phone to the dashboard so he could see the GPS. “It’s not far, probably a couple of miles.” They drove up the hill until they reached a main road and headed for a complex of mirrored tower blocks.

  “This is it,” said Garrett. “The second tower from the end.”

  “Nice,” said Harper. “Katusev must’ve been paying him a good wage. Slow down a little, but keep driving.”

  “What? You don’t want to go in?”

  “Not today.”

  “But, isn’t that what we came for?”

  “Just drive past Garrett, don’t argue.”

  They slowed to half speed and rolled past the building. The GPS beeped to indicate they had arrived at the destination and Garrett reached out to turn it off. He drove on a bit further and parked up in a supermarket car park next to a selection of expensive SUVs.

  “So what was the point of that?” said Garrett.

  “We’re not the only ones looking for Vitsin, remember that.”

  “What, you think there might be people spying on the flat?”

  “There were two groups surveilling that building. One was in a white maintenance van and the second had a black Range Rover.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m trained to spot these things. The important thing is not how I know, but what we are going to do about it. I think Vitsin is hiding out with one of his old professors. I need to get inside that flat to find out who the guy is.”

  Garrett looked over at the tower. “So how are we going to get those surveillance teams to leave?”

  “We need them to think the parents are leading a reporter to Vitsin.”

  “And which reporter might that be?”

  “Take a guess.”

  “So you brought me out here as bait?”

  “You’re getting a story aren’t you?”

  “It’s not going to be much of a story if I’m not here to write it.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic. You’ll be fine.”

  Garrett started the engine back up. “So who else is looking for him?”

  “I’m guessing one lot are the Russians. Probably FSB or maybe SVR.”

  “SVR is their equivalent of MI6 right?”

  “That’s right. But I’m guessing they’re more likely FSB. The same lot I bumped into the other day at Katusev’s house.”

  “And who are the others?”

  “That’ll probably be our boys. Or the Americans.”

  “Holy shit. Are you comfortable with this?”

  “Why not? We’re reporters looking for a story.”

  “You’re a reporter now are you?”

  “Tomorrow I’m a reporter. Today, I need a drink. Now let’s get back to the hotel.”

  - Chapter 20 -

  Belmarsh

  Cohen sat tapping his pen on the desk as he waited for the prison guard to bring Ashansky to the interview room. Belmarsh was only for the A-list. They didn’t put you in this place unless you had earned it. There was a certain level of criminality you had to display before you got room and board in this part of south London. Running guns to breakaway Loyalists was certainly a crime that fell into that category. The door opened and the guard came back in alone. “I’m sorry Sergeant, but Leonid Ashansky has been transferred.”

  “Transferred? Where to?”

  “Nobody knows I’m afraid. I’ve asked around, but seems it’s been kept very firmly under wraps.”

  “Is that normal procedure?”

  “We’d usually have a sniff of what’s going on. But there was nothing. It’s all a bit strange to be honest.”

  “Well, who took him away? Surely, your blokes must have helped with that?”

  “All I know is that it was all done at short notice. I can’t help you further than that. The orders came down from a senior level.”

  “A senior level?”

  The guard started to look slightly edgy as Cohen waited for an answer. “Look, I just don’t know. I think you’ll need to go higher than me if you want more.”

  “Course,” said Cohen. “Fair enough.” The guard escorted him back through several security doors and back to the prison reception. Cohen’s phone rang as he stepped back out of the imposing brick entrance and walked towards the road.

  “DS Cohen.”

  “Sarge, it’s Russell.”

  “Did you find Gershov?”

  “He’s skipped bail.”

  Cohen stopped walking. “What? When?”

  “They don’t know exactly. But he’s vanished.”

  “We won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “How much do you know about this guy Sarge?”

  “He was the hatchet man for Ashansky’s gun running operation. He should have gone to jail with his boss, but the evidence was too flimsy, so they were lining him up for an assault charge instead. Weak, but it’s all they had.”

  “Is he Russian?”

  “Russian Israeli. Booted out of Mossad for selling rockets to the Palestinians.”

  “How did you get on with Ashansky?”

  “He’s vanished too and everyone here has selective memory loss.”

  “Sarge, this case is starting to scramble my brain. First, the Russians kick us out early. Then Katusev gets slotted. And when we finally find a suspect, he disappears into thin air. It’s like we’re always two steps behind.”

  “Let’s speak to Morton. We might be playing catch-up, but we’re not the only game in town.”

  - Chapter 21 -

  The Professor

  Harper pushed the hatch open and climbed out onto the roof opposite the apartment complex. He signaled to Garrett to crouch down as he followed him up into the open air. They knelt on the black felt and Harper pulled out a pair of binoculars.<
br />
  “They’re still there,” he said, looking in the direction of the car park. “I’m going to stay here until both vehicles have gone after you.”

  “What if they don’t buy it?”

  “Then we have to think of something else. So what are you going to tell the parents?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Just make it good. They need to go with you.”

  “Well, just make sure you come out with something worthwhile.”

  “I will, don’t worry. Are you ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “Good luck.”

  Garrett shuffled back across the roof, making sure to stay crouched, and disappeared down the hatch. Harper waited patiently, regulating his breathing and pushing the nerves and excitement as far away as he could. He trained his binoculars onto the street below. Garrett appeared out of the front door and walked across the road. Harper watched the two surveillance vehicles as Garrett passed them and approached the front door. His heart started to pound a little faster as the reporter disappeared inside.

  Harper looked at his watch and noted the time.

  He kept the binoculars on the door, not daring to lower them in case he missed something. A few residents came in and out and a handful of children came up from the street and played on the nearby swings. There was no reaction from the surveillance vehicles. Harper’s arms started to ache from holding the binoculars. The aching was becoming uncomfortable when the door finally swung open and Garrett emerged, an elderly Kazakh couple trailing along behind him.

  Harper punched the air in front of him and accidentally clipped his knuckle on a brick. He watched Garrett lead them across the car park, just yards from the watchers and down onto the road where they had parked the black Lada earlier that morning. They got inside and Garrett pulled off slowly and obviously. The maintenance van pulled straight out after them, but the black Range Rover stayed put. Harper clamped his teeth together as he waited for it to make a move. “Come on, follow them you bastards.”