by T. M. Parris
“But she still needs him,” said Nick. “What is she without him? Young, female, foreign? A former prostitute?”
“I was told Roman’s attitude to Chechens is pretty typically Russian,” said Zack. “You think he’s gonna go out of his way to give her a comfortable widowhood?”
“Spur of the moment?” offered Rose. “Couldn’t take the humiliation any more?”
“What would she be doing at his office, though?” This was Nick.
“And does she even know how to handle a gun?” That from Peter.
She wasn’t sure why, but this stirred her up. “Why wouldn’t she know how to use a gun? She grew up in a war zone. And she went with Alexei to business meetings. And the way she handled that zip drive was pretty impressive. That’s why we’re looking at her again. Don’t we have anything back on her yet?” She directed this at Nick.
“We’ve got someone in Grozny investigating that right now,” he said. “Should hear back soon.”
Soothing. Patronising, actually. “Well, if Kamila is so inconsequential,” she said to Zack, “it’s odd that your operative took so much time getting to know her. Or was that just a bit of research on the side?”
Zack’s eyes were as wide as two brown pennies. “’Scuse me?”
“The tape we have of Kamila, in flagrante, in St Petersburg? The one we’re using on her? Who do you think her lover is?”
Zack’s eyebrows shot skywards. “In that video? That’s J— that’s our friend?”
“We don’t know, Zack,” said Peter. “You can’t tell who it is from the tape.”
“He left the reception early,” said Rose. “After flirting with the woman. No one saw him leave. He had plenty of time to hook up with her and get over to the flat.”
Zack was shaking his head. “No, that’s not what happened. He went over to the apartment straight from the party to check it out. But you guys were already in there. That’s how he knows you Brits were onto the Morozovs.”
“That’s what he told you,” said Rose. “He always tells you everything, does he?”
“Oh, come on! You seriously think he’d do that? He’s not suicidal enough to sleep with a gangster’s newly-wed under the guy’s nose. Not even him!”
“You sure? He did some pretty suicidal things when I was with him in China.”
“Not when he was working for me. Not when he’s on a job. In his own time, maybe. When it’s – for something he wants.”
“Are you always sure which is which? When he’s working for you or when he’s working for himself?”
Peter intervened again. “Look, we don’t know who it is, and I’m not sure how much that matters now anyway. Let’s move forward, shall we?”
Rose hushed up. Losing it with Zack didn’t help her credibility any. Peter had taken charge. “The key thing is, what do we do? Do we still have a way into Morozov, or do we need to rethink?”
“I can try and approach Kamila,” said Rose. “But the tape won’t have the same leverage now Alexei is dead. And she may not be involved in the business any more. That extra background on her will be interesting.”
“Good – you follow up on that.” Peter turned to Zack. “This meeting with Roman might shed some light. Can you come back to us as soon as that’s happened?”
“Sure! Hey, if we’re all done here, got a quick question for you.”
Everyone stood ready to leave. Rose got her things together slowly, making a play of stopping to write something down. “Ever heard the name Grom?” Zack was asking Peter in an undertone. “Possible character within the KGB, back in the day? It’s some kind of a nickname. He might have been involved in rendition and interrogation.”
Peter was smiling a little. “Oh, I’ve heard the name. Not for a very long time, though. It’s a fake identity, a ghost. There were rumours for years, but it was all just a fairy story, a false lead to get people running around. They played those tricks all the time to put the wind up us all. Who’s asking?”
“Oh, one of our new kids. I guess someone was taking him for a ride.”
“Yes, sounds like it.”
Rose let herself be herded out, as the conversation moved to a who’s who of the intelligence world. She lodged that little snippet away, though. Zack’s casual air asking the question was just a little bit overdone.
22
The walled compound of luxury dachas was situated prosaically next to a major freeway and opposite a large shopping mall. By the time Rose got there, walking from Krylatskoye Metro station, it was late afternoon and the light was starting to fade. Most of the afternoon had passed on an elaborate tour of Moscow to be certain she was alone.
She approached the compound’s manned security gate. Inside she could see an access road winding past a collection of unique purpose-built palaces – the indulgences of the newly rich, sprawling mansions complete with round turrets, Mediterranean balconies, Greco-Roman sculptures and colourfully tiled walls. To the security guards she gave her name and announced her wish to see Roman Morozov.
The guards looked uncertainly at each other, then one of them disappeared inside. He came back out. “No one is expecting you,” he said. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about his son. Alexei. The tragic death of Alexei. I have some information for him. I think he’d want to hear it.”
Again the hesitation, then he went inside. A moment later, the gate buzzed and started to open. Rose had to endure a body and bag search before they pointed her up the access road.
“Which one is it?” she asked.
“You will know.”
The inner road wound forever past monstrous super-dachas, each one like a Hollywood film set, elaborate and out of context. Many were surrounded by high fences, gated compounds each with a mini Disneyworld rising up inside. Strange, what people did when they had way too much money.
Beyond a covered entrance area within a row of classical columns, two men stood waiting, watching her as she approached. They made no secret of the fact that they were armed. Rose was not; she’d anticipated the searches. The wood-panelled doors to the house opened as she walked up to them. Inside, a dark-suited man with a long face nodded her towards the back of the house. She walked through, glimpsing up to see a grand spiral staircase and vast chandelier.
A room ran the width of the house at the back. The wall was almost entirely glass. A door led out onto a deep balcony. The ground fell away below. Further back were trees. Behind them must have been the freeway, though it wasn’t visible. Against the light of the room, it was almost dark outside. On her left were bookshelves and a sofa. On the right, a table and two chairs. Standing behind one of the chairs was a man in his sixties or seventies, a bulky figure, his open-necked shirt displaying thick grey-brown chest hair, his head shaved and his jawline bristling. His clear blue eyes were watching her carefully.
“You are Roman Morozov?” she asked.
“I am.” He waited expectantly.
“My name is Rose Clarke. Please accept my sympathies for your loss. I’d like to speak to you about your son, if I may.”
“Do you know who I am?”
She held his gaze. “Yes, I know who you are. People call you the Bear. You have a reputation. You’ve used that reputation to build an empire.”
“And yet you come to see me, just walk in, a woman alone like this?”
“I’ve heard you’re a man of honour. That you have standards of behaviour. I don’t mean you any harm or disrespect.” Keep your voice low and relaxed, Rose. Never mind your racing pulse, just don’t let it show. She was taking a massive risk coming here. But it wasn’t the Bear she was afraid of. Not Roman Morozov. It was Peter Craven, if he found out.
He still looked wary. “You knew my son?”
“I met him once. And his wife several times.”
That seemed to get him more interested. “Well, join me for a drink. Vadim will take your coat.”
The man in the dark suit stepped out of the shadows. She gave him her coat
and sat at the table. Opposite, Roman sat and filled both small glasses from the bottle.
“You like vodka?”
“I drink it.”
“Why do you drink it, if you don’t like it?”
“This is Russia.”
Roman laughed, a warm chuckling laugh. He raised his glass. “To your health!”
Their eyes met and they drank. The strong sour taste hit the back of her throat. As they placed their glasses on the table, the burning aftertaste was starting to rise up into her mouth, reminding her of how much she hated the stuff. Never mind: it served a purpose. Roman already seemed more relaxed with her.
“These new Moscow millionaires seem to prefer western champagne. We’re losing so many of our old customs. Money changes people, opens up new possibilities, but most of those paths lead nowhere. People forget where they come from.”
“You haven’t forgotten where you come from?” asked Rose, with the very slightest of glances around the room.
“This place?” said Roman. “This place, this place was bought by my son. I have a dacha near Irkutsk. When I’m at home I go there on weekends. It’s a three-room cottage. I grow vegetables. I have an orchard. I go fishing. That is where we are all from. The villages where everyone lived before cities, for thousands of years, surviving the winter and living off the land. Moscow is a mutation, a corruption of Russianness.”
He filled the glasses again and they drank, toasting each other silently.
“I’m sorry about Alexei,” said Rose, repeating her sympathies of earlier. Roman looked weary.
“It is a terrible thing to lose a child. Do you have children?”
Rose shook her head.
“That is very wise. Having children is a way to fill your life with troubles. How did you know him?”
“I met him at a reception in St Petersburg. I was there for work. My job is promoting trade relations between the UK and Russia.”
“You work for the British government?”
“That’s right.”
Roman laughed, louder this time. “Then you are a spy!”
This was one Rose was well and truly ready for. “Every Russian thinks every British official is a spy. As well as every British journalist and businessperson. I work for the government. That’s my job.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed. “How did you know to find me here?”
“Kamila mentioned a dacha in Krylatskoye. It’s not difficult to find these compounds. The people here, they’re not making a secret of their wealth, are they? I didn’t know if you’d be here or not. Why, you’re not hiding, are you?”
“I have no need to hide.”
“Exactly.”
Roman seemed to accept this. Most of it was actually true. “So, you knew his wife?”
“She was also at the reception. I met her a number of times after that. We went shopping together.”
“Shopping?” Roman’s eyes were distant, as if picturing this in his mind’s eye. “What is she like, this Kamila?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have never met her.”
Rose couldn’t disguise her surprise.
“Yes, that’s right,” said Roman. “I have never met my son’s wife. Ours was a difficult relationship. It would all have been different if his mother were still with us.” He poured each of them a shot. They toasted and drank. “When the Soviet Union collapsed, some of the criminal groups became irresponsible. No more need to hide, they said. We can do what we like now. Who will stop us? So they came out on the streets and started turf wars. In 1991, I was driving with my wife and son in Irkutsk. The city centre. We were ambushed. Several cars, from all directions. They opened fire with machine guns. My wife and I were both shot. Alexei escaped. I survived. My wife did not.”
“I’m sorry.”
He filled the glasses again. “They thought they could scare me. Frighten the Bear! Then steal my business while I hid away. They realised their mistake. I fought back ten times over. For every life they took, I took ten of theirs, their friends, family, anyone who stood with them. By the end they were all gone. We won. Morozov won. But now I am the only one left.”
They toasted. “How old was Alexei?” asked Rose.
“Twelve. A little boy. But nah! He was a little boy even after he grew. He was his mother’s son much more than mine. The harder I tried to raise him to be strong, the more he hated me.”
Rose nodded. In death, through his father’s eyes, Alexei started to make a little more sense.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
Roman looked up from pouring another shot. It was a bold question. Too bold? Then his face crinkled. For a moment she thought he might cry.
“Betrayal is an evil thing. We all have to trust people, do we not? Who can survive and operate without relying on people around them? We are all vulnerable to traitors, those who will poison the food on their own table.” His voice had become hard and bitter.
“You think it was someone within the organisation?”
He looked at her and slowly raised his glass. They toasted again and downed their shots.
“Why did you come here today?” he asked.
“I’m looking for Kamila. I want to see her. She’s not returning my calls. I thought you might be able to help. I didn’t realise you’d never met.”
That was her official response, what she’d say to Peter, if it ever got back to him. She was pursuing an agreed action. Pumping the father-in-law for information about Kamila. It was flimsy, but she’d brazen it out. The real reason? The meeting that morning. You take the prostitute, Rose. The one we don’t think is important. The gangster, Fairchild can deal with that. A man we can barely trust, who can’t stand MI6, will work for anyone, and hasn’t even set foot in the UK for twenty years. But he’s a man! So he’ll do the man’s work. Run along, now.
“Why do you want to see her?” asked Roman.
“She’s just lost her husband. I want to check she’s okay. Find out if she needs anything.”
“You consider yourself a friend of hers.”
“A distant one.”
He put his head on one side. “So the wife of a big Russian authority and a British government official go shopping together?”
“She was very stylish. She was keen for me to improve my dress sense. She had some specific ideas in mind.”
“So! She was more than just a fortune-seeking Muslim slut. Had some ideas. Shopping ideas.”
Rose ignored the hatred in his voice. “She’d converted to Christianity. And yes, she was more than that.”
Roman smiled sadly. “I fear you may be right. I, too, am looking for Kamila.”
“You don’t know where she is?”
“Nobody knows where she is.”
This was interesting. “She’s disappeared? Why, do you think?”
Roman drained the bottle and called Vadim to fetch another one. He sat back. “My son was not a good judge of character. His wife was a whore. That much he knew. But she was also a thief.”
“A thief? Who was she stealing from?”
“From Alexei. From all of us. From me.”
“She was stealing from the business?”
Roman gave a single nod. “Alexei, he let her into everything, assumed she had no interest. Took her with him when he went on visits, thought she was just sitting there looking pretty on his arm. But she was listening. Planning. I spent most of today going through the accounts. Alexei leaves the detail to other people. Me, I look after things myself. I can see how it was done. Hundreds of thousands of roubles, gone.”
“But how do you know it was Kamila? Couldn’t it have been someone else, someone more familiar with the operation?”
“I spoke today to everyone who had access. All sad and sorry about what has happened. All surprised and angry that we have been robbed. Unlike my son, I know who to trust, who has honour. They are good people. But Kamila? Kamila, where is she?”
He held up his glass. They
toasted, and drained glasses again. Rose was feeling the effects. “Well,” she said, putting a steadying hand on the table, “maybe she’s not sure of her status now. I mean, her situation without Alexei might be considered quite precarious.”
“Precarious? Oh, yes. I would say so. Quite precarious.” Roman’s voice rumbled with foreboding.
“Do you think she killed him?” Rose hadn’t intended to ask that. It was the vodka talking. Roman considered her.
“What do you think? You think she’d do that? You think she could? You know her better. You’re her friend.”
Before she could answer, the door opened. Vadim said, quietly, “Your visitor is here.”
“Ah! Of course! My visitor!” Roman brightened and rose to his feet. “Maybe you know this man! A fellow countryman of yours. He’s a good man, this fellow, a friend! You must meet him!”
Rose turned, ready to greet the visitor. Of course, she already knew who it was.
23
Fairchild stood on the threshold. The room was all warm yellow light and wood panelling, thick carpet and bookshelves. Books for show with colour-coordinated spines, unread. A giant vase bedecked with idyllic English hunting scenes perched on a flimsy table. But all of that was background, unimportant, because she was there. Unexpectedly, inexplicably, disturbingly, sitting at a table with a shot glass in her hand. She was smiling at him.
“Yes, we do know each other,” she was saying to Roman, who was coming over to greet him. Fairchild made the effort to switch into automatic mode.
“Then I don’t need to introduce you. My friend!” Roman reached in for a vodka-fumed embrace which lasted some time. By the time they pulled apart, tears had gathered in the old man’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Fairchild said, simply. Roman nodded and turned away. Rose, a little pink in the face, came over to shake hands.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she said.
“Indeed, it is a surprise,” he said. “How’s Peter?”
“Fine,” she said. Unaware, was what she meant. What was she doing here? He couldn’t envisage ever being in a situation where she would take advice from him. But did she not know what Roman was capable of? Fairchild had known Roman for years and could hide his feelings, but the man still scared the bejesus out of him.