“I don’t know much about Iolanta.”
“Don’t worry. I am looking forward to it, Greg. We will have a great night out. No matter what. Just the two of us. I love you.” She took his hands in hers and leaned across the table to kiss him, to emphasize her point.
***
“You are gorgeous, as always!” In the elevator, Greg admired his wife, who just like the last time, was dressed in a simple, low-cut black evening dress with a string of pearls accentuating her delicate neck and features. He drew her to himself and gave her a long, passionate kiss. “I am one lucky man.”
“You’re not so shabby yourself, Professor,” Anne answered, pulling away just as the doors opened, admiring him in his well-tailored navy blue suit, crisp white shirt and striped burgundy tie.
They made their way quickly across Philharmoniker Strasse and arrived inside the Staatsoper just in time for Greg to be able to purchase a program. They found their parterre row ten seats and raced to read about the Bartók opera before curtain time. Anne was delighted to rediscover the little inconspicuous screen on the back of the seat in front where she would be able to follow the libretto in English, since, as Greg had reminded her, Bluebeard’s Castle would be sung in the original Hungarian version and Iolanta in Russian.
As the lights were dimmed, the Bard traditional in Hungarian folk music came out to give the spoken prologue, with its existential questions. But when the slow and spooky introduction started to be played by the orchestra, Anne felt a shiver down her spine and nestled close to her husband. Greg wondered whether it had been a wise choice to take his wife to see this opera, with its heavy symbolism and themes of obsessive love and perverse sexuality, and its violent and graphic score, given what she had just been through.
***
“So what did you think of it?” Greg asked as they got up from their seats at intermission, the finale and the applause still ringing in their ears.
“Thrilling,” was all Anne could say. “But very dark. Nadja Michael was fabulous as Judith.”
“And I loved Petrenko’s Bluebeard,” Greg said, as they made their way out toward the beautiful Marble Hall reception area, following the noisy crowd. “Here, why don’t you just stay here, while I go over to the bar to get us some champagne,” he said, as they approached a pillar. It’s too crowded over there.”
Greg sauntered over to where a queue had already formed. Standing in line, he kept admiring the beauty of his wife, as he reflected on the opera. Despite his concern for Anne, he was glad to have finally seen it. As a music lover, and with his Hungarian roots, it had been on his “bucket list.”
He was just about at the head of the line when, out of the crowd, he saw a familiar short, square and balding man approach his Anne, whose expression changed from pleasant idle curiosity to, at first, incredulity, and then horror.
He saw her stiffen as the man greeted her and then said something to her, before glancing over at him and vanishing into the crowd.
Greg grabbed the glasses, forgetting about his change, and rushed back to his wife, who, he could see, had been deeply shaken by the experience.
“Polyakov!” He handed one of the flûtes to his wife, who was pale and still shaking. He grabbed her free hand. “What is he doing here? And what did he say to you?”
“I first thought--but it wasn’t--that Polyakov--Sergei, I mean. It was the other one, the Deputy Director of the FSB.”
“Boris? What did he say?” Greg took a gulp of his champagne.
“He said that I ‘had better watch out,’ and not mess with their--he said ‘our’--interests. And to keep what I know to myself, because if things got out, it would be all over for me. And, he said, that goes for your ‘stupid husband and your friend too.’ He probably meant Julia. And that he and his people have a far reach, and that, no doubt, we would not want something like what happened to Litvinenko to happen to me--and you.”
“He threatened you--us--right here in the opera?”
“Yes, and he then said that we had better go back to Vermont pronto or else, you and I both would have a fate far worse than that traitor.”
“What nerve! You’re sure it was not Sergei?”
“How could it be? He’s in Chechnya.”
“But--”
“Yes, I am sure. I know it wasn’t Sergei. But very scary, all the same. Oh, yes, he finished by saying that their reach extends to the darkest corners of the world. Even to Vermont.”
“Are you all right, Anne?” Greg asked, putting his arm around his wife, as the bell rang for everyone to go back to their seats.
“Greg, would you mind terribly if we left? I am just too shaken to sit through this...Iolanta.”
“Of course, my love. No. Let’s go. After that--”
As he took the flûtes back, he thought, how fortuitous that it was the Tchaikovsky he was going to miss, and not Bluebeard’s Castle.
Chapter 36
The next morning, they were at the Interpol office behind the Borse right at nine a.m. with their marzipan filled croissants. Neither had slept well, both trying to think through the ramifications of the approach by Boris Polyakov the evening before. Frau Huth set them up with the usual Melange and kleiner Brauner in the conference room while they waited for Demeter.
“The car picked Ms. Saparova up just a few minutes ago, as we requested,” Frau Huth said. “Her flight is at ten-thirty a.m. Herr Labrecque should be in too, shortly. He flew in last night.”
“Good,” Anne said. “It will be good to hear what he has to say.”
The Interpol boss showed up within five minutes. “Well, I didn’t think I would see you till much later, if at all this morning. But I am grateful for your devotion to the cause.”
“John, we came in early because we have something very disturbing to report,” Greg said, taking a sip of his coffee.
“What is it now?”
“Greg took me to the opera last night--” Anne started to tell him what had happened.
“By golly, isn’t your husband a culture vulture. And such a gentleman!”
“Yes, that too, but John, seriously, at the intermission Greg went over to the bar to get us a couple of glasses of champagne, and as I was standing there by myself, a very spiffily dressed Colonel Boris Polyakov came up to me--”
“That’s the twin brother, isn’t it? The one who is high up in the FSB?”
“Yes, not Sergei, the arms merchant.”
“You’re absolutely sure, are you?”
“Rest assured, I would know.” Anne had never told Demeter about how the arms merchant and trafficker had raped her in Poti just before the transaction for the Kallay affair was about to take place.
“He told Anne that she had better stop messing with ‘their’ interests,” Greg interjected. “Presumably meaning the interests of the Polyakov brothers. Although it was not clear, because then he went on to say that, otherwise, what happened to Litvinenko or worse could happen to her. To us. You know, Litvinenko was the former Russian agent and journalist who was poisoned with polonium in London by FSB agents supposedly for planning to divulge state secrets and implicate Putin and other higher ups in corruption.”
“Well, it is not at all clear that the interests of the Polyakov brothers and the Russian state would not be one and the same,” Demeter said. “We know that both the FSB and the GRU--that’s military intelligence--are actively involved in transacting with arms merchants, including the Polyakov empire, to sell arms and nuclear material. The standard deal is that thirty percent of the profits go to the ‘state,’ which you can interpret as the pockets of the Putin gang. And there is no reason that the same deal would not apply to any of the other activities of these ‘merchants of evil.’ Sex trafficking or whatever.”
“Wow, it all sounds very sophisticated and incredibly corrupt. And, downright sick.”
“Colonel Polyakov went on to say that we should keep what we know to ourselves. Because, if any if got out...well, we would suffer a fate worse tha
n Litvinenko. Then he literally ordered us to go back to Vermont,” Anne continued. “And threatened that they could even get us there, if they wanted. Ugh, it was all very creepy.”
“I see.”
“We think he meant not just what we know about their activities, but also about their past,” Greg said. “That the Polyakov twins are, as we told you, John, the bastard children of Lavrenti Beria.”
“Yes, that could be quite detrimental to his career in the FSB right about now, if that got out,” Demeter observed. “Although I am sure Putin and some of his friends are admirers of that freak.”
“What was really uncanny--” Anne started to say “--was that he seemed to know everything we had been up to. No doubt from his brother. And that he was aware that we were here in Vienna and at the Staatsoper yesterday evening.”
“Well, the FSB has a very strong presence here. And we know that Colonel Polyakov likes to come to Vienna a lot,” Demeter said, adding with a facetious smile, “Seemingly he has the same taste in opera as you, Greg.”
“I guess we had better lay low for the next couple of days,” Greg said, ignoring the snide remark.
“No, I think you should get on the next flight back home. You don’t mess around with these guys. And as I said, they are all over the place here. Moreover, thank you both, but your mission is finished.”
“Not quite,” Anne interjected. “We’re going to see this through, John, until Julia returns, and everything is back to normal again.”
“Well, okay, I see your point. But only if I can put some of my men to watch over you for the next two days, and then you promise you are out of here.”
“That’s a deal.”
“Yeah, I am eager to get you guys off the premises. And the payroll,” Demeter acquiesced with a little laugh.
“Well, well, well,” Labrecque said, coming through the door. “It’s nice to see the beautiful heroine of Porto Montenegro in our humble offices. You guys did a great job. Anne, without that tracker idea of yours, we would have never got these criminals. And the way you castrated that bugger, Hetzel, was real classy. They were certainly not very nice to you, so they deserved everything they got.”
“Hello, Nicholas,” Anne acknowledged her former colleague with a smile. “Thank you, but the tracker was actually Greg’s idea.”
“Slipping it in Hetzel’s jacket was yours, dear.”
“I’m sure Nicholas, you will relate all the gory details in due course,” Demeter said. “But tell me now, how did you, George, and Radomir get on with all those thugs and the rest of the girls you guys were able to liberate?”
“Those guards who worked for the Polyakov gang have been jailed in Montenegro for now,” Labrecque answered. “They are being charged with being accomplices to sexual trafficking, torture, and a host of other misdeeds. Anne and Greg may have told you that we were considering whether Hetzel should be sent in front of the ICJ--along with Polyakov and Brother Peter if we ever catch them. That is, if the creep survives the damage Anne did to him.”
“Well, we’ve got a huge effort on to catch that Brother Peter,” Demeter answered.
“What about the other girls, Nicholas?” Anne asked, concerned.
“Radomir is questioning them one-by-one with a psychologist in tow. They may be able to give us some additional information, but we also want to assess how much damage they have suffered. Greg, you had the idea of some foundation to help all the victims--with all the money and diamonds we managed to recover in Polyakov’s apartment. That would go a long way to help these abused women, including the ones Julia is taking home now.”
“I think you and Anne have some experience with foundations, Greg,” Demeter said. “So I will leave all those arrangements up to you. But I fully support it. And I will get Interpol to back you. Just keep me in the loop.”
Chapter 37
The flight to Chelyabinsk had been excruciatingly long, with a five-hour layover in Moscow, where Julia had connected with Nadia, Sasha, and Magda. They finally landed at Balandino Airport in the early morning on Sunday. Fortunately, Julia had boarded in Vienna well rested after sleeping in, and spending the rest of the morning with her mother. She had also managed to catnap on the planes, so she felt up to the one and a half hour drive to Ozersk in the early hours of the morning. Once there, her reasoning was, the four of them could cram into her mother’s apartment, sleep a little, wash up, have a good breakfast, and then she could take each of the girls to their families one by one while the others continued to rest. She was eager to get this task over and done with, and to try and return to a normal life--although with what she had been through, she wondered at times whether that would ever be possible.
Now she woke Nadia, who had slept on her mother’s bed--while she had dozed in the armchair--to tell her that she had talked to her father in the hospital, and that he and the rest of the family were expecting them there in forty-five minutes. So she needed to get ready.
Mikhail had been pleasantly surprised when he received the call. “Hello, Gospodin Glinkov, this is Julia Saparova. How are you?”
“Gospodja Saparova! Good to hear from you. I am well enough, thank you. Recovering, But I hope you have good news of my daughter.”
“Gospodin Glinkov, she is sleeping in the next room. We are in Ozersk, and I will bring her to you within the hour.”
“Oh God! How can I ever thank you, Gospodja Saparova. You are an angel of God.” She could sense over the phone that the security guard was in tears.
***
“Nadia! My darling Nadia,” Gospodin Glinkov stretched his arms out from where he was lying in his hospital bed, and his daughter ran to him with a huge smile, the two melding into one in an embrace. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“Dear Papa, I was so afraid,” Nadia said between her sobs. “I thought I was going to die. But how are you?”
“Never mind me. I am so sorry that I let you go with those awful people. I cannot forgive myself.”
“That is all behind us. Now I am here, with you, and I will not leave you and Mama. And Yuri. Ever again.”
“I have caused you so much pain and suffering.” And then he remembered, in his shame, he had hidden the video from Galina, so it was not a good idea to go into the details with her in the room. “Now darling Nadia, go and hug your mother and brother.”
Nadia went over to where her mother had been sitting quietly, weeping tears of joy, waiting her turn, letting Mikhail have his, hoping it would help the recovery from his injury. Although just yesterday, the doctors had given her the devastating news: Mikhail would never walk again. His spinal cord had been damaged in the shooting at the East Gate of Mayak, and he was unable to move his legs.
Nadia hugged her, and Galina, too, was ecstatic to have her back. But what was it that Nadia had been through that Mikhail knew about, but had not told her? What was this pain and suffering that he had caused her? She would find out from him or from Nadia, that was for sure. And this beautiful woman, Julia Saparova, wasn’t she the one who was the cause of Mikhail’s injuries? And why was it she who was bringing Nadia back? There were a lot of unanswered questions.
Nadia peeled away and took little Yuri’s hand. “I am so glad I am back with you. You are my best buddy, Yuri, and I missed you so much.” She gave him a hug.
“Come here, my little Nadia, let me hold you again,” Mikhail said. “You too, Yuri. I want both my children here by my bedside.”
Julia thought this would be a good moment to ask Galina about Mikhail, so she moved closer and asked in a whisper, “Gospodja Glinkova may I ask, how is your husband?”
“Perhaps let’s step outside, if you don’t mind, Gospodja Saparova.”
“Sure.” They quietly left the room, closing the door behind them.
There, in the corridor, Galina poured her heart out to Julia: Mikhail would never walk again because of the spinal injuries he had suffered at the East Gate. And she did not know how they would be able to make ends meet.
Sure, there would be the small monthly payments from the compensation facility for those injured in the line of work at Mayak, plus whatever meager income she made as a teacher. But that would not be enough for the four of them to live from, especially with the additional costs of having an invalid to look after--even though all Mikhail’s medical expenses were supposedly covered by the state. The only way forward now would be for Nadia to stay at home and find a job. There was no question that they could afford for her to go off to the VUZ in Moscow. Absolutely not--they simply could not even contemplate it now.
“Gospodja Glinkova,” Julia took the older woman’s hand and looked in to her eyes, which had filled with tears as she finished recounting her tale of woe. “We will help you. We--that is Interpol--have confiscated a lot of money from the arms merchants who were the cause of your husband’s injuries and your daughter’s suffering, and we will be setting up a foundation in the West to help you, and others like you, who have been their victims. So please, please do not worry. Your brave daughter needs to be allowed to pursue her dreams. And we will make that possible, I swear.”
Nadia’s mother gasped, clasping her hand to her heart and blinking rapidly. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she was able to speak. “Thank you, thank you, Gospodja Saparova.”
“Yes, on the flight here, Nadia told me that she is a physics student and she would very much like to attend the Institute of Physics and Technology in Moscow. We will make sure that the financial resources for her to do that will be available for her and her family, rest assured. Moreover, as it happens, I also studied at that institution and still have contacts there, so I will do everything I can to help her get in. Rest assured that I, or my friends, will be in touch with you, shortly and please feel that you and your husband and Nadia can call me at any time. Here is my card. And now, I have other business to attend to, so I will go inside to take my leave of your husband and daughter. Good bye, Gospodja Glinkova.”
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