The Russian Doll (Ben Sign Book 3)

by Matthew Dunn

  “Da. Of course.” The official waved his hand.

  Knutsen walked onwards.

  Twenty four minutes later Sign joined Knutsen outside the terminal they’d arrived in. They walked together to the taxi rank. Sign peered into the window of the taxi at the front of the rank and said in fluent Russian, “The Ritz-Carlton hotel, please.”

  When they were on the move, Knutsen asked Sign, “We’re staying at the Carlton?”

  “It’s a smashing five star hotel, in the centre of the city.”

  This didn’t make any sense to Knutsen. Sign had told him that their accommodation in Russia was free. However, it was highly likely that Sign knew the manager of the hotel and had cut a deal with him or her. Knutsen kept his mouth shut.

  As usual, traffic into the city was horrendous. While Knutsen stared out of the window, Sign was jabbering to the driver about anything that came into his mind – questions about the Russian world cup; weather; restaurant recommendations; how long the driver had worked his cab; roadworks; and a raft of other local matters.

  When the taxi dropped them off outside the hotel, Sign placed his hand on Knutsen’s shoulder and quietly said, “This is not the end of our journey. Keep an eye on my case.” He walked to the porter standing beneath the regal hotel’s entrance and asked him to hail a cab, adding that they needed to work this evening before checking in. Five minutes’ later they were on the road again. After travelling five hundred yards in the dark and almost gridlocked traffic, they were dropped off outside the beautiful St. Regis Moscow Nikolskaya hotel.

  Sign said to his colleague, “Walk with me.”

  They pulled their trolley bags down the road and turned into a side street.

  “Now we wait.” Sign checked his watch. “Timings are never precise in Moscow.” The street was only illuminated by lamps. Sign and Knutsen were in the shadows. Sign stared at his phone. It pinged. “ETA five minutes.”

  Knutsen was certain that they were being picked up by one of Sign’s assets. However, he had no idea where they were headed. All Sign had told him before they’d departed London was that it was best if he didn’t know where their accommodation was until they reached the place. That comment had really annoyed Knutsen. But he also was highly cognisant that Sign had his methods. And it had also occurred to Knutsen that this may well have been the first time that Sign had deployed overseas with a British colleague. During his MI6 career, Sign worked alone. Now, Sign was figuratively having to hand-hold Knutsen, letting him witness his spy tradecraft while at the same time not telling him what was happening until they were in a safe place.

  Sign’s phone pinged again. A car approached. Sign moved quickly to one of the street lamps. The car slowed, then stopped.

  Sign grabbed his bag and said, “Quickly now!” He got into the back of the car. Knutsen followed. The car pulled away.

  The driver was a male, in his late twenties, short haircut, but that was pretty much all that Knutsen could discern about the man from his angle in the back passenger seat. The driver was silent as he drove north. One hour later they were out of the city. They continued north on the A104. Either side of them was black, the only illumination coming from vehicles’ headlights. The further they drove, the fewer cars they encountered. The driver turned off the main road, onto a gravel track. Now there were no cars or any signs of life whatsoever. Six miles later he stopped.

  Ahead of them was an isolated and stunning large wooden house, on the banks of a lake. It had illuminated oil lamps hanging on the porch’s canopy, strings of solar-powered white-light bulbs draped over fences that were either side of the property, two chimneys emitting smoke, and windows that were a golden glow due to interior lights.

  The driver turned off the engine and got out.

  Sign nodded at Knutsen. “So here we are dear fellow. Our journey has ended.” He smiled and got out of the car.

  When out of the vehicle, Knutsen arched his aching back. The travel to Moscow had cramped the tall man’s muscles. He breathed in deeply, inhaling a multitude of smells including the fresh breeze that was gently wafting over rippling lake water, burning logs, and aromatic aromas from trees that were shedding their leaves in the cool autumn air.

  Sign walked up to the driver. “Yuri – how the devil are you young sir?” He embraced him.

  Yuri grinned and replied in Russian, “It’s so good to see you my friend.” He pointed at Knutsen. “Should we trust him or pretend we trust him?”

  Sign laughed. “We trust him. Come on, let’s get inside and say hello to your dad. I hope he’s preparing a nice meal.”

  They entered the property. It was a four bedroom house. Downstairs was a big lounge that was open plan with a kitchen. The lounge had a fire blazing, four fishing roads resting on struts in the wall, other fishing equipment beneath the rods, a stuffed twenty pound trout in a glass cabinet on an antique mahogany cabinet, lit candles, mismatching armchairs and sofa, photos of Yuri’s dad, Yuri, and his deceased mother, a battered balalaika that had once belonged to a White Cossack warrior and was leaning in the corner of the room, hermetically sealed copper jars of tobacco from Asia and America, bottles of wine and vodka stored in buckets, coils of rope and twine scattered on wooden furniture surfaces, books haphazardly piled on the floor, paintings of the rural landscape adjacent to the property, small TV that was manufactured in 1987 and only worked intermittently, oak bowl on a coffee table that contained six briar pipes, gun rack of rifles, and a rug in front of the fire. Lenin was lying on the rug. He was a two year old huge Eurasian wolf, and had been rescued by its owner from a farmer who’d tried to kill the animal when he was a cub.

  The kitchen had a long, waist-height, work bench that acted as the only partial barrier to the lounge. Behind it was a stove, cupboards, microwave, refrigerator, chest freezer, mugs that were hanging on hooks under one of the units, pots and pans hanging from other hooks in the ceiling, sink, two wooden baskets containing an array of berries and vegetables, pots of herbs, string of garlic bulbs draped over a window ledge that overlooked the lake, vine of tomatoes that were attached to the door handle of one of the cupboards, and spot lamps in the ceiling that cast a golden glow over the room. On the stove was a large metal pot. Flames were underneath it, and whatever was in the pot was producing a delicious aroma.

  Yuri’s father, Gregor, was standing behind the workbench, holding a knife. On a chopping board in front of him was a fourteen inch chunk of meat. Gregor was in his early sixties, medium height, built like a wrestler, had a black beard, bald head, and a scar that ran from one eye to his jaw. He was wearing waterproof trousers, boots, and a jumper reminiscent of the type worn by submariners when on deck. The sleeves of the jumper were rolled up, displaying his massive muscular arms and tattoos. When he spotted Sign he put down the knife, smiled, and walked into the lounge, his arms outstretched. “Ben! My friend! Part of me was hoping you’d get arrested by the secret police in Moscow.” He hugged Sign, then took a step back while keeping his hands on Sign’s arms. “The other part of me didn’t want my food to go to waste.” He turned to Knutsen and switched to English. “And you are Thomas. It won’t be your real name, or it might be close to your real name. I don’t need to know your surname because it will be false.” His smile remained. “I will think of you as Thomas The Tank Engine – full of steam; always up to mischief; strong as a herd of oxen.” He laughed. “Yuri used to watch Thomas The Tank Engine when he was a boy.”

  “Shut up, dad.” Yuri was pouring four large glasses of neat vodka.

  Gregor laughed louder and shook Knutsen’s hand. “Welcome Thomas.”

  Knutsen felt like he was in the presence of an unstoppable force of nature. He pointed at Lenin. “Erm, is that a wolf?”

  Gregor nodded. “His bite is ten times stronger than a dog’s bite.”

  Knutsen eyed the wolf. “I thought you’d say something like that. Is he dangerous?”

  “Only if he wants to feed. Don’t worry – I fed him before you arrived. You
should be safe for a few hours.”

  Knutsen kept his eye on the animal. “It’s just that I get uneasy around dogs and… things like that, ever since I was attacked by pit bull when I was a kid. Wolves are a step up.”

  Gregor put his arm around Knutsen and stroked Lenin. “But now you are a man. You and Lenin will become great friends. You’re taking him for a walk now. He needs to do a shit and piss.”

  “What?! A walk?”

  “Follow the shore for half a mile, then bring him back. Keep him on the lead. There are rumours that there’s a female wolf nearby. Lenin will bite your head off and escape if he gets her scent. Be firm with him. Show him who’s boss. And talk to him. He’s calmer that way. Well, usually it keeps him calm.”

  Yuri handed Knutsen a lead and a torch. “Don’t touch his tail, or his rear legs. In fact, don’t touch him at all unless things go wrong. If he does get aggressive, pin him down by his neck and hold him for ten minutes. Be very strong. Don’t let his jaws get anywhere near you. He should be fine after that.”

  Knutsen breathed in deeply. His heart was racing. To himself he said, “Okay, let’s do this.” To the wolf he said, “Lenin – if you pull any crap I’ll cut your dick off. You got that mate?” He attached the lead and walked Lenin out of the house.

  Gregor and Yuri were sniggering when Knutsen was gone.

  Sign smiled. “You are naughty.”

  “Is there a better way to be?” Gregor patted his son on his shoulder. “Glasses on a tray, bottle next to them, put them on the rear balcony. I need a moment alone with my friend.”

  “Sure, dad.”

  When Gregor and Sign were alone, Gregor said in Russian, “Come with me into the kitchen.” He pointed at the vat on the stove. “I’ve sweated down onions, ceps, garlic, and added water, tomatoes, herbs, a deseeded chilli, two cloves, beer, and broiled pig’s snout. Once the reduction is complete I’ll strain it off, discard all but the liquid, and use the sauce as a gravy.” He spun around. Alongside the chopping board with the joint of meat were two other chopping boards. One of them had potatoes. The other had vegetables. “I’m thinking boiled cabbage that’s then caramelised in butter and pickled in vinegar, shredded and fried potatoes, and cold cucumbers coated in a lovely vodka and lemon sauce. I brewed the vodka last winter. All of the vegetables are either grown by me or foraged by me and Yuri from the woods.” He slapped the meat. “And here’s the masterpiece. It’s cut from the side of an Elk, meaning it will be tender. There’s a friend of mine twenty miles up the lake. He rears a lot of animals, and has a wooded and enclosed thirty hectare plot containing elks. Occasionally he lets me take Lenin in there so that I can give him the freedom to remember how to hunt. It’s important because I’m hoping to release my dear friend back into the wild when he’s five. But he must know how to survive. Lenin killed this elk. Some of it I gave to him; the rest of it is in the freezer. I paid my friend for the meat. I will roast the joint. Yuri will take care of everything else while you, me, and Thomas have a drink by the lake.” Gregor looked satisfied with everything around him. “What do you think of this evening’s meal?”

  Sign gently punched his fist against Gregor’s arm. “Thomas and I have just arrived at the finest restaurant in Russia.”

  “You have.” Gregor oiled a roasting pan, placed the meat into the dish, put the pan in the oven, dipped a finger into the vat’s sauce and placed it in his mouth, nodded with approval, and rubbed his hands together. “Keep your fleece on. It will be cold outside.” He walked out of the house and onto the long rear balcony facing the vast lake. He said to Yuri, “Thank you, son. Over to you. Grab yourself a vodka and get on point in the kitchen. It’s my turn to cook tomorrow. Usual drill. Divide and conquer.”

  Gregor and Sign sat on wooden chairs. There were two other chairs on the balcony, but they were brought from the lounge this evening. Gregor and Yuri lived here alone; they didn’t have many visitors since Gregor’s wife died in her sleep on the balcony. When she passed away she was in a third chair that matched the two that Gregor and Sign were in. For a while, Gregor and Yuri kept the third chair until they could no longer look at it, due to their grief. They burned the chair on the lake shore and said a prayer for the woman they so dearly missed. That was ten years ago. Gregor and Yuri had muddled through ever since.

  The balcony was twenty yards long and contained handmade flaming torches that were fixed in plant pots on the rail that separated the balcony from the lake. Water was beneath them, lapping the struts that supported the exterior seating area. The torches illuminated glimpses of the lake; aside from that it was impossible to see anything beyond the rear of the house.

  Gregor handed Sign a glass, took one for himself, and raised his glass. “To that crazy escape we did in Belarus.”

  “Amen to that.” Sign chinked his glass.

  Both men swigged their vodka.

  Gregor said, “Tell me about Thomas.”

  Sign looked at the lake. “He’s an ex-cop; single; killed the man who murdered the woman he wanted to marry; is sometimes quiet, other times has a mouth like a sewer; highly intelligent, but not worldly wise; and is one of the finest fellows I’ve met.”

  Gregor nodded. “I like him. Except the cop bit.”

  Sign smiled. “Don’t worry. He never liked being in the police.”

  “He’s a rule-breaker?”

  “Most certainly. But, his moral compass is pointing in the right direction.”

  Gregor poured them another drink. “So, why are you here? I don’t need specifics.”

  Sign replied in a quiet voice, “It’s a babysitting job. I have an asset in Moscow. The asset’s lost her nerve. I’ve given her a task that shouldn’t ruffle her fear. It’s the first step to getting her back on to the road to recovery. Thomas and I are here in case she needs us. Then we fly home.”

  Gregor nodded, his expression sombre. “She’s in the very best hands. But take care, my friend. The old guard in Russia is being replaced. Trust no one except Thomas, me, and Yuri.” He laughed. “Remember that crazy guy Anatoly Shkuro?”

  “How could I forget? He put a bullet in his head a day after I asked him to plant a bomb under an ambassador’s car. I should have known that Shkuro had cracked.”

  “There was no way you could have known. It was bad luck. You gave your instruction to him a few hours before his nerves went into meltdown. Before that he was fearless and mental.” Gregor shook his head. “You were with me when we watched him through the sights of our sniper rifles as he walked up that mountain in Afghanistan, entered a Taliban village, strangled the leader, and jogged out of the village. He was mental, or an adrenalin junkie, or both. I guess it takes its toll on the mind and body in the end.” He gripped Sign’s arm. “You did nothing wrong. You saved his crazy arse so many times. The point is that men like you can control people’s minds ninety nine percent of the time. But, then there’s always that damn one percent.”

  “Yes. I hate the one percent.”

  Gregor looked left. “Mr. Tank Engine! You have returned! And Lenin hasn’t killed you! This is a good evening! Join us for drinks.”

  Knutsen sat next to them. Lenin was with him, attached to his leash. The wolf laid down at Knutsen’s feet. Knutsen stroked him. “That was interesting - walking something that might want you for dinner.”

  Gregor roared with laughter. “But look at you now. No fear of silly little pit bulls. And you’ve made friends with a wolf. Lenin doesn’t let anybody but me or Yuri walk him. You must have something special in you. I thought that might be the case. But, I wasn’t sure. It was my test. If Lenin tried to kill you, it meant he was suspicious of you. Therefore I’d be suspicious of you. But, he has accepted you. Therefore I accept you.”

  Sign leaned over and held his fist in front of Lenin’s mouth. Then he stroked him. “Gregor – you do talk nonsense.”

  “Always.” Gregor poured Knutsen a glass of vodka. “I must check on dinner. I hope you’re both hungry.” He walked into the h
ouse.

  Knutsen asked Sign, “Alright – what’s the deal with Gregor?”

  Sign watched bats swoop near the torches. “I met him in Butyrka prison, Moscow. He and I shared a cell together for three weeks. I was being held on suspicion of espionage. Gregor was in there pending trial for mass manslaughter. He was a highly decorated submarine captain. While sailing his vessel in the Bering Sea his submarine snagged on a fishing net, careered off course and walloped into a huge subterranean rock. It was a catastrophe. The vessel was very badly damaged and took on water. Its engines cut out and the submarine sunk to the sea bed. Sailors drowned. Gregor tried to save the rest but it was a hopeless cause. Nevertheless he worked tirelessly for over forty eight hours, in freezing water, swimming back and forth with no light, trying to resuscitate his men and drag them to the few remaining areas where there was air. It was a herculean task. But, the Russian navy did nothing. It knew where the submarine was, yet took the decision that its crew should die. They didn’t want bad publicity. So, they kept the incident secret, with the intention of salvaging the vessel without the world’s media knowing what had happened. Eventually, all of Gregor’s crew were dead. It broke his heart to do so, but he had to leave them in their watery grave. He escaped the tomb via a torpedo tube and swam fifty yards to the surface. His lungs were bursting and he was suffering the bends. But, he was lucky. A Russian naval ship was static, over the scene of the incident. He was pulled on board and given medical care. And when he was brought back to shore he was arrested by military police for dereliction of duty. When we were in prison together we spoke. He couldn’t forgive the Russian authorities for not coming to his crew’s rescue. I told him that he might be of use to me and that we should stay in touch.”

  “How did you both get out of prison?”

  Sign shrugged. “For me it was easy. Britain’s Special Branch was holding a GRU spy. Our government said it would hand over the spy in exchange for me. The exchange was done and I was released. When I got back to England, I sent a note to the head of the FSB. The note contained the exact grid coordinates of the submarine accident and simply said I shared a cell with the captain. If you lay a finger on him and keep him in jail for another day I will tell every Russian, American, British, French, German, Japanese, and Chinese media outlet that the Russian navy is run by a bunch of spineless fools. I didn’t need to say anything else. Gregor was released.”