“Here we are. We need to go to top floor. Apartment 10A.”
Burgess looked around. “This bodyguard must have been making a few bucks, if he could afford to live here.”
Khitarov spat on the ground in disgust. “In my country, you either live very good or live very bad. There is no in-between. I think maybe I should apply for bodyguard’s job now it’s vacant.” He looked over at the two Bermudians to see their reaction to this comment and was rewarded with their smiles. “Come on. Let’s see what he’s got in his apartment.”
“Don’t we need a search warrant?” Archie wanted to test Khitarov.
“Nyet. He want us to get evidence from his, how do you say, safe in casino. The keys to the safe are here. I have special keys to get in.”
Archie and Burgess exchanged glances. This was definitely different from how things were done back home. Thoughts of Lubyanka loomed darkly.
Once inside, they entered a state-of-the-art elevator complete with mirrors, music and a seductive voice announcing each floor in Russian. It took them no time to stride down the dimly lit, thickly carpeted hallway and find the imposing front door to 10A. Khitarov paused in front of the door and rang the bell. Silence. He then had a good look at the lock and, extracting a set of picks from his pocket, chose the ones for the job. In less than thirty seconds, they were all inside.
Burgess, stunned, could not resist quipping, “I don’t suppose you learned that at the police academy?”
“Oh no, in previous life. I grew up in Lublino in East Moscow. Terrible place. I was a good burglar. Then I changed my ways. Is long story. One day, I tell you.”
His revelation did nothing to quell the feeling of disquiet settling like heavy water in the pit of Burgess’s stomach. He could see from Archie’s expression – and the fact he had said very little – that he, too, felt uneasy. Khitarov, at this point, was an enigma. One thing was for sure, he was certainly a character and he looked forward to telling Jacintha all about him – if he ever got back in one piece. The feeling continued to haunt him that he and Archie were vulnerable, isolated and totally out of their depth.
Archie disturbed his thoughts with a low whistle. He was in heaven. The apartment was a bachelor’s dream. All chrome and leather, views overlooking the city, walls of shelves filled with electronic equipment and a huge television screen.
“Wow, look at this,” he exclaimed. “The guy sure had great taste in western electronics.”
“Well, he’d want the best to watch his porn films on.” Burgess was aware he sounded slightly prissy, not to mention a little envious. Turning to Khitarov, he said, “Where do you think he kept the keys?”
“He tell me in bottom drawer in kitchen.”
Archie was already there, pulling out kitchen items, until he found a set of keys. “I’ve found them,” he said, holding them triumphantly aloft.
“Good. Now we need to find numbers.” Khitarov was stroking his chin and looking around the room. “He tell me it in living room but not sure where.”
Burgess was all business. “Okay, let’s look for paperwork. I guess we need to find anything with numbers on it. We’ll sift through what’s in the desk.”
They spent the best part of an hour going through the late Grigory Tarasov’s apartment. Finally, utterly frustrated, they decided to pull apart his DVD collection from the shelves. Another twenty minutes passed in silence, punctuated by the occasional swearword in Russian from Khitarov.
“I have it!” Khitarov jumped up, waving a piece of paper in his hand and laughing as if he had won the lottery. “Hah, it was in DVD case of film about bank robbery. Very funny. I begin to like this Tarasov man.”
“Pity he’s dead,” noted Archie drily.
“Come on. Time for lunch. I know good restaurant with real Russian food. We go and get drunk.” He glanced around at the mess they had made. “I send someone to clear up. We go now.”
Both Archie and Burgess found Khitarov’s good humor infectious. They had completed their mission. They now had keys and the combination to the safe. Why not go and enjoy the delights of a Russian lunch? They trooped out, carefully closing the front door and made their way back to the parked police car. None of them noticed the black Lincoln town car that followed discreetly in the distance.
“Now I show you real Russia.” No doubt about it, Khitarov was on a roll.
CHAPTER 53
“Jackass,” De Souza swore under his breath as he put down the phone, eliciting a wry smile from Pamela, who had overheard his conversation with the superintendent.
“Superintendent working his usual magic?” she inquired with raised eyebrows.
“He wants to hold a press conference; thinks the island needs reassuring – ay-sap, of course. What he really wants is his face on the television. What can we say? We don’t have anything concrete to report. As far as Flood’s case is concerned, Lightbourne accuses his wife and the wife accuses Lightbourne. There’s nothing to suggest third parties entered the house and killed him and their pointing the finger at each other only muddies the water. Then, on the snuff film, Buddy and Archie are in Moscow trying to find out who killed the girl. As for the man with the tattoos, he’s long gone. We’ll never find out who killed the Bambases. I’m sure these cases are connected but we’re ending up with one big question mark.”
De Souza leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head in thought. With a long sigh, he ran his hands through his thick, black hair and leaned forward, looking dejectedly at his computer screen.
“Well, I may have something to cheer you up.” Pamela interrupted his reverie.
“What’s that? I’d be grateful for anything at this point.” With his shoulders slumped, De Souza looked so demoralized that Pamela’s heart went out to him.
“Why don’t you have a look at those documents I’ve just printed?”
Curious, De Souza wandered over to the printer. “Pamela, this is great.” For the first time that day, his face split into a smile.
“Yes, they’re the computerized identikit pictures the two boys gave of Tattoo man. Pretty ugly, wouldn’t you say?”
“The thing that’s good about both descriptions is that they’re more or less the same. You know how two witnesses can come up with totally different impressions of the same person.”
“Now, all I need to do is e-mail them over to our boys in Russia and they might get lucky with their database of perps over there. I’m also sending them out to Interpol, so they will go out internationally. Did you know that Interpol has 187 member countries? Hopefully, they’ll issue a red notice.”
“What’s that?”
Pamela was pleased to be able to show off her knowledge of Interpol. “It’s like an electronic Most Wanted advertisement that can help police identify and locate criminals. In a number of countries it’s even recognized as a basis for a provisional arrest. Usually, the people against whom Interpol serve a red notice are wanted either in their home countries or by international criminal tribunals. I think our guy here fits the bill as someone we would like to identify and arrest. You know, Interpol takes fugitives very seriously. They actually created the Fugitive Investigative Service to provide a central place for the likes of us to send information on fugitives. All this information can then be disseminated globally so it’s more difficult for criminals to find a safe haven. Anyway, if I send these pictures out, hopefully, something will come of them. I’m sure this guy has form somewhere. Surely it’s not the first time he’s killed.”
“Well, it sure beats the old-fashioned way of pinning up posters in public places.” De Souza took a long hard look at the two pictures. “It looks like his nose has been broken and badly reset. His moustache is bushy and he’s probably in his early thirties. Both boys say he had dark hair worn long - and unwashed. Pity we don’t have many details of the tattoos. Looks like a lot of crosses and so forth on the fingers and on the back of the hands, from what they’re saying. Well,” he sighed, “wouldn’t you just love to
come face-to-face with him in your kitchen? The poor Bambases. They never even stood a chance, especially if they had already been tied up by the boys. This man is a cold-blooded killer and those boys are accessories to murder. I want this guy found!”
Pamela heard the frustration in his voice. “Well, if the superintendent wants to hold a press conference, why don’t you give him these pictures to put on TV? That would at least keep everybody busy calling in sightings, even if we know he’s flown the coop.”
“Pamela. You are simply brilliant. That’s exactly what we’ll do. What with two of our finest in Moscow, it makes us look like we’re making progress and keeps the politicians and people distracted while we get on with our jobs.”
Pamela looked across at De Souza from her desk. Already his back appeared straighter and his face less pinched. She was glad for that. She liked and admired the detective sergeant and knew he wanted to do a good job for Burgess and acquit himself well in his absence. She had no qualms the department was in safe hands with him. He would leave no stone unturned until they had their culprits. What a complicated set of cards they had been dealt. She hoped they would be able to solve these crimes soon. Statistically, the more time passed, the less likely that would be.
“I wonder how they’re getting on in Russia,” she ventured.
“Oh, No doubt they have everything under control. You know Buddy. He’s by the book all the way,” De Souza reassured.
If he had known that the good detective inspector, as part of his first order of business in that foreign country, had illegally broken into an apartment, he would have been horrified. If he had known that, as his second order of business, both he and Archie were currently three sheets to the wind and singing folk songs in a local Moscow bistro, he would have fallen off his chair.
That same afternoon, Nana sat glued to the radio. The Minister for Information was coming in for a roasting on the People’s Corner. The minister had made a terrible mistake when he announced he was resigning for health reasons. The comments ranged from outraged to hilariously risqué. Nana found herself chuckling as she recognized some of the callers. Bermudians loved a good joke and, if it could be at the expense of a politician, even better.
“You know, Digby, I could even begin to feel sorry for the man.” She sipped her tea and cackled in delight at a particularly ribald remark regarding the reasons the minister needed to get cured. The whole show had turned into a comedy, with each caller trying to outdo the next. The experienced host was adroitly keeping everything under control… but only just.
“I can’t remember a funnier show than this one, Digby.”
The dog just cocked his ear from his place on the rug in front of the fireplace.
“I can’t wait to tell Jacintha when she comes home. I wonder what Leon’s doing, that poor boy. He works too hard. He needs to enjoy himself more. I worry about him, Digby.”
At that moment, Burgess, Archie and Khitarov, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, formed part of a drunken circle as they swayed together, surrounding and cheering Pyotr, a dashing figure and one of Khitarov’s fellow detectives, who was crouched on his heels, arms folded, performing a typical Cossack dance. Heads thrown back, they shouted and sang along with other patrons whilst owner, waiters and chef clapped in time to the music and poured more vodka into the empty glasses on the tables. Had Nana witnessed this scene, she would have had a real reason to worry.
CHAPTER 54
A pounding on the door brought Alexeev rudely back to consciousness, as he dozed on the terrace in an alcohol-induced stupor. Mind and heart racing, he wrapped a beach towel around his corpulence and crept gingerly towards the door, literally jumping as the thumping continued - for this was no ordinary knocking. Whoever was on the other side of that door meant business… but would his enemies announce their arrival? Cautiously, he put his eye to the spyhole to find one of his worst fears confirmed. There, standing outside, were two members of the Guardia Civil, the Spanish paramilitary police force. He let out a long sigh. I’d rather take my chances with you. At least you’re not the Mafia.
“Policía,” one of them shouted.
“Okay,” shouted back Alexeev, as he reluctantly unlocked the massive hacienda-style front door. He knew they were on the verge of breaking it down anyway, so what choice did he have?
The men, stepping inside without invitation, immediately noticed he was unarmed. Alert eyes swept the rooms to ensure Alexeev was alone. They were both young and fit, their drab green military uniform lending them an authority that the Policía Local, with its bright-red, yellow-and-purple squad cars - the colours of the Mallorquin flag - somehow failed to duplicate. Alexeev knew the Guardia Civil had recently arrested several Russian drug traffickers living in an upscale neighborhood close by. These policemen, used to serving on peacekeeping missions for the U.N. and fighting ETA terrorists, were not to be trifled with and, if they were on his doorstep, he was in serious trouble. Somehow, deep inside, came the realization that he was almost relieved. At a gut level, he understood, even through the throbbing of his temples, that he could not have carried on for much longer.
“Vladimir Alexeev?” The older of the two appeared to study his face, puzzled. Alexeev, rubbing the stubble on his chin, realized that he was unshaven and now with brown hair. They probably had expected a clean-shaven, grey-haired man.
“Sí,” he blurted.
“Habla español?”
“No muy bien.”
“You speak a little English?” The younger and more muscular of the two, now spoke.
“Yes.”
“You come with us. We have questions. Interpol contacted us. You will be sent back to Moscow for interrogation.”
Alexeev hoped the word interrogation was a poor translation for the word questioning. He had never been in trouble with the Russian police and knew that much had changed in the past twenty years. He did not, however, trust them not to hurt him. His country had still to shed its reputation for corrupt officials and he was well aware he would be walking on thin ice. Still, rather the Russian police than the Russian Mafia… or had the Mafia infiltrated them? Alexeev’s stomach performed acrobatics in an instant of pure terror.
“May I change into some clothes?”
“Yes,” came the simple reply and they followed him into the bedroom as he prepared to dress.
Alexeev wondered what kind of reception the press would give him back in Russia, now that it was official he was no longer dead. The thought amused him and he struggled to stifle a hysterical desire to laugh out loud. Am I losing it? I need to hold everything together. His mind and body were reacting strangely to events, making him wonder if shock was setting in. The entire scene with the two burly police officers possessed a certain surreal quality.
The two guardias escorted him to a waiting white and green vehicle, with its familiar logo of the crown of Spain above a sword, crossed with fasces - a type of axe. Alexeev found it sinister and felt again the knot of fear in his entrails as he embarked on the next phase of his life… or would it be his death? Did they think he had murdered his family? He felt a jolt of adrenaline run through his veins at this new and unwelcome thought.
CHAPTER 55
Back at Khitarov’s headquarters, jubilation greeted the news of the apprehension of Alexeev. Archie, still nursing the mother of all hangovers, studied the computerized pictures of the Eastern European man suspected of murdering the Bambases. Khitarov, defying all the laws of alcohol, looked fresh as a daisy, whilst Burgess attempted to speak in complete sentences to the lieutenant colonel, who had his office on the floor above. Luckily for him, Khitarov’s superior spoke little English.
Khitarov looked over at Archie as he lit another cigarette from the tip of the one he was about to finish. “This man with tattoos.” He pointed to his computer screen. “Is typical Vor. They have tattoos all over body. They have church theme. Crosses, crowns of thorns, church …” he pantomimed a steeple as his voice trailed off.
“Church spires?”
“Yes, that’s it, Archie, church spires.”
The day before had been a baptism of sorts for Archie and Burgess, both of whom had never committed a crime or drunk so much raw alcohol in their lives. They knew they would enjoy recounting the story of their Russian experience to their friends and even, years from now, to their grandchildren. For the moment, however, they were concentrating on trying to make a good impression on their Russian counterparts, who were clearly fascinated by these out-of-town detectives, stealing furtive glances at them from time to time as they worked.
Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series) Page 17