‘Why not just kill Rusak?’ It seemed the easiest way out of the predicament. Teschmaker couldn’t understand why someone hadn’t thought of it a long time before.
Laverov smiled and took another cigarette. ‘Oh that we could, but at the present time he’s our only lead. If we lose Rusak we may never find the device.’
‘Surely that wouldn’t be such a bad thing?’ If there was no way of locating the device, the threat was removed.
But Laverov shook his head. ‘If we don’t have certainty, then how can we respond to future threats? If some terrorist group claims to have found the device, what could any government do but capitulate? Nobody is going to try and bluff out a scenario like that, the stakes are too high.’
‘I think we need a drink.’ Teschmaker pushed himself up from his seat. ‘What would you like? Vodka?’
Laverov screwed up his face. ‘Vodka? Here, in this country? No, I’ll have scotch.’
As Teschmaker went over to the bar and ordered the drinks there was a naggingly familiar feeling in his stomach, one that he had experienced several times before in his professional life. It was the smell of burned rat. He recalled his final insurance investigation, where the fact that something as seemingly insignificant as a scorched rat’s corpse had been pivotal in unveiling the source of the arson. Somewhere here there was a rat’s corpse — he could smell it. And then it came to him; a detail, a piece of the jigsaw. It felt right but he had to test it by placing it in the puzzle. He paid for the drinks and took them back to the alcove.
‘I’ve had an idea. Do you mind waiting while I make a phone call?’
‘I have scotch. I am happy.’ Laverov grinned.
The phone booth at the back of the bar had only just escaped being vandalised out of existence, so Teschmaker was relieved when he heard the dial tone. He dialled the number and waited. Then he heard a familiar voice.
‘Hello?’
‘Aleksandr Yefremovich, it’s Teschmaker. I need to ask you something.’
‘For you, anything,’ the old man chuckled.
‘I need to ask you about Grigori Vasilyevich Puzanov.’
There was a silence before Shlyapnikov spoke again. When he did, all trace of humour had vanished. ‘What about him?’
‘I’m sorry if it’s difficult for you, but I need to know if he had any particularly close friends.’
‘Friends?’ Shlyapnikov sounded wary. ‘It was a long time ago. How would I know who his friends were?’
‘Please try, it’s very important.’
‘Why should it be important after all these years? We should leave the dead in peace.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that, Aleksandr, there is far too much at stake.’ There was no response. ‘Listen, you and I have known each other for years. I promise you I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t crucial.’
‘It was all so long ago. Believe me, I can’t remember.’
If that were true then there was nothing Teschmaker could do about it, but every instinct told him he was on the right track and so he pushed harder, knowing he must, even if it meant jeopardising their friendship. ‘Then if you can’t remember his friends, tell me how Andrei Yakunin died.’
Again there was silence. Then he heard a deep and protracted sigh. ‘He was shot. They didn’t even know who he was. It should have been me.’
Teschmaker felt a chill go through his body. ‘Why should it have been you?’
‘Because I was the one they wanted to kill. Yakunin was in the wrong place. It should have been me.’
‘Why would they want to kill you?’ Teschmaker asked quietly, but there was a click and the line went dead. For a moment he stood, hardly believing what he had just heard and attempting to make some sense of it. It was certainly not what he had expected.
He turned and looked back at Laverov, who raised his glass in a toast. Teschmaker held up a finger to indicate that he needed to make one more call. Shlyapnikov hadn’t noticed when he switched the names Puzanov and Yakunin. That could only mean one thing. Shlyapnikov knew who Puzanov really was, which meant that Sydney Morris probably also knew. And if Morris knew, then it followed that he might know the names of the local people on the team. Illegals, Laverov had called them, and what better cover for an illegal in a city with a large émigré Russian population than as one of that community. But his mind was racing ahead of him. He needed to talk to Sydney Morris and that, he smiled to himself, would also give him a chance to touch base with Jane. He dialled the number and waited, listening to it ring for what felt like an unduly long time. He was about to hang up when it was answered. Surprisingly nobody spoke.
‘Hello?’ Teschmaker said tentatively, thinking he must have rung the wrong number. There was no reply but he could distinctly hear someone breathing. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
‘Ah, Mister Teschmaker.’ The voice was heavily accented, Slavic.
‘Yes.’ He felt himself freeze. ‘Who is this?’
‘This is Rusak, Mister Teschmaker, and I have someone here who wants to speak with you.’
There was a muffled noise and, after a pause, Jane came on the line. She sounded frightened. ‘Martin? You have to do what he says.’
‘Are you okay?’
But Jane, not about to depart from the lines that Rusak had instructed her to deliver, ignored his interjection. Her voice was cold and flat. ‘Just do as he says and don’t try to rescue us. I don’t want any more deaths.’
Any more deaths? ‘What deaths? Is someone dead?’ He realised he was shouting but didn’t care. ‘Jane, for Christ’s sake, talk to me.’ But she was gone.
Rusak came back on the line. ‘You have been meddling in my affairs, Teschmaker, and I won’t forget that. What I propose is very simple. You understand that it is not these people I want —’
‘How would I know what the hell you want?’ Teschmaker snapped.
‘I’m not a fool, I know that you are talking with Laverov. My men have been following his every move for days. He bumbles around like a drunken Vanya.’
Teschmaker turned around and looked across the room. There were more people in the bar now but they looked like the usual patrons of the Dredger’s Arms: misfits, drunks, swampies and a couple of ageing hookers down on their luck. He had to acknowledge that any one of them could be working for Rusak.
‘So what is it you want?’
‘Stop playing games, Teschmaker. You know what I’m after and I’m afraid that your knowing that isn’t good for your health.’
‘You’re a fool, Rusak. Nobody knows where those damn things are and that includes Laverov.’
‘Well, at least I can get Laverov off my back.’
‘I doubt it.’ Teschmaker glanced over at the Russian, who must have sensed that something was wrong for he had lost the smile and was staring questioningly at Teschmaker.
‘Oh, I’m certain I can. Now, listen. I have no desire to kill these people, but trust me — if you don’t deliver Laverov to me then they will die. Is that simple enough for you to understand?’
‘You hurt Jane or her father and I’ll come after you and you’ll wish you had never been born.’ Teschmaker knew it was an empty threat but he could think of nothing better to say.
‘Enough jokes. You deliver Laverov to me and I’ll let these people go free. I don’t care how you do it but you have four hours.’ Rusak hung up.
‘Fuck you!’ Teschmaker slammed the phone back in its cradle and turned around to find everyone in the bar staring at him. He ignored them and went straight back to the alcove and helped himself to another of his cigarettes from Laverov’s cigarette case. His hands trembled as he lit it.
‘Well?’ Laverov looked at him enquiringly.
‘We have a problem,’ Teschmaker said. ‘A big problem.’
It was an hour later when they walked out into the dusk and along the road to where Laverov had parked the rented Ford. Teschmaker handed him the key to his house and garage. ‘Just make sure you’re not being followed,’ he caut
ioned.
‘They would have to be good,’ Laverov laughed.
‘Yeah? Well, I did it.’
‘That was luck not skill.’
‘Rusak said his men have been on your tail for days.’
‘Rusak is full of shit. Maybe tonight he got lucky, but before . . .’ Laverov spat in the gutter and got into his car. He started the motor then wound down the window. ‘Are you sure this is going to work?’
‘We’ll be outnumbered, but I think we stand a chance.’
‘And Rusak doesn’t know that one of his men is ours.’
Teschmaker took a stab. ‘Ilya, the poet?’
Laverov looked as though Teschmaker had hit him. ‘How in God’s name did you know that?’
‘Instinct. Pity, he won’t be any help.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s in hospital. A long story. Later.’
‘So it’s just us then?’ Laverov fastened his seatbelt and shrugged. ‘Just us.’
‘Can you think of anything better?’
‘Lots of things but they all involve women and vodka.’
Teschmaker stepped back into the shadows and watched him drive away. There was no sign of anyone following him. Was he sure it was going to work? Not at all. They were going to need more than their fair share of luck if they were to pull off the hastily conceived plan. He glanced at his watch, calculating the time needed for the preparations. All going well, he could be ready in an hour, but decided to give himself some leeway and plan on two hours. He returned to the bar and rang Rusak.
‘Meet me in two hours at the Freeholm cemetery car park. Bring Jane and her father.’
‘I don’t think you’re in any position to be dictating the terms —’
‘Just shut up and listen, Rusak. I’m only going to say this once. You bring Jane and her father or there is no deal.’
‘A deal is two-sided, Mr Teschmaker. I have already set the terms. I give you your friends and you give me Laverov.’
‘I don’t think you understand me, Rusak. Forget about Laverov. You do as I say and I’ll give you the location of the device you’re after.’
Teschmaker would have loved to have seen Rusak’s face at that moment. There was dead silence for several seconds before the Russian replied.
‘You know where it is?’
‘And the remote control detonator.’
‘How will I know that it is genuine?’
Teschmaker could hear the barely masked excitement in his voice. There was caution there too, but it was the voice of a man who wanted more than anything to be convinced.
‘Sydney Morris will verify it for you. Two hours from now, Rusak. And if you have harmed Jane or her father in any way then the deal is off.’ He hung up without waiting for a reply. Well, he thought as he walked to the car, bluffing always was the easy part.
Teschmaker had only a couple of blocks to drive but he took a slow circuitous route, constantly checking his rear-vision mirror. He drove past Shlyapnikov’s restaurant and then doubled back. Nobody was following him. He found a park on the other side of the road and locked the car. In light of their earlier phone conversation, he wasn’t too sure of the reception he was going to get, but decided that he had neither the time nor the inclination to beat around the bush. A direct approach, he told himself. Just walk in and say what you have to.
He stepped inside the door and spotted Shlyapnikov in his usual position, seated behind the small bar. Opposite him sat another elderly man and between them a chessboard. The Russian looked up as Teschmaker came in and gestured to him to wait for a moment. He studied the board and moved a piece, said something to his opponent and then signalled through the small hatch to the kitchen for someone to take over the bar. Teschmaker had been anticipating a level of hostility but Shlyapnikov came over with a cautious smile on his face.
‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
‘I’m sorry about having to awake old memories —’ Teschmaker began but Shlyapnikov cut him off rather brusquely.
‘If you want to go over that stuff again, then I’m sorry I’m too busy,’ he said and turned away.
‘Too busy to talk about Starshina and Zolushka?’ Teschmaker said quietly.
The effect was immediate; as though someone had just driven an icepick into the old man’s memory. He shuddered and slowly turned back, the look on his face a mixture of horror and amazement. For a moment he stared at Teschmaker as though seeing him for the first time and then he seemed to deflate. The tension ebbed away and the lines in his face relaxed.
‘It is long past the time when ghosts should be laid to rest. I felt it earlier when you rang. You know, in all the years we have known each other you have never mentioned Puzanov before. You didn’t even raise it those times when we went to the grave together. I can only assume that this has something to do with the Russian, Laverov?’
Shlyapnikov might be getting on in years, and at times he drank too much, but when it mattered his mind was razor sharp. ‘Yes, Laverov is keeping tabs on an unsavoury character by the name of Oleg Rusak.’ Teschmaker watched his friend’s face but there was no sign that he recognised the name. ‘Rusak is after the same thing that your friend Puzanov was killed for. He has hostages and if he doesn’t get what he wants I have no doubt he will kill them.’
This time there was a visible reaction. The expression about someone turning white seemed all wrong — Shlyapnikov went grey, his jaw suddenly slack, his eyes glazed. Then he swallowed and gulped in a huge mouthful of air like someone who suddenly feels there is not enough oxygen to sustain them.
‘And I take it you know what it was that Puzanov was killed for?’
Teschmaker nodded.
‘Have you got your car?’
Again Teschmaker nodded.
‘Then I think we should go for a drive.’
Without another word Shlyapnikov led the way out the door onto the street.
‘This way.’ Teschmaker guided him with his arm and they walked in silence along the road to the car. Neither said a word until they had been driving for a couple of minutes. Then Shlyapnikov spoke.
‘I guess I always knew the day would come when the past would catch up with me. In a way it’s a relief to have someone to talk to about it. Even my beloved Zoya Nikolayevna no longer speaks of it.’
Teschmaker suddenly realised just how blind he was flying. Zoya Nikolayevna? He hadn’t considered her role in any of this, but of course he had known. ‘Zolushka?’
‘Of course. My Cinderella. I didn’t know her at all, even though we had graduated from the same Moscow university. We met on the first day at Shon. To be truthful, I didn’t think much of her. She was the only woman in our intake of just over a hundred.’
‘Shon? Where’s that?’
‘Shkola Osobogo Naznacheniya — Special Purpose School, Shon for short. It was the first foreign intelligence training school set up by the NKVD in 1940. Apart from the workload, the place was heaven.’ Shlyapnikov smiled at the memory. ‘They knew that the bourgeois West would be a real shock, so they gave us luxurious rooms and evenings of music and dressing up for dinner parties. All of this just fifteen miles east of the Moscow ring road at Balashikha. We were both so young and dedicated that we protested when we were selected to come here. We thought our talents would have been better used against the main adversary.’
‘The Americans?’ Teschmaker glanced in the rear mirror, but they were alone on the road. ‘You wanted to be sent to America?’
‘At that time, of course we did. But now I see that we were far better off here. Most of those who went to America were dead within a few years. Of course, they were much more proactive, running agents and more at risk of being called home and then vanishing into the gulags. Our orders, on the other hand, were to assimilate. We were the long-term sleepers awaiting activation; the sad irony is that by the time it happened, we had been here too long. Even though we were ostensibly married, Zoya Nikolayevna and I maintained a professional distance from each
other for a couple of years, but then the inevitable happened and we fell in love. It was such a good thing to happen because we literally had nobody else.’
‘And then Puzanov arrived.’
‘Oh no, it didn’t happen like that.’ Shlyapnikov took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and rolled the window down enough to let the smoke escape. ‘No. I received a message to travel back to the Soviet Union. I can’t tell you how terrified I was. Of course Stalin was long dead and the Terror a thing of the past, but I agonised over it for days before I even told Zoya Nikolayevna. She was, if anything, more afraid than I was, convinced that I would never return. But in the end we decided that I would go and so I made the trip to Moscow via Finland. To my surprise and relief I was greeted like a returning hero and treated extremely well. I met Puzanov, or Andrei Yakunin as you apparently know he was called, and together we were given intensive training in situating and arming a special weapons package —’
‘Who? Who trained you?’ Teschmaker suddenly saw the pieces falling into place.
‘Oh, I don’t remember.’ Shlyapnikov looked puzzled and slightly irritated by the interruption. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes,’ Teschmaker insisted. ‘Yes, it matters. Think hard, could one of the bomb instructors have been a foreigner?’
‘The Professor?’ The old man laughed. ‘Yes, the Professor was foreign. Why?’
‘Did you know his name?’ Teschmaker had no doubt that it had to have been Sydney Morris.
Shlyapnikov shook his head. ‘No, he was only called the Professor. They didn’t allow us to know other people’s real names. The only reason I knew that Puzanov’s real name was Yakunin was because we got drunk together.’
So it had been Morris. Teschmaker visualised the pieces of the jigsaw slotting into place, but it was no longer the right analogy. There was a dreadful symmetry to the way the puzzle was coming together — each of the players connected and interconnected as if in some warped karmic tapestry. What had previously appeared as individual threads now seemed inextricably woven together, and pulling any one free had the potential to unravel all the others.
Delicate Indecencies Page 38