by Greg Wilson
The man closest on the left sat erect and confident, his forearms resting lightly on the table’s polished surface. Dark suit, white shirt, elegant patterned tie. A thick mane of long black hair swept back from a steep forehead. Dark beard and moustache surrounding a mouth frozen partly open in the midst of speech.
Nikolai’s gaze traced cautiously from the image of Marat Ivankov to the man sitting opposite. He was shorter than Ivankov by half a head, with a heavy, drooping face that descended into sagging jowls. Crimped silver hair and polished skin that shone pink from the fight above. It was a face Nikolai recognized but couldn’t place. He lowered himself onto the sofa, sensing rather than seeing Natalia taking a place hesitantly beside him. His thumb played across the remote, found the play button and pressed it.
The end of Marat Ivankov’s sentence was swallowed by the spooling of the tape, then his mouth closed and came to rest in a confident smile. Silence for a moment. Then the man sitting opposite Ivankov began to speak in a deep, gravelly voice.
‘There should be no problem. The Director of the International Monetary Fund approved a further $1.5 billion under the Systematic Transfer Facility a few weeks ago. This money is due to be shifted any day now to the Central Bank of Russia’s account at New York’s Federal Reserve. Part will be transferred to the Republican State Bank and the loan to your ZAVOSET subsidiary will be made from there. A hundred and ten million, interest free for ten years.”
Ivankov sat impassive. “We had agreed on a hundred.”
The man opposite responded with a benign smile. “We have expenses. We ask you to pay a little more to cover them.” He tossed his hands apart. “But we arrange it for you anyway. So, what’s the problem, eh? It’s not as if it’s coming out of your pocket.” His deep voice crackled with humor. “Besides, my friend, as you well know, for a state owned and operated business, AGEX is already surprisingly profitable. With a virtual monopoly on agricultural chemical production east of the Urals my people tell me it’s already worth five times the price you’re paying. Probably more. Under your control, what will its value be ten years from now, Marat? Two billion wouldn’t be beyond reason.”
Ivankov nodded impassively. “And, if it is, Viktor, your 25 per cent will be worth five hundred. That’s a lot of money.”
Nikolai sat forward. Christ! That was who it was! Viktor Patrushev, Deputy Minister of the Economy.
Patrushev sighed. “Not quite, I’m afraid. You’re forgetting, we will probably have to repay the principal eventually, unless of course you can think of some creative way to get around that. And besides,” his jowls lifted as he smiled, “My share is just 10 percent. The rest goes to our Patron who makes these opportunities possible, you know that. Besides, I’m older than you, Marat. Ten years from now when it’s time to collect who knows where I’ll be.” He glanced at the man seated beside him. “We just need a little pin money to tide us over for now, don’t we Aleksandr?”
Ivankov hooked a glance at the man beside Patrushev. Nikolai’s own eyes followed. Mid-thirties. Cool and aloof. Sleekly groomed. The appearance and air of a career bureaucrat.
Ivankov’s gaze swung back to the older man. “You have the papers?”
Patrushev threw a lazy hand towards his assistant and waited as the younger man delved into a thin leather satchel, extracted a sheaf of bound documents and passed them into his grasp. Patrushev took the documents without looking and swung them through ninety degrees to Ivankov.
“There you are, my friend.” He released his grip and let the papers drop to the table directly in front of Ivankov. “Aleksandr’s own work. Nice and simple, as you will see. The way business should be. Ten years. Interest free. No guarantees. All courtesy of our good friends at the IMF.” His heavy cheeks fissured in a deep smile. “And so, our great country takes one more step forward on the road to economic reform.”
The tape ran on a few seconds longer before the image died and the screen cut to a flickering gray haze. Nikolai shook his head in dismay, trying to believe what he had just witnessed.
“He’s done it,” he breathed to himself. “Gilmanov’s actually done it.”
Natalia stared at him. “What, Niko? Who is Gilmanov and what has he done?” Her voice climbed with insistence. “For God’s sake, Niko, tell me. What is this all about?”
Nikolai swung around, as if only just remembering that Natalia was there in the room with him. His eyes flashed across to the video screen then back to his wife. Videotapes. Delivery. Shopping Bag. He grasped her hand, dismissing her questions.
“The shopping bag, Natalia. This is important. Really important. What else was in it?”
The intensity of his look made her check her annoyance. She stared back at him. “The box, that’s all.” She felt the pressure of his hands as they closed around hers.
“What box?”
Natalia shrugged. ‘The box that the slip came in.” She shook her head. “Nothing else.”
Niko sprang from the couch, drawing her with him.
“Where is it? Show me.”
She stalled. “Niko!”
Her instinct was to argue – not to tell him anything until he explained to her what this was about – but then she recognized by his expression that this wasn’t the time. “Larisa’s room.”
Nikolai dropped her hand and stepped around her, heading for the door.
“Where I changed,” she called after him. “On the bed where I left it.”
She turned back to the television screen, puzzling at the stammering electronic haze. Then, in the hall outside, the telephone began to ring.
4
She found Nikolai in Larisa’s room, the gleaming white shopping bag torn open and discarded on the covers beside him along with the lid of the box and the tissue paper in which the silk chemise had been so carefully folded. He was examining the box itself now, intently, frowning, measuring its weight as he turned it over in his hands.
Natalia stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was doing.
“Niko!” She shielded the mouthpiece of the telephone. “For God’s sake, what’s going on?”
He looked up. Natalia ignored the curt expression and thrust the receiver towards him. “It’s Vari,” she snapped. “He says it’s urgent.”
Nikolai set the box aside and reached for the receiver but Natalia pulled it back and slid her hand across the mouthpiece again. Their eyes met and held and for a moment it seemed as if she were about to speak, but then her lips sealed tight with exasperation and she thrust the telephone into his hand and stormed from the room. Nikolai grimaced at his own impatience. Slowly lifted the receiver to his ear.
“I’m here.”
There was a pause from the other end of the line.
“Natalia doesn’t sound her usual self. Have I got you at a bad time, little brother?”
Nikolai thought about the question. “Let’s just say it’s been an interesting morning. I was about to call you. I have something concerning our friend from Prechistenka.”
“Do you now?” Vari answered. “Well that’s a coincidence.”
Nikolai picked up the traffic noise in the background. Vari was outdoors someplace, speaking from his cell phone.
“What do you mean, a coincidence?” Nikolai picked up the box, juggled it to his lap and began examining it distractedly again. He noticed a rippled tear in the gloss paper lining at the inside corner of the base and began teasing it back with a fingernail.
“Well my friend,” Vari announced, “I am standing here outside the old chocolate factory on the steps that lead down to Vodootvodny Canal, looking, as we speak, at what is left of a very damp, dead man.
Nikolai felt a cold wave slither through his limbs. He responded cautiously. “Go on.”
He could hear the sound of Vari’s footfalls now, clipping against the concrete as he walked.
‘Thank you. I was going to, anyway. Half an hour ago I received a call from an old comrade at Moscow CID. A little after six this morning a jogger
on Kadashevskaya Embankment noticed something not particularly pleasant bobbing against the steps where the canal joins the Moskva. He must have been one of the few Muscovites who doesn’t have a cell phone because he just kept running until he found some cops. So, two of Moscow’s finest trundled down in a Lada to take a look and came across a body floating in the canal. By then it had got all tangled up in riverweed and wedged itself under that pontoon… you know, the one where they tie up those pretty little pleasure boats. They were having trouble fishing it out so some of the workers from the factory pitched in to give them a hand. Ever seen those long paddles they use to stir the chocolate vats? Probably not. Neither had I until this morning, but a couple of those things did the job. Personally, after that, I would have burnt them, but apparently they’re made of some special wood and hard to replace, so now they’re back inside stirring the confectionery again.” A pause formed a bracket to Vari’s next comment. “Let me tell you, little brother, where those particular paddles have been, now’s a good time to think about giving up chocolate.” Another pause closed it. “But then, back to business, eh? Tell me, Niko, you wouldn’t happen to know someone by the name of…” The footsteps stopped and Nikolai heard the rustle of paper being unfolded. “Gilmanov… Gregori Gilmanov?”
Nikolai felt the chill wave surge through him again, more intense this time. “Go on,” he said, his tone as non-committal as his answer.
The footsteps recommenced and Vari’s voice followed.
“I presume I should take that to be a yes. You want to know how I know you know him?” He didn’t bother waiting for the answer. “Because, Niko, they found your name and address on a piece of paper he had with him, along with your card, which of course carries our department details and the shop phone number, which is how my old friend in CID made the connection and ended up calling me. That was after they’d found out where this Gilmanov lived and worked, and you know where he worked, don’t you Niko? He worked for a company called ZAVOSET. But they didn’t find the paper with your name in his pocket where you might have expected it to be, because he wasn’t wearing any clothes. So where, you ask, would they have found these things?” The clipping echo of the footsteps stopped. “Well, I’ll tell you, little brother. The people who disposed of this Gilmanov had an imaginative approach to their contract. First they slit him open down the belly like a fish, then they disemboweled him, then they gathered up all his innards and stuffed them back into one of those big zip-lock plastic bags – along with the piece of paper with your address, and your business card – stuck the bag back inside him, sewed him up with nylon fishing fine and threw him in the river. Now why do you think they would do that, Niko?”
Nikolai sat motionless on the edge of the bed. A film of perspiration had settled over his face and neck and he could feel the low throbbing pulse of his heart, deep within his chest. Vari’s voice kept coming, but it seemed strangely detached now, as if he were communicating from some other dimension.
“They must have gone to his apartment sometime last night. The place had been trashed. The neighbors heard a disturbance but they thought it was just another domestic. Apparently Gilmanov and his wife hadn’t been getting along too well recently.” Nikolai heard his partner hook a breath. ‘They did her too, Niko. You don’t want to even hear about that, believe me.”
Nikolai’s eyes fell shut. Vari’s voice had become a soundtrack to the dark, fractured images that tumbled through his mind.
“Let me ask you something, Niko. This Gilmanov. He couldn’t have been your man on the inside, now could he?”
Nikolai forced the horror of his imagination aside and looked down into the box that rested on his lap. As Vari had been speaking his fingers had been scraping back the thick glossy paper that lined the base. Now he found himself staring at a neat stack of typewritten pages that had been sealed beneath it. He blinked and refocused. Reached into the box and slid the documents free, fanning the pages through his fingers. He began scanning the lines, shuffling the leaves through his hands until his eyes tripped and stalled on a section of dialogue he recalled from the tape he had watched just minutes before, the speakers’ names underlined beside their words, like those of the characters in the script of a play.
Patrushev: Part will be transferred to the Republican State Bank and the loan to your ZAVOSET subsidiary will be made from there. A hundred and ten million, interest free for ten years.
Ivankov: We had agreed on a hundred.
Vari’s voice pressed in on him. “Are you still there, little brother? You alright?”
Nikolai looked up. “Yes I’m alright.” It occurred to him that he was actually nodding, as if trying to reassure himself. “I’m alright,” he repeated, “but I think maybe you’d better get around here, Vari. As soon as you can.”
Vari Vlasenko leaned forward intently, his eyes flicking between the television screen and the typewritten pages spread across the coffee table before him, following each word of the exchange between Marat Ivankov and the man opposite. When the tape ended in a storm of shimmering gray he sank bank against the couch and let out a low whistle.
“Fuck me! Viktor Patrushev. Deputy fucking Minister of the Economy for the Russian Federation.” He stared at Nikolai with a look of incredulity. “But it’s not just Patrushev. Because Patrushev’s talking about sharing his cut with their Patron. So who the fuck…” The color drained from Vari’s face, his voice trailing off to a low groan. “Oh, Holy Jesus! You don’t think…” Nikolai regarded him with an impassive expression. Vari slumped back against the couch, staring straight ahead. “You’ve really kicked the hornets’ nest this time, little brother.” A long moment of silence passed between them before Vari turned to Nikolai again. “And you say Natalia has seen this?”
A guarded nod.
Vari glanced aside, considering the answer then looked back again. “Where is she?”
Nikolai rose from the couch, crossed to the window and pushed back the curtains, enough to let some weak sunlight into the room. “I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Out somewhere. She insisted I tell her what it’s all about but I wouldn’t, of course.” He sighed. “So right now I’m not very popular.” He turned back to the room and propped against the sill. He was wearing the blue jeans and polo shirt he’d thrown on after his argument with Natalia had ended with her stalking out of the apartment and slamming the door. He glanced at his watch. “A friend from downstairs took Larisa shopping earlier this morning. They’re due back in a couple of hours. Natalia may be pissed with me, but at least I know she’ll be back by then.” He ran a hand across his jaw and felt the drag of the stubble against his fingers; remembered he still hadn’t shaved. He looked at Vari, then to the tray of bottles on the sideboard. “You want a drink?”
Vari’s gaze followed, settling on the vodka. “Don’t you think it’s a little early?” But Niko had already pushed himself away from the window, unscrewed the cap from the Moscovskaya, and begun to pour. Vari took the offered glass and nursed it, watching as Nikolai emptied his own and filled it again. His eyes fell to the second cassette lying on the corner of the table, its own transcript beside it. “And there’s more?”
Nikolai took another swig from his glass and regarded its interior. “Much more.” He looked up at Vari again, his mouth set in a grim smile. “If you liked that movie, the sequel is even better.” He turned to the recorder, ejected the first tape and slotted the second. “Natalia hasn’t seen this one, thank God.”
He carried his glass back to the sofa and sank onto the velour cushions.” We have a problem, Vari. A major problem.” He turned to the screen and thumbed the remote. “Watch!”
The camera came to life from the same perspective but this time the table and chairs at either side were empty. There were voices in the background and Vari edged closer trying to make out what they were saying. He cast a glance at the transcript Nikolai now held in his hand but Niko pointed to the screen, directing his partner’s attention. Vari frowned and looked back at
the image. A blue-gray haze passed in front of the camera – someone moving around the head of the table, making his way to the other side – then Ivankov came into view, moving towards the same position he had taken in the first tape. Behind him the same well-groomed, younger and thinner man fell in to his left. The figure that had passed in front of the camera had still not come back into view but it was apparent that Ivankov was addressing someone across the table now, his voice becoming more distinct as he moved closer to the microphone. Ivankov made a relaxed gesture, indicating the younger man to his left.
“You’ve met my assistant, Vitaly Kolbasov, I believe.”
“Of course.” The reply came from off camera.” Vitaly and I are old friends.”
Vari Vlasenko sat forward, nursing his jaw, concentrating. There was something vaguely familiar about the disembodied voice.
Vitaly Kolbasov smiled and reached a hand across the table. The man on the right started to come into the picture, moving his chair aside to take Kolbasov’s grasp, but now his back was turned to the lens.
“Vitaly.” They clasped and shook. “How long has it been?” Kolbasov smiled with exaggerated grace. “Oh, it must be ten years, at least.”
The two men released their grasp and Kolbasov’s expression slid immediately back to neutral. He lowered himself into his seat as the other man stepped back and started to take his own chair.
“That’s right,” he continued. “Kaliningrad. I was a captain in the Third Chief Directorate.”
KGB Third Chief Directorate… political surveillance of the armed forces. Vari shot a worried glance towards his partner but Nikolai’s eyes remained locked on the screen as the man opposite Ivankov settled into his seat.
“It’s good to see you again, Vitaly.” The lean, pale face came into view and turned towards Ivankov.” And, if I recall correctly, Marat, you were stationed in Kaliningrad around the same time, although I don’t think we met until Afghanistan, a year or so later. In fact…’ the gleaming gray eyes creased in a considered smile. “I don’t think we actually had anything on you until Afghanistan.”