by Greg Wilson
Inside the elevator the air was laced with the soft fragrance of lilac, the same scent he had recognized as he had passed the woman in the hall. He reached for the button, shifting the parcel to his other hand, breathing it in and thinking, watching as the numbers ran down.
For what he needed the Arbat was closest. It was only fifteen minutes on foot but time was important so he walked only as far as Ostozhenka then hailed the first taxi he saw.
He had the driver drop him at the river end on Smolenskiy Bulvar, paid the fare from what was left of Florinskiy’s rubles and started back along the cobbled street towards Arbat Square in the searing heat, feeling the perspiration trickling down his skin beneath Vari’s shirt. He passed the stall where he had bought the binoculars, catching and returning the smile of recognition from the happy, blue-haired girl, then turned off the tourist track into the maze of lanes that spread like tentacles behind the restaurants and bars and souvenir shops and the gracious old apartment houses that lined the main street. They had nearly all been restored now, dressed in fresh coats of elegant gray and fawn with crisp white trim and flourishing art nouveau balcony rails of gleaming black wrought iron, when just a decade before most had appeared to be little more than unsalvageable, grime-stained ruins.
For over two centuries the backstreets of the Arbat had been the center of Moscow’s artistic community. Now that film had become an accepted artistic medium the tools of the art would be as fundamental as brushes and palettes to a painter, so it seemed a reasonable assumption that he would find what he was looking for here. It took half an hour but eventually he did. It was on the third level of an unrestored old tenement a block back from the Pushkin House Museum with only a small engraved plaque pinned to the wall beside the entry to announce its existence. Nikolai climbed the stairs to the door, knocked once and entered.
The interior of the apartment was the complete antithesis of the dilapidated building and lobby. Another world. White and chrome with splashes of colored furniture: strange red chairs and vivid blue couches that might have materialized from a child’s fantasy, with bright spotlights and expensive speakers pumping pulsing electronic rock into the chilled air. The receptionist’s head rose from her magazine as Nikolai entered and he followed the movement, her neck as long and graceful as a swan’s, her dark hair swept up in an untidy scattered pile, pinned with two oriental lacquer sticks. She looked past him as if she may have been expecting someone else to follow, then when he closed the door behind him her gaze came back. Her eyes were a dazzling electric green, her face slender, her make-up calculated to accentuate the impossibly high sweep of her cheekbones. There was a television monitor mounted on the wall behind her, the volume switched to mute, a station logo at the bottom of the picture stamping the channel as something called Fashion TV. Nikolai’s gaze shifted between the tilted, zooming images on the screen and the girl seated before him. Fantasy becomes reality.
“May I help you?” Her head tilted slightly. He was surprised at how easily her smile dissolved the practiced severity.
Nikolai glanced around the room, past the girl to the open door of a second room behind, where a young slender man was moving animatedly between racks of machines.
“I have some video tapes,” he said. He opened the envelope and dropped the two cassettes into his open hand. “Can you copy them?”
She stared at the cassettes. Took one and inspected it as though it may have been an artefact from a lost world.
“Video tapes?” She shook her head slowly in dismay. “No one uses video tapes anymore.” She gave Nikolai a wide-eyed look. “Where have you been for the last decade.”
Nikolai let the irony slide by. “I asked, can you copy them?”
The girl shrugged. “Not to video tape any longer. But to DVD, this is possible.” She placed the cassette on the desk, rolled her chair aside, pulled open a drawer, fished inside, rolled back and pushed a price list across to him. “But not cheap.”
Her eyes dropped to the cassette then lifted to meet Niko’s. “And if it is porno, price will be double.”
Nikolai’s pushed the price list aside without looking at it. “No. It’s not porno. But if you can copy them within 30 minutes I’ll pay double the porno rate.”
The girl sat upright, approving. She called back across her shoulder to the other room without bothering to look. “Andrei. Come out here, please. We have an important customer.”
Nikolai sat in an Alice in Wonderland chair, sipping the coffee the girl had made for him while Andrei worked in the other room. At one point he glanced up and found the girl looking at him, regarding him appraisingly. He dropped his gaze but it came to a stop at her knees, pinned neatly together beneath the open desk. Since he was there already he let his eyes trail down the long slender legs to the impossibly high-heeled sling-backs in which they perched, then brought them back up again slowly to her face. She met them, welcoming them back, quietly confident, it seemed, that they had enjoyed their trip. She turned back to her magazine, raising her right hand and running her middle finger down the side of her neck. Distractedly, or maybe not. Then Andrei bounced through the doorway in his tight black pants and diagonal striped shirt, holding the two black cassettes in one hand, two DVD cases in the other, the tuft of beard below his upper lip compressed in an eager grin. Nikolai set the coffee cup down and stood, peeling back a hundred dollar bill from the fold in his hand and lay it down on the desk.
‘Thanks for your help,” he smiled, taking the tapes. “Keep the change.”
The young man’s eyes widened as he slid the originals back into their envelope and the envelope and the copies into a white plastic bag the girl had produced from a drawer beside her desk. Nikolai turned to go and the girl behind the desk pouted a little, leaning sideways to follow his movement around the door.
“You will come back?” she called, her voice rising as the distance between them grew. “Anytime at all. Remember. We are always happy to see you.”
He needn’t have hurried. It was almost five when Vari returned. Nikolai was sitting at the dining table, the suitcase he had acquired in the luggage store next to the Arbat Metro lying open on one of the couches, the clothes and other purchases stacked inside it. Vari gave the pile a cursory inspection as he passed, added a grunt of approval and continued on to the bar, hoisting a bottle of vodka, spinning the metal cap and pouring two fingers into a glass. He took a long drink then ran the back of his hand across his mouth and looked down at Nikolai with arched brows.
“You got the photos?”
Nikolai pulled an envelope from his shirt pocket and skidded it across the table. Vari nodded again, finished the second half of his vodka and refilled his glass. Capped the bottle, turned and gave a single abrupt nod.
“We were lucky, little brother.” Vari’s eyes flicked up, serious. “They’re both here. Kolbasov and Ivankov are both here in Moscow.” He met Nikolai’s gaze. “It’s on.” He let the words sink like lead as he drank again. Nikolai watched him, the pace of his heart beginning to quicken.
Vari sniffed. Carried his drink across to the table and dragged back a chair. “I got through to Kolbasov.” He watched Nikolai for a reaction. The silence acted like a poultice, drawing him out. “He’s got half a dozen joints here in Moscow. The classiest is a place called Revolution, on Tverskaya. When he’s in town that’s where he hangs out. He has an apartment on the top deck. Security as tight as the Kremlin.”
Nikolai drew the envelope of photographs back towards him. Swiveled it beneath his fingers. “You seem to know a lot about him.”
Vari looked up. “The business I’m in, you have to know things.”
The envelope came to a stop. Nikolai’s fingers rested absently on it for a moment then spun it in the opposite direction. “Moscow is a long way from Bulgaria, old friend.”
“I told you,” Vari looked up sharply. “I did well. I have investments back in Russia now, so I travel. Sometimes here; sometimes there.” His eyes narrowed and he leaned fo
rward. “But I don’t do any business with Vitaly Kolbasov, little brother, if that’s what you mean. My stuff is chickenshit to people like him: a bar here; a club there. I’m just the flea on the elephant’s nut sack. So long as I only take little bites it doesn’t even notice.”
Nikolai watched him. Spun the envelope again.
Vari lifted his glass. Cut a pattern with his finger through the ring of condensation. “I couldn’t take the risk of trying to get him from here.” He tossed his head towards the telephone that rested on the sleek glass table beside the door. “This number’s clean. I pay a lot to keep it that way. Same with my cell. If anyone’s tapping Kolbasov they would have picked up my numbers and then I’d be fucked forever.” He sniffed again and took another drink. Less this time, Nikolai noticed. “I called him from the Metropol. He wasn’t there so I left a message. Said maybe he’d remember me. Maybe there was some business we could do. If he was interested he could call me back.”
“And?” Nikolai prompted.
“And I waited and he did.” Vari tossed back his head and emptied the glass. Studied Nikolai for a long minute. “I gave him the outline: Larisa for the tapes. He wanted to know why, after all this time, so I told him. I told him you were out and that you wanted your daughter back. That you were prepared to bury the past and walk away.” His eyes searched Nikolai’s. “You are prepared to do that aren’t you, little brother… bury the past?”
Nikolai shrugged his brows. “Of course,” he replied calmly.
Through several seconds Vari held his gaze. “And pigs might fly,” he breathed. He sat forward. “You know, Niko, just maybe… maybe we can pull this off. But you try anything crazy and you could get us all killed.”
Nikolai nodded slowly. “I understand that. Don’t worry, old friend. The only thing that’s important to me now is Larisa. Believe me, there’s no way I would put her at risk. So,” he drew a breath, “where is she?”
For a moment Vari held back, evaluating the answer. Finally he spoke.
“She’s here, Niko, that’s our next lucky break. She goes to a private boarding school near Borodino, some exclusive joint for rich kids. But summer recess just started so she’s just come back to town. Kolbasov keeps a country house near Tsaritsyno. There’s a couple who look after the place and Larisa, too, when she’s at home.” He paused and took a breath. “She’s there right now, Niko. Less than an hour’s drive.”
Nikolai leaned into his clasped hands. “The deal?”
Vari blinked slowly. “Kolbasov made contact with Ivankov, talked through everything with him then called me back. Ivankov’s agreed. He’s prepared to go along with it. We hand over the tapes. They hand over Larisa. You leave the country.” Vari reached forward across the table, his voice lowered, the edge of his face twisting in a sour grimace. “You know what the bastard told me, Niko? That he was really disappointed because this was going to ruin his plans. That he’d been going to take Larisa away with him for a couple of weeks to Italy.” Vari sneered the words. “Father and daughter, he said. Just the two of them. That he thought now she was almost a woman it was time for her to get to know him better!
Nikolai felt the bile rise in his gut. “When?” he breathed quietly.
Vari watched him. Watched his hands close into knots of tension.
“If we’re going to do it, Niko, they want to do it now. Tonight.” He reached inside his jacket, pulled out a narrow plastic ticket folder and slid it across the table. Nikolai stared at it for a moment then reached forward and flicked it open. Vari’s face creased in a grim smile. “You’re going to America, little brother.” Nikolai looked up. “You and Larisa. You’re going to America. All the arrangements have been made.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, hooking the envelope of photographs towards him, scooping them up and slipping them in his pocket. “I need you to wait here now while I organize the papers.” He started to turn then stopped. Reached into his side pocket and pulled out something else. Studied it a moment then turned back to Nikolai.
“You might want to see this, Nikolai.” He looked again at the small card he held in his hand. Reached back and placed it carefully on the table.
‘This is Larisa, Niko. This is your daughter.”
Nikolai’s eyes fell to the tiny white-framed photograph, an expression of dismay opening his face. He lifted his hand above the table and reached forward carefully, pinning it with a finger and drawing it slowly closer. Vari’s voice continued on from somewhere in the background.
“That’s why I was so long. I needed it for the papers. They had to get the photos taken then send them in with someone from Tsaritsyno.”
Nikolai blinked, staring in bewilderment at the tiny image. The perfect oval face lifted in Natalia’s smile, the long dark hair tied back in a ponytail, her head held high, dark eyes shining at the camera. A girl turning into a woman. His daughter. Natalia’s daughter.
Vari watched him. Saw his eyes begin to glisten then clenched his jaw and turned away.
“I’ll be back by eight, little brother. Make sure you’re ready?”
27
Ten after nine. The evening light soaked with a dense gray smoke haze from the fires in the east.
Vari’s Range Rover sat at the curb opposite the Hotel Budapesht on Petrovskie Lane, its burgundy paintwork and windows dusted with ash. Inside the cabin he and Nikolai waited, invisible behind the shield of darkened glass. Vari’s fists opened and closed around the padded wheel while beside him Nikolai sat upright and silent. They had been there fifteen minutes. Long enough for the heat from the scorching asphalt below the chassis to penetrate the floor. It was rising now. Nikolai could feel it climbing upwards through the soles of his shoes. Vari broke a hand from the wheel and cut a line of perspiration from his forehead. Reached for the ignition, cranked the engine and the air-conditioning fans burst into play. The first wave from the vents was hot and humid, then the moisture began to evaporate and the air began to chill and the sound of the fans gradually wound back and settled to a low hum. Nikolai tapped his fingers on the armrest and swung a glance towards the entry of the gracious old building opposite. The first two levels ran the length of the block to the corners at either end. Above them the half-dozen accommodation floors rose higher, set back from the street in a crescent moon sweep. Fixed to the wall beside the entry an engraved plaque bore the arrogant jutting-bearded profile of Lenin, an inscription below it recording the Budapesht’s questionable distinction in having served as the great leader’s headquarters in the days following the Revolution. Nikolai turned to his former partner.
“Why here?”
Vari threw a nod behind, his eyes fixed on the windshield. Nikolai followed it, glancing back across his shoulder. Thirty yards away at the end of the street a massive ornate building loomed behind a tall wrought iron fence, the blue, white and red Russian flag swirling imperially from a towering pole in the forecourt. Outside the fence uniformed security police paced the footpath, machine pistols cradled against their black Kevlar vests.
‘The Bank of Russia,” Vari answered. “The safest spot in town. They’d have to be crazy to try anything here.” He broke his gaze from the glass and lifted a hand from the wheel. “Talking about money,” he reached sideways to the armrest, flipped the lid and pulled out a fat white envelope, skidding it sideways into Nikolai’s lap. “Ten thousand American.” He smiled briefly and returned his hand to the wheel. “That should be enough to get you started.” Nikolai picked up the envelope, opened it and fanned his thumb across the edge of the bills. He sat for a moment then reached across and closed a hand around Vari’s forearm. The older man gave a resolute smile; tossed his head dismissively.
“No problem. It’s little enough. You need more you just call me, okay?”
Nikolai nodded. Closed the flap of the envelope and slid it into the pocket of the dark blue linen jacket that lay folded across his lap. From the same pocket he pulled the two Russian passports. He stared at them a moment then flicked through them a
gain, Larisa’s first, then his own, studying the faces looking back at him from beneath their transparent celluloid shields, comparing the traces of one reflected in the other. A moment passed and he flicked on, turning the pages until he came to the visa stamps. Vari snatched a sideways glance.
“You needn’t worry about the papers, little brother. My guy does a better job than the people at the Ministry.”
Nikolai’s lips bent in a wry smile. And why wouldn’t he? Thanks to the Soviets, forgery had evolved as one of Russia’s greatest arts. A skill developed of necessity and perfected with pride in an era when every conceivable transaction had demanded some form of crazy, complex paperwork. And still did.
Vari drummed his fingers on the wheel, his gaze sweeping the street. He hooked a glance at the dashboard clock and spoke again. “They’re late.”
Nikolai stared ahead. Broke the silence with the thought that had been playing through his mind for the last four hours. “Doesn’t it seem strange that they agreed so easily? Why not just do what they did before? I’m on the run. They know I’m with you now. Why not pull in the MVD like they did before? Or even just the police?”
Vari chewed his lips. Inhaled.
“You’re forgetting, little brother, this place is changing. Maybe it doesn’t look like it.” He nodded a glance through the grime-covered windshield along the untidy street. “Maybe the buildings still look like they’re falling to pieces and the paint’s still peeling off the walls and the stray dogs still roam the streets and sleep on the steps of the Bolshoi, but believe it or not, Niko, it’s a different world now. Old Russia is learning new tricks. It’s actually starting to become civilized. You remember back in ‘95 how the pakhans and their women all used to wear black leather and hang out in the expensive hotels? Not now, my friend. Now it’s all turning low key: all designer clothes and quiet style. The smart ones have worked out that it’s not so smart to draw attention.” He looked sideways at Nikolai. ‘Those guys on the tapes, Patrushev and Stephasin, you know they’re both dead now?” Nikolai stared at him. Shook his head. Vari answered with a matter of fact shrug. “Five years back Patrushev was suicided.”