Stroika

by Mark Blair

  This time Viktoriya was not in-the-know. Lev made no attempt to enlighten her, and she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking; she just had to trust Kostya… that was all she had to do.

  It was good to be on the move again. Fifteen minutes later, under the towering walls of the palace, they stood across the street from the bar of the same name, whose grey shabby exterior matched its dilapidated surroundings. Only the wooden facia board above its door, lit by a single fluorescent tube, distinguished it from the entrance to any number of anonymous apartment buildings.

  ‘The boss says you are to wait out here,’ said Lev, and with that he and Ilia crossed the road and shouldered open the heavy door.

  Light was beginning to fail. Viktoriya stared across the wide prospect at the bar door. Two men staggered out into the Arctic freeze. Morning time, drunks would be found frozen in doorways or curled up on the pavement, petrified, under a blanket of frost. Viktoriya shivered. How long would she have to wait? Standing there stomping her feet she felt exposed, and not just to the cold.

  Two policemen rounded the corner and, seeing her, stopped. The taller of them said something she didn’t hear to his partner, caught her eye and smiled.

  ‘Papers,’ one asked, as the other circumnavigated her.

  This was the last thing she needed. Antyuhin might exit the bar at any second.

  He studied her photo. ‘ID photographs make us all look like criminals, don’t you think?’ he said wryly.

  Viktoriya replied with a simple ‘Yes’, casting her eye across the street. She turned to look at the other policeman and caught him exchanging a sly smile with his partner.

  A cough made them start. Kostya materialised as if from thin air and sprung onto the pavement. The policemen were no less startled than she was. Konstantin placed a proprietorial arm around her shoulders. She noticed one of the policemen place his hand reflexively on his revolver.

  ‘Trouble, comrades?’ said Konstantin, a broad grin on his face, more a challenge than a greeting.

  The officer handed Viktoriya back her papers.

  ‘I’d keep my eye on her if I were you. Leaving a pretty girl out in this cold is not too smart,’ he said, directing his comment at Konstantin.

  ‘I am sure that is good advice, comrade officer.’

  The officer stared at him, twitched a grin and turned to his partner.

  ‘Let’s leave these lovebirds.’

  ‘What was that about?’ Konstantin asked her when they were gone. Viktoriya shrugged.

  ‘Come, you’ll freeze out here. There’s a place you can sit out of sight. Your friend is busy at the bar.’

  Chapter 4

  The space was larger than she had imagined from the outside. A series of interconnecting smoke-filled rooms, each defined by a bare brick, high-vaulted ceiling, rolled towards a packed bar that extended along the back wall’s full length. It was busier than the Muzey and much louder. Locals shouted at each other to be heard above the background babble.

  Viktoriya took the seat next to Konstantin, who pointed at a heavily patinated mirror. At first she didn’t recognise them; it was only when Konstantin pointed again that she made out the small group of men leaning against the bar. Ilia faced outward, with the other two turned half towards him. They were all laughing at some bad joke he was no doubt making. Antyuhin, vodka shot in hand, slapped him on the back and emptied his glass in one before turning back to the bar for a refill.

  They made an unlikely threesome: Antyuhin, Ilia and Lev. Antyuhin, more and more drunk, shouted impatiently at the barmaid to refill their still half-full glasses. Viktoriya caught her rolling her dark eyes at someone out of view, as much to say, ‘another night, another customer who will no doubt feel regretful in the morning’. Give them their due, Viktoriya thought, Konstantin’s two enforcers managed to restrict their intake to a quarter of their new-found companion’s.

  Thirty minutes later, Viktoriya heard Lev shout ‘Let’s go’ and slap his newly acquired friend resoundingly on the back. They split the bill. Lev tossed some roubles onto the bar and with Antyuhin between him and Ilia made their way out onto the street.

  ‘Don’t worry, I know where they are headed,’ said Konstantin in response to her questioning look.

  The two of them followed the tightly knit threesome at a short distance, Viktoriya with her hood up and scarf tightly around her face and Konstantin with his arm around her. Ilia led them left along Inzhenernaya Street under the grey and yellow façade of the palace towards the Griboedova Canal. It was ten thirty and well below zero.

  ‘We can walk it from here. We need to wake up, get some fresh air, before the fun starts,’ Ilia said loudly. Icy breath traced their path along a now deserted street.

  ‘When you come to Moscow, you’ll see. I’ll introduce you to some really beautiful women,’ Antyuhin bragged.

  They crossed over to Mikhaylovsky Sad and entered the park by its southern gate.

  ‘We can cut through here,’ said Lev, ‘it’s not far.’

  Their hanger-on followed them willingly enough, his alcohol fogged mind, she thought, no doubt focussed on the promise of young, willing, or unwilling, Leningrad girls. The park was empty. Benches placed along the gritted path stood forlorn, perfectly white, bounded by iced topiaries of yew. Ilia led the way, pausing occasionally for Antyuhin and Lev. At one point their companion slipped and nearly fell, saved only by Lev reaching out to grab him. Two hundred metres in, just short of the canal, Lev and Ilia stopped. Viktoriya’s assailant staggered to a halt, confused by their lack of direction.

  ‘Lost?’ he asked, laughing.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ It was Konstantin who spoke.

  Antyuhin grappled with a voice he did not recognise, no doubt trying to fathom what it meant, when Viktoriya stepped into view. He appeared startled, bemused. He looked at his two escorts, who no longer appeared so friendly, and back to Konstantin and Viktoriya. She walked right up to him and pulled her scarf away from her face.

  Terrified, he tried to force his way past, only to be sent sprawling on the path by Ilia’s outstretched foot.

  Grazed, covered in grit and ice, he begged to be let go.

  ‘I have money…’ He took out his wallet and waved it at them.

  ‘I don’t think Vika is interested in being compensated, are you, Vika?’ said Konstantin with a smile on his face.

  Viktoriya shook her head.

  Lev and Ilia grabbed Antyuhin by the arms and pinned him roughly to the ground as Konstantin extracted a razor-sharp flick knife from his coat pocket and slashed open Antyuhin’s coat.

  ‘Please…’ Antyuhin begged, his eyes rolling around wildly.

  Konstantin roughly shoved a handkerchief in his mouth and kicked him hard between the legs. He writhed in agony, twisting to free himself from his two captors.

  ‘Your turn, Vika,’ invited Konstantin.

  Despite what he had done to her, she found herself unable to respond.

  She turned away as Lev swung his boot into Antyuhin’s ribs. She heard bone crack. When she turned to look again, Konstantin was rubbing a handful of snow into the face of an unconscious Antyuhin. He started awake, terror taking hold once more.

  Ilia pulled off the man’s belt and bound his hands tightly.

  ‘Any last words?’ said Konstantin.

  Antyuhin started to babble incomprehensibly, his words strangled by the cloth he tried to spit from his mouth.

  At a nod from Konstantin, the two men dragged Antyuhin the last twenty feet to the embankment before grabbing him roughly by his arms and his feet. On the third swing they let go. Ten feet below, his body crashed through newly formed ice and disappeared under a thicker sheet behind. They stood there in silence, not moving, staring at the water, watching the last ripples fade.

  Ilia picked up the dead man’s briefcase.

&n
bsp; ‘Let’s see what’s in there,’ said Lev. He flicked open the catch, pulled out a wodge of official-looking papers and passed them to Viktoriya, who was standing next to him.

  ‘Pavel Antyuhin, Director Khozraschet North-West,’ Viktoriya read out loud. ‘They’ll be looking for him now.’

  ‘They can look as long as they like, but that river won’t be giving him up until the spring thaw,’ said Konstantin. ‘He’ll be perfectly preserved, of course.’

  Lev pulled out a wallet and ID.

  ‘Get rid of it,’ ordered Konstantin. ‘You don’t want to be caught with that. You can split the cash with Ilia’

  Viktoriya watched Lev divide the roubles and pocket the wallet and ID.

  ‘It’s safe,’ he said, and patted his breast pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll dispose of it.’

  June 1986

  Chapter 5

  Leningrad

  The door banged shut behind him. Misha pulled the lock bar tight and slid over the interconnecting bolt of the bauxite-coloured lock-up. Letting the two half-empty duffel bags slide off his shoulder, he shone his pocket torch onto the racking. He found what he was looking for, struck a match and lit the candle. Before long, several candles burned steadily around the metal sarcophagus. Misha carefully unpacked and placed jeans, T-shirts and illegally imported CDs in their proper place behind him. A good day’s trading. For a Tuesday, the flea market at Apraksin Dvor had been busier than normal. From the side pocket of the canvas bag he pulled out a wallet and removed its contents onto a wooden fold-up table: one hundred dollars and a pile of roubles. Looking at the shelves, he made a mental note of what he was running short of. He must ask Viktoriya to get him some heavy overcoats; it would be autumn in a few months.

  The sound of a heavy fist banging on the container made him jump.

  ‘Who is it?’ he shouted. He lifted his old service automatic from its holster on the table.

  ‘Ivan! And you can put the gun away,’ a barely audible voice responded.

  Misha walked over, unlocked the door and swung it open. The damp late-summer afternoon air rolled in from the south across the Bolshaya Neva and Vasilyevsky Island. He took a deep breath, exchanging it for the stale atmosphere of the container.

  ‘Coffee?’ was all his flatmate said.

  ‘Good idea.’

  Misha turned and looked at the money on the table.

  ‘Just one minute.’

  He pulled the door to and placed the day’s takings in an old combination safe bolted to the container floor under the racking. He closed the door and spun the dial once, tugging on the handle to make sure it was locked.

  ‘Stefan’s or Oleg’s?’ Ivan asked his friend when he reappeared.

  ‘Stefan’s today, I think.’

  Misha liked Stefan’s: the coffee was passable and probably was actually coffee. It was also a source of the rarest Soviet commodity: information. Street traders swapped stories, traded goods and alerted each other to the latest city crackdown.

  Boats carrying coal, timber and building supplies chugged past. In the opposite direction, a barge, piled high with rubbish, stinking in the summer heat, glided by on its way out to sea. The waitress placed two steaming mugs of black coffee in front of them and a plate of piroshki ‘Mushroom and pork today,’ she said. Ivan reached for a pastry, took a bite and idly inspected the inside.

  ‘Expecting to find something?’ said Misha.

  ‘You never know in this place.’

  Misha studied his old school friend and wondered how much he ate in one day. Five foot ten and thickset, Misha guessed Ivan weighed at least a hundred and ten kilos.

  ‘You should have one,’ Ivan said, tucking into a second pastry.

  ‘I will, if there are any left… I’ve been thinking,’ said Misha, taking another sip of black coffee.

  ‘Then we’re probably going to be in trouble again.’

  ‘I was at the Hotel Grand Europe last night,’ Misha replied, ignoring him.

  Ivan gave him a look. ‘Not in those clothes I hope.’

  Misha looked down at his worn leather jacket and faded denim jeans and shook his head.

  ‘Look, things are opening up… all this talk of glasnost and… what was the word our new general secretary has been using?’

  ‘Perestroika,’ said Ivan, swallowing the last of his pastry and reaching for a third. Misha beat him to it. ‘You think it will last? How many fancy policies have you seen so far that have come to nothing… zero?’ Ivan added, unimpressed.

  ‘We’re free to travel…’

  Ivan shrugged a so what?

  ‘Don’t you see? We have a huge opportunity.’ His friend just didn’t think big enough. ‘Start with the basics,’ Misha said enthusiastically. ‘People are crying out for everything… clothing… fashion, for instance.’

  ‘And what do you know about fashion? Jeans and T-shirts, yes, but…?’ said Ivan disbelievingly.

  ‘Jeans? What do you mean? You can hardly get your hands on a pair, let alone anything decently made.’ He looked at his own, where the stitching had come apart at the seams.

  ‘Last night I talked to an Italian fashion manufacturer trying to find a way into the market. From the lookbook it seems right… perfect, in fact, and the price works. I’ve decided to pay him a visit, go direct… cut out the middleman.’

  ‘And how do you propose to bring it in? You can’t trust a carrier or customs.’

  ‘Hand luggage… you’re strong.’

  Ivan pulled a face.

  Misha pushed back his chair and stood up. He counted out some coins and put them on the table.

  ‘Are you in?’

  ‘Of course, you know me… I just hope I don’t live to regret it.’

  ‘You won’t… I’ll see you later. I’m going Gleb hunting.’

  Chapter 6

  Gleb hung out in only a few places. It didn’t take long for Misha to find him: he was holding court in the back of one of the faceless cafés that nestled under the graceful and neglected ochre apartment buildings of Pirogova.

  Misha counted two minders: one outside as he went in and a second at a nearby table just out of earshot of his boss. Misha ordered a tea while he waited for Gleb to finish with his current visitor, a wiry-looking middle-aged man busy leafing through a slim zip-up briefcase he had opened on the table. He teased out a sheet of paper, studied it briefly and handed it to Gleb, who examined it with a magnifying glass before nodding, satisfied with whatever it was. The minder caught Misha’s eye and gave him a warning look.

  Misha raised his cup and toasted his health.

  Two minutes later the man with the briefcase left.

  Misha lifted his tea and took it over to Gleb’s table. Bearded with thick, heavy glasses, Gleb folded a wad of roubles and dollar bills and slid them into his front pocket.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mikhail Dimitrivich – another internal travel permit?’

  ‘Not this time – two exit visas and an import permit. How long will it take?’

  ‘Three to four weeks,’ said Gleb flatly.

  Misha pulled a face. ‘Two. No more.’

  Gleb stared down at the table and rubbed his cheek. ‘You could wait months if you used normal channels.’

  ‘But I’m not.’ Misha looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Okay, but it will cost – one hundred a visa and the same for the import permit, half up front, US dollars.’

  ‘Roubles?’

  ‘Not interested. You know how it is.’ Misha knew no self-respecting black marketeer wanted to be holding the rouble. He counted out one hundred and fifty dollars, handed them to Gleb and left.

  Outside, Misha looked at his watch: seven thirty-five. He took the metro south and got off at Narvskaya.

  Block upon block of anonymous sixties’ apartment buildings stretched in
every direction. Groups of youths loitered at apartment entrances and derelict exercise yards. A prostitute, who called herself Lily, waved as he passed and signalled he had company. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a tall wiry teenager with a shaved head a few paces to his left. The crunching of grit alerted him of another to his right. Misha slipped his fingers through a knuckleduster deep inside his jacket pocket and spun round to face them. Better, he calculated, to confront them out here in the open than be jumped down some side alley or stairwell.

  ‘Good evening, comrades.’

  The two stopped a metre apart and a few paces behind. He hadn’t had sight of the teenager’s friend until then. Misha guessed him early twenties, a little shorter than his partner with the same shaved head. A snake tattoo curled its way round his forearm and silver studs decorated his nose and eyebrows. Stud-man was clearly the more powerful of the two. Broad-shouldered like a boxer, he wore a plain black sleeveless T-shirt to show off his overdeveloped biceps.

  Stud-man took two steps forward and shoved his face inches from Misha’s. His breath stank of beer.

  ‘Enough of this comrade shit,’ said Stud-man through gritted teeth and he went to grab Misha with his right hand.

  Misha stepped back and in one swift movement swept his right leg under Stud-man, felling him heavily like a tree. He hit the ground hard. The knuckleduster broke Stud-man’s nose and front teeth as he struggled to get up. Stud-man’s friend froze to the spot.

  ‘I suggest you pick up your friend and beat it.’

  The boy hesitated until Misha took a few steps back. Warily, he helped a dazed and bleeding Stud-man to his feet and haltingly started back in the direction of the metro. When the two of them had disappeared from view, Misha returned to his course.

  It took him only a few more minutes to reach the entrance to his building, a faded brown ten-storey prefabricated block etched with rust marks from broken guttering. An overflow pipe gushed water from the third floor, pooling on muddy ground with nowhere to go.