Stroika

by Mark Blair

  ‘And Misha… such a nice young man?’

  ‘You know Misha, always up to something. No, he’s doing fine.’ Better than fine, she thought. ‘He’s not the street trader you remember.’

  Her mother took a seat on the sofa. Her smile had disappeared. She tugged anxiously on the hemline of her dress.

  ‘What is it, Mother?’

  ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. I didn’t want to raise it on the phone… I’ve heard from your father.’

  ‘Father?’ she said, shocked. She hadn’t seen or heard of him in over ten years. Part of her thought, even hoped, he might be dead.

  Her mother nodded.

  ‘He has written me a letter.’ Her mother unfolded a sheaf of paper from her pocket.

  ‘What does he want?’ With her father, it could only be bad news.

  ‘Money… He says he’s stopped drinking, found a labouring job with a building cooperative but has got himself into debt. Could I help him out? He says he’ll pay me back.’

  Viktoriya knew her mother had little in the way of savings. What spare cash she did have, Viktoriya had sent her, despite her mother’s protests. She always maintained she didn’t need it, but Viktoriya knew otherwise.

  ‘Where is he living?’

  ‘Leningrad, Smolninsky district. You haven’t seen him?’

  ‘No. I thought he’d left the city… How much?’

  ‘Five hundred roubles.’

  Five hundred roubles was over six months’ pay for her mother.

  ‘He asked after you.’

  Viktoriya felt she did not owe her father anything; he had only made their lives wretched, but she didn’t want him worrying her mother either, and this was something she could take care of, easily – pay him off and get shot of him.

  ‘Mother, I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I intended.’

  ‘I know. But, really, I can handle this.’

  March 1987

  Chapter 14

  Leningrad

  Misha drove his fourth-hand battered red Zhiguli into the icy courtyard behind his new premises, a nineteenth-century three-floor construction on Malaya Morskaya. Outside, a team of workmen busied tearing rusting balcony railings from first-floor windows and replacing them with modern glass balustrades, while another repaired lintels and the façade ready for painting. He parked to the side of the Kamaz, got out, and admired his car for at least the third time that day. Two men standing guard with Kalashnikovs acknowledged him as he approached.

  ‘Rodion, where’s Ivan?’

  ‘In the warehouse, boss,’ replied the taller of the two, waving the barrel of his machine gun in the direction of the warehouse door.

  Men ferried merchandise past him from the truck. He stopped one of them and lifted up a neat compact box labelled Amstrad.

  ‘If only I could get more of these,’ he said. The handler looked at him blankly. Misha replaced it on the trolley and continued into the warehouse.

  Ivan saw him first. He was fifteen metres down the main aisle, talking with the warehouse manager who was busy ticking off items from a clipboard.

  ‘Do you have the number of the agency you were talking about the other evening?’ he asked him, deadpan.

  ‘I do,’ he answered with an amused look. He reached inside his leather jacket, extracted his wallet, retrieved a business card, and handed it to him. ‘Leningrad Angels, and they are, truly.’

  Misha looked at him blankly, and without saying a word he put the card in his back pocket. He climbed the steps two at a time to the first floor and stepped into the main building. Elegant rooms with long ornate French windows looked out onto the courtyard below. In one, a painter was put finishing touches to the new showroom. Half a dozen brands hung neatly grouped around the walls. Misha switched on the accented spotlights and turned the dimmer for effect.

  Alina walked in with a cup of coffee and handed it to him. Misha recognised the two-ply cream cashmere roll neck from a new Italian supplier.

  ‘Ilaria has been on the phone for you.’

  He nodded. ‘I’ll call her back.’ He twirled the dimmer again. ‘Beats the old place.’

  He took a sip of boiling hot coffee and winced at its bitterness before taking another. Below, two men with AKs slung over their shoulders lingered in front of the high steel gate. Misha watched as Rodion walked up to one of them and said something.

  He turned back to the room and took the card Ivan had given him out of his pocket and looked at the graphic outline of a topless angel. He dialled the number. A woman with a sing-song voice answered the phone and asked him how he had heard of Leningrad Angels, did he have any preferences? ‘A friend’… ‘attractive’, and ‘two’ was all he said in response, slightly disappointed with himself when nothing more definitive immediately came to mind. He agreed the money – US dollars of course – and gave her the name of the new restaurant: Canali, next to the Mariinsky Theatre.

  How much was it all going to cost this time, just to open a currency account?

  That morning he had appeared at the bank laden with small gifts and had asked to see a manager. He had sat there for an hour and a half mesmerised by the clack clack of a hundred typewriters and the elongated zip of the carriage return. A legion of clerks, sitting at grey metal desks, typed forms in triplicate. Eventually a manager had appeared. Heavyset, in a dark grey ill-fitting suit, Misha guessed him to be in his early forties. He had introduced himself as Grigory Vasiliev and led him to a wooden and frosted-glass cubicle.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he had asked, distracted. A clerk had entered without knocking and placed a form in front of him to sign.

  ‘I want to open a foreign currency account, US dollars… to pay suppliers,’ Misha had continued when the clerk had left. He chose to omit the bit about siphoning money off to a Swiss account.

  Vasiliev had simply stared at him.

  ‘You’ll need Central Bank permission… three to four months, if you are lucky.’

  That was when he had suggested dinner.

  Misha made it to the restaurant earlier than planned. He took the Zhiguli and parked it on the embankment. As he stepped out of the car a sudden gust of Arctic wind forced him to take a step back. He grabbed the iron balustrade and looked down onto the canal. He shivered. Ice stretched in every direction, a silver filigree knitting snow-covered island to snow-covered island. A man wrapped up in a wool blanket, standing next to a bucket, stood over a hole cut in the ice holding a fishing rod in one hand and a lantern in the other. He wondered if he’d had any luck.

  Canali made Misha feel he was back in Milan. Konstantin had done a good job, no doubt with input from Viktoriya. An open, custom-built, stainless steel kitchen gave on to a limestone floor dining area, where low lighting illuminated exposed brick and discretely placed tables.

  At the bar, two women sipped champagne while balanced on elegant cream leather stools. The blonde caught Misha’s eye as he stepped down into the restaurant from the entrance. No doubt the Angels he had ordered, he thought. She introduced her raven-haired friend as Sveta and herself as Dasha. Misha guessed them both around twenty. They were certainly dressed for the part. Dasha wore a short black tube dress and Sveta a diaphanous gold-coloured loose blouse over leggings. Misha took two envelopes from his inside jacket pocket and gave one to each.

  No sooner had he finished explaining that he and, by implication, they were entertaining a business associate did the door open and Vasiliev appear. Gone was the ill-fitting crumpled suit Misha had seen in the bank. Grigory wore an expensive-looking three-piece under a half-open navy wool coat. A man of many parts, thought Misha. Grigory looked over to the bar, caught sight of Misha chatting to the two girls, and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

  Vasiliev took an instant liking to the blonde Dasha. The girls turned out to
be well educated and from cities east of Moscow; occasional escort work at university had gravitated to full-time after they had moved to Leningrad. They could earn more in one night than they could in a month in some boring and grim state factory or office job. The punters, they said, generally had more going for them than the loser boyfriends they had knocked around with in the past.

  Outside, an old lady carrying an almost empty string shopping bag caught Misha’s eye as she walked, stooping, past the side window of the restaurant. When he returned his attention to the group, he found Sveta studying him.

  ‘I don’t want to end up like her,’ she said seriously.

  ‘Well that makes two of us… Come on, let’s eat.’

  The maître d’ led them to their table. Misha had asked for a private corner. As it turned out, it was a quiet night. Dasha sat opposite Vasiliev – who insisted on being called Grigory – and Misha, Sveta, whose long legs stretched under the table, occasionally brushing his.

  They ordered food and a good bottle of Georgian wine. Dasha rarely broke eye contact with Grigory, constantly running her jewelled fingers through her long hair, flirting outrageously. Grigory was clearly enjoying himself. Why wouldn’t he! Misha thought. Sveta sat quietly taking it all in.

  ‘So tell us more about your business,’ said Grigory, turning to his host.

  ‘Import, about to move bigger into export… fashion, perfume, computers, you name it.’

  ‘You have a tie-up with Leningrad Freight, I understand.’

  ‘Yes, you are well informed.’ He wondered how well informed. Did he know he was also bringing in merchandise across the border at Smolensk to avoid the prying eyes of the military customs in Leningrad?

  Misha felt the tip of Sveta’s high heel rub against his leg. She looked at him across the table in a steady gaze and smiled. It was hard not to be aroused. She was striking, now he looked at her again, with thick, straight shoulder-length hair, high Slavic cheekbones and wide, dark oval eyes that sparkled in the subdued restaurant lighting.

  It was after coffee that Misha asked the two girls if they could wait at the bar while he talked to Grigory privately.

  ‘Pretty girls, Grigory.’

  The banker added his confirmation. ‘Will they be staying?’ he asked, clearly afraid Dasha might leave.

  ‘That depends,’ said Misha. ‘What will it take to open that foreign currency account within the next two weeks?’

  ‘Two thousand US dollars.’

  Nothing came cheap, thought Misha. ‘How about one thousand dollars and Dasha stays?’ he countered.

  Grigory considered the proposal.

  ‘I’m interested in long-term business relationships,’ said Grigory. ‘I appreciate this might not be the case with Dasha.’

  Misha watched Grigory take a sip of brandy and replace his glass slowly on the table.

  ‘Can I ask you what you want to use this account for?’

  Misha considered giving him a flat no, but the banker would have access to his account anyway. He’d see what he was doing, or at least guess.

  ‘A number of reasons: firstly, paying overseas suppliers – the business is getting too big now to be making payment via suitcases; secondly, the rouble is headed in only one direction as far as I can see… who wants to be holding a currency worth less and less every day; thirdly, moving money to safer jurisdictions; and finally, receiving hard currency payment for exports.’

  ‘Exports?’

  ‘Hard currency assets: timber, fuel, nickel… oil. So I’ve told you about what I am after, what is it you want? Beyond Dasha, and, of course, helping me open a currency account.’

  Grigory took another sip of his brandy.

  ‘I am a banker. I’ve worked for state banks overseas, London for three years. I know how money works. You’ve been to Milan. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Soviet banks are antiquated and that most have no idea how the international system works. There is opportunity in that.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Misha, warming to him. ‘Like what specifically?’

  ‘Investment banking… currency trading, for starters.’

  ‘Well, the second part we can start to do now… once you have that foreign currency account open. Investment banking…?

  ‘Buying state property… companies when they start selling them. It’s going to happen.’

  ‘Let’s talk more, later, who knows…’

  Grigory looked pleased with where the conversation had gone. He paused before asking: ‘And why don’t you get yourself a decent car; that red Zhiguli parked on the embankment is yours, isn’t it?’

  ‘I like it,’ Misha answered defensively, and laughed. ‘I think we should join the girls now and not waste any more time!’ Misha looked at his watch; it was still only ten fifteen.

  Misha stood up and Grigory followed him over to the bar. The girls were standing close to each other. Dasha leaned towards Sveta and whispered something in her ear, and whatever it was caused her to almost choke on her drink. She put down her glass on the bar and covered her mouth, her slim body shaking with suppressed laughter. Misha eyed her skinny frame balanced on pin-like stilettos and slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned back against him. His thumb massaged her hip through the silky fabric of her top as they watched Vasiliev and Dasha collect their coats. Dasha gave her friend a knowing wink before disappearing through the door, her escort in tow.

  ‘Your place or mine?’ said Misha, suddenly impatient to be in bed with her.

  ‘I think yours. It has to be better than mine,’ she said, squeezing his hand. He helped her on with her grey woollen coat and noticed its frayed edge around the lapel.

  ‘You’ll have to call in at the showroom, choose some samples,’ he said, holding open the restaurant door for her. They were hit by a blast of freezing cold air.

  ‘How long have you had this?’ Sveta asked teasingly as she walked around the red car in mock admiration, avoiding the icy snow banked up on the kerb.

  Misha considered how long it had taken him to acquire his first car and how many strings he’d had to pull to find this one, even if it was a hundred years old. He knew he could afford a much more expensive model now he was beginning to make serious money, but he didn’t see any point in attracting unwanted attention, either from the authorities or the criminal fraternity.

  ‘All I can say is that it’s colder inside than out.’ Misha walked round the car, tugged the door open and watched her slide in. When he turned back, he nearly stumbled straight into Konstantin. He was standing almost directly behind him, Viktoriya on his arm, three bodyguards behind him.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Konstantin.

  ‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

  Viktoriya stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘Misha is not into the cars like you are, Kostya.’

  ‘Clearly not.’ He pointed at the ZiL parked fifty metres away. ‘You should get yourself one of those. And take my advice, you shouldn’t be walking around on your own, not in this city.’

  Viktoriya and Ivan had been nagging him about the same thing. He had doubled protection at the warehouse but he didn’t want a band of men following his every movement.

  ‘You probably need it more than me, Kostya. What’s that old joke about paranoia?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Konstantin frostily. ‘We should talk business, you and I, soon.’

  ‘I think we’re better off doing our own thing.’

  ‘Pity, you need allies, we all need allies. Shall we go, Vika?’

  ‘She’s very beautiful, Misha,’ said Viktoriya, casting a glance into the car, a wry smile on her face.

  ‘I do my best. She’s probably frozen by now.’ He looked in the car. Sveta blew a cloud of iced vapour at him. ‘I rest my case.’

  Ten minutes later, Misha stopped outside his new apartment. Sitti
ng there gazing up at its newly painted neoclassical façade, he sensed Sveta was considerably more impressed with it than she had been with his car.

  ‘Your friend back there is very beautiful… old girlfriend?’

  ‘Funnily enough, she said the same thing about you… no, school friends.’

  ‘Really… I’m not so sure… and I know the other guy – owns that restaurant and a pile of clubs. You don’t want to be mixing with him.’

  ‘Good advice… I won’t be.’

  He felt the warmth of her delicate hand run down his inner thigh and up onto his crutch. Misha leaned forward to kiss her, only to be pushed back by an outstretched index finger.

  They took the lift to the fifth floor. She leaned back against the mirror as he slid his hand inside her coat and ran his fingers down the outside of her silky leggings. This time she did not pull away. The over-warm corridor smelled of new paint and varnish. Sveta slipped off her coat and hung it over her arm as Misha inserted the key to his apartment door. The barrel lock sounded its familiar double dead clunk; Misha pushed open the door and waved her ahead. She eased past him, heels clipping the wooden floor, her body brushing his. Misha turned his head towards the switch and glimpsed the silhouette of a fast-moving object crashing towards his skull. He raised his hand reflexively. Sveta screamed, and whatever it was connected solidly with his head, triggering a fire-burst of yellow light and… blackness.

  ***

  The first thing he experienced when he came round was a sharp stabbing pain to the left side of his head above his ear. He reached up and felt a sticky wetness. It was pitch black. For a moment he struggled to recollect where he was. His flat… a girl… Sveta. He pushed himself up onto all fours. The sharp pain turned to an insistent throb; unsteadily he climbed to his feet. The room began to swim. He squatted down for a moment and was violently sick. Struggling back on his feet he edged forward until he felt the wall. It took him a few seconds to find the light switch. He clicked it on.

  At first he didn’t see Sveta, but then at the end of the hallway, jutting out through the half-open living room doorway, he noticed her feet twisted at an awkward angle, one shoe partially detached hanging by a strap twisted round her ankle. Misha struggled along the hallway using the wall as a prop and pushed open the door. Sveta looked up at him with blank unseeing eyes, her neck terribly twisted.