Stroika

by Mark Blair

  The living room had been ransacked. Drawers lay empty and upended, contents strewn across the floor, the bookcase emptied a brand new computer he had brought home to experiment with, missing. The bedrooms and kitchen were more of the same. Even the contents of the freezer had been emptied onto the kitchen floor.

  Misha stopped, walked back into the living room and looked at the sofa. It was on its side. The photographs… He ripped off what remained of the hessian underside of the sofa and came up empty-handed. He searched again, this time checking the floor in case the envelope had fallen out inadvertently or been abandoned. Nothing… they were gone.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Am I completely surrounded by idiots?’ spat out Konstantin. He peered closely at the four black-and-white photographs: two men standing by a waterway, the prints heavily fogged, it was impossible to make out any discerning features. He couldn’t imagine they would be of use to anyone. ‘At least we have the photos, if not the negatives,’ he added, somewhat placated. Maybe the KGB would get off his back now. He looked at the glass-domed clock on the mantelpiece of his study – a quarter past one in the morning. Bazhukov hovered apprehensively in front of him.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Erik Fyodorvich Harkov.’

  Konstantin shrugged; he didn’t recognise the name.

  ‘He’s not one of our crew, hangs out with Stef. A break-in merchant… I thought this was going to be straightforward.’

  Konstantin let out a guffaw. ‘We have a dead prostitute, a man assaulted, a flat trashed and the police involved. It’s hard to see how it could be more complicated. You will have to deal with Harkov. We can’t have Mikhail Dimitrivich, the police, or anyone else tracing him back to us.’

  Bazhukov nodded.

  Why couldn’t the KGB take care of its own affairs? Why involve him? He wondered why with all their resources they had never managed to find these photos before.

  ‘Where did he find them?’

  ‘Inside the base lining of the sofa.’

  Konstantin wondered if Mikhail knew why these photos were so important.

  There was a knock. Viktoriya appeared in the doorway, her hair dishevelled from being in bed.

  ‘I heard voices,’ said Viktoriya, her voice throaty from sleep. Her eyes went to the photographs in his hands. He replaced them on his desk, face downward.

  ‘Misha is being questioned at the police station on Liteyny Prospect. Apparently some scuffle at his apartment, and that girl we saw with him is dead… He’s fine, apparently a little concussed… I would have told you later.’

  Viktoriya frowned uncomprehendingly, shaking off her slumber.

  ‘Misha wouldn’t have anything to do with that.’

  Konstantin felt a stab of jealousy. Why did she always defend him?

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a formality. His apartment was turned over…’

  He could see her hesitating, undecided as to what to do. ‘Call him tomorrow from here or your apartment. I’ll have one of my men drop you off early if that’s what you want. Let’s go back to bed. I’m sure Mikhail will not be up to much tonight.’

  She relaxed a little. ‘You’re probably right. Yes, if someone could drop me back early that would be good.’

  Konstantin gave a silent gesture of dismissal to Bazhukov. Konstantin slid his hands inside her silk robe and followed the curve of her stomach. She moved closer to him and kissed him on the mouth.

  Konstantin looked into her eyes and not for the first time that night felt himself aroused.

  Chapter 16

  ‘Erik Harkov.’ Ivan said when Misha finally emerged from the police station.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who did this… How’s the head?’

  Misha reached up and touched the clean dressing; his head still throbbed.

  ‘Fine… How do you know it’s him?’

  ‘I had you followed. Rodion recognised him leaving your building. He’s a petty criminal, used to hang out on the islands.’

  ‘I thought I said I didn’t want any protection.’

  ‘God keeps them safe who keep themselves safe. Besides, anything happens to you and we are all in trouble.’

  Misha looked at his watch – two fifteen in the morning. He had been questioned for over two hours. The police had emptied the entire contents of Sveta’s handbag on the table in front of him and rummaged through its contents: two hundred dollars, three condoms, a make-up bag, fifty roubles and a business card for the Angels escort agency. It was clear what she did. Had there been some dispute over money, a service he had demanded that she hadn’t been prepared to provide? What and trash his apartment into the bargain? he had replied. He’d been attacked and had no idea why. At least, not one he would share with them.

  ‘Where does this Harkov live now?’ asked Misha.

  ‘Fifteen Sovetskaya.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Friends in high places…’

  He pointed at the Lada parked on the corner. Misha could see Nestor at the wheel and Rodion sat beside him gesturing with a lighted cigarette. Life going on, he thought. Anger welled up in him for the girl who had been killed. She was no innocent but she hadn’t deserved such a fate.

  ***

  Sovetskaya was a sixties’ concrete apartment block in the east of the city. Misha climbed out the rear of the car and took the beany out of his coat pocket and pulled it down gently over his bruised ear and dressing. Nearby a dog nosed rubbish by an open bin. It stopped and watched a man enter the building opposite before resuming its business. The dull thud of a door closing echoed down the street.

  ‘This is it,’ said Ivan pointing at a building with an outsized ‘15’ painted above the main entrance.

  Here and there, lights burned in windows; an old lady on the second floor looked down at them.

  ‘Nestor, you take the rear,’ ordered Ivan.

  The stench of urine overwhelmed them when they entered by the main entrance.

  ‘Rodion, you wait here,’ said Ivan. Rodion held up a scarf to his face.

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  Misha followed Ivan up the concrete stairwell, suddenly conscious that the shoulder of his jacket was covered in dried blood. They stopped for a moment before moving on to the next floor. A black shape scurried by, glancing his foot. Involuntarily, Misha kicked out and caught the tip of its thin tail with his boot.

  On the fourth floor a flickering fluorescent light illuminated the plastic number ‘25’. Ivan pressed the doorbell. A grinding sound escaped from the mechanism. A door opened three doors down. A woman peered out before closing it again quickly.

  Misha put his eye to the small square frosted-glass door panel of number twenty-five and banged the door loudly.

  ‘Who is it?’ It was a woman’s voice, high and anxious.

  ‘Ivan Antonovich Pralnikov and Mikhail Dimitrivich Revnik,’ Misha said, trying to reassure her. ‘We’ve come to ask you some questions about Erik Fyodorvich.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken with the police,’ she answered, making no move to let them in. Misha looked at Ivan. There was no way the police could have found out about Harkov.

  ‘I doubt they were the police…’ There was no response. Misha sensed her thinking on the other side of the door, her hand resting on the catch, trying to decide. ‘Look, if those people get to your partner first… well, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’

  For a moment Misha thought they might have to put their shoulders to the door and force it open, but the rattle of a security chain being unhooked and bolts being slid back signalled otherwise. The door swung open and a short young woman with mousy hair in her early thirties stepped back to allow them in. She directed them into a small living room furnished with a fading brown tweed sofa, a coffee table and small plastic-topped dining table with two pine chairs. The three of
them pretty much filled the space.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Misha, appreciating that the presence of two men in such close quarters must be intimidating. ‘We are trying to locate Erik,’ he went on. ‘This is his address?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I don’t know where he is though,’ she said. ‘I’ve only known him a few months.’

  ‘Is he from Leningrad?’ asked Misha.

  ‘Kalinin, I think, although he never calls or has any calls from family there… I shouldn’t be talking to you really.’

  ‘Have you any idea where he might be?’ said Ivan.

  ‘No, he pretty much keeps himself to himself,’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tight around her. She looked exhausted.

  ‘Where did you meet?’ Misha asked.

  ‘At the Imperial on Kirpichny. It’s a nightclub. He promised we would be moving to a new apartment … That doesn’t look like it will be happening any time soon now.’

  Misha felt sorry for her. He guessed she had no part in this but had been caught up in it anyway.

  They fell silent. Misha looked around the room. On the coffee table, next to a half-empty cup of cold tea, stood a photograph in a metal frame of three people standing in front of a fountain smiling broadly at the camera. Ivan recognised the girlfriend immediately, looking a lot happier than she did at that moment, with two men standing either side of her. The girlfriend caught him looking at the photo and picked it up.

  ‘This is Erik,’ she said, pointing at the man on the right.

  ‘And who is this?’ said Ivan, indicating the other man.

  ‘Stef Baturin, a friend of his, someone he used to work with years ago. We met him one Sunday afternoon for coffee. He lives somewhere in Oktabrsky… more than that I don’t know. Wait a minute. I might have his telephone number, I wrote it down… in my diary I think. He had just moved, and I was the only one with pen and paper at the time.’

  The young woman rearranged her dressing gown.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said, and disappeared from the living room. She returned a few moments later with her handbag. From inside she pulled out a small diary and began leafing through it; recognising an entry, she paused.

  ‘Here you are. This is him, the man in the photo.’ She read out his telephone number. Ivan took it down.

  ‘And you think he lives in Oktabrsky district?’ he asked her again for confirmation. She nodded.

  ‘Look, here is my number. If you think of anything else, let me know… and thank you,’ Misha said sympathetically. For a moment he thought she might cry.

  ‘We need to find a phone box,’ Ivan said once back in the car. They found one after a couple of blocks. Ivan jumped out of the car. Misha checked his watch – three fifteen in the morning. Rodion lit another cigarette and took a long drag. Misha’s head had at last stopped throbbing. What he really needed now was a strong black coffee – not the best for concussion, he knew. Ivan climbed back into the car.

  ‘Thirty-three Fonarny pereulok, flat seventeen. It’s registered to a Stef Baturin, mechanic… no previous record for subversive activity,’ Ivan informed him for good measure.

  They crossed the frozen Fontanka and followed the embankment. Five minutes later, they pulled up a couple of blocks down from Baturin’s apartment building.

  Ignoring the lift, Misha took the stairwell with Ivan. At the third floor, bent over with his hands resting on his knees, Misha signalled Ivan to stop while he caught his breath. Seventeen was only two doors from the stairwell. This time they were going to be less polite.

  Ivan handed Misha an automatic and released the safety catch on his own.

  ‘You remember how to use this?’ said Ivan, a faint smile on his lips.

  Misha nodded. After two years in Afghanistan it felt almost second nature. He put his ear to the solid door. Inside he could hear muffled voices arguing in a panicky staccato. Ivan nodded at him. In unison they took one step back and rammed the door with their shoulders. Three hundred and eighty pounds of bone, flesh and muscle tore the inside lock from its fixture, snapping the door chain in two.

  The two of them all but fell into the unlit apartment. Ivan found the light switch first as Misha darted into the living room… nothing. By the time he turned around, Ivan was already pushing a man, dressed in a scruffy T-shirt and boxer shorts, into the living room. He was Harkov’s friend from the photo.

  ‘So where’s your friend? We haven’t time to be nice,’ Ivan said threateningly.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about? Who sent you?’ he said breathlessly.

  ‘The good guys.’ Ivan slapped him hard around the face. ‘Where is Harkov?’ Before he had time to respond, Baturin’s eyes gave the answer away.

  ‘The fire escape!’ shouted Ivan. ‘Move from here or make a call, you’re dead, is that clear?’ Ivan swept the side of his Markov across the top of Baturin’s head, knocking him to the floor.

  The door to the fire escape from the living room was unlocked. Harkov could have only gone two ways: up or down. Misha shouted down to Rodion, and with Ivan right behind him he took the fire escape to the roof, covering the three short flights in less than twenty seconds. Unexpectedly, Misha discovered his second wind.

  At first they didn’t see him. Misha and Ivan stood stock-still searching among the TV aerials and electrical service boxes that peppered the flat roof. Ivan waved his gun in the direction of a large water tank. Misha went one way and Ivan another. The sudden crunching of shoes on asphalt alerted them that Harkov had broken cover. He dashed from behind the tank and sprinted across the rooftop to a doorway giving onto the internal stairwell. Barely missing a step, Harkov disappeared into the building. He was faster than they would have credited and kept just one flight ahead as they hurtled towards the downstairs lobby.

  At the third floor a figure stepped forward from an apartment doorway. A gun exploded. Misha dropped to one knee and shot Baturin in the chest. Ivan was already past him. He could hear him pounding down the stairs.

  Jumping over Baturin’s lifeless body, Misha raced after Ivan and the echo of descending footsteps. The thud of a heavy door being shoved open and then a second told him he had escaped onto the street. Misha skidded into the entrance hall, ran past a dazed Rodion, prostrate on the hallway floor, and punched open the half-open plate glass door. East down Fonarny, Misha spotted Ivan in close pursuit of a clearly flagging Harkov.

  Misha saw the flash of the car’s headlights first. A black Volga, its windows down, lurched from the kerb, U-turned and, fighting to find traction, slewed past him in the direction of the two runners. Ivan turned at the sound of spinning tyres and threw himself to the ground as the flash of two AK47s ruptured the night in an ear-splitting staccato. Harkov’s last expression was one of terror and disbelief. The gunfire stopped as abruptly as it had started. Misha stood there, frozen, staring at the receding taillights as they faded into the night.

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Ivan as Misha helped him to his feet. He looked over at the lifeless body of Harkov.

  ‘I’m not sure. Looked like one of Kostya’s cars. It was a private Leningrad plate. Can’t be many of those. I’ve memorised the number.’

  Chapter 17

  Two security guards watched Misha’s car draw up outside Konstantin’s club. It had just turned two in the afternoon. Misha had managed to get a few hours’ sleep at Malaya Morskaya while one of Ivan’s men traced down the car registration plate.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ said Ivan. ‘You know what he is like.’

  Misha had to agree that turning up unannounced on Kostya’s doorstep was not necessarily the best plan, but he was not about to duck the fact that Ivan had tied the Harkov murder to one of Kostya’s cars and, by implication, to Sveta’s murder.

  ‘Just pretend we are at high school… with guns,’ he answered, climbing out.

  ‘Boris,
Pyotr,’ Ivan addressed the guards as they pulled open the door for them and pointed to the back stairs.

  Inside, more men, all armed, sat at empty tables; the club did not open for a few hours. One of them stepped in Misha’s way and told Ivan to wait before escorting Misha down the back stairs.

  Konstantin was sitting on a sofa at the far end of the room. A dark-haired girl got up and walked past him and out of the door, her deep brown eyes momentarily holding his as she passed him.

  ‘Misha, you’ve not been here before,’ he said, gesturing him over.

  Misha took in the oak-panelled basement room, the large mahogany desk, green leather armchair, the sofa and coffee table, and the wall of books. He was struck by the lack of natural light; only a single ceiling lamp suspended over Kostya’s desk and a table lamp by the sofa provided any illumination.

  Konstantin flicked his head in the direction of the man who had escorted him down. The door closed behind him leaving Misha and Kostya alone.

  Misha took Konstantin’s desk chair and swivelled it around to face him.

  ‘With your capacity for maths,’ Misha said, eyeing the books behind Kontantin, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t do something more worthwhile.’

  ‘Like rocket scientist?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘You and I know there is not enough money in it… So what do I owe the honour of this unexpected visit?’ Konstantin was staring at his matted head wound. “A coffee if you want it, but I don’t think that would be very good for concussion.”

  “Harkov,” Misha said.

  Kostya gave him a blank stare and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Am I supposed to know him?’