Stroika

by Mark Blair

  ‘I was there when your men took him out.’ Misha recited the registration number of the vehicle.

  ‘Do you think I memorise every registration plate?’

  ‘Well, take it from me, it’s one of yours.’

  ‘And if it is, so what? Wasn’t he the guy that killed that hooker-date of yours? Wasn’t that justice?’

  ‘I’ve never thought of you as big in the justice department… looks more like a failed cover-up and a botched burglary. Harkov worked for you.’

  He could see Konstantin struggling to control himself.

  ‘You really don’t know how lucky you are,’ he spat out. ‘If it wasn’t for me…’ but he didn’t finish.

  ‘So you stole the photos?’

  ‘Such as they are. I don’t know what all the fuss is about… but you have rubbed some important people up the wrong way. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’

  ‘Who?’

  Konstantin shrugged again and rose to his feet.

  ‘That’s for you to find out. Interview over. And don’t let me find these ugly rumours on the street… or these other people, they will be the least of your problems.’

  Chapter 18

  The temperature had dropped to minus twenty. Two men seated at the far end of the café, a bottle of vodka between them, watched Viktoriya as she pushed the door shut behind her. Towards the front, a pensioner dressed in a shabby brown coat, still wearing his sable ushanka, its flaps hanging limply round his ears, chatted to an elderly woman.

  Viktoriya walked over to the food counter and examined the paltry selection: three unappetising pastries on a chipped green plate, a small stack of hazelnut teacakes dusted in sugar, and a tureen of thin cabbage soup. The serving woman behind the counter, her hair tied up roughly in a bun, wiped her hands down the front of a grimy apron and waited for her to speak.

  ‘Tea, please.’

  Silently, the woman selected a mug and held it under the samovar until it was full.

  ‘Sugar is extra,’ she said bluntly.

  Viktoriya declined, paid her twenty kopeks, and carried it over to a table facing the front window. She took off her fur hat and padded coat and placed them on an empty chair where she could see them.

  A solitary photograph of the previous general secretary, a stern looking Chernenko sporting thick snow-white hair, a blue jacket and a medal pinned to his chest, stared down at her. The glass sparkled in its glossy black frame and round it hung a red-and-silver garland. Viktoriya studied the woman behind the counter again and tried to guess her age: late fifties, early sixties, born in the twenties, old enough to have experienced the siege as a young girl. How different their lives had been. All that sacrifice, and what had it brought her… communist Utopia? She thought of her last visit to Milan. Maybe ignorance was bliss… or at least less bewildering. The portrait seemed ridiculous to her now.

  She looked at the wall clock, its second hand frozen at thirty-two; the effort of its upward journey had clearly proved too much: three forty, ten minutes late. Suddenly anxious that this should be over, she fought the desire to get up and walk out. She had no desire to meet her father, even after so many years. His drunken binges had made her and her mother’s existence a living nightmare. She remembered the feeling of coming home from school on an afternoon when he wasn’t working and the feeling of apprehension as she turned the key in the door. How often had she invited herself round to Agnessa or Misha to put off that moment? Agnessa knew about her father – they lived on each other’s doorsteps – but she had never told Misha, she was not sure why, but thinking on it now she was certain he had known or suspected… the absence of return invites, his mother always so welcoming, always asking after her mother, never her father. It wasn’t such a big neighbourhood… and that final night, when he had taken the poker to her mother in one of his blind rages. She had fought it from him and cracked him over the skull. That had been the last time she had seen him. He was gone when she had returned from Agnessa’s the next morning.

  The sound of the café door opening made her turn. A tall figure, a scarf wrapped tightly across his face, stepped into the café and quickly closed the door behind him. He turned looking for someone. His eyes settled on her. Still standing by the door, he pulled off his beanie and scarf and shot her a tight-lipped smile. The serving woman attempted to tidy her hair and poured her father a steaming hot mug of tea without him having to ask. How many years had it been since she had last seen him? Nine, ten, more…?

  From where she was sitting he didn’t seem to have changed. He still had the same thick thatch of fair hair swept back off his forehead and was as lean and sinewy as he had always been. He sat down opposite her. She was glad he didn’t attempt to touch her.

  ‘Been waiting long?’ he asked, clearly not intent on making an apology.

  ‘Fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You were always one for being on time, the reliable one.’

  He raised the mug of tea to his lips and fixed his icy-blue eyes on her as he took a sip and blew the steam in her direction. ‘You’ve turned into a real beauty. I always thought you would, just like your mother.’

  Growing up, most people had commented on how she looked like him, not her mother. She didn’t think that had changed. Close up now, she could see the signs of ageing, weathered skin from working years outdoors and the all too familiar signs of too much vodka: thread veins and reddened skin.

  ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘She is fine,’ she said – all the better for not seeing you, she wanted to say.

  ‘Leningrad Freight? Hear you’re quite the director’s pet… big operation.’

  She felt herself blush.

  ‘I’m not here to talk about work.’ From her handbag she extracted a small unsealed brown envelope and slid it across the table to him. ‘Five hundred roubles – that’s what you asked for. You don’t have to pay me back; just don’t bother my mother – or me – again.’

  He flicked through the notes without taking them out and, satisfied, tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat.

  ‘From what I hear, you’re doing pretty well there, got a good little business running on the side with that old school friend of yours – what’s his name… Konstantin Ivanivich. He was always a nasty piece of work.’

  Unlike you, she didn’t say.

  She could sense where this one-sided conversation was going. ‘You’d be best not to start bandying his name around,’ she darted back coldly.

  ‘Pouf… I’m not worried about that young man.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve got a job back down at the docks… stopped drinking, you know.’

  How many times had she heard that in the past?

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘The place I’m staying at is pretty crappy though. It’s not like the place you have. It’s over on Trefoleva, I share it with a family of four… pretty wife though.’

  How did he know where she lived? Had he been following her around? She pushed back the chair to leave.

  ‘One minute,’ he said, gesturing her to sit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an official-looking document. It was an old internal passport, badly frayed at the edges. She frowned uncomprehendingly. He flipped open the photo page. It took a second for her to register. Staring up at her was the face of a man she would never forget: Pavel Pytorvich Antyuhin.

  ‘How did you get this?’ she hissed angrily. She reached out to grab it but his hand got there first. He slipped it back safely into his pocket.

  ‘Wouldn’t be good for this to fall into the wrong hands, have people asking questions… they never did find the killer – nasty business.’

  Outraged, she started to say something and stopped herself. She wasn’t about to confirm what he did or didn’t know.

  ‘What is it you want?’ she said coldly.

  ‘More of what you
just gave me… somewhere acceptable to stay. I know you can afford it. It doesn’t have to be as nice as your place, one bedroom would do fine… after all, I am your father.’

  Chapter 19

  Milan

  Misha handed Ilaria a small key he’d taped under the filing cabinet in her office. She looked surprised.

  ‘Put this somewhere safe. Maybe give it to a friend.’

  Misha wondered whether he should be giving it her at all. Hadn’t somebody already died in search of what the safe deposit box contained? But this was Italy, not Russia, he reminded himself. Yesterday, locked in Ilaria’s office, he had pored over four blow-up black-and-white photos with renewed interest: two men – he guessed early forties, similar height, five foot ten, maybe eleven, dark raincoats, one with thick dark spectacles – half turned towards the Neva. The man on the left – the one without glasses – had extended his arm just past his bodyline, his palm open as if denying some point the other was making. Was it ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t care’? The last shot was of them facing the camera and the man with the spectacles pointing a finger at him. He was shouting: ‘Get him!’ Misha could still hear his voice.

  He thought back to that April morning ten years ago. It had been raining, he remembered. Cloud had malingered heavily over the city for days, casting a grey oppressive pall over the Neva, turning it a deep black. He had just crossed the Lomonosova Bridge on his way to Apraksin Market, when a man blocked his way. He was taller than Misha’s then five foot ten, wiry, intense. He had flashed him some official-looking ID but it was too quick for him to take in beyond a photograph, the hammer and sickle. He waved him towards a café only a few metres away. Misha had held his ground at first as people streamed past them on either side.

  ‘Just a coffee and a chat. I have something that might interest you.’

  Curiosity had eventually got the better of him. It didn’t look as though whoever-he-was would take no for an answer either.

  ‘What would you like?’ the man had asked once inside the café. Misha could remember precisely what he had chosen: sweet tea and honey cake. The waitress had somehow divined his new benefactor’s status – perhaps it was the highly polished black shoes or a raincoat that fitted him better than the average raincoat fitted an average citizen, or was it simply his air of confidence or sense of underlying menace? ‘Yes comrade,’ was all she said after scribbling down their order and hurrying back to the serving counter. They had sat there in silence and waited. The waitress returned shortly, deposited the contents of her tray and retired safely out of earshot.

  ‘I am told that you are a bit of a chancer around here, up for things?’

  Misha shrugged noncommittally, wondering who he was and how he had come by that information.

  ‘If you are interested, I might have a small job for you, something suited to your talents.’

  Misha had remained silent.

  ‘There’s a meeting taking place, Saturday morning, eleven o’clock, two men… Can you use a camera?’

  Misha had nodded. Back home he had an album packed with photos, mostly friends larking around. A third-hand Zenith had been a present from his mother for his fifteenth name day.

  ‘I need someone to get close, close enough to get a clear shot, and you fit the bill.’

  Misha had asked if he was to do it how he would identify them, and he had been shown a photograph of a man wearing heavily rimmed spectacles and a fedora hat. He had known better than to ask who he was or why he wanted a photo of him.

  ‘Fifty roubles, take it or leave it,’ the man had said bluntly.

  Misha stared again at the photo until his anonymous host had leaned across the table and plucked it out of his hand.

  ‘Eighty,’ Misha had countered, as the man placed it back in his wallet.

  ‘Seventy.’

  He had nodded his assent, not quite believing his luck. It was more than his mother earned in a month. Misha remembered the man pulling a small camera out of his raincoat pocket and handing it to him.

  ‘Just point and shoot. And don’t worry about finding me. I’ll find you.’

  But, of course, ten years later he still hadn’t. Things had not gone as intended, but at least he had had the foresight to put a backup plan in place; when his pursuers had searched him they had come away empty-handed.

  ‘Can I ask whose those men are?’ said Ilaria, staring over his shoulder.

  He had asked himself the same question for years. ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Why have you held onto them?’

  Because someone wants them badly enough, he thought, enough to have ransacked his place, enough to kill for. Months before, Misha had had Ilaria’s photographer friend blur a set of prints to abstraction. Whoever had them now, he hoped, would assume he had nothing of value and leave him alone.

  ‘You never know when something might be useful,’ he said, ‘particularly in Russia.’

  From the look on her face he sensed she was disappointed he had not told her more.

  ‘Look, Ilaria, I’m sorry, but I suspect the less you know about these photos the better. The fact is I don’t really know any more than you do. You’ve looked at them – two men standing by the Neva on a wet April morning… period. But whoever they are, or whoever they are involved with, ten years later they are suddenly important again.’

  ‘What’s changed?’ she said, softening.

  ‘That’s it… I can’t figure it out… the Soviet Union, Russia, everything is changing, falling apart… why now… the renewed interest… how valuable can a ten-year-old photo be?’

  She stared at him for a moment.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,’ she said, rolling the key between her fingers.

  ‘I think we should go back to work. Can you ask one of the girls to go to Carlo’s and fetch me a cappuccino? I want to talk with you about the oil business.’

  Chapter 20

  Leningrad

  Viktoriya ran a finger over the faint scar under her right eye and searched for her reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. She reached forward and with the palm of her hand cleared a small patch. She stood there for a moment just staring into her own eyes, her father’s eyes, trying in some way to see into herself, beyond the superficial exterior. She knew she was beautiful, but that same beauty had got her into trouble, had drawn her attacker too. Maybe it was impossible to see oneself as someone else might. She wondered how Kostya viewed her; time had not made him any more transparent. Was she just the trophy girlfriend – replaceable, expendable? He never shared his fears with her or discussed his business interests… not in any meaningful way. They might spend a night together and the next day she would receive a call from him; he would be in Moscow, Yekaterinburg, Novgorod, or some other place, and would not have mentioned anything about it to her the night before. She had given up asking why. She did not want some veiled excuse, or, worse, be lied to. Was there another woman? She never had a sense of that. Did he have sex with other women? It was hard to believe he didn’t. In the sort of places he frequented, he had only to point. Misha was right, of course. You didn’t acquire the cars, the property and the standard of living Konstantin enjoyed just from owning nightclubs. Her life felt in limbo, unresolved, uncertain.

  Through the half-closed door, Viktoriya heard the phone ringing in her bedroom. It was Misha.

  ‘I thought you were in Milan,’ she said, pleased to hear his voice.

  ‘I was. I’m at Pulkova. I landed fifteen minutes ago.’

  She looked at her bedside clock; it read 8:10 a.m.

  ‘How about I pick you up in an hour? I need to talk to you about something.’

  Fifty minutes later, the concierge called, a Mikhail Dimitrivich was waiting for her in the lobby. He looked a lot better than the last time she had seen him. The bandage was gone and he was bubbling with supressed energy. Outside,
three cars lay parked up against the kerb. Ivan and four men with Kalashnikovs covered the space between the lobby entrance and the street.

  ‘Vika!’ Misha kissed her on both cheeks, holding her by the shoulders. He looked at her intently, as though he hadn’t seen her in years. Did he see something in her that she had been unable to find earlier?

  ‘You look great, Vika.’

  He kissed her again and took a deep breath.

  ‘Givenchy,’ she said, amused, before he asked. ‘You gave it to me. You had a consignment of it delivered to the warehouse, I seem to remember.’

  Misha raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it was a good choice.’

  As they drove across the city to Malaya Morskaya, chelnoki traders standing alone or in small groups plied their wares on street corners. Here and there, queues were forming; on the Moika embankment, Viktoriya saw women and men stoically wait their turn at a vegetable stall. She thought back to the last time she and her director had visited the central food distribution centre in Leningrad – an oxymoron in itself – how long ago could it have been? A month, six weeks? She remembered the smell of rotting food and rats the size of cats.

  ‘Any more on your break-in and that unfortunate girl?’

  Misha shook his head, but she sensed he was not telling her everything; Ivan had been much the same, despite her prodding. And why had Misha flown to Italy so soon after the incident? She didn’t believe it was all about business.

  They pulled up at the solid steel gate that separated the street from the rear of the building. An armed guard turned to a speakerphone and the heavy doors moved back electronically. Three cars lay on the far side of the oval courtyard, a truck parked at the warehouse entrance. Viktoriya had not been to his office for several weeks; each time she visited it had morphed into something different.

  On the first floor a young model showed off a new collection to a group of buyers. In an adjacent room three men sat at desks busily engrossed in telephone conversation. The older of them waved at Misha and replaced his receiver.