Two saleswomen sat behind the high counter, looking bored. One, a peroxide blonde, was probably in her mid-twenties but looked older because of heavy makeup, dark eyeshadow and dizzyingly bright lipstick. Her colleague, a brunette, was older, perhaps in her early fifties. Her makeup was tasteful and impeccable, and her auburn shoulder-length hair was shiny and fresh-looking. Neither paid attention to Nikolai as he entered the store because both were focused on the small television set, its back turned to the customers.
“Hello, ladies,” Nikolai said and took a step towards the glass display of watches, sparkling costume jewelry, various decorative pins, and bejeweled hair clips.
“Hello,” the brunette said and got up. “Can we help you find something?”
“I’m looking for a gift,” Nikolai said.
“Anything specific?” the blonde asked.
“I haven’t decided yet. Maybe, you could show me what you have, guide me a bit?”
“My pleasure.” The blonde walked around the counter and stood next to Nikolai. “Who’s the lucky girl?” She looked up at him and smiled.
“My sister. Her birthday is coming up.” Nikolai did not have a sister but found that young salesgirls were more inclined to help when they thought he was shopping for a sister or a mother, not a girlfriend.
“What a nice brother you are.” The blonde smiled brightly. She introduced herself as Alyona and led Nikolai to the glass cabinet filled with overpriced fashion jewelry and sunglasses. Nikolai pretended to look at the items but paid more attention to the wall behind the cabinet. It looked solid: no windows, no doors, no storage areas.
“Would you like to see more?” Alyona led him to a table displaying scarves, gloves, and colorful pins, then on to the back area of the store where leather purses of different sizes and designs covered the wall floor to ceiling. As she was chatting pleasantly, explaining the differences between fasteners and clips, shoulder straps and handles, Nikolai surveyed the store. It was small, with only one entrance, at the front. There were no doors or storage areas anywhere at the back. That made his job easier.
Nikolai picked a purple scarf with delicate flowers on it. It felt silky and light. Purple was Olga’s favorite color. He glanced at the price tag. A little expensive but Olga was worth it. “I’ll buy this one.”
“Your sister will like it,” Alyona said.
“I hope so.”
They were back at the counter now. The brunette was leafing through a fashion magazine and glancing at the TV. The volume was low.
“Anything else?” Alyona asked.
“Yes, I’m also helping Tatiana Mikhailova, Roman Mikhailov’s wife.”
“Picking up the dress?” the brunette asked.
“Yes.”
“Is Tatiana here?”
“Yes. She’ll be right in.”
“I’ll go get the dress.” The brunette said, turned off the television and walked to a clothes rack behind the counter.
Alyona looked at Nikolai expectantly.
“I’ll go get Tatiana,” he said, walked out of the store and headed back to the car.
After escorting Tatiana from the car to the boutique, he told her he’d wait outside.
“Thank you,” Tatiana said. “I appreciate the privacy.”
“Don’t leave the shop if you don’t see me outside,” Nikolai said. “No matter what happens.”
“What could possibly happen?” Tatiana said.
“It may rain,” Nikolai attempted a joke.
Tatiana forced a smile.
“Nothing, most likely,” Nikolai said. “It’s just a precaution.” He held open the door for her.
“Thanks,” Tatiana said and walked inside.
From his vantage point outside the shop, Nikolai could clearly see the car. The day was warm and pleasant, but the temperature inside the car bordered on uncomfortably warm, so Pavel parked in the shade and had the windows rolled down. Tatiana was adamant about not having air conditioning on when Anastasia was inside, no matter how hot it got. It was that old Russian superstition that any wind, draft, or other movement of air would cause a young baby to get a cold. Air conditioning was obviously a culprit as well, and no modern medical science could dissuade Tatiana.
Nikolai stood by the shop entrance for a few moments, watching Pavel get a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, flick a lighter and start smoking. Pavel stepped over to the front of the car, probably to avoid blowing cigarette smoke inside the car, and watched Anastasia through the windshield. The playground was behind Pavel now but in Nikolai’s clear view.
Nikolai sensed some movement on the other side of the playground fence. A Volga pulled up to the fence, then a motor bike stopped next to it. The bike rider jumped off, exchanged some words with the Volga driver, and started strolling along the fence. There was something about the deliberately casual movement of the motorcyclist that made Nikolai tense up and run down the street towards the parked car. He could see the motor bike rider walking towards Pavel. In one hand, he held his helmet, carrying it a little too rigidly, like the helmet was heavy.
“Pavel, watch out!” Nikolai yelled as he ran.
But his voice was drowned out by a car, its radio blasting loudly, racing by. As if in slow motion, Nikolai watched Pavel take one more drag on his cigarette, throw it on the asphalt, and start stomping it out. And at that exact moment, while Pavel was looking down, the bike rider appeared next to him, a cloth-wrapped object from the helmet in his hand. He raised the object over Pavel’s head and struck him. Hard and sudden.
Chapter Nine
Pavel collapsed to the ground. The man was opening the back door of the car, right where Anastasia was, and reaching inside. Nikolai was next to the car now, grabbing the man, and throwing him on the ground. The man had a gun in his hand, but Nikolai kicked the man’s hand before he could aim, sending the gun flying.
With a loud revving, the Volga that had been parked on the other side of the fence took off and started speeding away. For a moment, it was headed straight towards Nikolai. Instinctively, Nikolai jumped out of its way, leaving the motorcyclist on the ground. As the Volga came up to them, it slowed down for a moment, its door flew open, somebody grabbed the man, pulled him inside, and they were gone.
Seconds later, Tatiana came running out of the boutique towards them. Inside the car, Anastasia was wailing loudly.
Tatiana rushed into the car. “Is she okay?”
“Anastasia is fine,” Nikolai said and bent down to check on Pavel. He was conscious now, slowly getting up from the ground. “Where’s Tatiana and the baby?” Pavel asked, rubbing the back of his head.
“Right here,” Nikolai said. “They are okay.”
“Who hit me?”
“A guy on a motorcycle. I saw him as we were driving in but didn’t connect things at first.”
“Where is he?” Pavel asked.
“He’s gone,” Nikolai said.
Pavel was quiet for a moment, still trying to come to his sense and evaluate the situation.
“Do you have any idea who he was and why he attacked me?” Pavel asked.
“My guess would be he tried to kidnap Anastasia either for a ransom or to put some pressure on Roman. Business incentives, some people call it.”
Before Pavel could respond, Roman’s car came careening around the corner. He pulled up next to the mini-van, jumped out of the driver’s seat and rushed to embrace Tatiana and Anastasia. Nikolai watched him hug Anastasia gently, Tatiana next to him, clinging to his arm. The two saleswomen stood by the door of the shop, arms interlocked, watching the unfolding scene in horror.
And then, it was the repeat of the day before. The paramedics, the police, the forensics expert.
The paramedics checked everyone and left. The police loaded the motorcycle onto a trailer. One of the officers approached Nikolai.
“We’ll need a statement from you,” the officer said. “The sooner the better. We could go to the station, or do it right here.”
�
�Right here is fine,” Nikolai said.
Nikolai and the officer stepped into the shade of the birch tree, and Nikolai told him everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours or so, starting from the shot that killed Grisha. The longer they talked, the more convinced Nikolai was that this kidnapping was another deliberate attempt to get to Roman. But he could not figure out who was trying to get to him and why. The officer took copious notes, thanked Nikolai, and went into the dress shop to talk to the saleswomen again.
Then, Pavel got into the minivan alone. Roman asked Nikolai to come in his car, with Tatiana and Anastasia. Roman drove. The ride to the estate was quiet. Nikolai could see that Roman was tense and worried.
“Do anything you need to do,” Roman said to Nikolai when they had a moment alone. “What happened today really scared me. And I’m not easily scared.”
“Understood,” Nikolai said. “Additional security from Centurion will be here later today. And first thing in the morning, I’ll head to the prison to talk to Nikita Egorov.”
Chapter Ten
Dawn was barely breaking when Nikolai left the estate, waved to the two guards at the gate, and headed northeast to the prison where Nikita Egorov was serving his sentence. Nikolai estimated it would take him at least three hours to get there, especially considering the recent rains that made narrow rural roads harder to drive. His RAV4 was a four-wheel drive, but even that was not always enough to avoid getting stuck in deep thick mud that many rural Russian roads turned into after each rain. Despite the early hour, the highway leading out of Rublyovka was busy. Many residents had offices in Moscow and preferred getting up earlier to being stuck in heavy Moscow traffic of mid-morning.
As he drove further away from Rublyovka and from Moscow, the traffic got much lighter and the surroundings changed. No more gated mansions and houses designed according to the latest fad, no more shopping areas with boutiques and immaculate lawns. Now, all Nikolai saw were squat houses, one or two stories high. The houses were surrounded by low wooden fences, many of the posts missing or hastily mended with chicken wire. Despite their proximity to Moscow and all its modernity, the people who owned these houses still lived like nineteenth-century peasants. Many still did not have the basic indoor conveniences, as was evident by outhouses in the corners of their yards. They grew many of their own crops, mainly potatoes, carrots, and apples that did well in the cold Russian climate. Many yards had simple hothouses constructed out of wooden beams covered with heavy plastic. These hothouses were used for growing tomatoes and cucumbers that could be canned in the fall and used throughout the winter.
Nikolai turned off the main road at the crooked and weathered Sunny Meadows sign and followed a quickly deteriorating road into an area dotted with small ponds, patches of trees, and thick brush. Not a single house was in sight. Nikolai slowed down as he encountered more potholes. Soon, the pavement ended, giving way to a primitive road mostly made of mud and puddles.
After about an hour of sloshing through the road and laboring through the sticky mud and dirt, Nikolai saw a discreet sign, “Sunny Meadows Government Facility.” Four guard towers and a massive concrete wall connecting them came into view. The road widened as the trees gave way to tall posts surrounding the prison, each post equipped with a floodlight. The trees and bushes had been cleared from the area, leaving it empty and barren-looking. It was a depressing sight.
There was no parking area that Nikolai could see and no signs encouraging or prohibiting parking, so he pulled over to the far side of the empty lot, parked at the edge of it, and walked towards the prison entrance. He could see the massive entrance gate for official vehicles, heavily guarded, and a small booth to the left, presumably for pedestrian traffic. Nikolai approached the booth, nodded to the guards, and walked inside. A bored-looking officer in an army uniform got up from his chair.
“What’s your business at the facility? No personal visits today.”
Nikolai pulled out his cred pack and put it on the counter. “I’m with Centurion Protection Agency. Here to see Nikita Egorov.”
The officer shook his head. “No personal visits today.”
“It’s not personal,” Nikolai said. “I’m on official business.” He handed the officer an envelope from Centurion Personal Protection Agency.
The officer tore open the envelope, pulled out a printed page, read it, and nodded in approval. “Have a seat.” He pointed to a wooden bench by the wall.
The officer picked up the phone on his desk, dialed a number, and spoke quietly. When he hung up, he addressed Nikolai again. “Officer Tsarev will be here shortly to take you to the visitation room.”
A few minutes later, a somber-faced man entered the small waiting area, saluted to the officer at the counter, and introduced himself to Nikolai as Officer Tsarev.
“Ready to proceed?” Tsarev asked Nikolai. “Put your valuables here.” He handed Nikolai a plastic box. Nikolai emptied his pockets into the box.
“Any weapons on you?”
“None,” Nikolai responded.
“You sure? We have metal detectors.”
“I’m not armed.”
Tsarev nodded, put the plastic box with Nikolai’s belongings into a locker, closed it shut, and motioned for Nikolai to come over. “Numbered locks. Put in your combination. Something easy to remember.”
Nikolai put in a code, checked the lock, and stepped through the metal detector. Tsarev nodded his approval, and headed towards the door leading into the main part of the prison. Nikolai followed him as they walked silently down a long dreary hallway, its walls painted an institutional green, heavy black doors on both sides. Soon, they came up to a small room at the end. Two guards posted outside saluted to Tsarev. Tsarev unlocked the door and opened it.
“Wait here,” Tsarev said. “We’ll bring Egorov.” He slammed shut the heavy door behind him and left.
Nikolai looked around the room. As expected, the furnishings were modest. A metal table, its legs bolted down to the floor, and two chairs, one on each side of the table. The chairs were also secured to the floor. Prison authorities did not want to take any chances.
The only sources of light in the room were a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling and a small barred window, but it was unexpectedly bright inside, perhaps because the day was a sunny one. Sunny Meadows, just like the sign said.
Nikolai walked over to the window and peered outside. He could see a part of the cement wall on the opposite side of the yard and the asphalt surface of the yard itself glistening with the leftovers of the previous night’s rain. He could not imagine what life was like for the inmates confined to the prison. Many of them would not see the outside world for years and years, taste homemade food, or experience every day pleasures of life. Nikolai remembered an interview with a prominent Russian businessman after the man’s release from his ten-year-long prison sentence that he spent in Siberia. The interviewer asked the businessman what he wanted to do most of all, besides seeing his family. The man responded, “Eat some ice-cream and go to a classical music concert.” That simple answer, an example of things we take for granted, stuck with Nikolai for a long time.
Nikolai stood by the window watching the grim landscape through the bars until he heard the door open behind him. He turned around.
“You have twenty minutes,” the guard said and nudged a man dressed in prison-issue gray shirt and dark pants into the room. He was tall, lean, and muscular. His cropped hair were a mix of brown and black. The man had an aura of dignity and discipline about him. Under different circumstances, Nikolai would have mistaken Nikita Egorov for an ex-army.
“Who are you?” Nikita asked.
“Nikolai Volkov. I’m here to talk to you about Roman Mikhailov.” Nikolai tried to pull out a chair, then remembered it was bolted to the floor, and slid into it from the side.
“I’ve told the story many times,” Nikita said, still standing. “Nothing much to add. He’s a cheat and a crook. And he’s the main reason I’m here. S
ome business partner he was.”
“I haven’t heard your side of the story, only his, and I’m here to listen,” Nikolai said.
“What are you, one of those good-for-nothing state-appointed investigators?”
“I’m a private investigator,” Nikolai said.
“What else is there to investigate? The official story is that I stole money, embezzled company funds, and now I’m serving a sentence for all these misdeeds.”
“That’s not what I’m interested in.” Nikolai paused, considering the best course of action. “Nikita,” he continued. “I want to be honest with you. I believe that when serious business problems happen, they are rarely the doing of one party. Roman is probably not clean either, but you’re the one who took the blame.”
Nikita chuckled humorlessly, sat on the chair and placed his handcuffed wrists on the table in front of him. “Isn’t that the truth. But that little tidbit still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
Nikolai paused, then spoke up again. “Do you know why somebody would want Roman dead?”
“You want to start making a list?” Nikita said. “He crossed more people than I can remember, and many of them would sleep much better at night if he were dead.”
“You included?”
“Don’t try your tricks on me. I wouldn’t kill him. He isn’t worth it to me. But I do have a strong dislike for the man, to say the least.”
“What happened between you?” Nikolai asked.
“Those stores,” Nikita said, “they were my life. I gave up everything for their sake. I put my whole heart into them, and for a while I thought we had a good thing going. Then, out of nowhere, Roman starts accusing me of all kinds of machinations. And all I did was work day and night. For months on end, I had no weekends, no evenings. Nothing but the business. And that’s all I get.” Nikita lifted his hands off the table, then dropped them back down, the metal of the handcuffs striking the metal surface of the table, the heavy clanking reverberating through the small room.
In the Crosshairs: Russian Historical Thriller (Nikolai Volkov Book 2) Page 4