In the Crosshairs: Russian Historical Thriller (Nikolai Volkov Book 2)

by Julia Gousseva

  “What about personal investments with the company funds?” Nikolai said.

  “Oh, that story again.” Nikita shook his head. “Are you really that naive? Roman told me to set up a service company, in my name, and we used some of the earnings from our department stores to pay for these services. It was a way to reduce taxes. Perfectly legal, by the way, even according to the state investigators. It’s a loophole available to anyone diligent enough to read laws and fine print.”

  “Isn’t that called money laundering?”

  “You can call it what you want. I call it using the system for business advantages. Anybody else could have done it as well.”

  “And then what?”

  Nikita drew in a long breath and studied his handcuffed hands for a moment. Then, he looked at Nikolai. “Listen, Nikolai, you seem like a nice guy, but I don’t know you. And I’ve already told you more than enough. Roman really hurt me, and I have good reasons not to like him. That’s all there’s to it. Many people don’t like him, and many of them would do whatever it takes to get rid of him. Roman had crossed a lot of people and had done a lot of bad things.”

  “Like what?”

  “The whole debacle with Filip is one. I’ll never talk to that guy again either, and the three of us used to be that close.” Nikita interlocked his fingers and squeezed his hands together as much as the handcuffs would allow. “Like brothers, Roman used to say. Who needs enemies when you have brothers like those two.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Nikolai asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Nikita said. “And we’ve been already talking for a long time. Got any cigarettes?”

  Nikolai pulled out a pack and a lighter from his pocket and handed them to Nikita. The guard watching them from the hallway stepped closer to the window and stood there while Nikita lit a cigarette, put the pack in his pocket, and handed the lighter back to Nikolai.

  Nikita took a long drag on the cigarette, leaned back in his chair, and looked straight at Nikolai.

  “Do you know Grisha?” Nikolai asked.

  “The driver?” Nikita said. “Sure, I know him.”

  “What do you think about him? Is he honest? A good guy?”

  “He seems like a nice guy. More than that.” Nikita paused. “He has this rare quality most people today don’t have anymore.”

  “What quality is that?”

  “He’s happy. Content. Doesn’t want more than he needs. He works hard and makes money honestly. And he doesn’t compare himself to anyone, not even to his brother.” Nikita paused, took another long drag of the cigarette, and flicked the ashes on the floor. “Leonid, that brother of his, is another guy I wouldn’t trust.”

  “Why not?”

  “Times are tough now, and everyone wants to make money, so many people cross all kinds of lines. I’m no angel myself, and I’ll be the first one to admit it, but Leonid is a different story. He’s greedy. Too greedy, too driven by money. I don’t trust him. But Grisha is completely different. Polar opposites.”

  “Grisha’s dead,” Nikolai said, watching for Nikita’s reaction. If Nikita had ordered the hit on Roman, he would know what happened, and he would have to work hard to show surprise at Nikolai’s statement. If he wasn’t involved, his reaction would be genuine.

  “Come again?” Nikita said, his eyes looking directly into Nikolai’s. “What kind of a sick joke is it?”

  “It’s the truth.” Nikolai paused, looking at Nikita.

  “What happened? When?” Nikita’s eyes widened, disbelief clear in his voice, face, and tone.

  “It’s a long story,” Nikolai said.

  “I want to hear it,” Nikita said.

  The guard knocked on the glass, indicating the visitation time was over.

  Nikolai got up. “I’ll tell you that story next time. We still have a lot to talk about.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After his visit with Nikita Egorov, Nikolai drove to his apartment, showered, changed, and headed outside. He did not know Grisha well, but the man died in front of him, and the least Nikolai could do was to pay his respects.

  Preobrazhenskoe Cemetery was only a few metro stops away, so Nikolai left his car at home. It was midday, a time in-between the morning and the evening rushes of passengers, but the metro train was still crowded. Nikolai made his way to the far corner and stood next to the emergency exit sign. The ventilation system was working hard, but the train was still stuffy. Nikolai unbuttoned his jacket. About twenty minutes and six stops later, the recording announced Preobrazhenskaya Station. Nikolai walked out of the train, ran up the steps and pushed open the heavy door. The fresh air and a cool breeze were a welcome respite. He crossed to the other side and followed the narrow street towards what felt like a tunnel bordered by a tall red brick wall of the old Preobrazhenskoe Monastery on the right side and a bright green fence of the sprawling outdoor market on the left. Nikolai got to the gate and entered the market. He passed by a long line of stands piled high with potatoes, tomatoes, cucumbers, frozen fish, and hot meat pies, and headed to a small tent selling flowers. The tent was filled floor to ceiling with plastic and live flowers, bouquets, various arrangements, and wreaths. An old woman dressed in a long skirt, a shawl, and thick woolen socks under flat sandals greeted him.

  “What would you like, molodoi chelovek?” Young man, she called him. She swept her arms in a wide circle to indicate her offerings. “Plastic flowers last longer. They will look good till next spring. Not expensive.”

  “No, no, no plastic. I need live ones.”

  “Live ones are all over here.” The woman shuffled over to the stand with peonies, carnations, roses, and lilies. “Take your pick.”

  “I would like these ones,” Nikolai said. He pointed to red carnations and took out his wallet.

  The woman named her price, and he counted off the notes while she counted the number of flowers in the arrangement. “For a funeral, right?” she asked. “Or for a young woman? Sixteen in this bunch. If it’s for a young woman, I’ll pull one out.”

  “For a funeral,” Nikolai said.

  “Sixteen will do then,” said the woman, referring to the old Russian tradition of giving odd numbers of flowers to living people, and even numbers for the dead. Neither Christianity nor communism could erase the ancient pagan belief that an even number of flowers symbolized a completed cycle of life -- in other words, death -- and thus, even numbered bouquets were only appropriate for gravesites.

  “What’s the name? I’ll put him, or her, on my prayer card.”

  “Grisha.” Nikolai watched the woman pull out a small notebook and a pencil.

  She squinted as she wrote down his name in small neat hand-writing. “May he rest in peace, your Grisha,” she said to Nikolai.

  “Thank you.” Nikolai took the flowers and headed to the far side of the market where the cemetery entrance was located. As soon as he stepped through the cemetery gate, all the sounds of the market, of vendors selling their goods, of customers bargaining for better deals, and of excited kids tasting ice-cream and candy, faded behind him. Even the sun hid behind the clouds, as if trying to be subdue its brightness out of respect for the dead.

  The main alley leading to the chapel was lined with large marble tombstones; many of them looked elaborate and expensive. Some had life-size monuments, others looked like grottos, a few portrayed entire scenes out of the deceased’s life, all carved in marble and stone. Nikolai slowed his pace and looked at the dates. Many of the graves were recent, and most of the deceased were young men, the majority in their late twenties and early thirties. Judging by the size of the tombstones, these men had been successful businessmen, with their lucrative but dangerous careers cut short by competitors.

  For a moment, he paused by twin tombstones placed side by side. One had a portrait of a young boy who looked to be in his early teens, perhaps even younger. Next to it was a portrait of a girl about the same age. Both were happy and smiling. “Please forgive us. We will never forget you
,” he read the words inscribed in bronze. Immediately, Nikolai knew who these kids were. They were the young stars of Nord-Ost, the musical that would be an eternally tragic memory in the minds of Muscovites. After the intermission, as the audience was settling for the second act, forty armed Chechen terrorists walked on stage. For a few moments, the audience thought the armed men and women were a part of the act. But the grim reality soon became clear. The terrorists took over the theater and held the cast and the audience, a total of eight hundred and fifty people -- hostage for three long days.

  The rescue was still being discussed in the media as one of the most controversial in the recent Russian history. On the third night of the siege, Russian Special Forces pumped mysterious gas into the building with the intention of incapacitating the terrorists and preventing them from setting off a bomb that would cause a massive explosion. Moments later, they stormed the building. Some of the terrorists fought back, others were passed out from the gas, as were some of the audience members.

  The child actors were two of one hundred and thirty victims. Nikolai remembered the posters advertising the musical, the hottest show in the capital that summer, inviting the audience to experience “the most unforgettable night of your life.” He looked at the inscription again, noting the sad irony. The night of the performance that became the last one would be an unforgettable one for Muscovites for years to come.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the nearby memorial bell. Nikolai picked up his pace and walked to the chapel at the far end of the main alley. He was about to enter the chapel when he was approached by a young man in the uniform of a private security firm. Nikolai recognized him as one of the guards who worked at Roman’s estate.

  “Can I see your ID?” the man started, then stopped. “Sorry, Nikolai. I didn’t recognize you. Go right ahead.”

  The man stepped aside, and Nikolai slowly pulled open the heavy door of the cathedral and walked inside, trying to be as unobtrusive and quiet as possible. Like in most Russian Orthodox churches in Moscow, the walls were decorated with icons in gilded frames. Next to each icon was a round table that held burning candles. The church attendant, an elderly lady in a long dark dress, a scarf covering her hair, was quietly walking from icon to icon collecting burnt-out candles. The domed ceiling was high, covered with paintings of angels and saints. The church felt spacious, mostly because there was no seating. The Russian Orthodox Church believed that people should either stand or kneel during a service, with rare exceptions made for the elderly and the infirm. The centerpiece of all Russian churches was the altar and its surrounding icons. Nobody but the priests was ever admitted behind the altar, and that made that space feel even more sacred and more mysterious.

  A small crowd was gathered to the right of the altar, and Nikolai could hear the priest chanting a prayer in Old Slavonic, walking around the casket where Grisha lay, and waving the thurible in rhythm to his words. Nikolai came closer and stopped. He was a few steps away from the priest now. In his traditional garb and with a long beard, the priest looked old, or perhaps timeless, as if he were here when the church was first built and would be here after all the mere mortals now gathered inside were long gone. The cadence of his voice reciting a sermon also felt timeless, as if coming straight from the biblical times. Nikolai looked at the priest’s face closer: fresh skin, no wrinkles, and no gray in his hair. He did not look much older than Nikolai, but his demeanor conveyed the wisdom of the ages. For a moment, Nikolai wondered if he should start going to church, like his grandmother always wanted him to.

  As was Nikolai’s professional habit, he watched the crowd as he listened to the priest. There were many people he had never met, but there were some he had seen at the estate. He noticed Ekaterina, Pavel, Vasily, Pyotr, Filip Samoilov, and, of course, Tatiana and Roman.

  The service lasted for another half an hour, with the mourners listening to the priest and praying. Then, it was time to move to the gravesite for the final good-byes. The crowd broke up, and Nikolai caught a glimpse of a red-haired man who resembled Grisha so much that, for a brief moment, Nikolai had a strange sensation, as if the time had moved back, and Grisha was still alive, standing in the cathedral. Nikolai quickly caught these irrational thoughts. No doubt, the man was Leonid, Grisha’s brother. He was talking to Vasily and Pyotr, the two guards from the estate. Nikolai watched Vasily shake hands with Leonid and step aside. Pyotr hugged him, and the two talked for a few minutes. When Nikolai moved forward to put his flowers into the casket, Pyotr stepped away from Leonid, abruptly ending their conversation. Leonid approached Nikolai. Next to him was a young woman, all dressed in black. Her hair was covered with a black scarf, with only one errand blond strand showing. She wore no makeup, and her eyes looked swollen and red. She was holding the hand of a small boy, no more than five or six years old. Next to him was another boy, a little older, and a little taller. They looked like brothers: both had light hair, fair skin, and athletic build, and both looked sad and lost, like they were not completely understanding what had happened to their dad.

  Leonid was now next to Nikolai. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I’m Leonid, Grisha’s brother. And this is Karina, Grisha’s wife. And their sons.”

  Nikolai took Karina’s outstretched hand and shook it, then put his other hand over it and held Karina’s hand in both of his. Merely a handshake seemed too cold of a gesture under the circumstances. “I was in the car with Grisha when it happened,” he said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Karina said, her voice breaking up. “It’s not the time and place to discuss this, I realize, but I would like to talk to you. I want justice for Grisha, and I hear that you’re the person who can help find the killers. The official investigators,” Karina waved her hand dismissively.

  An older woman came up to them and put her arm around Karina. “Time to go outside,” she said to Karina.

  “Yes, of course,” Karina responded, then turned back to Nikolai. “I’m staying with Leonid. Here’s the address.” Karina took a piece of paper and a pen out of her purse and wrote on it in neat round handwriting. “We’ll be at home tomorrow. Please come. Anytime.” She handed Nikolai the piece of paper and caught up with the older woman. They interlocked arms and walked slowly towards the exit.

  Nikolai followed them outside and down the steps of the church, walking a few meters behind them. Most people were moving in the same direction, following the main alley towards the burial site, but two broke away from the crowd and were heading towards the cemetery exit walking away fast, holding hands. They were still close enough for Nikolai to recognize who they were: Ekaterina and Pavel.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the morning, Nikolai drove back to the estate. He turned off the highway and slowed as he came to a busy intersection, the hub of Rublyovka’s commercial life. To his left was a busy market square where vendors offered everything from fresh fruit to plastic toys to ice-cream. Young parents pushed kids in strollers, grandparents walked with children, and couples milled around the square. Nikolai stopped at the red light. One couple caught his attention. More specifically, the woman of the couple. She was slender, with long auburn hair. The couple was a few meters away from Nikolai, chatting, smiling, and laughing. They looked happy and carefree. Nikolai looked closer, confirming his thoughts. Sure enough, the woman was Tatiana; the man was not Roman.

  The light turned green, and Nikolai drove on. He turned off the main road, drove up to the estate, showed his ID at the gate, parked in the small lot, and got out of the car.

  The sun was breaking through the clouds, its light reflecting off the puddles left on the sides of the road by last night’s rain. Nikolai took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp morning freshness, and felt a twinge of guilt as he thought about Grisha. He would never be able to enjoy these simple pleasure of life. Or any pleasures.

  Nikolai stopped by the massive gate and pressed the intercom button. After a brief conversation with Vasily, the guard on
duty, Nikolai entered the estate and followed the paved walkway towards the house. The front door opened, and Marina, the investigator he met the day before, stepped outside.

  “Do you have a few minutes to talk?” Marina asked. “It’s important.”

  Nikolai followed Marina into the wooden gazebo that marked the halfway point between the entry gate and the front door. She sat down on the bench facing the front door. The morning was bright and sunny, and gentle wind was playing in the tree branches above them. Nikolai sat across from her, with a clear view of the entrance gate. Vasily and Pyotr were at the gate, watching the road and chatting with each other.

  “I’m listening,” Nikolai said.

  “I’ve talked to everyone else here already, and now I want to ask you a few questions about the attempted kidnapping,” Marina said.

  Nikolai nodded.

  “Have you seen anyone follow you when you left the estate that morning? Did you look?”

  “Of course, I looked. That’s my job. There was nobody, no cars and no motorcycles at any point during our trip. Nothing that I could see. The first time I spotted the motorcycle was when he pulled up at that playground next to the boutique.”

  “Was he alone?”

  Nikolai thought for a moment, reconstructing the scene in his mind. At the front gate, Pyotr pointed to his stomach, said something to Vasily, and took off. Nikolai made a mental note to mention this recurring problem to Roman. The last thing they needed was a stomach flu epidemic, especially with the young baby in the house. Pyotr needed to see a doctor before he was allowed back on duty.