“I thought it was doctors who had the messy handwriting.”
Sophie gave him a look that suggested appreciation at his attempt to lighten her mood as she inserted the key in the lock, paused for a moment, and then turned the handle. Charlie’s first instinct on entering the tiny apartment was to search for a window, so oppressive was the stale air that met them. Finding one on the other side of the room, he fumbled with the latch and tugged at the ancient frame, managing to jerk it open a few inches before it squeaked to a halt. Pulling back the curtains, the room was cast in the bright sunlight of the cold Moscow day.
“I was wrong,” Sophie said, swinging the door shut behind her. “It’s not a dump. It’s a shithole.”
“It’s not so bad.” Charlie’s remark prompted a raised eyebrow from across the room. “I mean, it’s just a little … untidy, that’s all.” As he glanced around the room, maybe twelve feet by twelve and adorned with a battered sofa, an ugly chair, a large bookcase that seemed to list on the uneven floor, and a coffee table with a surface largely obscured by clutter, he tried to decide whether they were looking at the apartment as Steve Liepa had left it, or whether it had been turned upside down by the militia, or maybe the FSB.
“I know Steve was a slob, but this is ridiculous,” Sophie said, after they had both done a preliminary scan of the room. “Someone’s obviously been through the place.”
“Doesn’t look like a break-in,” Charlie said, looking back to the door. “Door was locked and intact. Could’ve been the cops or the FSB.”
“Yeah, I think keys are kind of just decorative in this environment, don’t you?”
Charlie nodded and looked around the corner into the tiny alcove that served as a kitchen. There was a little bar fridge that was making the kind of strained hum that precedes complete electrical failure and a hot plate on a corner counter, next to the smallest, and possibly the dirtiest, microwave Charlie had ever seen. As he flipped the wall switch, a single fluorescent tube flickered overhead and he saw something small and black scurry under the little curtain that covered the open area under the sink. Stepping gingerly forward, he noticed a pile of dirty dishes half immersed in sludge at the bottom of the sink and realized it was the source of the low-grade funk that had sent him to the window when he first stepped into the apartment and now made him turn back to the main living area. Sophie was in the doorway of the only other room in the apartment, which he assumed was the bedroom. He decided to inspect the bookcase while she stepped inside. The top shelf was devoted to technical manuals and a pair of enormous, dog-eared Russian-English dictionaries. The next was filled with a mixture of novels and works of non-fiction. Pulling out a couple, Charlie found a smattering of works on Russian history mixed in with what appeared to be mostly mysteries. He plucked a thick, hard-bound book from the shelf and looked at the cover.
“I know he liked Hemingway,” Sophie said from over his shoulder, causing him to spin around and lose his grip on the collection of Hemingway’s novels, which fell with a thud on the cracked linoleum.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No problem.” Charlie stooped to pick up the book.
“Steve always said Hemingway was the only serious novelist he liked. He said he identified with him, though I don’t know what that meant … and don’t say it’s because he committed suicide.”
“Nothing in the bedroom?”
“Unless you’re interested in examining his dirty socks,” she said with a sigh. “What’s in these?” She pointed at the three cardboard boxes on the middle shelf, then pulled one out, opened the lid, and began rummaging through a stack of papers. Charlie pulled out a second box and did the same. “Looks like stuff he was working on,” she said, putting the lid back on the box.
Charlie was staring at a Russian manual of some kind with a series of loose-leaf sheets inserted in the middle. At the bottom corner of the box were a half dozen business cards, which Charlie carefully retrieved. The first was Liepa’s, indicating him as a technical translator for Technion. The next four were the same, but the last one had a different name embossed in the centre: Nikolai Shakirov, who was also described as a translator. Charlie pocketed the last card, as well as one of Liepa’s, before returning to the document in his hand.
“Looks like a translation in progress, of a … building-management system,” he said, reading the heading of the translated document.
Sophie opened the third box only to find it empty. Next she pressed the power switch on the decrepit-looking desktop computer that sat on the second shelf, which Liepa had apparently used as an improvised desk; a lawn chair sat in front of the monitor.
“How could he … how could anyone work like this?” she said as the CPU whirred and the monitor blinked reluctantly to life. “He said he was making decent money. I just don’t underst —”
Charlie followed her fixed stare to the monitor, where an image of a smiling Liepa gazed back at them both, his arm around an equally happy-looking Sophie. The backdrop showed trees and sparkling water.
“Our aunt’s cottage up in Muskoka,” Sophie said after a prolonged silence. “I always loved that place …” She turned toward the door. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
Charlie followed her out into the hall and saw her leaning against the wall, clearly trying to compose herself.
“I know this must be awful for you,” he said, wishing there were something he could say or do to lessen her pain. She took a deep breath, then Charlie watched as her eyes, clouded with tears, suddenly sharpened and the familiar resolve returned.
“You check his computer,” she said when they returned to the apartment. She inspected the closet by the bedroom.
Charlie sat in front of the computer and began clicking around. The hard drive wasn’t password protected, so he was free to search through the various directories. Other than translations and other work-related material, though, he found nothing. The computer didn’t appear to be connected to the internet and the email software was unused. He recalled Liepa’s mention of a phone — he said the police had taken it.
“Did you get Steve’s phone with his personal effects?”
“There was no phone,” Sophie said from across the room, where she was rummaging through a shoebox she’d found. “I think we can guess what happened to it,” she added, standing up and discarding the shoebox. “Anything on there?”
Charlie shook his head. “Just work stuff.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
“You didn’t find anything either?”
She gestured to the door. “Come on, there’s nothing more to learn from this place.”
They descended the rickety stairs to the street, filling their lungs with the crisp, raw air outside before setting off for the Metro.
“What is it you’re not telling me?” Charlie said quietly after they had gone a few steps.
They walked on in silence for a few minutes before she replied, and when she did, her voice was barely more than a whisper. “There was no laptop.”
Charlie shrugged. “How can you be sure he had one?”
“Because I gave it to him, last Christmas. He told me it never left his side, which means either someone took it,” she said, as they reached the steps to the Metro, “or it’s still out there somewhere.”
Chapter 15
Charlie was sitting at his desk on Monday morning, trying to concentrate on an email from Ottawa. All he had been able to think about since getting up this morning was Sophie Durant and the suspicions she had revealed to him over the weekend. It was true that she was distraught, and that had to influence the way she confronted her brother’s death, especially given what she had told Charlie about their relationship while Liepa was alive. On the other hand, Sophie was a medical doctor, and Charlie could only take her word for the explanation of the strange mark on Steve Liepa’s shoulder. Then there wa
s the mysterious meeting at the Conservatory. Did it actually prove anything, or could it be written off to journalistic paranoia? Charlie had only to remind himself of the recent cases involving the harassment and even murder of Russian journalists to realize that the danger of asking the wrong questions was real, but what could Liepa have been working on that put him at risk, when he had spent his days translating technical manuals? And what did this Alexander Surin have to do with anything?
Charlie took a sip of coffee and tried to refocus on his email. He was still adjusting to the reality of working seven or eight hours ahead of Ottawa, which made him feel constantly out of synch. At least the usual bombardment of messages wouldn’t begin until late in the day. He was rereading the same paragraph for the third time when he noticed a message from the ambassador reminding a dozen people on the circulation list of the reception to be held at the official residence at seven. Charlie groaned at the thought of another mandatory schmooze-fest. He got up and looked out the window into the crowded courtyard, watching the cloud of snow descend from the darkened sky and accumulate on the ground. He saw one of the drivers emerge from the garage and start the ambassador’s Volvo, before meticulously brushing the snow off the windows. The chill in Charlie’s feet, still damp from his morning walk to work from his apartment, reminded him that he was going to have to get new boots.
Returning to his desk, he pulled Steve Liepa’s file from a tray and flipped the folder open. He paused at the sight of the phone number he had tried the week before, for the friend Liepa had mentioned at Charlie’s last interview with him — Sergei Yermolov. He thought it odd that he hadn’t received a response to either his email or the call he had made to the number he’d found for Yermolov on his employer’s online directory, though he was learning that business was done very differently in Russia. He brought up UPI’s website, and something about the logo seemed familiar. It only took a moment to place it: on the side of a building near a restaurant he had been to a couple of weeks before, just a ten-minute walk from the embassy. Charlie glanced out the window at the falling snow, then down to the sodden boots under his desk. Sophie Durant clinched it for him, particularly her uncharacteristically forlorn expression across the table the other night. He owed it to her to find out whatever he could about her brother’s arrest. He would spend the next couple of hours cleaning out his inbox, then head over to Yermolov’s office to see if he could catch him there. In the meantime he pulled the pair of business cards he had taken from Steve Liepa’s apartment from his pocket and examined Nikolai Shakirov’s for a moment before reaching for the handset of his phone and dialling the number. After a few rings, Charlie expected a receptionist or a recorded message, but he was surprised to hear a young man’s voice just after the fifth ring.
“Is this Nikolai Shakirov?” Charlie said, guessing that Shakirov was used to working in English — probably translating from English to Russian.
“Yes, who is calling?” The voice was lightly accented.
“My name is Charlie Hillier. I’m calling about Steve Liepa.”
Charlie waited through the silence at the other end before adding. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Steve. You’re aware he recently … passed.”
“You are a member of the family?”
“Sort of,” Charlie lied. “I’m calling on behalf of his sister,” he quickly improvised, sensing the hesitation on the other end of the line. “Sophie Durant.”
There was a short release of breath on the otherwise silent phone line. “Steve talked about her a great deal. What did you want to ask?”
Charlie glanced at the business card and read the address, recognizing it as one of the few main streets he was familiar with. “Can we meet? I notice you’re on Tverskaya. I could meet you at your office.”
“No,” Shakirov responded abruptly, and Charlie expected the phone to slam down. Instead there was a brief pause. “There’s a coffee shop on the north side of Pushkin Square. I can meet you there in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be there,” Charlie said to the dead line at his ear.
Charlie walked into the busy coffee shop and stamped his feet before making his way to the back of the line of people queuing for coffee. He was scanning the right side of the room when he sensed someone at his left, turned, and saw a man in his mid-twenties looking him over.
“Mr. Hillier?” The young man approached him tentatively.
“Charlie. You’re Nikolai?”
“I ordered coffee already — over there,” he said, pointing to a table with two chairs overlooking the square. Charlie followed him over. There was a tray in the middle of the table with a steel coffee pot surrounded by a pair of mugs, a little jug of milk, and a sugar bowl. Shakirov gestured to one of the chairs.
“Please.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said, taking a seat as Shakirov poured coffee into both mugs. “I appreciate you making time to meet with me on such short notice.”
“You are Sophie’s … husband?”
“Uh, I’m a friend … of the family. I’m helping Sophie with some of the logistics.”
Shakirov looked at him over his coffee mug, as though trying to figure out whether he could be trusted.
“You can imagine,” Charlie continued, “Steve’s death was a real shock, and she’s just trying to come to terms with her loss and maybe find out if there was anything odd about Steve’s behaviour recently.” He wondered if he was succeeding at putting Shakirov at ease or making him more suspicious. From the young Russian’s inscrutable expression, it was hard to tell. “Did you two work together for long?”
Shakirov sipped his coffee leisurely, glanced out the window, and then appeared to settle some internal debate.
“I have been working for Technion these past two years, so I know Steve since he joined the company.”
“Did you work together closely?”
Shakirov shrugged. “Generally we worked on different texts, but sometimes we … collaborated. Steve’s Russian was very good, but he needed help with some of the technical terms, and he helped me with my English grammar.”
“Your English is excellent.”
“Thank you.” Shakirov gave a thin smile and pushed the wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “It was not so perfect six months ago, so I should thank him for that. We had many lunches together.”
“So you both did the same kind of work?”
“Yes and no. I did more of the English-to-Russian translations and German-to-Russian. Steve did Russian-to-English, some Russian-to-French also. His French was also excellent.”
“And what are you normally translating?”
“Depends on the client.” Shakirov shrugged. “But usually it’s technical manuals. Building-management systems, fire alarm, and other electrical systems — we get a lot of work from construction companies, Russian and German mostly. We worked on some appliance manuals, as well.”
“And it’s interesting work,” Charlie said, more as a question than a statement — he couldn’t imagine anything more mind-numbing, and he had suffered through some pretty boring jobs in Ottawa. Shakirov looked at him as though wondering whether there was a challenge in the question, then took a sip of coffee and shrugged again.
“It is not so bad. Once you build up a vocabulary of technical terms, it is … predictable.”
“And did Steve seem to enjoy the work, as well?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Did you notice if he was unhappy or particularly stressed lately?”
Shakirov gave a curt shake of his head. “Steve was a very happy person. Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering if he mentioned anything going on in his life. Financial troubles, problems with a girlfriend, that sort of thing.”
“You think he killed himself, yes?” Shakirov’s matter-of-fact tone made Charlie think he was putting it forward as a p
lausible explanation, until Shakirov let out a rough laugh. “Not Steve. He was not the unhappy type. Impossible.”
“Did you know Steve socially … outside the office, I mean?”
Shakirov scratched his wispy goatee and shook his head. “I don’t socialize much, so my experience of Steve is at work and many lunches, as I mentioned. But Steve was very, how do you say the word … I don’t know, but he had many friends.”
“Gregarious,” Charlie offered, which seemed to please Shakirov.
“Yes, I think so.” His smile faded and he looked down at his coffee cup. Charlie had a sudden image of him sitting alone at a computer terminal in a dingy room full of technical manuals. He imagined it was located in his parents’ basement, though, unlike Liepa’s grubby, if well-located bachelor pad.
“You should ask Tania about his social life,” Shakirov added. “She knew him much better outside the office.”
“Tania?”
Shakirov’s raised eyebrows conveyed his surprise at Charlie’s lack of knowledge. “Ivanova. His girlfriend.”
“Do you have a phone number or an address for her?” Charlie asked, trying to conceal the excitement he felt at finally making some progress.
“I have it at the office.… Wait.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contact list. “Yes, here she is.”
Charlie took down the contact information and they continued to chat for another ten minutes, then Shakirov drained the last of the coffee in his cup, and set it on the table. “I should be going.”
“Me, too,” Charlie replied, thinking he had just enough time to make it to Sergei Yermolov’s office, which was a short Metro ride away, before lunch. “Thank you very much for meeting me.”
“My pleasure. Please, pass on my regrets to Sophie. I didn’t meet her but Steve talked about her often. She is a doctor, yes?”
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