“Yes. And I’ll be sure to tell her. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the thought.”
Chapter 16
Charlie hustled up the steps of Belorusskaya station. When he reached street level, he glanced around and immediately spotted the onion domes of the church he had seen on Yermolov’s website, next to the modern office complex known as White Square.
Stepping into the lobby, Charlie stamped his feet before the snow had a chance to seep further into the worn leather of his boots. He dusted his shoulders and made his way over to the reception desk, where he inquired after Yermolov. He continued to brush the melting snow off the sleeves of his coat as the young woman called upstairs. He listened as she spoke to someone, understanding enough of what she said, together with her direction for him to take a seat, to know that Yermolov was in. Charlie declined the seat, preferring to stand in the waiting area and let the warmth penetrate his boots. He watched as a stream of secretaries left the building for lunch, noticing how they bundled themselves in coats, hats, and scarves, but refused to abandon their thin-heeled boots. Was it just a question of practice, or did Russian women really possess superior equilibrium? Charlie watched as a young man in a snug shirt and bold tie emerged from one of the elevators and looked in his direction, his annoyance barely concealed. He strode over to the waiting area and greeted Charlie tersely in Russian.
“Do you speak English?” Charlie sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to his rudimentary Russian to communicate. The other man looked at him warily before answering.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Steve Liepa’s,” he said, stretching the truth. He wondered whether Yermolov knew Liepa was dead, and guessed he didn’t.
“What do you want?” From Yermolov’s defensive body position, Charlie didn’t get the impression he was going to be invited up to the office, so he gestured for them to sit in the leather chairs. Yermolov remained standing.
“I just wanted to talk to you about Steve,” Charlie said, also still on his feet.
“What about him?”
“Look, I know you were with him the night he was arrested. I’m just trying to help.”
“You’re from Canada?”
“Yes.”
He waited as Yermolov seemed to assess the truth of his statement. Charlie purposely avoided mentioning that he worked at the embassy, lest his inquiry be construed as official, which it was not.
“You are a lawyer?”
“No,” Charlie lied, hoping his hesitation hadn’t been noticed, even though the fact that he hadn’t actually practised law in years made the statement essentially true. “I’m a friend of the family. I was hoping you could tell me what happened that night.”
Yermolov paused and glanced around the lobby. Apart from the woman behind the counter and a bored-looking guard kicking at something stuck to the floor, it was empty. “It was a raid.” Yermolov shrugged. “We were just having fun — it was a party that some girls I know were having at their apartment. The police came in and broke it up. That’s it.”
“Did the police question you?”
“Not really. They talked to everyone for a while, then they let us go.”
“Except for Steve.”
“He was the only one without a Russian passport.”
“So they took him.”
Yermolov nodded, then shot another glance at the guard, who was looking their way now. “Why are you asking me these questions? You should go to the police.”
“I’ve been to the police,” Charlie said, becoming frustrated with Yermolov’s intransigence. He obviously had no idea that Liepa was dead, but he hadn’t even asked after him — some friend.
“Is he still there?” The question was asked like an afterthought, as though Yermolov was suddenly aware of an underlying current of danger.
Charlie ignored the question and countered with another of his own. “Did the police say why they were taking Steve to the station, other than because of his passport?”
Yermolov shook his head.
“These friends of yours who were having the party. What are their names?”
“I don’t remember. I heard about the party from someone at work.”
“Can we go and ask them?” Charlie said, gesturing upstairs. But Yermolov was done, and Charlie knew it by the way he looked at his watch and began backing away.
“I have to go back to work, Mr. —”
“Steve said you were a friend, Sergei. Was he wrong?”
“Tell him hello for me,” Yermolov said, turning to leave. Charlie held his tongue as he watched the man retreat to the elevators. He watched the doors close before he swore and began buttoning up his coat for the walk back to the embassy.
“I wish I could,” he muttered as he walked toward the door.
Charlie was still shaking off the cold as he stood at the cafeteria counter in the basement of the embassy, ordering what would be a hurried lunch before Sophie showed up in advance of the afternoon meeting. He had just taken a seat at one of the empty tables when an athletic man in his mid-thirties sat opposite him.
“Mind if I join you?” he said, setting his tray down on the table.
“Please do,” Charlie replied.
“I’m Ed Torrance, RCMP liaison. Welcome to Moscow.”
“Thanks.” Charlie hadn’t had much contact with the RCMP officers posted to Moscow, or the handful of others who occupied the mysterious labyrinth behind a coded access door in one of the embassy’s secure zones, other than seeing the acronym for their positions on the floor plan.
“Settling in?”
Charlie nodded. “Trying to. Still getting used to Moscow traffic, and the language … well, you know how it is. How long have you been here?”
“Came in last summer. Are you downtown or out in the Hills?” Torrance asked, referring to the group of single-family homes located in the suburbs near the American school, for use by embassy personnel with families.
“I’m a few blocks away. I’m solo.”
“Makes life a lot simpler,” Torrance said. “In terms of the commute, I mean.”
They chatted for a few minutes, exchanging notes on their accommodations and discussing the best place to buy fresh produce, before the conversation led to Charlie’s consular workload.
“I heard about the guy who died in detention,” Torrance said. “That’s a hell of a file to start out with. Any idea what happened?”
“They say it was suicide, but the sister thinks that’s bullshit.”
“She’s probably right.” Torrance paused, seeing Charlie’s expression. “I just mean they tend to say that a lot, whether it’s because they’re trying to cover up the shitty conditions in their prisons … or something else.”
“Say,” Charlie said, as a thought occurred to him, “you guys can’t check on passport activity, can you?”
Torrance shrugged. “Depends on the situation, but that’s generally CIC’s bailiwick,” he said, referring to the immigration program operating in the embassy.
“Right,” Charlie said, his dejection obvious.
“But if you get me a passport number, I could probably find out for you.”
“Really?”
“My wife’s a CIC officer,” Torrance said with a smile.
“I’ll get you the passport number,” Charlie said.
Just as he spoke he saw his assistant walk through the cafeteria doors, wide-eyed. Spotting him, she rushed over and Charlie sensed his lunch was over.
“Mr. Hillier, I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“What’s the matter, Irina?”
“Something terrible has happened. They called from the morgue.”
Charlie put down his spoon, trying to imagine what bad news could come from the morgue. He knew Steve Liepa’s body was to be transferred into embassy custody later in the day,
in preparation for transport back to Canada.
“There was a mistake,” Irina continued, wringing her hands as though she was personally to blame for whatever had occurred. “They cremated him.”
“They what?”
“They sent the wrong body for cremation — Mr. Liepa’s body.”
He looked up at her, and they seemed to share the same thought.
“His sister …” Irina began, but Charlie was already on his feet. He excused himself from the table, then hurried after Irina, thinking there might be time to talk to someone at the morgue before Sophie arrived for the meeting at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
As they left the cafeteria, Irina’s worried chatter over the unfortunate mix-up faded into oblivion as Charlie was struck with a far more sinister possibility. Cremation was certainly an effective way of ensuring that no one, including Liepa’s sister, had the opportunity to pursue any theories of his having died in any other way than by his own hand. Charlie’s mind was swimming with the possibilities as they stepped into the snow for the quick dash across the courtyard, and he saw the van pull in through the front gate. As the driver emerged and opened the door to let Sophie out, Charlie froze. Her smile of recognition faded as she read his eyes. He managed to unglue his feet and make his way slowly to her, the look of incomprehension and fear on her delicate features was almost unbearable as he grasped for words to convey the news, but found none.
Chapter 17
Charlie sat at his desk, his phone at his ear as he listened to another apology from the protocol officer on the other end of the line. As tired as he was of hearing the platitudes, he could only imagine how hollow they would sound to Sophie. The news that her brother’s body had been cremated had been the final straw, and she had refused to attend the meeting scheduled for the day before. Instead, she had gone off to interview a private investigator. Charlie had reached her at her hotel in the evening and convinced her to attend a rescheduled meeting today at the MFA with the wrongful cremation added to the agenda, but he could hardly blame her for her skepticism. Nor was he any more hopeful that the meeting would yield anything useful. Still, they had to try to get answers. He was wrapping up the call when he sensed someone in his doorway and looked up to see the RCMP liaison officer he had met in the cafeteria the day before.
“Hi, Ed,” he said, after he’d hung up. “Come on in.”
“I’m on my way to a meeting,” Torrance said, with a wave of his hand as he stepped inside Charlie’s office. “I just wanted to drop this off for you.” Charlie watched as Torrance slid a single sheet of paper onto the corner of his desk. “I hope this is useful.” He turned to go.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” Charlie gave him a grateful nod and then Torrance was gone. Leaning back in his chair, Charlie perused the paper — a printout in an odd-looking font with Steve Liepa’s name and passport number at the top, above a series of lines representing passport entry points over the past six months. The first six lines were in the spring, when Liepa’s passport was logged going into Frankfurt, then back into Moscow, the sequence repeating itself three times in a two-month period. Each stay was about a week, and Charlie remembered Sophie’s mentioning that Steve spent a lot of time in Berlin, having lived there for some time. More interesting were the later entries, when Liepa’s passport was logged going into Astana a month before his arrest. The return date to Moscow indicated he was in Kazakhstan for less than forty-eight hours. Charlie paused as he considered the dates, as well as possible reasons for going to the Kazakh capital. He then turned his attention to the last entry line — the last time Liepa’s passport was logged outgoing from Russia, at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. Liepa had spent three days in France before returning to Moscow less than a week before his arrest. It occurred to Charlie that Liepa could actually have gone to any number of places before returning to Moscow, given the freedom to move within the European Union.
Charlie sat back and pondered the new information. The Berlin trips made sense; after all, Liepa had lived there before taking the Technion job and moving to Moscow, and he would have established a network of friends and put down some roots, even if he had been there for only a year or so. He recalled Sophie’s comment that her brother enjoyed the atmosphere in Berlin. As for the last two trips — especially the one to Astana — Charlie wondered whether there was anything to them. He sat there for a few minutes, then rummaged in his top drawer and pulled out Nikolai Shakirov’s business card and called the direct line. He waited a few rings and then Shakirov’s familiar voice answered.
“Hello, Nikolai. This is Charlie Hillier. We met the other day for —”
“Of course, I remember,” he said in the same detached tone that Charlie had noticed at the coffee shop. “What can I do for you?”
“I forgot to ask you whether you or Steve ever travelled for work. Did you?”
There was a slight chuckle at the other end of the line. “Not usually. Our work doesn’t really require it, and then there’s the cost — Technion’s always looking for ways to cut costs, not increase them.”
“Right,” Charlie said, undeterred. “You mentioned you had some big German and Russian construction companies as clients. Do you have any in Kazakhstan?”
Shakirov paused. “Yes, I believe we have a few. I myself worked on a translation for a company based in Almaty. As for Steve, it’s possible, but I don’t know for sure.”
“But you’re saying that even if he did, it’s unlikely he would have gone there for work-related purposes?”
“Of that I can assure you.”
“I see. Did Steve mention to you that he was going to Kazakhstan — this would have been late July, early August?”
“I was on holiday for most of August and only started work again a week before Steve returned from Paris.”
“So you knew he’d been to Paris, but not Astana.”
“That’s right.”
“Did he say why he had gone to Paris?”
“It was a short trip, just a few days, so I assumed it was a little holiday,” Shakirov said. “I didn’t really see him that much after he got back.”
“Did he mention whether he had gone with anyone — Tania, for example?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Well,” Charlie said, as he saw the red light for his other phone line flashing, “it was probably just a little vacation, like you said. I don’t want to keep you, so thanks for your time.”
He hung up and then punched the button for the other line. It was Irina, telling him that Sophie Durant had arrived. He scanned an incoming email and, noticing the deadline for a response, made a mental note to come back to it later, after the meeting at the MFA. He straightened his tie and headed out into the hall, and was almost at the stairs when he heard his name and retraced his steps back to Rob Brooker’s open door. The property officer was seated behind his desk.
“Hi Charlie. I was wondering if you had some time today to discuss the property file. I just wanted to pick your brain about a couple of options the brokers have come up with. But you look busy ….”
“It’s just that I have a meeting this morning,” Charlie replied, surprised at how impatient he felt at the property officer’s interruption. He hoped it wasn’t obvious. “But I’ll have time this afternoon, if you want.”
Brooker glanced at his monitor. “After lunch, say, two-ish?”
“Sure,” Charlie said, checking his watch and realizing that Sophie was fifteen minutes early. He stepped inside Brooker’s office, though he stayed away from the chair. “You’ve got some prospects?”
Brooker nodded. “Oleg faxed over some stuff this morning on a couple of options, including that big development he was talking about at the reception — Petr Square.” He tapped his pen on the unruly pile of paper in front of him. “I think Oleg’s pretty keen to get the commission.”
“They’ll be tripping over eac
h other trying to get a piece of this one, I’m sure,” Charlie agreed, glancing at the paper, as Brooker turned the top sheet so he could see it. “What is it, anyway?”
“Info sheets on Petr Square, and the developer, BayCo. You familiar with them?”
“No, I don’t think so.” Charlie shook his head, but something about the letterhead seemed familiar. Perhaps he had seen it on a billboard or at a construction site. Or maybe he remembered it from the brochure Oleg had given him at the reception a couple of weeks ago. “Anyway, I’d better get going. We’ll talk this afternoon.”
He made his way downstairs and found Sophie waiting there, looking elegant in a dark coat and a colourful scarf. The cold outside had left her cheeks pink, giving her face a healthy glow.
“We’ve got about twenty minutes before we have to leave for the MFA meeting,” he said after she had been through security and surrendered her cellphone. He led her upstairs to his office. “Before we talk about the meeting, though, I wanted to ask you a couple of things about Steve.”
“Shoot,” she said, slipping out of her coat and draping it across the back of a chair.
“Did he mention anything about a girlfriend?”
“Here in Moscow? No, but Steve always had plenty of female company. And Moscow women are supposed to be beautiful.”
Charlie just nodded, unsure if he was supposed to answer or comment. It was true that he had seen many beautiful women on the streets of the city he now called home, though Sophie was no slouch herself.
“Who told you he had a girlfriend?” she asked.
“Nikolai Shakirov — the co-worker at Technion whose business card was on Steve’s shelf.”
Sophie grinned. “Doing a little moonlighting as a PI? Did you get a name?”
“Tania Ivanova.”
“That sounds pretty Russian. I’ll bet she’s a knockout.”
“I’ve got an address, too, but no phone number. If you want, we could drop in on her later.”
The Moscow Code Page 10