The Moscow Code

by Nick Wilkshire

  “Thanks, Irina. That’s very helpful. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he said before she had reached the door. “Has there been any word from protocol about our request to extend Dr. Durant’s visa?”

  “No. I was waiting a couple of minutes to call over. My contact usually starts late. I will find out if there are any developments.”

  “Thank you.” Charlie turned the monitor back to face him and considered the article for a moment before turning to the two envelopes that Irina had neatly deposited on the corner of his desk. He tossed the first into the recycling bin without even opening it, recognizing it as a subscription form for a magazine he didn’t need. Glancing at the second, he noticed his name was handwritten on the cover. Intrigued, he opened it and slid the contents, two sheets of paper, onto his desk. There was no cover letter, and the first sheet was a photocopied obituary in Russian for a man called Mikhail Krasnikov who appeared to have died about a month ago. The second sheet was a copy of a photo of a meeting room with a dozen severe-looking Russian men seated along a conference table, a red circle drawn around the man seated in the middle of the group.

  Charlie scanned the text under the photo and tried to make out the names, but they were barely legible. He counted the number of people from left to right until he got to the man circled in red felt pen, then did the same count of the names captioned below. The resolution was fuzzy and he had a hard time making out the name, but he was pretty sure the sixth from the left was “M. Krasnikov.” He retrieved the envelope from his recycling bin and checked it again for a return address, finding none. He would check with Irina, but the postmark looked like Moscow. He sat back in his chair and wondered who could have sent him this and why? He typed the name into his search engine and sighed when a dozen links appeared in Russian, and he realized making any sense of it at all would take him hours. He moved his cursor over to close the browser when his eye caught a familiar name in the fourth entry. He clicked on the entry, then leaned forward in his chair as the link opened and a couple of paragraphs of text appeared. He struggled with the text for a few seconds, then called out to Irina.

  “I’m sorry to bother you again,” he began when she entered, “but I was just reading this article and I don’t think I’ve understood it properly.”

  She came over and leaned toward the monitor. “It is a short biography on Mikhail Krasnikov, an official with the Moscow City Architect’s Office and chair of the main planning committee.”

  “But I thought Alexander Surin was the chair of the planning committee.”

  Irina frowned. “You’re right. That’s what the article we read earlier said. Let me go to my computer and I will find out for you.”

  She was only gone a few minutes before she reappeared with a smile. “Mr. Krasnikov was replaced by Mr. Surin two weeks ago.” Her smile faded. “It appears Mr. Krasnikov was killed in an accident abroad.” She paused, seeing Charlie’s reaction. “Does this clear up the confusion?”

  Charlie gave her a quick smile. “Yes, I think you’ve cleared things up nicely,” he said, his smile evaporating as soon as she turned to leave. His head was swimming. The message was clear enough — a picture of the chair of the committee blocking the Petr Square development, and his obituary. The question was, who had sent the message and why? Suddenly an overdue meeting became all the more urgent. He walked out to Irina’s desk.

  “Could you try to get me a home address for Sergei Yermolov?”

  Charlie checked the number on the building before climbing the steps to the entrance just as a young couple was leaving. He smiled and slid through the door behind them into a lobby that smelled of a mixture of stewing meat, cabbage, and dirty socks. Walking over to the elevators, he pressed the button and waited, wondering how Yermolov would react to an unexpected visit at his home. He had tried to get in touch with him, but had been unable to reach him either at United Pharma or at the phone number Irina had dug up for his apartment. Hopefully he would understand, once Charlie told him Steve Liepa was dead — that is, if Yermolov didn’t already know. And besides, his reception here couldn’t be much worse than the one at Yermolov’s workplace.

  He rode the elevator to the seventh floor and got off onto a dimly lit landing. At least the smell was better here. He followed the sign on the wall toward Yermolov’s apartment door, and as he approached it, he noticed a thin ray of light outlining the door frame. He checked the number again, then knocked on the door, his light rap causing it to open an inch, its hinges creaking in protest.

  “Mr. Yermolov?”

  Other than the faint sound of a radio from somewhere within, there was no response. He called out again, a little louder. From where he stood, he could see a sliver of the hallway and a doorway to one of the rooms. He gently pushed the door open a few more inches before putting one foot inside.

  “Sergei?”

  Halfway in the doorway now, he hesitated, but before turning to leave, he peeked into the living room, which was off to the right. And then froze at the sight of a foot on the floor. When Charlie leaned forward, the full body came into view — Sergei Yermolov, lying on his back. It wasn’t the awkward angle of his legs that struck Charlie, but rather the dark puddle that had formed by his head from a blackish wound on the side of his skull.

  “Christ,” he uttered as he recoiled. His first instinct was to bolt, but curiosity overcame him, and instead, he stepped fully inside and pushed the door shut behind him, then moved gingerly into the living room. He forced himself to look at Yermolov’s face, and from the vacant stare of the open eyes, it was clear he was dead. Charlie stood there for a few seconds, his mind spinning. At last he realized there was nothing to gain from his continued presence and potentially a lot to lose if someone walked in on him standing over the dead occupant of an apartment in which he was trespassing. He returned to the hallway and pulled the door almost closed, the way he’d found it, then walked briskly down the hall to the elevator. It wasn’t until he was back outside that his heart rate began to return to normal. He was on his way toward the lights of Tverskaya when his cell went off, startling him.

  “Hello?”

  “Charlie. This a bad time?” In his current state of mind, Sophie’s voice was like a warm blanket.

  “No. Not at all. I was just … heading home.”

  “I was just wondering if you’d heard anything about my visa. I know you’re busy …”

  “I’m, uh … Actually, can you meet me at the embassy? I can tell you the latest, but it’s not great news.”

  “Sure.” A little sigh. “I’ll get a car from the hotel.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen.”

  “You sure everything’s okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, hanging up. He had fifteen minutes to collect himself and decide what to do next. One thing he was sure of, though — everything was far from okay. He walked under the arch that led out onto the main boulevard, drawing a sense of safety from the bright lights.

  Chapter 24

  “Oh, my God.” Sophie’s hand was over her mouth as she sat on the other side of Charlie’s desk, having just heard his description of his visit to Yermolov’s apartment and what he had found there. “What are you going to do? I mean, did you call the police?”

  Charlie just sat there for a moment, stunned by the simplicity of the remark.

  Why didn’t I think of that? I’m only the fricken consular officer …

  “Not yet. I … I guess I’m still sort of shocked.”

  “Of course you are.” She slid a hand across the desk and laid it on his arm. “And you’re sure he was dead?”

  Charlie nodded. “There was a hole in the side of his head, a pool of blood on the floor, and his eyes were staring up at the ceiling. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure he was dead.”

  “I didn’t mean …”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right, though, I need to get a hold of the police right aw
ay.” He paused as he tried to imagine how his call to the police would play out. Why had he been visiting Yermolov at his home? In response to an anonymously sent article and photograph suggesting … What exactly did they have to do with Yermolov?

  “What were you going to see him about, anyway?” Sophie asked, as though Charlie’s internal debate had been spok­en aloud. He hadn’t mentioned his discovery that United Pharma — Yermolov’s employer — was the main tenant at Petr Square. “What is it, Charlie?”

  He was still trying to piece things together in his own mind, and he decided that airing his jumbled thoughts might help. “Look, we know that Yermolov was with Steve the night he was arrested.”

  Sophie looked puzzled. “Yeah, and you said you already tried to talk to him and he didn’t have much to say.”

  “Right, but what I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet is that Yermolov’s employer, United Pharma, is taking almost a full building in the Petr Square complex.”

  “UPI?”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “Are you kidding?” Sophie shook her head. “They’re only the biggest player in international pharma — not to mention a bunch of unethical scumbags. They throw money at doctors to push their pills. Send them to conferences in Maui, that sort of thing. They’re more aggressive in the U.S., but they target Canadian docs, as well. I can only imagine what they get up to in a place like this.”

  “It was in the papers this morning.” Charlie paused as he watched her digest the information and go through the same thought process he had when he’d learned of the connection.

  “So Steve was looking into this Bayzhanov guy, or Petr Square, maybe both,” she said. “You think Yermolov is connected to Bayzhanov somehow?”

  “I don’t know. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to him about,” Charlie said.

  “Sounds like he’s not going to be doing much talking now … Wait a second,” she said. “What if Steve was looking into United Pharma, not Bayzhanov? And Yermolov found out and had Steve framed …”

  “But why’s Yermolov dead, then?”

  She sighed. “Good question.”

  “There’s something else.” Charlie reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the envelope that had arrived earlier. He opened it and slid out the two sheets of paper. “This came this morning.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a copy of a newspaper obituary and a photo, sent anonymously.”

  “Of who?”

  “A man called Mikael Krasnikov,” Charlie replied.

  “Who’s he?” Sophie was frowning.

  “He chaired the planning committee that was holding up the Petr Square development by denying the crucial building permit … until he died.”

  “Whoa.” Sophie held up a hand. “You mean this guy dies and then presto, the Petr Square development gets its permit?”

  He nodded. “And guess who the new chair of the planning committee is?”

  She shook her head.

  “Alexander Surin.”

  “What the fuck?” Her eyes were wide as saucers. “That’s the guy —”

  “I know,” Charlie interrupted. “And the guy he replaced died in an accident abroad.” He turned the obituary toward her before realizing that she didn’t read Russian.

  “This is really starting to stink,” she said, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms. “I’m assuming you think maybe it wasn’t an accident?”

  Charlie nodded again. “And I get the sense that whoever sent me this sure didn’t think it was, either.”

  They both sat in silence for a while, their minds whirring with the possibilities.

  “But who would have sent you this and why?”

  Charlie sighed. “I have no idea.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  He looked at her vacantly.

  “About Yermolov, I mean,” she said.

  “I don’t know. What am I supposed to tell the cops?” Charlie said, making a helpless gesture with both hands. “I went to see him because of this stuff?” He pointed to the two sheets from the envelope. “It’s ridiculous. Besides, they’re liable to think I had something to do with it. But I can’t just leave Yermolov lying there, and if I call from here …”

  “I’m meeting Natalia later this evening at the hotel,” Sophie said. “What if she made an anonymous call to the police?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should talk to the embassy’s secur­ity guy …”

  “What did Tania say Yermolov did at UPI?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I think she said he was in sales. Some kind of junior executive.”

  “You think Yermolov might have suffered the same fate as this planning guy?” Sophie pointed to the photo of Krasnikov.

  Charlie nodded. “And I’m not sure I want to announce my own connection to any of this.”

  “What do you mean?” Sophie’s eyes widened as she arrived at his line of thought. “My God, you …”

  “Don’t want to be next. Exactly.”

  “You know more about how things work in Moscow than I do,” she said. “But I don’t get a warm fuzzy feeling from all this.”

  “I agree, but I don’t think this is something we can just go to the police with — not if we hope to get to the bottom of it. Besides, I’m not sure how much protection they’d be able to provide even if we did.”

  “But we have to do something.” She looked at her watch. “Come with me to meet Natalia.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.”

  She shrugged. “You got a better one?”

  He stared at the picture of Krasnikov for a moment, then glanced at his obituary before looking up at Sophie. “Can’t say that I do.”

  Charlie, Sophie, and Natalia Povetkina sat huddled around the little table in the lobby bar.

  “You’re sure this man is dead?” Povetkina asked, prompting a nod from Charlie. “And you say the apartment door was open when you arrived?”

  “That’s right, just a crack.”

  “What’s the address?” she asked, pulling out her cellphone.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m going to call my police contact, see if anyone else has called it in.”

  Charlie nodded, realizing that would make his own report of the death, and whatever complications that might go with it, unnecessary. He gave her the address and she punched a number from her speed-dial list, as Charlie and Sophie sat in silence. Povetkina spoke with someone on the other end for a few minutes, then hung up.

  “Well, your first problem is solved. There’s already a team on-site. A neighbour found him and called it in.”

  “So what do we do now?” Sophie said.

  Povetkina looked at Charlie. “What do you know about this Yermolov?”

  “Not much really, other than that he attended the same party on the night Steve was picked up.”

  “And why were you going to see him tonight?”

  “I was curious about how well he and Steve knew each other, and to see if there was anything he might not have already told me about that night the first time I talked to him.”

  “You already spoke with him? When?”

  “A week ago I dropped by his office, but he wasn’t very … forthcoming, and I was hoping he might be more comfortable talking to me at his home.” Charlie could sense Sophie scrutinizing him, no doubt wondering why he was holding back on Povetkina. He hoped the private eye didn’t get the same impression.

  “Can you find out more about him from your police contact?” Sophie asked.

  “Of course, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for.” She glanced at Charlie.

  “Did you find out the address of the party?” Sophie continued.

  “Yes, from my contact. I wasn’t able to cont
act the owner yet, though, to ask about that night.”

  “But once you do, you can ask him or her about Yermolov. Maybe pick up a lead that way?”

  Povetkina frowned. “Yes, but for you, the most critical thing is time, with your visa expiring in two days. I assume you have not had success with the Foreign Ministry?”

  Charlie shook his head. “I’m not hopeful we’ll get an extension by tomorrow.” He looked at Sophie and saw her disappointment. It was the first time he had admitted as much directly. “We need to discuss your options. If we don’t get an extension during the day tomorrow, you really need to be on a flight tomorrow night.”

  Povetkina broke the silence that followed. “Well, I’ve got a lot of work to do if you’re only here for another twenty-four hours,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll try to get in touch with the owner of the party apartment again tonight, and I’ll find out as much as I can about what happened to Yermolov.”

  “Thank you, Natalia.”

  “I will call you tomorrow, or earlier, depending on what I find out. Goodbye, Mr. Hillier.”

  “Goodbye,” Charlie said. “And good luck.”

  Sophie waited for her to leave and stirred her half-empty martini glass. “So, what was all that about?”

  “All what?”

  “Why so coy with Natalia? You didn’t mention the obituary or the photo. Why not? I don’t have the luxury of time, as you know.”

  “I’m not sure how much I can trust a Moscow PI, Sophie. I know you’ve got your hopes pinned on her, but …”

  “Please don’t patronize me, Charlie. I really don’t need that right now on top of everything else. Natalia’s been a valuable resource already.”

  “I’m just saying —”

  “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I’m having a hard time with them kicking me out of the country in twenty-four hours.” She sighed. “Are you really sure there’s nothing you can do about my visa?”