The Moscow Code

by Nick Wilkshire

  “I’ve been thinking, part of the problem is bureaucratic. Extensions are always more problematic than a new application — don’t ask me why. What if we were able to get you a new visa on an expedited basis?”

  “You mean I have to go back to Canada and wait for permission to return?”

  “What if you just left Russia?”

  “And go where? Ukraine?”

  “Actually, that’s not such a bad idea. Canadians don’t need a visa to go there. But I was thinking more Frankfurt or London — somewhere you could hop back on a direct flight on short notice.”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to have to leave as early as tomorrow night.” She put her head in her hands. “These bastards kill my brother and then won’t even allow me to stick around long enough to find out what really happened. Not to mention ‘accidentally’ cremating his remains.”

  “I know it’s frustrating. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “I don’t blame you, you know,” she said after a moment, but it didn’t make him feel any less helpless.

  Chapter 25

  Charlie adjusted his woollen scarf to cover the bottom half of his face as he hurried toward the stairs down to the underpass. The mercury had been dropping all day, and he guessed it was now well below zero, accompanied by gusting winds. As an icy blast stung his eyes, he turned away to adjust his scarf higher, and for an instant, he found himself locked in a glance with a thickset man in a long leather coat twenty feet behind him. The man was looking up after shielding himself from the same blast of wind, and when his eyes met Charlie’s, he looked away and changed course toward a tobacco stand. Charlie didn’t know why, but he couldn’t resist watching the man proceed to the stand and ask for something. With his scarf up to his eyes, Charlie turned and continued on to the steps, taking them two at a time as he descended to the relative warmth of the busy underpass. Halfway through the tiled corridor, he glanced back for the man in the leather coat but saw nothing amidst the moving crowd. He continued on and considered calling Sophie again. He hadn’t heard from her since early afternoon, despite their agreement to meet for a final drink this evening.

  Since the meeting with her and Povetkina the previous evening, nothing had changed. He hadn’t heard whether Povetkina had made any progress in her inquiries about Yermolov’s death, or about the owner of the apartment where Steve Liepa had been detained. If anything, Sophie’s situation had gotten worse. As expected, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs had refused her request for an extension of her visa, meaning she would be on a flight out tonight, or at the latest, tomorrow morning. Charlie had already started the process of applying for a new visa and was even hopeful that he could get it issued within a week, but that didn’t change his sense of failure at being unable to keep her here.

  Sophie had been pragmatic about the whole situation. She’d considered the possibility of using the opportunity to return her brother’s ashes to Canada and make funeral arrangements before returning to Moscow. Charlie looked around at the sea of faces, somehow less friendly now, and felt an emptiness at the thought of Moscow without Sophie’s presence. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and considered another call, but decided against it. He had left a message less than an hour ago. Maybe she didn’t want to return it. Maybe she felt he had let her down. Maybe she was right.

  Charlie’s mind was in a grey fog as he came up out of the underpass on the south side of Ostozhenka and made his way southwest. He was contemplating the empty fridge in his apartment and debating a stop at the nearby deli when he felt a shove from behind, then a sharp pain in his head as his world went dark for a moment. He felt his arms being pinned behind him and his feet leave the ground as he was tossed sideways to land on a cold, hard surface. His muffled shout was overwhelmed by the sound of a metal door slamming shut and an engine revving, as he slid back in response to the sudden forward motion.

  Light returned with a blinding flash when the hood that had shielded Charlie’s face was whipped off. After a short drive, he had been shuffled out of the vehicle and down a steep set of stairs. The descent and the dank air told him he was in a basement somewhere not too far from central Moscow. They might have been driving long enough to have reached the Garden Ring, but not much further. His eyes darted around instinctively, but his view was obscured by a desk lamp shining in his face, virtually blacking out the rest of the room, including the men he could sense lurking in the shadows. He had heard un­­intelligible snippets of conversation on the journey here, he wasn’t entirely sure they were in Russian.

  “What do you want?” he said to the shadows. There was no reply, but after a hushed exchange from the other side of the room, Charlie made out the shape of a man of average size on the other side of the lamp. He heard the screech of metal chair legs on the concrete floor as the man sat down.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hillier.” The English was clear enough, though heavily accented.

  “Who are you?”

  “That doesn’t concern you. You are here to answer my questions.”

  Charlie swallowed and tried to peer past the light, but succeeded only in creating floaters in his field of vision. “I’m a consul with the Canadian Em —”

  “We know who you are!” the man snapped, continuing in a normal tone only after his authority had been acknow­ledged by Charlie’s silence. “And your embassy will be of no help to you here. But if you answer our questions, you can be home again soon, yes?”

  Charlie allowed himself to accept the sliver of hope that had been offered and nodded.

  “What were you doing at the apartment of Sergei Yermolov last night?”

  Charlie’s heart began to race at the mention of the name. The reference to Yermolov, now deceased, didn’t give him a warm feeling, since the only other people he could think of who might know he’d been there were the killers. But the Russian’s use of the collective “we” gained a new significance as Charlie contemplated the possibility that he was being interrogated by the police or, possibly worse, the FSB.

  “Who’s asking?” he said, though he regretted it instantly, as he felt the air at the side of his head displaced a split second before something hard contacted with his ear, rendering him temporarily deaf.

  “Take it easy!” he protested, though he could only hear himself though one ear, and he was unable to raise his restrained hands to protect himself from any further blows. As his head continued to ring, he got his breath back and said, “All right. I was there. I went to see him, but he was already …”

  “Why did you go to see him?”

  “I wanted to ask him about a consular case. A Canadian citizen, who died in police custody. Yermolov knew him and was with him on the night he was detained.”

  “And what did you talk about last night?”

  “We didn’t talk about anything. He was dead when I got to his apartment.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “The door was open — unlocked.” Charlie strained to see the form behind the light. The effort was futile.

  “Did he know you were coming to talk to him?”

  “No. I tried calling him at work but didn’t get an answer.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  “No. Look, if I knew what this was all about, maybe I could help you … give you the information you’re looking for, but —”

  “What do you know about Steven Liepa’s death?”

  “That he died in custody, that’s about it,” Charlie said, unprepared for the blow that came from the opposite side this time. The stunning effect was the same.

  “What was that for?”

  “Liepa was a Canadian citizen. You’re the Canadian consul — you must know something!”

  “I swear I don’t. He died of asphyxiation in his cell, apparently as a result of hanging himself.”

  “Apparently? The sister doesn’t believe that, does
she?”

  Charlie froze at the reference to Sophie, and his interrogator noticed the reaction

  “You like her, yes?” A guttural laugh.

  Charlie tried to compose himself in the pause that followed. “Steve Liepa had no reason to take his own life,” he said, hoping to steer the conversation away from Sophie and rein in the horrific possibilities his mind was conjuring up.

  What if they have her, too?

  “So why was he killed?”

  It was a simple question, but one that Charlie honestly couldn’t answer. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  “What about Krasnikov? Did Liepa speak to you of him? Did Yermolov?”

  Charlie shook his head and squinted, still trying to see beyond the bright light in his eyes. “No.”

  “Perhaps you should consider another line of work, Mr. Hillier.” Charlie tensed for another blow as the screech of metal on concrete announced that his interrogator had stood up from his chair. “I should kill you for being useless.” Charlie could see the shadowy figure retreat toward the far side of the room, then come back. “By the way,” the man continued, “I hope you didn’t leave any fingerprints at Yermolov’s apartment, or you can expect a visit from representatives of the Moscow prosecutor’s office.” Charlie experienced a sudden chill in his spine and quickly replayed the scene from the previous evening. Had he been wearing his gloves when he pushed the door open? What about when he left?

  “They’re very thorough, if a little slow,” his interrogator said. “I’d say you’ve got about twenty-four hours before they find out you were there. If I were you, I’d start working on my answers to their questions right away, otherwise you could end up like Mr. Liepa.”

  “Did you kill Yermolov?” Charlie called out as the shape on the other side of the light began to move away, then seemed to merge with another, much larger figure. The voice that he heard next was different, an octave deeper and gravelly.

  “Your lack of information is disturbing, Mr. Hillier, not to mention dangerous, to yourself and your lovely friend. If I were you, I would get her out of here as soon as possible.”

  “What do you mean? Why would you —”

  “You should be more careful about who you choose to confide in. If the people who killed Yermolov find out about your social call to his apartment, you are both in grave danger.”

  Again Charlie tried to make out who the speaker was, but it was pointless. “Who are you?”

  The voice was further away now. “Consider me your guardian angel, Mr. Hillier,” it said, before barking an order in Russian to its cohorts and disappearing.

  Chapter 26

  Charlie heard the rough, metallic sound of the sliding door and felt the blast of cold air through the hood that still obscured his vision. He braced himself as a knife ripped through the tape that bound his hands behind his back and then, with a single shove, he was out on the sidewalk, barely able to stay on his feet as the van sped off. It was around the nearest corner in a squeal of tires before he was able to remove the hood and draw in a lungful of the exhaust-infused air and look around. He was on a quiet, residential street, but as he started walking and rounded the first corner, he made out the sound of heavier traffic a few blocks east. He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the main thoroughfare and realized it was the familiar Tverskaya Street.

  Having gotten his bearings, Charlie’s next impulse was to reach for his BlackBerry, but a quick search of his pockets turned up nothing. He swore, wondering how he would explain the loss of his second BlackBerry in as many weeks. The IT department was going to flip out, but that was the least of his worries, he knew, as he made a quick assessment of his location and raced off toward the Marriott Grand. He was in the lobby in under ten minutes and gasping to regain his breath as he approached the house phone and dialled Sophie’s room. When a dozen rings got no response, he hurried to the reception desk.

  “I’m trying to get hold of Dr. Sophie Durant. She’s in room 605.”

  The woman tapped a few keys, then said, “Dr. Durant has checked out, sir.”

  “What?”

  “She checked out. Fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Fiftee — I need to reach her urgently,” he said as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “Did she book a hotel car to the airport?”

  “I’m sorry, sir …” The girl was eyeing him as though he were an exotic reptile.

  “Forget it,” he said and turned to make his way out toward the waiting line of gleaming black Benzes and Bimmers. He was almost at the door when he heard his name called. He swivelled around to see Sophie standing near the entrance to the lobby bar.

  “Thank God,” he said as relief washed over him. He felt an overwhelming urge to hug her tight to his chest. Instead he just stood there, still sweating from his run over.

  “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Where are you going?” he asked, avoiding her questions.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for the past hour. I decided there was no point staying until tomorrow, so I got a flight tonight.”

  “Back to Canada?”

  “No, Berlin.”

  “Why Berlin?” His first thought was that it sounded too close.

  “I took your advice. In case my new visa comes through, I’ll just be a few hours away.” She looked at him in confusion. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. When’s your flight?”

  “Eleven-thirty. I was just about to leave for the airport.”

  “I’ll go with you. We can talk in the car.”

  “There’s obviously something going on. I wish you’d just tell me,” Sophie said. The car had passed the outer ring road and the purr of its V8 morphed into a low growl as it accelerated into the fast lane.

  “It’s not safe here anymore,” he said quietly. The driver seemed absorbed in his job, and the radio provided enough white noise that he felt safe talking to her in the back seat. “I don’t know if you should be thinking about coming back next week.”

  “You’re starting to freak me out. What happened?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “You sure you shouldn’t go back to Toronto until we figure out your visa?”

  “I got an email from a girlfriend of Steve’s in Berlin sending me her condolences. I don’t know how she found out or got my coordinates, but she did. I’m meeting with her tomorrow.”

  Charlie said nothing for a minute as he looked out the window at the blur of lights from a truck they were passing. He replayed in his mind his earlier interrogation — the mysterious outline behind the desk lamp, the second gravelly voice, and the dire warnings it had issued. Was a police team going through his apartment at this very moment? Was it possible that in the shock and confusion over his discovery of Yermolov’s corpse that he could have left fingerprints or some other telltale sign of his presence at Yermolov’s apartment? It was too late now, anyway. He could hardly call up the police and admit that he had walked away from a murder scene the night before and not bothered to tell anyone. There were only two people he had told — and he had a pretty good idea who had leaked it to whomever had grabbed him.

  “You didn’t mention going to Berlin to Natalia, did you?” he said at last.

  “Not yet. I was going to send her an email. You think I should call her?”

  “No. I don’t think you should tell her anything.”

  “But she needs to know in case she finds out —”

  “Keep your travel plans to yourself,” he said with a force he hadn’t intended. Sophie looked stung. “You have to trust me on this one,” he added, trying to soften the message with a smile. “By the way, do you know if there’s any room on your flight?”

  They were at thirty thousand feet, seated together in the sparsely populated front of the plane, each with a drink in ha
nd, before he told her what had happened. She listened without interruption.

  “Oh, my God,” she said when he was finished. “It’s …” Words seemed to fail her. “How does that happen in this day and age?”

  “I’ll tell you how it happened — Natalia.”

  “You think she told … But who, and why?”

  “The why is easy — cash. It’s the who I wish I could figure out.” Charlie downed the last of his scotch, then caught the eye of the attendant and pointed to their glasses. “At first, I thought maybe it was the police … maybe even the FSB — but that doesn’t make any sense. Besides, they seemed to be more interested in Steve than Yermolov. They also asked about Krasnikov. I would have thought the FSB would have all the information they need without having to abduct me.”

  “So who, then?”

  “Whoever it is, they knew all about Steve’s death. They also knew about you.”

  “They mentioned me?”

  “They said you were in danger if you stayed in Moscow.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Listen, threats from people who can pluck you off the street and beat information out of you at will should be taken very seriously, in my book.”

  “My God, did they hurt you?”

  “Nothing serious — just a couple of swats. It was more for intimidation than to do physical damage.”

  “That’s awful. I’m so sorry …”

  “It’s not your fault. Anyway, they let me go. That’s the main thing.”

  “I don’t believe it was Natalia.” Sophie was shaking her head.

  “Maybe not.” Charlie’s tone conveyed little conviction.

  “Thanks for warning me,” she said as their drink refills arrived. He stared at his scotch as it occurred to him that his abductors could easily have followed him straight to the hotel, then the airport.… He looked out into the aisle and scanned the few other faces in the business-class cabin — a couple of executive types and an elderly couple who looked pretty harmless. Whoever had grabbed him seemed to know all about Sophie, anyway, including which hotel she was staying at, if they wanted to follow her.