by Graham Potts
First published in 2016 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
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Text copyright © Graham Potts, 2016
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To John Acutt
The English Teacher
The Modern Prometheus
220 KILOMETRES NORTH OF SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
MONDAY 12 SEPTEMBER
6:00 PM AUSTRALIAN EASTERN STANDARD TIME (AEST)
A middle-aged couple sat at a table for two, barely speaking. The man slouched forward on his crossed arms and stared into his drink. The woman, hands in her lap, gazed through the window while fiddling with her wedding band.
No threat.
Three women gossiped loudly in the middle of the pub. Their lined faces were spattered with make-up and their clothes were stretched taut across their sagging skin. Cackling and snorting, their wild gestures threatened to knock over two empty wine bottles.
No threat.
There was a business meeting towards the rear. Five men in threadbare suits and gaudy ties howled at their own jokes and scored the waitresses out of ten. There were shaky hands, stained teeth, and greasy comb-overs lacquered with gel. The centre of mass was a stern man who had been ladled into his suit, a jumble of veins on his temples.
No threat.
Two newlyweds sat beside a window, huddled over uneaten meals. The woman talked and her tattooed husband stroked her hand tenderly. He was left-handed, muscular, his knuckles scarred and his skin tanned. His right leg shook as he tapped the heel of his work boot on the floor over and over again.
He was a potential but unlikely threat.
A young couple sat at the table beside them. The girl wore cheap clothes and expensive jewellery. Her companion was effeminate, his hair styled and his hands manicured. She smiled at him awkwardly, chewing her nails as he stared at her breasts.
No threat.
There was a birthday party in the corner. The guests chirped to each other and cooed at the birthday girl perched at the head of the table while taking photographs with their phones. Tokens of affection were placed before her and impatiently shredded in a shower of ribbon and wrapping paper. It was tedious to witness but it was innocent. None of them deserved to die.
A shadow crossed his table. “Would you like another drink, sir?” the waitress asked.
The ice cubes clinked in his empty glass as he looked at his watch. “No, thank you. Just the bill.”
“Of course, but you’ll have to pay at the bar.” She cleared the table and sashayed away, promptly returning with a frayed leather wallet. He deposited some cash inside and placed it on the table.
Stepan Volkov glanced around the room again but he knew it was clean. Andrei hadn’t arrived yet. Volkov could wait outside and finish the job away from the public, though it meant his preparations were largely useless.
He palmed the leather wallet and stood, shrugging his coat on to his shoulders as he walked to the bar. He hesitated, spotting a bright red coat out of the corner of his eye, and then he saw who was wearing it. The woman advanced, her hand raised like a pistol.
“You’d better be here to apologise,” she said, stabbing him with her finger. She still looked like a porcelain figurine, he thought, as he paid the barman.
“Have we met?” he asked. The barman returned Volkov’s change and retreated.
“Don’t be cute,” she scowled. A birthday cake emerged from the kitchen and the room paused to gawk. Everyone burst into song, including the staff behind the bar.
“Why would I apologise, anyway?” He leaned closer. “You left me, remember?”
She placed a hand on his chest. “Did you take a blow to the head?”
“More like a knife in the back.”
“Will you give it a rest?”
“Relax, Slim,” he said, brushing her hand away. “I had no idea you were here.”
“Don’t call me that, and you’re lying.”
“Am I?”
“I could always tell when you were lying.”
“So you thought.” Volkov peeped over her shoulder, and saw Andrei push through the door and study the room. His timing was good: everyone was distracted. Volkov rubbed his eyes. “Listen, I’d like to stand here and argue with you but I’ve got better things to do.”
She took half a step back, her eyebrows arched. The birthday song was nearly finished. “Going home?” she said. “I can drive you to jail.”
“Twin share or couple’s rates?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You’re the one who called me cute.”
She scoffed, her cheeks glowing red.
Volkov made to move away—Andrei had started to cross the room, reaching into his jacket—but the woman grabbed his wrist.
“If you think—” Volkov ignored her and watched Andrei draw a pistol from his coat, “—I’m letting you out of this room…” Her voice trailed off as she realised Volkov had handcuffed her to the bar.
“Don’t take it personally, Slim.” Volkov pried her hand away.
The cake was laid before the birthday girl. Volkov moved into Andrei’s path, palming a small remote control. Andrei’s brow furrowed, his gun dangling uselessly by his side.
The candles were blown out, people cheered, and Volkov pushed the button. A signal sent, a signal received, an
d a strip of detcord cut the power with a sharp crack.
220 KILOMETRES NORTH OF SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA
MONDAY 12 SEPTEMBER
6:44 PM AEST
Constable Leanne Waters sat numbly at the bar, rubbing the red welt on her wrist and staring at the victim’s crumpled body. For a while his corpse had been arched backwards over the counter, his face contorted and a large knife jutting from his chest. He’d remained in that position for an uncomfortable period of time, until the clomping of police boots had caused the body to slither down the bar and on to the floor. A small onyx figurine, a black wolf, surveyed the body from its post on the bar.
“I thought I told you to go see the doctor.” The police sergeant climbed on top of a stool with a groan. His stomach sagged over his belt buckle as he exhaled.
Waters wanted to pick up the wolf figurine and smash it to pieces. It just sat there, smugly watching the room and ignoring her. She was angry at the wolf but knew that she was really angry at herself for missing an opportunity.
“Are you listening to me?” her sergeant asked. “Leanne?”
“I’m fine,” she said, finally looking at her boss.
“You’ve just been through a traumatic event,” he said. “And your wrist looks sore.”
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped. “I don’t need a doctor to grope me and tell me what I already know.”
“Grope?” The sergeant sighed and raised his hands in surrender.
“Right. I forgot. You don’t like to be touched. How about you go home instead?”
“I’m waiting for someone to take my statement,” Waters said. She was off duty, which left only two constables to interview the shaken diners. Cahill, the local detective, was on his way.
“Yeah, look, about that.” He paused and cleared his throat.
“You don’t believe me.”
“This is a town of 2000 that is miles away from any major city,” he said. “What the bloody hell would a man like that be doing here?”
It was a good question.
The pub was the town’s attempt to capture the tourists who passed through on their way to Sydney. It was thought that candles on veneered tables, a sparse array of artificial plants, and garish art from a department store would lure people into town. People did stop by, but that had more to do with the good hamburgers and gourmet pies than the atmosphere.
The locals were friendly, though. Not now, of course. The diners were clustered around the uniformed constables, mumbling at their shoes. Even the haughty businessmen were short of words.
“I don’t know what he was doing here yet,” Waters admitted.
“If it was him, I’m going to have to pass it along to the federal authorities. I just don’t want to cry wolf, you know?”
She glanced at the sergeant, but he didn’t seem to realise what he had just said.
“Why did he cuff you, anyway?” the sergeant asked. “Did you threaten him?”
“No. I think he cased the town. He would’ve known who the cops were.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. He would’ve checked for ways in and out, nearest medical aid, food, accommodation, vehicles, and even the weather.”
“You’re assuming he’s your professional. He could’ve been an amateur who got lucky.”
“Lucky people don’t use detcord to sever power to the building. This was planned.”
“Maybe.” Waters rocked back on her stool. “Are you serious?”
“This is a country town. Farmers have explosives.”
“Detcord,” she repeated.
“My brother uses it in the mines all the time.”
Waters lowered her gaze to the body on the floor. “This killer stabbed the victim in the heart in the dark with a single blow without hitting the ribcage.” She looked up at her boss. “Do you know any miners that can do that?”
“Like I said,” the sergeant persisted, “lucky.”
Waters let it go. The sergeant didn’t know any better. She knew exactly who she was dealing with. Well, she did once.
The door wheezed open behind them and Detective Cahill strode in. The sergeant struggled off his stool to brief him.
Waters sighed and watched the two police officers saunter purposefully into the crowd. Cahill nodded thoughtfully, his head cocked to the side. He pointed at things, gestured at other things, and spoke with the authority of someone who knew exactly what had happened. He then casually approached the body on the floor, kicked it over with his boot, and crossed his arms.
“You see,” he declared, “murdered.”
“Thank God you’re here.” Waters suddenly wanted a cigarette and reached into her pocket for her bubblegum.
“Do you have something you wish to add, constable?” he asked.
“Don’t start her,” said the sergeant.
Waters tossed a piece of gum in her mouth and stood up, pulling a pair of latex gloves from her jeans. “Check his pockets.” She handed over the gloves and retrieved a set for her own hands.
“Where’d you get those?” her sergeant asked as Cahill knelt beside the body.
“I snatched them from the first-aid kit behind the bar.”
“Empty,” Cahill said. “No, hang on.” He found a cigarette case and held it in his hand. Waters snatched it before he could protest.
Inside were a dozen cigarettes, each one black with a gold filter. There was also a business card. “It’s for a nightclub in Moscow called the King’s Castle,” she said, reading the card.
“How can you read that? It’s in a weird language,” the detective said.
“It’s in Cyrillic. It’s Russian.”
“Why would he carry that?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s interesting, though. Our killer works out of the same nightclub.” She removed a cigarette and sniffed the tobacco.
“Sobranie. This is a Russian brand and fancy too.”
“Russian,” Cahill said to the sergeant. “I thought you were pulling my leg.”
“I told you. Leanne thinks the killer is—what was it again?” he asked, clicking his fingers. “Step-and Ivano-something Vo-vo.”
“Stepan Ivanovich Volkov,” Waters said through clenched teeth. “They call him Volk, which is Russian for wolf, so most people call him the Wolf. That’s why he leaves the trinket behind.” She gestured to the stone figurine on the bar.
“Who calls him that? The agency?” Cahill snorted. “How would you know, anyway?”
“I watch a lot of television,” she said. “What about a hotel key or something?”
“There’s nothing else here.” He picked up the pistol. “We probably won’t get anything off this either. The serial number has been filed away.” The detective carelessly tossed the pistol on the floor and tore off his gloves. “So, what evidence have you got that Mister Vo-vo was here?” he asked, standing up.
“We can get dabs off the handcuffs,” Waters said.
“I see, and what about witnesses?” He swept his hand across the pub. “Nobody else seemed to notice the guy. The waitress couldn’t even describe him, except to say that he was polite. You’re the only person convinced of his identity.”
Waters blew a bubble and it popped with a snap. Of all the places she and Volkov could run into each other, why this pub? The obvious conclusion: he was here to kill a man. More precisely, he was here to protect something—or someone—from the man he had killed. He didn’t come here to see her. He seemed genuinely surprised that she’d been here. So, who else needed protecting?
The Russian girl must be here.
“They don’t even have CCTV here, Leanne,” Cahill pointed out.
“Why didn’t he do this somewhere more private, anyway?” the sergeant asked. “He’s taking a big risk, even without cameras.”
“The explosives would’ve done the trick,” Waters explained. “Sever the power, everyone’s confused and they freeze. Then kill the guy and duck through the back door.” She walked over to the people crowded into the
corner of the pub and paced in front of them, inspecting each person in turn.
Waters stopped in front of a young woman from the birthday party, the only one not staring at the floor. Her straw-coloured hair was up and held in place with a long lead pencil. “I like what you’ve done with your hair,” Waters said.
“Thank you,” the girl said icily.
“What’s your name?”
“Natalie,” the girl replied. “Natalie Robinson.”
“That’s an interesting accent you have, Natalie. Where are you from, originally?”
“Geelong.”
“Leave that girl alone,” Cahill interrupted. “I already told you that nobody noticed the guy.”
“Were any of you girls taking photos?” Waters asked, ignoring Cahill. “Did any of you accidentally get a photo of the man sitting at the table near the bar? Maybe a background shot, or something?”
Robinson crossed her arms while her friends salvaged mobile phones from their bags and started scrolling through images.
Waters turned to Cahill. “Since this town doesn’t see the need for surveillance cameras, you’ll have to rely on luck.” One of the girls called out triumphantly and handed her phone to Waters. She smirked at Cahill. “Congratulations, you’ve probably got the first real photograph of Stepan Volkov.”
“If it’s really him,” he sneered, squinting at the screen.
“Believe what you want,” Waters said. “It’s a blurry photo but the detcord, the Russian cigarettes, the business card, and the wolf figurine all add up.” She held up the phone. “This photograph will be good for a promotion, I reckon.”
“I’ll make the call in the morning and see if the agency is interested,” the sergeant said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“No,” Cahill interjected, crossing his arms. “Make the call now. If we’re wrong, then Constable Waters can talk to them.”
CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA
TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER
4:32 AM AEST
One hour and eight minutes.
Emily Hartigan tugged her sleeve to cover her watch and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She crossed her legs and smoothed out her skirt, searching for a distraction. The VIP terminal had four rows of plastic chairs and each row had two lines clipped together in a chain. Each line was back-to-back and each chair was empty, except hers.