No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  The terminal walls were adorned with military memorabilia and framed photographs, signed by politicians and diplomats who had passed through the room and desperately wished to be remembered. Their two-dimensional smiles and frozen handshakes were illuminated by pale fluorescent lights that buzzed loudly, accompanied by the groan of an old vending machine.

  A small television was tucked into the corner just below the ceiling and cast a bright light over the terminal. A news program was on the screen, a reporter murmuring softly while showing the same pictures over and over again. A car bomb outside a Moscow restaurant: twenty-four confirmed dead so far. Stepan Volkov had killed a Russian man in a pub in an Australian country town and escaped. Australia had discovered enough oil off the southern coast to supply the world for fifty years.

  Hartigan stared unblinking at the images on the screen. There was vision of Parliament House in Canberra, men in suits beaming, and file footage of oil rigs clinging to the ocean floor. The graphic said “Oil Discovery in Australia” and had a subtitle: “China could be important customer”. Hartigan looked away.

  She’d been waiting for one hour and ten minutes.

  She stood up and paced the private lounge, wringing her hands as she rehearsed her introduction. It’s an honour to meet you, Agent Singh. No, a privilege. She scowled and turned on the spot, pacing towards the window. Privilege was too cliché. I look forward to working with you. She nodded at the carpet. That’s better. Keep it simple.

  Hartigan squinted through the window, trying to see the plane on the tarmac. Bright orange lights flashed in the dark and she could see the flickering silhouette of a jet but little else. The dim lights of the terminal washed out everything beyond the cold glass and she sighed, staring at her reflection.

  There were creases in her blouse, she noticed, and she tried patting them down with her hand. It didn’t help, so she buttoned her jacket and tugged on the lapels, trying to cover the wrinkles.

  Not perfect, but better.

  She untied her hair and it tumbled loose in blonde waves. She did her best to smooth it out before tying it tighter. Good enough, she thought, and she straightened her skirt and tugged at her sleeves.

  Hartigan heard a man laugh behind her. She stared at the window and watched a pageant of plain-clothes police march across the glass. There were a dozen of them, some dragging trunks behind them and others manoeuvring trolleys laden with boxes and bags. They ignored her as they walked behind her, heading for the door at the end of the terminal, each one wearing a Gortex jacket emblazoned with bright yellow letters that said “FORENSICS”.

  “Are you Hartigan?”

  She whirled around to see an Indian man with caramel skin and black hair. He spoke with a light Australian twang and his dark almond eyes looked her up and down. “Agent Singh,” she sputtered. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “You look like you just fell out of a tumble dryer,” he said.

  She wanted to point out his cheap suit and the polyester tie that hung loose in his collar but she deflated under his glare, her thoughts unspoken.

  Levan Singh thrust his hands into his pockets and studied her curiously. She could hear him jingling keys. Finally, he grunted and said: “Grab your stuff and follow me. I want to be at headquarters before breakfast.”

  Hartigan collected her suitcase and laptop bag. Singh marched through the exit and she trotted after him, the door bouncing back into her shoulder. She stumbled outside, shivering when the wind swept past her. The sun was slowly clawing over the mountains and she saw an agency sedan idling in a parking space reserved for the disabled.

  “Agent Singh,” Hartigan began, squinting into the headlights. “I got a phone call from the deputy director at one in the morning and he told me to rush to the airport so—”

  “Whoa, wait.” Singh stopped abruptly, turning around, and Hartigan nearly walked into him. “The deputy director called you personally?”

  “Of course,” she replied, frowning. “But he didn’t tell—”

  “Stop talking, Hartigan.” Singh held up his hand.

  Hartigan could barely see him but she could still hear him jingling the keys in his pocket.

  “You’re an analyst.” Hartigan nodded. “I work the Russian desk.”

  Singh’s tie snapped in the wind. “How long have you been with the agency?”

  “Two years.”

  He slapped his tie away before tucking it between the buttons of his shirt. “Were you recruited out of school or did you apply?”

  “They offered me a position when I was finishing my master’s.” She shivered again, peering at the car before looking back at the warm terminal they’d just left.

  “What was your thesis about?” Singh asked.

  “The potential influence of Eastern European transnational crime on global commerce.”

  “Eastern Europe. No Kidding.”

  “Why am I here, Agent Singh?” she asked in exasperation. “I mean, there are forensics guys and agents here, and the plane that dropped me off is still idling on the apron.”

  “Tell me more about your thesis,” Singh said.

  Hartigan sighed. “Well, I spent time researching the changing business practices of transnational criminal organisations. Over the years, they’ve been investing in legitimate businesses to launder money, and their investments are starting to make returns.”

  “Keep going.”

  “They have interests in mining, finance, even media, and they have a noticeable influence on international trade.”

  “How much of an influence?” Singh asked, crossing his arms.

  “More than many people realise.” She shivered again, hunching her shoulders and shuffling her feet. “The world is a small place and changes to domestic policy can have global effects, especially when it comes to trade. We spend most of our time and effort analysing other governments but we ignore criminal interests. I mean, there are huge criminal organisations that wield enormous economic power and we should consider engaging them in—”

  “You said mining, finance, and media,” Singh said, cutting her off. “What about energy?”

  “Sure. They have investments in oil, gas, and coal,” Hartigan said. “About seventy per cent of Russia’s oil exports fund organised crime.”

  “Where does the oil go?” Singh asked.

  “Mostly Europe.”

  “China?”

  “The relationship is precarious and has been for years.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Russia isn’t the most reliable supplier. The Eastern Siberia-Pacific Ocean oil pipeline is still under construction but there have been delays, and China needs oil. Africa isn’t keeping up and the Middle East is falling out of favour. Russia is the only source left for China but there are some issues. Beijing is negotiating with the Kremlin at the moment.”

  “The Kremlin?”

  “Energy companies are mostly state-owned. Criminal elements may have invested substantial amounts of money in the wells and the mines, but they don’t have enough political influence to dictate trade policy.” She shrugged. “Not in a boardroom, anyway.”

  “These negotiations with China…”

  “The Russians made an offer to increase exports but they want China to pay more for transport,” Hartigan said. “They won’t budge on their price and Beijing has until noon Friday, our time, to announce their decision.” She shrugged again. “But, if they want oil bad enough, I guess they’ll pay the price.”

  The driver emerged from the parked sedan and tapped the face of his watch.

  “Please, Agent Singh. What’s all this about?” Hartigan asked.

  “Call me Lee.” He turned and walked towards the driver, jerking his thumb at Hartigan. The driver rushed over and snatched Hartigan’s suitcase, dragging it to the back of the car and tossing it into the boot.

  “I want you back on that plane,” Singh said to Hartigan. “I need you to collect someone for me.”

  “Who?”

&
nbsp; Singh opened the passenger door. “A police constable called Leanne Waters.” He ducked into the car and emerged clutching a red folder. “Bring her back with you. Read this, and you’ll understand why.” He handed her the folder and climbed into the car.

  She held the folder to her chest. “But Agent Singh—”

  He slammed the door.

  Emily Hartigan adjusted her laptop bag on her shoulder.

  I look forward to working with you.

  The sedan’s tyres chirped as the car sped away from the kerb, winding its way towards the highway. Her shoulders slumped and she turned around, trudging back to the terminal.

  JAKARTA, INDONESIA

  TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER

  4:06 AM WESTERN INDONESIAN TIME (WIB)

  The security guard opened the door and was startled to see a stranger standing in the alleyway.

  “Sorry,” Volkov said, smiling around the cigarette dangling from his lips. “I couldn’t sleep and came out for a walk.” He held up his hand to show a packet of smokes. The security guard’s shoulders relaxed when Volkov offered him the packet.

  “That’s very kind of you,” the guard said. He removed his jacket and placed it neatly on the concrete steps to use as a cushion. He sat down with a weary groan.

  “Long night?” Volkov asked, lighting the guard’s cigarette.

  “Not too bad,” the guard said, nodding gratefully. “Yours?”

  “Worse than you know,” Volkov grumbled, dragging deeply. He tilted his head back, noting that all the windows above them were dark, all the balconies empty.

  “Have you been out here for a while?” the guard asked.

  Volkov pointed to the security camera above the door. “You weren’t watching me?”

  The Indonesian smiled crookedly. “No, that’s broken. You, ah—I felt.” He paused and absently rubbed his ear. “Keheranan—in English.”

  Surprise. That’s what the young man meant. Volkov had surprised him, but he feigned misunderstanding, forcing the Indonesian to reluctantly act out his reaction. The security guard made a face and Volkov smiled. “Oh, I surprised you,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” The tobacco crackled, flaring brightly as he sucked on the filter. “So, you can’t sleep?”

  Volkov shook his head. “I’d like to sleep,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was here in Jakarta yesterday but I had to leave for Australia in a hurry and be back here before dawn.”

  “Well, it’s just after four. You made it.”

  “Yes, but when my boss finds out why I left Jakarta, I could be in a bit of trouble.” The alley was quiet. There were no cars on the street, and the fence that ran along the length of the lane hid them from the neighbouring buildings.

  “I know what you mean,” the guard snorted, pointing to the security camera above the door. “We disabled that camera because our boss wouldn’t let us have smoke breaks. We sneak out when it’s not busy and cover each other.”

  “You guys can’t even have five minutes of peace to have a smoke?”

  “It’s worth it. We get paid okay.”

  “What about the people?” Volkov asked, waving his hand across the hotel grounds.

  “The other security men are good. And then there are the tourists.”

  “Not so good?”

  “They are bastards,” he conceded, grinning. “They’re all skinny white women and fat men with sunburn. They don’t even have manners for the waiters and cooks.”

  “I don’t get it myself,” Volkov said. “It’s not hard to be polite. We’re guests in your country, after all.”

  The Indonesian smiled and butted out his smoke, tossing it in the ashtray by the steps.

  “Is your shift nearly over?” Volkov asked, stamping out his cigarette.

  “It finishes at dawn,” the guard replied, standing up and stretching. “Will you be out here long?”

  Volkov shook his head. “I was just about to go in.”

  The guard threw him a small salute and bowed his head. “Well, thank you for the smoke.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The Indonesian man turned away, scooping up his jacket and tossing it over his shoulder while drawing the swipe card from his pocket.

  “Before you go,” Volkov began, and the Indonesian turned around.

  Volkov rapped his knuckles under the guard’s chin, paralysing his voice. The young Indonesian dropped his swipe card and turned away, his fingers reaching for his throat. Volkov kicked the back of the man’s legs and he fell to his knees, his face smacking into the brick wall. Volkov whipped a garrotte from his jacket and wrapped it around the guard’s neck. He drove his knee into the Indonesian’s back and rocked forward. The man reached for the garrotte with one hand while trying to push away from the wall with the other.

  Volkov held the garrotte tight in his hands until the security guard’s arms fell to his sides. The Indonesian’s body flopped to the ground and Volkov crouched and collected the swipe card.

  The Wolf silently studied the alleyway. Nobody else was there. There were no other sounds. The place was dead.

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 1:15 AM MOSCOW STANDARD TIME (MSK)

  Nikolay Korolev rolled a silver coin across the top of his fingers and watched the strip drift past his window. Neon signs poured light on to the street, brightening the darkest of corners, luring the bleary-eyed into artificial daylight. Prostitutes, drug pushers, thugs and addicts dotted the pavement. Some of the men huddled on concrete staircases or in the faded light of alleys, passing joints and pills and rubbing their hands together. The ladies were propped against the walls, their fur coats billowing like curtains.

  He saw the parade of armoured luxury sedans squatting on the road, guarded by hefty men with guns under their vests. Meanwhile, the smugglers had parked their trucks in the alleyway beside his club, their illegal cargo vacuum-sealed in plastic and obscured by a load of horse manure.

  Korolev’s driver eased the car to a stop outside the King’s Castle. It was his club, his place of business and, sometimes it seemed, his home. His bodyguards fell in beside him as he strode up the steps, the crowd parting before them as his boots pounded on the bare concrete. The door was held open for him and he shrugged off his coat, holding it in an outstretched hand. It was taken wordlessly as he walked.

  The strip club was a fug of cigarette smoke, sweat and sex. The music throbbed and women shimmied against poles on stage, theatrically removing their clothes and dousing each other with soapy water and glitter. Other naked women sat on the laps of boyeviks and killers, smiling at them and stroking their stubbled hair while the men groped and sniggered.

  Again, the crowd parted for Korolev and he walked through to a guarded doorway. The sentry whispered a message in his ear, and Korolev nodded curtly as he opened the door. Inside was the blacklit VIP room, where men with expensive jewellery and tattooed arms snorted lines off the stomachs of naked women who were already high. Hard men with bare chests sat on the edge of a plush sofa, chomping on cigars and cleaning weapons, while others wearing silk shirts played a game of high-stakes Poker under lamps at the rear of the room. All of them bowed their heads towards Korolev but he ignored them, shoving his coin into his pocket and plunging into his office. His bodyguards took up their positions on either side of the door, watching warily.

  “You better have a good reason for being in here,” Korolev said.

  Maxim sat on the sofa, hunched over a computer tablet in his lap, an untouched glass of water on the coffee table in front of him. The screen cast an anaemic glow upon Maxim’s strained expression, while his fingers scraped across the glass like the blades of a rake. He looked up at Korolev, his expression guarded. “You wanted a report,” he said weakly.

  Korolev grunted, tugging at the knot in his tie and unbuttoning his collar. “Be quick. I have work to do.” He took off his jacket and tossed it over the arm of the sofa, noticing that the television was on but the sound was down. Ticker tape scr
olled across the bottom of a news program while a blonde woman silently mouthed the headlines.

  “Australia has announced their oil discovery,” Maxim said, dipping his bald head towards the television.

  “I don’t pay you to parrot the news, Maxim.”

  “The announcement was earlier than expected.”

  “What is the reaction from the Kremlin?”

  “Predictable.”

  Korolev ran his finger along the scar on his jaw and turned away, heading to the bar in the corner. “Do we have word from Australia?”

  “The Bear reports that everything is on schedule.”

  Korolev poured a glass of vodka, strolled to his desk, and sat down in his leather chair. He peered over his glass at the television and saw footage of a car bomb that had exploded in Moscow. Twentyfour people were dead and many more were injured. It was the third bombing in two weeks.

  “The president is starting to feel the pressure,” Maxim said. “The people are tired of the bombings.”

  “Has she released a statement?” Korolev retrieved the coin from his pocket and studied it.

  “She hasn’t proposed any action, yet.”

  Korolev shrugged and rolled the coin across his hand.

  “This is a big gamble, Nikolay,” Maxim said.

  “This is not a game of chance, Maxim.” Korolev watched the coin tumble over his fingers. “This is chess. The moves are calculated.”

  “If the China deal goes through on Friday, we stand to make millions,” Maxim said. “Perhaps billions.” He cleared his throat. “Even if the deal fails, there are other countries in the world that will take Russian oil.”

  “This is not up for discussion.” Korolev gulped down a mouthful of vodka. “Move on, Maxim.”

  Maxim shifted on the sofa and looked down at his tablet. “One of our assets informed me that an American operative is sniffing around. He’s looking for Volkov.”

  “Have him picked up.” The television caught Korolev’s eye and he paused, snatching his coin and holding it in his fist.