by Graham Potts
“Do you want him interrogated?” Maxim looked up, his mouth falling open as he watched the news report. The footage showed uniformed police standing outside a bar in Australia, shrugging at each other. A body bag was wheeled past on a trolley and lifted into the back of a van. The graphic at the bottom of the screen was red and bold: Stepan Volkov had killed a man in Australia.
Korolev rose to his feet and pointed at the screen with his glass. “Where the fuck is he?” He slammed his fist down on the desk and turned to Maxim, his face red. “Where is Volkov?”
Maxim was already pawing at the screen of his tablet. “It can’t be true, Nikolay,” he said with a trembling voice. “Volkov is supposed to be in Jakarta carrying out a—”
“I know where he’s supposed to be!” Korolev yelled. “Find him and find out what he was doing in Australia.”
“I just have to—”
“Find him!” Korolev roared.
220 KILOMETRES NORTH OF SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 8:08 AM AEST
“So what did we learn today?” Leanne Waters asked.
One of the kids was attempting to tie his own shoelaces, his brow deeply lined as if he were solving an algebraic equation. Another boy with a runny nose was terrorising a spider in his palm, tearing its legs off one at a time, and a small girl with glasses was chewing her hair and staring vacantly at the wall. Waters hadn’t exactly managed to hold their attention.
“Look both ways before crossing the street,” she began, and the children joined in, droning in unison. “Avoid talking to strangers and always trust the police to help.”
And don’t pick fights with contract killers in bars.
She surveyed the children sitting cross-legged at her feet. “I hope you guys learned something this morning,” she said, and they all applauded her. Jellybeans were given out and Waters ended the show with an outdoor demonstration of the police car’s siren.
The teacher dismissed the children, who disappeared in a puff of dust to play cops and robbers, tumbling off the playground equipment and scraping their knees in scuffles over who was “arrested”.
“Thanks for coming by,” the teacher said. “It gives the boys something to interest them and the girls a positive role model.”
“Well, it was fun to visit,” Waters said, cramming equipment into the boot of the car. It wasn’t really. Children made her uncomfortable. They could be too grabby. “It’s much better than lecturing teenagers. I always end up in an argument with a pimply adolescent about whether the police are agents of oppression, funded by a government that is an instrument of corrupt capitalists who exploit workers and the environment.” She slammed the boot shut.
The teacher sniffed and salvaged a ratty tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan. “Oh, yes. Some of those teenagers should be locked up. And their hair.” She scoffed and blew her nose. “They should put them all in the army and teach them some manners.”
“Right, and how to shoot people,” Waters added, watching young boys make rat-a-tat sounds while pointing their fingers at the girls.
“They’d turn up on time and have respect. Mark my words.”
“Anyway, I must be getting back,” Waters said, tapping the face of her wristwatch.
“Of course. Thanks again.” The teacher stuffed her tissue into her sleeve and crossed her arms, walking primly back to her classroom to prepare for the next lesson.
Waters shook her head, turning away just as Detective Cahill’s sedan entered the car park, crunching over gravel and squealing to a stop near Waters’ cruiser. Cahill climbed out of the car and hitched up his jeans before trotting to the passenger side and opening the door. A young blonde woman stepped out of the car and smiled gratefully at him. Waters rolled her eyes and leaned against the bonnet of the cruiser.
“Leanne,” Cahill said, bowing his head slightly.
“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be investigating the footy team’s missing pie warmer?”
“Yes, well, that case is more complicated than you think.” He stood aside with a sweep of his hand. “This is Agent Emily Hartigan.” Hartigan was slender with delicate features and wore an unbuttoned woollen coat, a long pencil skirt, and a wrinkled long-sleeved blouse buttoned to the nape of her neck.
“Hi,” Hartigan said, stepping cautiously through the gravel. She beamed brightly and extended a manicured hand.
Waters dismissed the offered hand. “I don’t like to be touched, Agent Hartigan.”
Hartigan pulled her hand away, hiding it behind her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Someone should’ve told you,” Waters said, glaring at Cahill.
He coughed. “Emily’s here to take you to Canberra.”
“Why? Did I win the Lions Club raffle?”
He sighed impatiently.
“Can I see some ID?” Waters asked.
“Of course.” Hartigan plunged her hand into the pocket of her coat and retrieved her badge and ID, handing them to Waters.
“Cute photo,” Waters said, studying the ID. “Grade seven?”
“Waters!” Cahill cried.
“Well, she does look like she strayed from the playground,” Waters observed, dipping her head towards the children running in circles on the grass.
“I’m sorry about this,” Cahill said to Hartigan. “She’s usually more cooperative.”
Hartigan smiled awkwardly and looked at her feet.
Waters returned the ID and badge and drummed her fingers on the bonnet of the police car. “You’re an analyst, not an agent.”
Hartigan stepped back. “How did you—”
“You’re not wearing,” Waters said, gesturing to Hartigan’s coat.
Cahill pointed a limp finger. “Hey, yeah.”
“You just noticed that?” Waters asked in disbelief.
“I thought all agents had to wear pistols,” Cahill said, ignoring Waters. “Since those attacks during the war, I mean. Didn’t one of your guys get shot while dropping his kids off at football practice?”
“He was a field agent,” Hartigan said. “Analysts aren’t as recognisable because we don’t venture outside much.” She shrugged. “I’ve had the same training as a field agent but I don’t have to carry a weapon. The risk is low.”
“Should I come back when you two are done?” Waters asked.
Cahill looked away and cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should discuss the case,” he said.
“Of course,” Hartigan said, focusing her attention on Waters. “I’m here about the other night. In the pub. With Volkov.”
“Oh, that.” Waters plucked a packet of bubblegum from her pocket. “I’d already forgotten about that.” She paused and eyed the detective. “You didn’t even believe that it was Volkov.”
“Read the statements: the guy didn’t even have an accent,” Cahill said defensively. “What the hell was I supposed to think?”
“If you need step-by-step instructions on how to use your brain,” Waters said, pointing with her gum packet, “then you should consider a new profession.”
Cahill exhaled through his nose, explaining through a clenched jaw: “Emily’s going to take you into protective custody.”
Waters tore the packet of gum in her hand. “I can look after myself.”
“It’s not negotiable.”
“It rarely is.” She tossed a piece of gum into her mouth.
Cahill groaned. “Jesus, Leanne. Could you act professional for more than a few minutes?”
“Volkov isn’t interested in me,” Waters said. “This was a hit on a stray boyevik.”
“A what?” Cahill asked.
“Boyevik,” Hartigan interrupted. “It’s Russian for warrior. It’s what the Organizatsiya calls their gangsters.” She swept the hair from her eyes and studied Waters curiously.
“The origami-what?” Cahill asked.
“The Russian Mafia,” Waters explained.
He held up a finger. “Other than the card and some illegally imported cigarettes,
we have no evidence tying the victim to—”
“Andrei Sorokin was a muscle-head who worked for an Australian energy company doing security,” Waters said. “Titan Energy, the same company poised to suck our newly discovered oil out of the seabed. He assaulted his supervisor and got fired. Then he drifted through Russian nightclubs on the east coast looking for work.” She shrugged. “It seems that Moscow didn’t like his style and got rid of him.”
Cahill shook his head. “How did you—”
“Google.”
“But I never told you the victim’s name.”
“You should probably change your log-on password to something more complicated than ‘password1’.”
His face flushed. “You broke into my computer?”
“Could you give us a moment alone, Detective Cahill?” Hartigan asked with a kind smile.
“But she…” He cursed and threw his hands in the air, retreating to his car. “Fine.”
“Was he getting on your nerves, too?” Waters asked.
“He seems nice,” Hartigan said.
“Then why send him away?”
“Because I don’t believe conflict is constructive.”
Waters tilted her head. “I see.”
“Our plane leaves in a couple of hours,” Hartigan said.
“Your plane,” Waters said. “You don’t need me.”
“But you might need us,” Hartigan said.
Waters snapped her gum against the roof of her mouth. “Like I said, Volkov isn’t coming to kill me. He’d have to kill everyone in that pub, too.”
“You were the only one who recognised him,” Hartigan said. “You were also the only one to report him to us. That kind of thing gets you noticed.”
“Stop it,” Waters said. “You’re making me blush.”
“It’s not a joke, Leanne.” Hartigan rubbed her forehead. “Look, you’re right. This does look like a simple gang hit. Andrei Sorokin was a small-time thug who wanted to make it big, but he kept attracting too much unwanted attention. Russian operations in Australia are still fragile so they dispose of liabilities quickly.” She dipped her head. “You are now giving the Russians more unwanted attention.”
“I’m small potatoes, Agent Hartigan.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t matter. That business card you found is for the King’s Castle. It’s a nightclub in Moscow owned by Nikolay Korolev, the leader of the biggest criminal syndicate in Eastern Europe.”
“So?”
“A while ago, a drunken man relieved himself in an alleyway in Moscow. He didn’t know he was urinating against the wall of Korolev’s nightclub.” Hartigan swept her hair from her eyes. “Korolev removed the man’s bladder with an acetylene torch.”
Waters cringed.
“Korolev believes that letting the small things slide makes him look weak.”
“It’s hard to piss on his nightclub from Australia,” Waters pointed out.
“Living on the other side of the world won’t save you,” Hartigan said. “It didn’t save Sorokin.”
“Sorokin is different. He’s Russian.”
“Korolev has issued contracts against Australians before.” Waters snorted. “Bullshit.”
Hartigan shook her head in exasperation. “The last Australian to cross Korolev was a thief named Simone Elliot.”
“Who?”
“They called her the Serpent, and she decided to steal some of Korolev’s art while it was in transit through Europe.”
“A gangster with art?” Waters rolled her eyes. “What was it, his collection of porn magazines?”
Hartigan snapped her fingers. “Listen to me, okay? This happened a few years ago. He sent a dozen assassins after her. Her fence, her contacts, and her friends were all butchered and the Serpent just disappeared.”
“So she’s slippery.”
“Gone, Leanne,” Hartigan said, cutting the air with her hand. “This was one of the world’s best thieves, wanted for stealing millions of dollars in gold bullion, cash, art, and jewellery.”
Waters shifted against the car. The volume of Hartigan’s voice climbed higher.
“She didn’t escape Korolev,” Hartigan continued. “She didn’t go underground or retire or hide. She disappeared. She vanished.”
“Was it Volkov?”
“Maybe,” Hartigan said. “We don’t know. The killer or killers didn’t stick around.”
“Right,” Waters mumbled. “Of course.”
Hartigan pressed her lips together and looked up at the sky. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. It was unprofessional. I just…” She kicked at the gravel with her shoe.
“This is your first time in the field, isn’t it?”
“Is it that obvious?” Hartigan didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve read about this stuff,” she said. “I’ve read a lot, but the criminal world has always just been an abstract concept, you know? And now…”
“You’re scared,” Waters said.
“Yes,” Hartigan confessed. “I am, and for good reason. Volkov has used long-range sniper shots, explosives, knives, poisons, garrottes, and, on one occasion, powdered uranium.”
“Uranium?”
“It was sprinkled on the target’s coat and he didn’t notice anything until he developed symptoms of leukaemia. The authorities found an onyx wolf in the hospital room after the man died.”
Waters looked down at her shoes, slowly chewing her gum.
“Most of the time he uses a pistol. He usually triple-taps: two to the chest and one to the head.” Hartigan tapped the side of her head to illustrate the point.
“Jesus,” Waters said.
“But what scares me most of all is that most of his victims die before they even realise he’s in the room. Imagine that,” Hartigan said, gazing at the children. “Just watching television, or sleeping, or reading a book, or having a nice meal, and bam. No right of reply. No plea bargain. No second chance.” She shrugged. “Just dead.”
Waters frowned at the analyst.
“I can cuff you and make you come with me but I don’t want to do that,” Hartigan said. “You’re a smart woman and you know Volkov might be coming for you. We can protect you.”
“Look, I—”
“You mean nothing to him, Leanne. Come with me to Canberra.”
Waters absently rubbed her ear and blew another bubble.
I mean nothing to him.
The bubble popped with a snap.
CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 9:00 AM AEST
Lee Singh checked the time on his wristwatch. He stood up and paced the deputy director’s office, briefly studying the framed photographs and certificates before pausing in front of the fish tank.
Singh bent over, staring into the clear water. A small ceramic scuba diver was buried up to his chest in the pebbles at the bottom of the tank. He seemed welded to the floor, painfully unaware that he was out of air. Meanwhile, a large fish drifted in clumsy circles and a dozen small fish scurried meaninglessly from one side of the tank to the other.
Singh straightened up when he heard the door open.
“I didn’t know you were waiting,” the deputy director said, pausing in the doorway.
“You told me you wanted to see me,” Singh said, returning to his chair.
“Of course, I just didn’t expect you here this early.” The deputy director marched behind his desk, dumping down an armful of paperwork and tossing his pen on top of the pile. “Coffee?”
“I’d like to get straight to it.”
He frowned and sat down behind his desk. “Okay.”
“A high-level hit man from Moscow kills a low-level thug in a town so small that you could sneeze and blow it off the map, and you call in an academic who read a couple of books and wrote a thesis, waking me up before dawn to meet her at the airport because you’re worried about oil.”
The deputy director removed his glasses
and chewed the tips. “Your question?”
“What mistake are you trying to cover up?”
“No mistake.” The deputy director reached into his drawer for a cleaning cloth. “We simply have a small trade issue.”
“How high are the stakes?”
The deputy director puffed on the lenses of his glasses and gently cleaned them with the cloth. “Before our oil became public knowledge, the National Security Committee asked each intelligence agency to determine whether the discovery would have an adverse impact on foreign policy. Every asset in every embassy around the world tapped their contacts to gauge reactions and the analysis concluded that the effects would be positive, broadly speaking.” The deputy director eyed Singh. “The prime minister personally asked for my assessment regarding the risk posed by transnational criminal elements.”
Singh arched an eyebrow. “All of them?”
“He’s particularly anxious about the Russians.”
“Any assessment would be inconclusive,” Singh said. “We don’t have the sources.”
“You underestimate me, Lee.” The deputy director put his glasses on. “I told him that the Organizatsiya possessed neither the reach nor the resources to pose a threat.” He folded his arms. “I went on to say that I found the possibility ludicrous.”
“And then Volkov killed someone in our country.”
“The prime minister hit the panic button and a representative will be here at ten.”
Singh slouched in his chair. “So you want me to cram the worms back in the can.”
“Discreetly, yes.”
“Do you want to bring me up to speed?”
The deputy director drummed his fingers on the desk and took a deep breath. “Once our oil operations are up and running, China could become our largest customer. Sales hinge on the future of Sino- Russian oil trade, which will be determined—”
“—Friday.” Singh tugged at the knot in his tie. “You’re the second person to mention that to me today.”
“Russia wants to increase their oil exports and has proposed a deal. Beijing will publicly announce their decision at ten o’clock in the morning on Friday, which will be noon here.”
“Will China choose us?”