by Graham Potts
Volkov opened the envelope. “Gregory Bartholomew Lambert Junior.” He flicked through the documents. “You’re a West Point graduate who served in the United States Marine Corps and fought in the war. Did several tours, received some awards for bravery before being employed as an operative by your government. You did some low-level work before being sent out here on a big promotion.”
No response.
“Easy, right? Anybody can find out that stuff.” Volkov shuffled the pages. “It took us a bit of work, though. The Americans are pretty good with covert identities so we had to check through some fake names before we hit the real one. You see, what your employer is not so good at is stopping an operative’s daughter from using Facebook.”
Lambert winced as Volkov held a photograph in front of him. The chains rattled. “Tiffany Lambert, only sixteen years old. Pretty blonde with braces and a new boyfriend who Dad doesn’t like because he’s a bit too hipster. Dad works for the government and keeps guns in the house and it makes her uncomfortable. Standard Facebook whining.” He let the photograph fall to the floor. “We found another one of her in her school uniform.” He held up a photograph of a smiling girl with brown eyes. “It didn’t take us long to learn which school it was.” Another photograph. “This one was taken after we picked you up. That’s your wife dropping your daughter off at school.” Another photograph. “There’s your wife pulling away from the kerb and waving to your daughter.” Another photograph. “That’s your daughter meeting her friends in front of the library.” Another photograph. “That’s your daughter behind the library, sneaking in a cigarette before class.” Volkov clicked his tongue. “Peer pressure, I guess, though you’ve got to wonder how good your parenting really is.”
Lambert was taking shallow breaths.
“We checked the phone book but you’re not listed so we had to follow your wife home.” He held up a photograph of Lambert’s house. “That’s from Google Streetview.” He held up a photograph of a girl’s bedroom. “That’s from our guy on the ground. You recognise your own daughter’s bedroom, right? She hides her diary behind her vanity mirror, in case you’re interested. Did you know she tried pot last month?” Volkov lifted Lambert’s chin so that he could look into his eyes. “Should I keep going?”
Lambert said nothing.
Volkov held up a screenshot of a Facebook page. “Tiffany’s going on a date this Friday night. It’s her first real date with the hipster guy. She’s going to a concert with the hairy pinhead. Anything can happen in a crowd like that.”
The chains rattled again and Lambert strained against his manacles.
“Do I have your attention?”
Lambert nodded slightly.
Volkov dumped the last of the pages on the chair and cleared his throat. “This is the fork in the road, Lambert. You have a decision to make.” The Wolf ’s eyes shimmered as he glared at the American. “Would you prefer it if we raped your daughter in front of your wife or the other way around?”
Lambert started to sob.
“I know you’ve been looking for me,” Volkov continued. “Your government has been looking for me for a while but what you need to understand is that the Organizatsiya has made a substantial investment in me. I’m worth a lot of money to them. You, though, are replaceable. There is no shortage of American men willing to sign up for the chance to have a star on the wall at Langley.” Volkov picked up the papers and sat down on the chair. “It’s not the end of the world, though. You can work for us, send your daughter to an Ivy League school, and have lots of money in an offshore tax haven. Nobody needs to know about it. Just a bit of information here and there and you become an investment worth protecting.”
Lambert held his breath. His daughter’s face stared up at him from the photographs scattered on the floor. “If I refuse?” he croaked.
“You live, but your employers will wonder if they can trust you. Especially after we drop some hints that you might be working for us. Your daughter and your wife?” Volkov shrugged and lit a cigarette. “That’s not my decision but I can put in a good word for them when I talk to the boss.”
Lambert’s breathing was ragged. “I’m not a traitor,” he rasped.
Volkov puffed on his cigarette. “Not yet.”
“I’m not an assassin, either.”
“My mistake. You guys call it ‘targeted killing’, right?”
Lambert shook his head. “I wasn’t sent to kill you.”
Volkov rocked back in the chair. “Well, if you wanted to talk, you could’ve just left a comment on my blog.”
“I was sent to turn you.”
Volkov frowned, scratching his forehead with his thumb. He cleared his throat. “Pardon?”
“Your boss is giving weapons to terrorists,” Lambert said. “He’s the mastermind behind the bombings in Moscow.”
Volkov closed his eyes and shook his head. “How hard did Vlad hit you?” He dragged on his cigarette. “Nikolay doesn’t sell to that crowd anymore. It’s bad for business.”
“Not selling,” Lambert insisted. “I said he’s giving them weapons and he’s using Maxim as the broker.”
“I see,” Volkov said slowly.
“We’ve also lost eyes on the Bear,” Lambert said. “You remember him, right?”
“The name rings a bell.”
“He fell off the grid and it makes us nervous.”
“So why come to me?”
“Our analysts believe that you’re the one most likely to turn on the Organizatsiya. Nikolay is up to something and we have to stop him.”
“By ‘we’, you mean?”
“We can do a deal,” Lambert begged.
Volkov took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it away. “Is this the part where I cut you loose and we hold hands and skip to the embassy?”
“I’m sure we can think of…”
Volkov shook his head slowly.
Lambert’s face crumbled. “Nikolay knows I’m here.”
“You have two options,” Volkov said, holding up two fingers. “The best one for you is to work for us.”
“I will never betray my country!” Lambert snarled, straining against the chains.
“Nikolay will go to work on your family next. He’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Go to hell,” Lambert spat on the floor.
Volkov rose to his feet, pushing the chair away with his foot. “Option two will save your family.”
“And what’s option two?”
Volkov whipped his pistol out of his coat and fired. Lambert’s head snapped back, his body sagging towards the ground, his hands limp. “Good choice,” Volkov muttered.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA WEDNESDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 1:30 AM MSK
Most of the soldiers had been slain and only the bravest or luckiest remained. The towering battlements had crumbled and the bishops had been killed while fleeing with armfuls of treasure from their vestries. One of the kingdom’s knights had fallen, fighting valiantly until his last breath, while the other stood before the king. All seemed lost.
But the remaining knight was exactly where he should be: protecting his king.
Maxim groaned, shifting the ice pack on his head, and the chess board blurred out of focus. He took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. He’d worked for Nikolay Korolev for two years and, in that time, the chess pieces had never moved.
It was a timber board. The squares had been cut and joined and each of the pieces carved with a blunt tool. The light pieces were unfinished timber while the dark pieces had been charred by an open flame, the grain cracked where the fire had tortured the wood. There were small gaps in the joints and the edges of the pieces were rough and splintered. It was not perfect but it was still beautiful, patiently assembled from scraps and lovingly finished by a killer’s hands.
Nikolay Korolev had made the chess board while serving a life sentence in prison. The reformers had thrown Korolev into a cell in an attempt to clean up the streets and rebuild Russia. The steel bars hadn
’t held Korolev, yet he’d still taken the time to build something. A kingdom, an army: an act of defiance and hope.
And Maxim was proud to be a part of it. The Organizatsiya had purpose. Everyone had their role and everyone knew their place, just like the pieces on a chess board.
So why does Korolev tolerate Volkov, a man who refuses to know his place?
“What are you doing in my home?” Korolev barked, slamming the door.
“Volkov knows I wasn’t in Africa,” Maxim said. He grimaced as he sat up, lifting the ice pack from the back of his head.
Korolev grunted. “Does he know where you were?”
“He didn’t say.”
“And then you fell over?” Korolev asked. He dropped his satchel on an armchair and walked behind his desk.
“Not quite. Turns out he’s quicker than me.”
Korolev stretched his lips into a smile and retrieved a cigar from his case. He sat heavily on his chair and reclined before resting his feet on the edge of his desk. “And yet you continue to claim that you’re better than him.” He cut the cigar.
“He killed five men without even drawing his own gun,” Maxim said, tossing the ice pack on the coffee table.
Korolev struck a match, lighting his cigar and puffing contentedly. He eyed Maxim through the dense haze of smoke. “So?”
“Five men, Nikolay,” Maxim said loudly, spreading his fingers in the air. “Volkov killed them just for touching his girl. They were his allies. What does he do to his enemies?”
“He’s just a man, Maxim,” Korolev said. He gestured to the bottle of vodka on his counter.
“You need to put him down,” Maxim said. “He might ruin everything.” He gingerly climbed to his feet and waited for the mist to lift from his eyes before staggering to the counter.
“He is paid to be loyal to me,” Korolev said. “The risk is low.”
“What do you have on him?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Is it Simone Elliot?”
Korolev pounded the desk with a fist. “Enough.”
Maxim nodded and filled two glasses with vodka.
“The plan will work,” Korolev said. “Volkov won’t interfere.”
“I’m not sure if our army is enough.”
“It’s enough.” A cloud of smoke drifted towards the ceiling. “I’ve been planning this for years.”
“Planning and doing are different things.”
Korolev puffed out his chest. “You don’t think I can do it.”
“Your changes will be brought about by force. Physics says that all forces are opposed.”
“Nobody has the ability to oppose me.” He paused. “Or the will.”
“Perhaps the army or the people, or even the Australians?”
Korolev snorted. “What would you know of Australia?” He stood up and paced around his desk.
“A little,” Maxim said. “I’ve seen what their soldiers are capable of.”
“And?”
“They’re not like our army or the US. They have fewer soldiers, fewer guns, and fewer bullets. When they shoot, they don’t miss. They can’t afford to miss.”
“That’s the view of a sentimental soldier,” Korolev said. “You should widen your gaze.”
Maxim handed Korolev a glass and sat on the sofa. “What would I see?”
He turned around and looked down upon his chess board, puffing thoughtfully on his cigar. “They’re defined by what they sell. They’re already China’s coal bucket and, soon, they’ll be a petrol bowser too.”
“Are they likely to fight back?” Maxim asked.
“The war exhausted them,” Korolev said. “To everyone else, it was just a fragmented insurgency that we each dealt with in our own way. For them, it was a battle that tore them apart, at home and abroad.”
“Still, they know how to fight.”
Korolev pointed to the chess board before gulping down his vodka. “I bet you I will have checkmate in three moves.”
Maxim grinned. “No bet.”
“Australia is not my concern. There are people in Moscow who are a greater threat.”
“Like Volkov,” Maxim murmured.
Korolev turned and narrowed his eyes, removing the cigar from his mouth and tapping the ash from its tip. It sprinkled to the carpet like poisonous snow. “You’re like a whining schoolgirl, Maxim.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“Volkov is a killer. He is my tool to use as I please. That is the end of the matter.”
“But what if—”
“I said that is the end of the matter.”
“Nikolay—”
Korolev whipped the back of his hand across Maxim’s face. “Enough.”
Maxim touched his lip and looked down at his hand. Blood glistened on his fingertips.
Korolev grunted with satisfaction and turned back to the chess board, dragging on his cigar. His phone rang and he reached into his pocket. “Da?” He listened for ten seconds, his jaw twitching as he walked behind his desk. “I wanted him alive.” He puffed on his cigar. “I want his tongue cut out and mailed to the American Chief of Station. I want him tied to a billboard with his intestines at his feet. I want a fake money trail and I want his photograph in Europe’s tabloid press.” He hung up and tossed the phone onto his desk.
“The American?” Maxim asked.
“Dead,” Korolev spat.
“I told you.”
“I don’t need reminding, Maxim.” Korolev sucked on his cigar.
“Tell the men in the US to stand down. There’s no reason to harass the American’s wife and daughter now.”
“And Volkov?”
“Kill Simone Elliot,” Korolev shrouded the desk in smoke. “Then he will remember his place.”
“What did he say, Boss?” Grigoriy asked.
Volkov pocketed his phone and jiggled his finger in his ear. “Wrap the body and put it in a coffin. Leave it outside the US Consulate.” He handed Grigoriy a small stone statue of a wolf. “Put this on top of the coffin.”
“This doesn’t sound like Nikolay’s idea,” Grigoriy said, grabbing the wolf.
“Well, I just let off a shot in a confined space so I’m a little hard of hearing.”
“But the wolf, Boss. Are you sure you want this attributed to—”
“It’s another notch on my soul, no one else’s.”
Grigoriy hesitated, staring at the statue in his hand.
“What’s wrong?” Volkov asked.
Grigoriy neared. “Boss, you know I can’t do stuff like this,” he whispered.
“I don’t want you to do it,” Volkov said. “Delegate and let others handle it. I’ve got other jobs I need you to do.”
“Jobs? You have another one for me?”
“Are you sure Maxim has been spending time in the Caucasus?”
“Nikolay booked him an economy seat and Maxim ordered one of the hackers to get him an upgrade.” Grigoriy shrugged. “I heard it from the geek who did the hack.”
“Can you find out if his map of targets exists?”
“I can try.”
“Then do it.” He paused. “And another thing, Grigoriy.” Volkov placed his hand on Grigoriy’s shoulder. “That was very stupid, lying to protect the men like that.”
Grigoriy swallowed. “I might have told them to beat up the American. It could be true.”
“Be careful who you lie for. Others might kill you for it.”
“Principles only get you so far?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Boss, but you might want to consider taking your own advice.”
“Feel free to get out of my sight, Grigoriy.”
“Yes, Boss,” he said, nodding quickly. Grigoriy straightened his jacket and clicked his fingers for Yuri and Vlad. They reluctantly came over and Grigoriy gave them their orders. When he finished and turned around, the Wolf was gone.
The latch was well-oiled and unlocked easily
, the gate groaning open under its own weight. Anna sniffed and rubbed her nose, glancing around cautiously.
Nobody had followed her.
She pulled her coat tighter around her chest, closing the gate behind her and walking quickly, staying in the shadows. The paths were broad avenues haunted by ghostly trees. Branches stretched out above her like icy fingers, the leaves shivering in the cold, the boughs sheltering the dead. The headstones huddled in darkness, all of them sculpted monuments, each one unique and built to immortalise the person interred underground. She remembered visiting the cemetery as a child, wanting to see the graves of great Russians: Gogol, Eisenstein, Prokofiev, and, of course, Anton Chekhov.
Anna crossed her arms and held her hands under her armpits, shivering and studying Chekhov’s headstone. The writer would always be remembered for his plays, translated and performed all over Europe and the US. The man, however, would only be remembered by a handful of letters, a name and date spelled out in Cyrillic. The mourners were gone, and only half a dozen dying flowers were left, their limp stems teetering in a jam jar full of murky water. The petals were brown papery flakes, like the burned pages of unwanted books.
She shook her head to clear it, recalling Volkov’s directions. She walked quickly, eventually finding the tree Volkov had described, unlike any other in the cemetery. The leaves of the other trees had already turned a golden yellow while the tree before her remained green. She looked around and was satisfied that nobody was watching.
Anna reached into her coat, pulled out a small gardening trowel, and fell to her knees. She burrowed into the soft earth, the cold air stinging her eyes. Eventually, her trowel hit something solid and she cleared the remaining earth away.
The box was heavy and the rope handles had frayed. Anna reached into the hole and wriggled her fingers underneath the ends of the box, heaving it out of the earth. She quickly filled in the hole and smoothed it over, standing up and clearing her tracks by brushing the ground with the leaves of a fallen branch. She removed her coat and wrapped the box, clutching it to her chest and carrying it to the car.