by Graham Potts
“I want to know what you plan to do about the Australians. I want to know if you’re going to fight to trade with the Chinese.”
“Why would you want to know that?” Nevzorova asked, her cheek resting on her hand.
He shrugged. “My pension is tied up in energy.”
The president curled her lip. “Is this a big joke to you?”
“I’m hoping it is, yes.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s funny.” She rose to her feet. “This country’s direction is dictated by a small group of selfish people who feel that Russia owes them something.” She stabbed the air with her finger. “Meanwhile we have people dying of tuberculosis and AIDS. We have bombs going off all over Moscow. We have coal miners who have barely been paid in decades and soldiers who are fighting wars with no equipment and no support if they are wounded or killed. We can’t even afford to bury them in the proper manner,” she seethed.
“Selling a lot more oil to the Chinese might help,” Murphy pointed out.
“Many people believe that,” she said. “So I did my duty. I made my final offer to Beijing. If I can maintain the flat-rate tariff, then I can upgrade our infrastructure and negotiate a reduction at a later date. If not…” She shrugged. “Well, China has enough oil in their strategic stocks to satisfy their needs for now.”
“At least until Australia is ready to export, right?” Murphy shook his head. “You’re not an idiot. You know Beijing won’t accept your offer. You know that Australia is offering cheaper crude that can be pumped onto a tanker and floated to Beijing at a quarter of your transit cost.”
Nevzorova grunted. “And when Beijing officially rejects our offer on Friday morning, I can finally show the dinosaurs in this government that people will not do business with us while we are stuck in the twentieth century.”
“With all due respect, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
“That’s because you don’t see what I see,” she snapped. “We have burdensome tax laws and bloated bureaucracies, greedy kleptocrats and sticky-fingered gangsters. If we don’t change, we will have no foreign investment.”
“You’re no different to every other nation.”
“Did you know that if I initiated a campaign to dismantle organised crime in this country, it would precipitate the collapse of our financial system? You and your friends are a tumour that has spread and cannot be excised without risking the host’s survival.”
“No.” Murphy held up his hand. “No, no, no. That’s not it at all. You’re lying to me.” He pointed his finger. “If the trade deal succeeds, the Organizatsiya will end up with all the money and the people will get nothing.”
She studied him warily.
“But if you let the market collapse, Nikolay loses millions, maybe billions. He won’t be able to fund his bigger operations. He becomes someone you can actually defeat.” He frowned. “You want to shrink the tumour before you cut it out.”
Nevzorova didn’t say a word.
“You aren’t trying to make a political point,” Murphy said. “This is a calculated move to destroy Nikolay.”
She turned away. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But Nikolay must know already,” Murphy said. “I mean, I figured it out, and he knows you better than I do.”
“He thinks he does.”
“Is this why you can’t sleep? Are you worried that Beijing may be desperate enough to accept your price?” He let out a low whistle. “That should backfire nicely and make Nikolay a billionaire.”
She whirled around and roared: “Beijing’s decision is out of Nikolay’s control.” Her face glowed red.
“Is it? He can be pretty persuasive.”
Nevzorova’s eyes darkened and she marched up to Murphy. “If you want a war, that’s what you’ll get, even if I have to fight it myself,” she said, poking Murphy in the chest. “I will freeze your assets and burn down your clubs. I will seize your drugs and take your weapons. Russia will survive.”
“He won’t be the only one to suffer. Millions will go down with him.”
“What else is there to do other than start again? What is the right choice?”
Murphy sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“I thought so,” she said. “Tell Nikolay I am willing to negotiate terms to secure his safe departure from the country. I don’t care where he goes but he can’t stay here. It’s time for him to retire.”
“You and I both know that he won’t accept that offer.” Murphy turned to leave.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Nevzorova asked, falling into her armchair.
“I was thinking about doing some heavy drinking.”
“I want information, Stepan.” She flicked her hair behind her ear. “Tell me about the Bear.”
“What about him?”
“I get briefings every morning about bombings in my city,” Nevzorova said. “My intelligence chief believed the Bear was building the bombs and orchestrating the attacks. And then he found out the Bear has been out of the country and has disappeared.”
“He hasn’t sent me a postcard either.”
“You’re being evasive.”
“You’ve been lying to me.”
“Is Nikolay using the Bear to make bombs or not?”
“I can’t tell you what Nikolay is up to because I don’t know.”
She snorted. “I don’t believe you.”
Murphy gestured to her grandfather’s photograph. “I don’t expect you to.”
Nevzorova’s eyelids flickered and she stood up. “I will let you leave, but don’t you dare enter this palace uninvited again unless you have information that will lead to the end of the Organizatsiya. If you ignore those terms, I will execute you in the middle of Red Square, and dress your corpse in a French maid’s uniform and blonde wig before parading you around Moscow. Am I clear?”
He smirked. “Crystal clear.”
Nevzorova opened the door to her study, allowing Murphy to lead them along the hallway. The president’s shoes clicked on the palace tiles and Murphy couldn’t help but recall another line of Pushkin: “And all the night the madman, poor, where’er he might direct his pace, aft him the Bronze Horseman, for sure, keeps on the heavy-treading race.”
CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA WEDNESDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 9:08 AM AEST
Simone Elliot and Emily Hartigan climbed the steps of Military Headquarters and pushed through the doors, walking into the lobby. A naval officer with a crew cut was stationed at the front desk and provided them with visitors’ passes and an armed escort: a young soldier with a broad chest and square jaw. A sidearm clung tightly to his hip, a green beret sat on his head, and his eyes never stopped searching. He made Elliot’s skin crawl. The elevator arrived and the doors opened.
Elliot felt the escort place his hand on the small of her back, ushering her into the waiting elevator. She set her jaw, stepping into the elevator and shoving her hands into her pockets. The escort pressed the button for their floor and retreated to the rear of the elevator.
“I talked to my dad on the phone last night,” Hartigan said. “I mentioned you.”
Elliot arched an eyebrow.
“He said he doesn’t remember you,” Hartigan continued.
“Well, I remember him,” Elliot said.
“He obviously left an impression.”
“He certainly did.” Big red welts, in fact, Elliot thought.
The elevator started to slow down and the escort shifted on his feet. He placed his hand on Elliot’s shoulder.
“When did you say you met him?” Hartigan asked.
Elliot seized the escort’s hand and whirled around. He yelped as she locked his wrist and slammed him face-first into the back of the elevator. She whipped his pistol from its holster and pushed it into the hollow of his cheek.
“Leanne!” Hartigan cried.
Elliot ignored her. “Listen carefully,” she said to the soldier, her voice calm. “Y
our job is to escort us, not to feel us up. If you lay another finger on me, you will never eat solid food again, do you understand?”
The soldier nodded quickly.
“Say it,” Elliot insisted, forcing the barrel deeper into the man’s cheek.
“I understand,” he squeaked.
The elevator came to a stop and Elliot released the soldier, returning his pistol. “Be sure to tell the other commandos that you lost to a girl,” she said. He sheepishly accepted his sidearm and stared at the floor. Elliot straightened her jacket and glanced at Hartigan.
“Men,” Elliot said, marching out of the elevator.
Hartigan trotted after her. “What just happened?”
“He touched me.”
“I didn’t think you hated to be touched that much.”
“Now you know better.”
“I guess so,” Hartigan said. “Wait. How did you know he was a commando? I thought he was an MP.”
“The beret. It’s green.”
“Right, but…” Hartigan reached out and grabbed Elliot’s forearm. Elliot stiffened and Hartigan quickly let go, raising her hands. “I just wanted to ask one more question.”
“What?”
“Where did you learn to do that arm-twisting thing?”
“The academy.”
Hartigan shook her head. “I saw your file. You never did advanced self-defence training.”
“Then how did I manage to do the arm-twisting thing?” Hartigan’s mouth opened but she didn’t have anything else to say.
“You two are late,” a man said, breezing past and gesturing for them to follow him.
“That’s Agent Lee Singh,” Hartigan said.
“It was a pleasure to meet him,” Elliot mumbled. He walked with loping strides but his back was straight, his posture regimental. “He seems like a real sweetie-pie.”
They followed Singh to a secure briefing room, where they were politely instructed to leave mobile phones and other electronic equipment in the lock boxes provided. Their escort sat on a chair outside, rubbing his cheek.
The room was full of people engaged in murmured conversations. Hartigan walked to the front of the room and Singh steered Elliot to a seat and placed a sheet of paper in front of her.
“This is a non-disclosure agreement that says you can be charged under the Crimes Act if you divulge any information you receive through this brief without prior authorisation.” Singh held out a pen. “Sign.”
“Or I could just leave you guys to it and go shopping.”
“You’re here to gain an appreciation for the people who want to kill you.”
Elliot reached for the pen but Singh pulled it away before she could take it.
“Take this seriously,” he said firmly, finally handing her the ballpoint. “Unauthorised disclosure is considered treason. The penalty is life imprisonment.”
“Is that the best you can do?” Elliot swirled the pen across the bottom of the document and drew a smiley face next to her signature before holding up the page.
Singh took the document and passed it to an aide. “You’d prefer the death penalty?”
“You’d have to catch me first, sweetie-pie,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’re going to ask me for my insight during the brief, are you?” She flicked the pen in the air and his hand darted out to snatch it.
“Opinions are like orgasms, constable.”
“You mean you get yours from the internet?”
Singh’s eyes darkened, his jaw twitching. “Mine are more important than yours.” He turned and walked away.
Elliot watched after him and narrowed her eyes. She knew one other man with reflexes like that. Singh was not a cop, she thought. He had the suit, the scuffed shoes, the shiny badge, and the faded photograph ID, but his duty wasn’t enforcing the law. He definitely wasn’t assigned cases to make arrests. Singh was something else altogether.
Elliot folded her hands on the table in front of her.
I might be in deep trouble.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA WEDNESDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 3:28 AM MSK
Stephen Murphy paused in the shadows. The street was empty and the cars dozed silently by the kerb, glistening with dew. All of the streetlights were dead save one, which flickered maniacally. A cat squatted on a garbage can and eyed him curiously, its tail swaying back and forth. A Styrofoam cup scraped along the pavement, urged along by a frigid breeze. He heard a shoe scuff on the cobblestones behind him.
The Wolf sniffed the air.
Murphy whipped his pistol from his coat. He turned to his right, firing at a shadow next to the streetlight, and a man wailed. He crouched as he turned again, firing at another puddle of darkness. Another man staggered to the ground.
Murphy straightened up and pivoted, catching Maxim’s wrist and stopping the knife before it drove into his side. The two men locked together, the barrel of Murphy’s pistol pushing into Maxim’s eye socket and Maxim’s knife trembling near Murphy’s ribcage.
“I told you your aftershave stinks, Maxim,” Murphy said through his teeth.
“He just wants to talk, Stepan,” Maxim breathed, the barrel of the pistol burning his flesh. “He said you would walk home this way. He prepared supper.”
“I’m off the clock.”
“Five minutes. I can take you to him.” Maxim relaxed his grip on the knife. “And you can keep your gun.”
Murphy slowly lowered his pistol and Maxim dipped his head in gratitude, his eye watering.
“This way,” Maxim said.
Maxim led Murphy to a small restaurant, the doorway veiled in darkness, the dining room glowing warmly. The furniture was made of old timber, crafted by hand and softened by years of use. Red and white chequered tablecloths were spread across the tables, each of which had a simple centrepiece of candles and salt and pepper shakers. All of the chairs had been turned upside down and placed on the tables. All except three.
Nikolay Korolev pushed his empty plate away and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “You have remarkable timing,” he said to Murphy, gesturing to the chair opposite his. “Please, Stepan, take a seat.”
The restaurant’s manager was a stout man with a bald head wreathed with wiry hair. His feet were bare and his trousers held up by braces that left welts on his naked chest. He stood by the counter with his wife and daughter. They had been forced from their beds, roused to feed Korolev his supper, and they held each other while Korolev’s bodyguards circled them.
Murphy sat down, glaring at Korolev.
“Would you like some wine?” Korolev asked casually, nodding to a bottle that sat on the table. He raised his hand and Maxim prodded the manager’s daughter. She yelped and shuffled towards the table to clear away Korolev’s empty plate.
“No,” Murphy replied, peering up at the girl. She collected the plate and left.
“That’s right,” Korolev said. “You prefer scotch.”
“I also prefer eating in the evening.”
“I eat when I’m hungry.” Korolev reclined in his chair and picked his teeth. “I bought this place some years ago,” he said. “The manager is an exile from Italy. He has exquisite taste.”
Murphy watched the manager hold his daughter and stroke her hair.
“He’s spoiling me tonight,” Korolev continued, reaching for the bottle of wine. “This is a bottle from Greve in Tuscany, a vineyard just south of Florence.” He turned the bottle so that Murphy could read the label. “It’s an excellent wine. There’s a faint aroma of tobacco and the cherry is strong on the palate. It’s playfully sweet but there is a smooth bitter finish.”
Murphy lit a cigarette and heard Maxim sit on a chair behind him.
“It’s made with Sangiovese grapes,” Korolev said, sniffing his glass. “They appeal to me. It’s the name, you see. It comes from the Latin sanguis Jovis, the blood of Jupiter.” He held the glass by the stem and raised it up to the light. “It reminds me that men can do anything, even bleed the gods to make wine.”
Murphy dragged
deeply on his cigarette. “History is a mass grave full of soldiers buried by generals who thought themselves gods.”
Korolev grinned, baring his teeth. “Not all men deserve to wear crowns,” he said, topping up his glass. “The privilege is reserved for a gifted few. A true leader must understand power. He must be trained in its virtues, its use,” he raised his glass, “its intoxicating effect.”
The girl returned, placing a plastic chess board on the table before stepping away quietly.
“Chess, the game of kings,” Korolev proclaimed. “I’ve always wondered if you play.”
“I don’t like playing games by another man’s rules,” Murphy said.
“I’m not surprised.” Korolev grunted, hunching over the board. “Each of the pieces has its own role. They know their power, their limitations, their restrictions.” He glanced up at Murphy. “And they know their place.”
Murphy exhaled and shrouded the chess board with smoke.
“Some pieces are sacrificed and some are preserved,” Korolev continued, “depending on their value and their utility, but all do as commanded to attain victory.”
“Victory for the king, you mean,” Murphy said.
“He’s king for a reason,” Korolev snorted. “Do you honestly believe a pawn deserves the same privileges?”
“You could throw the pawn a bone from time to time.”
Korolev touched the scar on his jaw. “Tuscany isn’t just known for its wine, you know. Many great men have called it home. One of them was born in Florence itself.”
Murphy rolled his eyes. “You’re going to lecture me?”
Korolev sipped from his glass. “Surely, you’ve heard of Niccolò Machiavelli, Stepan.”
“Didn’t he win the MotoGP World Championship last year?” Murphy said, tapping the ash from his cigarette.
Korolev’s brow furrowed. “No, Stepan.”
“No? I could’ve sworn it was him.” Murphy clicked his fingers. “He raced for Ducati. He had a low-side crash in qualifying at Valencia and started twentieth on the grid.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Korolev asked, his nostrils flaring.
“He was paying $13.50 for a podium finish. I made eight grand.”