No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  Korolev leaned forward, his forearm pushing his pieces across the board. “Machiavelli was a writer, a philosopher and a statesman: a truly gifted man.”

  “He knows how to race a fucking bike, too.”

  “Enough!” Korolev shouted, cutting his hand through the air. “Machiavelli understood power. While others obsessed over using education and culture to enlighten a prince, he realised these were petty indulgences that led to decadence, and that a real prince knew what was truly important.”

  Murphy stubbed out his cigarette on the chess board. Korolev’s eyes were expectant, his thumb tapping the edge of the table, waiting for Murphy to ask what was truly important. Murphy folded his arms and set them on the edge of the table. “Do you think Honda learned their lessons this season?” he asked.

  Korolev slammed his hand on the table, causing it to shudder violently. The chess pieces jumped into the air and some toppled over. Korolev’s king remained standing. “I know you went to see Valentina.”

  Murphy sat up. “Is that so?”

  “I’d really like to know how you managed to get into the Kremlin undetected,” Korolev said. “But I’ll settle for knowing what you talked about.”

  “Oil.”

  Korolev grunted. “She’s an idiot, and she’ll sacrifice this country on the altar of her pride.”

  “I figured you’d say something like that,” Murphy said. “So I started to ask myself: what would Nikolay do about it?”

  “I have planned for all contingencies,” Korolev said. “Except you.”

  “So you are willing to throw the pawn a bone. You could’ve just said that instead of going on and on.”

  Korolev placed his glass on the table and ran his finger along its rim. “Machiavelli wrote that a prince must be like a fox and a lion. A fox is sly enough to avoid traps and a lion keeps the wolves away. So, what must I do to achieve that?”

  “You’re concerned about my loyalty?”

  “You have none left, Stepan. I know because I bought it all.”

  Murphy’s eyes darkened and he snatched Korolev’s queen from the board. “Machiavelli also wrote that ‘fortune is a woman and if she is to be submissive it is necessary to beat and coerce her’.” He touched the queen’s crown. “But I never found fortune particularly submissive. Even the king of the gods couldn’t overcome the Fates. Sometimes you lose, Nikolay, and Lady Luck is the one who decides.”

  Korolev stabbed the chess board with his finger. “You will win this war for me.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “It’s not what I can offer but what I can take away that should concern you.”

  Murphy swept his pieces from the board and they clattered to the floor. The bodyguards reached into their jackets. Everyone in the room held their breath, watching Murphy dip his hand into his coat. He pulled out a small statuette of a wolf and placed it on the board, a lone figure facing Korolev’s plastic army.

  “How dare you?” Korolev hissed. “I swear to Christ I’m going to—”

  “How did she catch you, Nikolay?” Murphy interrupted. “And why is it that the coin you carry was minted in 1942, three years before her grandfather claimed a coin as a trophy from an American GI?”

  Korolev’s face turned to stone. He picked up his glass and poured the wine into his mouth, his cheeks bulging, his bottom lip glistening. He swallowed loudly and sat back in his chair. “Maxim. Get everyone out and don’t come back until I call you.”

  “But Nikolay—” Maxim protested.

  “Out!” Korolev smashed his glass on the floor. “Now!”

  The family was shuffled outside at gunpoint. Maxim was the last to leave, shrugging into his coat and looking over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

  The room was silent and the two men stared at each other over the chess board. A tap dripped somewhere and each drop clanged against the basin, the sound growing louder and louder.

  Murphy lit another cigarette, puffing contentedly. “It was a honey trap, wasn’t it?”

  “She loved me,” Korolev said. “They made her betray me. They lured her away with medals and promotions until they convinced her that I was the enemy.”

  “This is an obsession,” Murphy warned. “Quoting Machiavelli doesn’t make it a noble cause. It’s all about her.”

  Korolev chuckled. “I feel nothing for her anymore. I learned my lesson.” He held his hand like it was a pistol, aiming at Murphy. “You’re the one who can’t let go of a woman you haven’t seen for over seven years, a woman who would sell you to the highest bidder.”

  Murphy tapped the ash from his cigarette. “You don’t know her.”

  “You are my puppet because of her.”

  “You made me a guarantee.”

  “Exactly,” Korolev spat. “She’s like all the rest, Stepan.” He held his hand to his chest. “Take my advice. Kill her, before she destroys you.”

  Murphy flicked his cigarette away and stood up, his chair scraping along the floor. “Do me a favour: keep your advice to yourself.”

  Maxim opened the door before Murphy could grab the handle.

  Murphy paused, looking Maxim up and down before laying his hand on the Russian’s shoulder. Maxim’s eye was bloodshot and watery, his eyelid red and swollen. “How’s the eye?” Murphy asked.

  Maxim rubbed his eye with his knuckle. “Fine.”

  Murphy patted Maxim on the stomach and punched him in the face. Maxim fell back, sliding down the open door and coming to rest on the floor.

  “How is it now?” Murphy asked, stepping through the door.

  Korolev grunted at Murphy’s retreating silhouette. “Two days, Stepan,” Korolev whispered. “Two days and Simone will be dead.” He scooped the stone wolf from the chess board and smiled.

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA WEDNESDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 10:06 AM AEST

  “That’s the extent of our knowledge of their operations,” Hartigan said, gesturing to the projected image on the wall.

  Simone Elliot stifled a yawn, her eyes watering. Hartigan had just finished going through an itemised list of Nikolay Korolev’s property, media, and oil holdings, which were extensive. It was all a bit of a blur for Elliot, and she couldn’t help but study the room.

  The others attending the briefing didn’t dare look away from the presentation. A few of them occasionally interrupted with questions, but only to ensure that the interests of their organisations were adequately represented. The army had a commanding presence. A dozen uniformed officers sat in a row, wearing pressed khaki and strips of coloured ribbons on their chests. Their representative was a sandyhaired officer of middling rank who regularly rapped his knuckles on his armrest. His interjections convinced Elliot that the army had no idea what was going on.

  Other agencies were equally oblivious but desperately tried not to show it. One analyst had asked a number of questions but he hardly paid attention to the answers. He wore a tailored suit and clutched a leather satchel embroidered with military patches. His slight paunch swelled against his belt, his currant-eyed gaze wavered each time Hartigan corrected him.

  Another analyst seemed to interrupt for the sake of asserting his intelligence, though Elliot was convinced he didn’t have much of that. He was a young man cultivating stubble on his chin. He wore a cardigan over a collared shirt and persistently swept his long floppy hair out of his face. Murmuring and nodding, he used the time it took for Hartigan to answer each of his questions as an opportunity to formulate more, rather than to listen to what she had to say.

  There was one other analyst that made regular contributions, and she seemed reasonably insightful. She was a middle-aged woman who dressed conservatively and spoke quietly. Those around her had to lean close to hear her, and seemed desperate to catch every word. Those farther away couldn’t hear her at all, so they chose not to listen.

  The only other person of importance was the agency’s deputy director, a man with dyed hair and glasses perched on his nose. Elliot had identified him as s
oon as she’d entered the room. He dressed like a bureaucrat, a man obsessed with appearances over results, and process over outcome. Men like him all looked the same to her. If she were an agent, she wouldn’t even bother to learn their names.

  “Which brings us to Monday night,” Hartigan said, clicking the remote in her hand.

  Elliot felt another yawn coming and clenched her jaw, looking down at the briefing document in front of her. She turned the pages until she found the photograph of Stepan Volkov taken by a teenage girl in a pub. The image had been blown up and was blurry and distorted. Like the briefing, it promised much more than it showed, and didn’t teach her anything she didn’t already know.

  Volkov spoke eight languages and knew how to blend in. He had specialist military training, though nobody knew which country had provided it. Payments were impossible to track and skipped through accounts twenty times per second. Trace evidence hadn’t helped determine who he was, only that he’d been in the room. He managed to sneak in and out of countries unnoticed because customs agents couldn’t be everywhere and he knew where the holes were. It was a whole lot of nothing, which Elliot had expected, but that hadn’t stopped her hoping for so much more.

  A bloated photograph from a driver’s licence appeared on the wall. “This is Andrei Sorokin,” Hartigan said. “Stepan Volkov killed Sorokin in a country pub on Monday night.” Hartigan outlined what they knew about Sorokin, including the business card for Korolev’s nightclub that Elliot had found in his pocket.

  “The state police say that Sorokin was not welcomed by the Russians,” Hartigan said. “He stole the business card to flash it around, claiming he was a big-time gangster. The fancy cigarettes served the same purpose. In reality, he was a petty crook with a big mouth.”

  “Does that rule out the possibility that Sorokin was there to kill Volkov?” the middle-ranking soldier asked. “Perhaps one of Korolev’s competitors put him up to it?”

  Hartigan shook her head. “That’s unlikely. A constable who witnessed the attack reported that Sorokin didn’t recognise Volkov when he entered the pub. Even if we assume that the witness was mistaken, it still doesn’t fit. All Russians know the stories.”

  “Stories?” the deputy director asked, peering over his glasses.

  “The criminal syndicates in Russia are afraid of Volkov,” Hartigan explained. “They say that if you shoot at him, be sure not to miss.” She shook her head again. “Sorokin wasn’t there for Volkov. They wouldn’t have sent one man; they would have sent an army.”

  “So why was Sorokin in that pub?” the deputy director asked.

  “We think he was running,” Hartigan said. “He knew that the Organizatsiya didn’t want him in Australia anymore. He was lying low, travelling with fake ID and paying all his bills in cash. We think he bought his pistol for protection. We found fingerprints on the bullets in the weapon and we know they don’t belong to Sorokin. It looks like somebody else loaded the pistol so we think he bought it out of the boot of someone’s car. The serial number was filed away and is unrecoverable.” Hartigan referred to her notes. “State police seized Sorokin’s personal effects yesterday. They’re sending it all to us. Hopefully we’ll learn more about Sorokin when his effects arrive.”

  “So what conclusions can we draw from the data, Agent Hartigan?” the deputy director asked, his hands knitted together under his chin.

  “The evidence points to termination to preserve business interests in Australia,” Hartigan said. “Sorokin didn’t heed the warnings until it was too late. He was trying to stay mobile to evade detection but Volkov found him and killed him before his conduct brought the cops down on the local syndicates.”

  Nice theory, Elliot thought.

  Clear, concise, well reasoned, and totally wrong.

  The deputy director locked his eyes on Hartigan. “So, based on your analysis, it’s unlikely that the Organizatsiya poses a threat to our oil interests. Do you agree?”

  Hartigan’s brow creased. “I’m sorry?”

  “There’s no threat,” the paunchy bureaucrat interjected. “I don’t think there is anything to be concerned about.”

  “That’s not true,” the floppy-haired analyst objected. “This hit was not related to our trade interests but the threat is still real.”

  “But you can’t dismiss the tyranny of distance here,” the soldier countered. “A small disorganised group can’t project force halfway across the world.”

  “Force?” Hartigan’s eyes darted between the speakers.

  “This can’t happen,” the middle-aged woman said calmly. “Not here. Therefore, it won’t happen.”

  “A cyber attack or a series of bombings would cripple us for low cost and high benefit,” the floppy-haired analyst remarked.

  “Wait a minute,” Hartigan cried, attempting to regain control.

  “But they won’t act until they know for certain that Beijing will reject the Kremlin’s offer,” the soldier pointed out. “They have to wait for the deadline to expire.”

  “And we’re just supposed to sit here and do nothing?” the floppyhaired analyst blurted.

  “The agency needs to find Volkov,” the middle-aged woman said.

  Elliot sat up straight, her head snapping around.

  “He’s your best chance of learning the Organizatsiya’s intentions,” the woman added.

  “Then the agency better move quickly.” The soldier tapped the face of his wristwatch. “We’ve only got about forty-nine hours,” he said.

  The room erupted in a heated discussion and the deputy director stood up, attempting to calm everyone. Elliot turned her head and saw that Lee Singh was staring at her. She slowly looked away.

  “Thank you,” the deputy director said. The chatter died and he cleared his throat. “All of these concerns will be covered in the next session.”

  “But, sir,” Hartigan protested. “If you’ll let me clarify—”

  “No, that’s fine, Emily,” Singh said, standing up.

  The deputy director glared at him before turning back to Hartigan. “Thank you. Your brief was very informative.” He turned to the audience. “We’ll take a break for ten minutes to chew on what we’ve heard, and then we’ll reconvene to discuss possible courses of action,” he said.

  Spontaneous murmurs broke out across the room. Soldiers climbed out of their chairs and stretched while suited men huddled together and whispered insistently. Quiet conversations quickly turned to the topic of coffee, and words were punctuated by the shuffle of papers and the jingle of change in pockets.

  Elliot watched Singh approach the lectern. She stood up, smoothing out her jacket and stepping closer.

  “That’s all we need from you, Emily,” Singh said, propped against the lectern. “You won’t be required for the next meeting.”

  “But you don’t understand these people,” Hartigan said, spreading her hands. “There’s more. I believe—”

  “Stop right there, Emily,” Singh said, gently slapping the lectern. “You’re paid for what you know, not what you believe. Keep it to yourself.”

  Hartigan’s mouth fell open.

  “Excuse me, Agent Singh.” A young aide approached and produced a file folder. “From last night.”

  “Thanks.” Singh opened the file and scanned the documents inside.

  “So what now?” Hartigan mumbled.

  Elliot saw Singh close the folder and look over his shoulder. Elliot winked at him and he frowned before turning back to Hartigan. “I need you to solve a puzzle, Emily.”

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA WEDNESDAY 14 SEPTEMBER 4:08 AM MSK

  Stephen Murphy turned on the bedside lamp and the globe blinked into life, throwing a dim circle of light onto the ceiling. He ran his fingers along the edge of the box and grabbed the padlock, noticing that the latch had been forced. The lid squealed on its hinges when he opened it. He grabbed the plastic bag and emptied it on to the bed.

  “Stephen Murphy,” Anna whispered from the doorway.

  “No
body has called me that in a long time,” he said, combing through his past.

  “Can I call you that?” she asked.

  “Maybe one day,” he mumbled, picking up the photographs.

  Anna watched him gaze at one of the photographs. It was of him and the woman, Simone. Murphy’s finger hovered over the woman’s face and his grey eyes softened.

  “Did I wake you?” he asked absently.

  I was having trouble sleeping, anyway,” Anna said, climbing on to the bed. “Who is she?” she asked, pointing to the photograph.

  “I understand you’re curious, but it’s best if you pretend you never saw this stuff.”

  “Stepan,” she protested.

  “Anna, I’m serious.” He swept his arm over the pile on the bed. “All of this was supposed to be left behind in Australia. I’m not supposed to have a past.”

  “I know,” Anna said, crossing her legs. “Neither am I. I’m not even allowed to have a last name. I’m just a product.”

  “And I’m just a myth.”

  “But you are also a man,” she said.

  “And you do have a last name.”

  “I did once.”

  “In another world?”

  “In another life.” Anna picked up a pillow and held it to her chest. “Was Nikolay the one who took everything from you?”

  “He got to me late. I was drawn and quartered before I got here.”

  “There must be something left.”

  Murphy studied the photograph again. Maybe, he thought. He tucked two photographs into his coat and shovelled his past into a duffel bag.

  “Stephen?”

  The dog tags were still on the bed. He picked them up and held them in his palm, the chain swaying beneath his hand. “I was in the army in Australia,” he said, running his thumb along the stamped letters. “Until a young girl died.” He cleared his throat. “My friend died, too.”

  “The man in the photograph?”

  Murphy nodded. “Everyone blamed me for it. I lost everything and I went to jail. That’s where Nikolay found me.”

  “And Simone?”

  He cleared his throat again.