No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  But it wasn’t urgent enough, she thought.

  Even on a day like this, each person was afraid to tell the truth to the one sitting across the table. They mumbled clumsy compliments, peeked shyly at one another from behind menus, and cleared their throats when they brushed hands reaching for the salt. It was always the same foolish dance, choreographed by romance novels and played to the irregular beat of cutlery clattering on plates. Anna glimpsed Grigoriy and realised she was stepping through the same dance.

  And every day is urgent for me.

  “I hope you’re wrong,” Grigoriy said. “If Nikolay found out Stepan was seeing…” He sighed. “Seeing her, we could all be in trouble.” His eyes glazed over momentarily, and he shook his head. “But who could really love him, anyway?” he mused. “He doesn’t seem to feel anything.” The waiter hastily delivered two serves of chocolate cake before moving to another table.

  “Do you really believe that?” Anna asked.

  “I always thought of him as a computer,” Grigoriy said. “No feelings or emotions, just inputs and outputs.” She shook her head and eyed off her chocolate cake. “He’s like a painting, a portrait.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “The other day, when he killed Dmitri, he had this expression on his face. It took me a while to figure out where I’d seen it before.”

  “A painting?” Grigoriy asked sceptically.

  “Not a specific painting,” she said, sweeping the hair from her eyes.

  Grigoriy picked up a fork and dragged his plate towards him.

  “When I was a girl, my father used to take me to the Hermitage,” Anna began. “I loved the paintings. I was amazed that something with no soul could hold eyes that seemed alive. I remember feeling insignificant because those eyes had looked upon thousands of people like me, and they seemed immortal for what they knew and what they’d seen.” She shrugged. “Stepan can be like that, alive but dead, material but forever.”

  Grigoriy’s mouth had fallen open and he poked his chocolate cake with his fork. “You know, in Slavic folklore, the wolf is a demon among the divine. He is the darkness at the edge of light, a murderous shadow that stalks the living.”

  “And in English, the wolf was always the destroyer. In Christianity, he was the Devil, preying on the flock while Jesus claimed to protect us.”

  “In Chechnya, the wolf is a symbol of national pride.”

  “We’re still talking about a man, Grigoriy,” Anna said.

  “Perhaps.” Grigoriy dropped his fork and stared at his cake. “But he could’ve killed Dmitri’s men with his pistol. It would’ve been quick and painless but he wanted to make a point. He wanted to make an example of Dmitri.”

  “Computers don’t do that,” Anna observed.

  “But a man?”

  Anna blinked.

  “Nikolay knows what he is,” Grigoriy said.

  “He doesn’t know him.”

  “He knows what matters,” he said. “Stepan came to his attention when he killed a man in an Australian prison. The man was a relative of Nikolay’s who had been exiled in Australia. Nikolay wanted revenge but was so impressed by Stepan’s skill that he broke him out and—” he paused, trying to find the right word. “Enslaved. Nikolay enslaved him.” He stared down at his coffee. “Stepan served Nikolay in Chechnya. That’s where he became the Wolf. That’s all that matters here.”

  “It wouldn’t matter to Simone,” Anna said. “If she loved him.”

  He picked up his coffee cup. “That’s much more complicated.”

  “How?”

  “Simone lives in this world too,” he said. “She’s a thief, and a very good one.” He sipped from his cup.

  Anna sat up straight. “How do you know this?”

  “Stepan has always used me to research stuff, including his targets,” Grigoriy said. “I’d been working for him for two years when he asked me to search for Simone. I knew she wasn’t a target so I kept it quiet. She was living in New Zealand at the time.”

  “Did he go see her?”

  “No. He just asked for reports about where she was and any jobs she was doing. I gave him information every couple of weeks. He seemed happier when he knew she was okay.”

  “What happened?”

  “She disappeared and I couldn’t find her. Stepan changed after that. He seemed more distant, more committed to Nikolay’s organisation.”

  “Where did she go?” Anna asked.

  “She bought a new identity and fell off the grid for three years. She’s been in the police force but we didn’t know that until she suddenly turned up in an Australian pub at the same time as Stepan.”

  Anna folded her arms on the table. “Why the police force?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She waggled her finger. “But you know something. I can tell.”

  His face flushed. “You’re manipulating me again.”

  “And you’re evading me.”

  “Anna, you don’t understand. People could die if I say these things aloud.”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  “Anna, please.” Grigoriy muttered a curse, running his hand through his curly hair and taking a deep breath. “Nikolay knew about Simone. He knew that she existed. Stepan made a deal. He would work for Nikolay as long as Simone remained untouched. In exchange, Stepan had to stay away from her.”

  “Why?”

  “Korolev didn’t want him to hope for another life,” Grigoriy said. “Serving Nikolay is supposed to be Stepan’s purpose.”

  “What happens if Nikolay finds out Stepan is seeing Simone?”

  Grigoriy shook his head slowly. “Someone will die.”

  “Stepan?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. See, you have to understand that…” Grigoriy paused. “There is a story. Simone knew nothing about the deal. She stole some paintings from a truck that was driving across Europe. They were being transported by Nikolay Korolev.”

  Anna’s eyes went wide. “She ripped off Nikolay?”

  Grigoriy raised his finger to his mouth. “Yes, but please.” His eyes darted around. “It’s a story, that’s all. It was never reported in newspapers. The police never investigated. Nobody in the Organizatsiya mentions it. Even Nikolay’s competitors believe it’s just a rumour.”

  “Is it really just a story?” Anna whispered.

  Grigoriy shook his head. “Nikolay was furious,” he said. “He sent men to kill Simone but he kept it quiet. There are only three people alive who know the truth.”

  “But she’s still alive.”

  “The men tried but they went for her fence first and she disappeared before they could reach her. Nikolay never breathed a word about it.” He looked away. “Stepan depends on me for information, so I choose what to tell him about some things.”

  “You never told him?” she hissed.

  He shook his head. “Nyet, no, never.”

  “Grigoriy,” Anna scolded. “If Stepan finds out—”

  “What should I have done?” he snapped, cutting her off. “Stepan killed five men because they were threatening you. If he loves Simone, if he really loves her, then what would he do to Nikolay?”

  Anna nodded slowly. “And there are hundreds of syndicate leaders waiting to take his place. Stepan would be killed. We’d be killed.”

  “And what if you’re right and she doesn’t love him back?”

  “I never meant—”

  He held up his hand. “What if she hates him for what he is?” He let his hand fall to the table. “He’s been hanging on to her for years. What if his hope is snatched away by Simone’s hate?”

  Anna stared down at her teacup.

  “It’s a mess,” Grigoriy said.

  “He told me that Simone’s brother died in the war. Stepan blames himself.” She looked up from her tea. “He’s scared that she blames him too.”

  “Do you want to know what scares me?” Grigoriy stabbed the table with his finger. “It’s that you’re right, that he is
a man. She’s all he believes in. There’s nothing else, no hope, no reason to live. And if she turns him away…” He shuddered. “He would become exactly what Korolev needs him to be.”

  Anna realised that living was becoming more urgent by the hour. “If Nikolay asks, will you tell him that Stepan broke the deal, too?”

  He crossed his arms and shrugged. “I don’t know that he has, yet.”

  “Grigoriy, I know that you have no…” Her voice trailed off and she gazed through the window, biting her lip. “Don’t you think Stepan deserves a chance?”

  Grigoriy pushed his empty coffee cup away. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “He is what he is. Who could see past that?”

  Anna felt her heart sink and picked up her fork.

  Who could see past that?

  The question echoed inside her and she peered up at Grigoriy.

  Could you, Grigoriy?

  She took a bite of her cake but it tasted like ash in her mouth.

  CANBERRA, AUSTRALIA THURSDAY 15 SEPTEMBER 10:33 PM AEST

  Simone Elliot stared at the dark ceiling and listened to the rhythm of her breathing. She could hear the pop of the rafters settling, the hum of the refrigerator, and the swish of cars driving along the damp road beneath the balcony. The grip of her pistol felt cold in her hand but it still comforted her. She listened for creaking floorboards in the hall, or the scratch of tools at the front door, but there was nothing and her eyes grew heavy.

  Angela!

  Her eyes snapped open, her heart thudding in her chest. She rolled over and sat up, pressing the butt of her pistol against her forehead.

  She wasn’t going to sleep tonight.

  I can’t wait anymore.

  Dawn was the time to run. The surveillance team across the road would be due to change shifts, their senses dulled and their thoughts on a warm bed and hot meal. She could sneak away easily, though her clothes would have to stay behind. A duffel bag would slow her down. She had to take only what she needed.

  She placed her pistol on the dining table and thumbed through her passports, tossing them into her satchel. Siobhán Miller’s cash went into the satchel next, along with the business cards, IDs, and cigarettes. She picked up her medallion and shoved it into her pocket, out of sight.

  Feet shuffled in the hallway and Elliot froze. She grabbed her pistol, flattened herself against the wall beside the door, and listened carefully. There was a scraping sound, metal on metal. Someone was trying to hack the swipe-lock.

  Her weight shifted and the floor creaked beneath her shoes.

  She held her breath.

  The power went out with a pop and the door burst open. Automatic fire ripped across the room and Elliot leaned away from the door, closing her eyes. The gunfire stopped and she heard a magazine clatter to the floor. The shooter waited.

  Elliot leapt into the doorway and fired three rounds into the man’s chest. He toppled backwards into the corridor and slid down the wall. Footsteps pounded on the carpet and she ran inside her room, snatching her satchel and draping the strap over her head. She vaulted over the balcony rail and climbed down to the next floor, huddling in the shadows of the terrace. Boots clomped above her and she heard a Russian whisper harshly.

  Elliot waited until the footsteps faded and vaulted the rail again, climbing down to the third floor. She yanked open the balcony door and stumbled into the room.

  A man in pyjamas fell out of bed.

  “Police!” Elliot bellowed. She waved her pistol in front of the man’s face. “Stay in your room, do you understand? If you go outside, you die.”

  The man nodded quickly and hid under the covers while Elliot ran for the front door. She threw it open and sprinted down the darkened hallway towards the stairwell, skidding to a stop when she heard footsteps and voices echoing down the stairs.

  “Emily!”

  Hartigan jumped, the chair creaking beneath her, and a dull ache radiated through her leg. “Did you kick me?” she asked sleepily.

  “Get up,” Singh barked, working the slide on his pistol. “We’ve got a problem.”

  Hartigan scrambled to her feet.

  Singh seized her wrist and dragged her to the window, thrusting the binoculars into her hands. “Take a look,” he said.

  “I thought these were useless,” she said, peering through the eyepieces. “I can’t see anything.”

  “Try the entrance.”

  Hartigan focused the binoculars. The concierge was gone but two men in business shirts and ties were standing at the front desk. One of them was rolling up his sleeves, baring his tattooed arms, while the other pointed at the ground. The bare-armed man bent over and dragged a body out from behind the desk.

  “They slit the concierge’s throat,” Singh explained, snatching the binoculars away.

  Hartigan’s mouth went dry. “We should call for backup.”

  “There’s no time,” Singh said, handing Hartigan her pistol. “It’s down to us.”

  “Us?”

  “I counted six who ran past the entrance. They must’ve gotten in through the parking garage.”

  “That makes eight,” Hartigan said.

  “Two for Elliot’s floor, two on the floor below to cut off escape, two rovers for support, and two at the entrance to prevent interference.”

  “Eight,” Hartigan repeated, her voice cracking.

  “They all have assault rifles.”

  Hartigan’s feet felt heavy. “I can’t.”

  “You have to, Emily,” Singh said, opening the door. “There’s nobody else.”

  The cleaner’s storeroom contained shelves full of crisp sheets and cleaning fluids, as well as chocolates and bottles of spring water. Elliot placed her pistol on a shelf and grabbed a bottle, cracking the lid and emptying half of the water on to the floor. She studied the shelves and quickly found the ingredients she wanted, squeezing a generous amount into the water bottle.

  She stopped working when she heard footsteps but they marched past her door. A voice called out in Russian: “Go back upstairs. I’ll search this floor.”

  Elliot fumbled through her satchel and found her packet of cigarettes. She tore the packet open and found her last ingredient, adding it to her chemical soup. The man was searching the hallway by kicking down doors, and she could hear him nearing the storeroom.

  Elliot capped the bottle, waiting for the man to get closer. A door smashed open and a woman screamed. It was next door. Elliot shook the bottle, opened the door, and hurled the bomb down the hall.

  There was a wet bang and the man shrieked. Elliot snatched her pistol from the shelf and ripped open the door. The man tumbled inside and collapsed at her feet, writhing on the floor. His face, hands and arms were burnt, his fingers and nose severed.

  “How many?” Elliot said, pointing her pistol at him. He was screaming in pain, rocking back and forth and clutching his face with blistered and bleeding hands.

  “How many?” she asked again, standing over him.

  He didn’t answer.

  Elliot shot him in the knee and he finally looked up at her, crying out silently, his mouth open wide. “How many?”

  The man’s head burst in front of her eyes and she froze.

  “Now, there are six,” a voice said from behind her.

  “Wait on the third floor,” Singh ordered Hartigan.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll go to Elliot’s room on the fifth. You wait in the stairwell and stop anybody who runs down those stairs.”

  “But, Lee.”

  “Go!”

  Hartigan nodded and pushed through the stairwell door.

  Singh turned around when he heard voices and saw two Russians emerge from the security centre. They paused when they saw him. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Singh called out, leaning against the concierge’s desk and holding up his badge. “Have you seen the concierge?”

  “Actually,” the man with the rolled sleeves began, “we just set off to look for him.”

  �
�No luck?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m not sure where he went.” He stopped in front of Singh and crossed his arms, but his friend kept his distance.

  “Strange.” Singh clipped his badge to his belt. “We got a call about a possible murder, something about Russian men with guns.” He looked from one man to the other. “You haven’t seen anyone suspicious creeping around here, have you?”

  “I haven’t seen anything,” the man said. “Did you see anything?” he asked his friend.

  The other man shook his head, holding his hands out and shrugging. His veined forearms were heavily tattooed. “I wouldn’t know what a Russian looked like,” he said, his accent thick.

  Singh noticed that one of the tattoos was a cross, though it wasn’t like the Christian crucifix. There were three bars on this cross: two straight and one lopsided. It was the symbol of the Russian Orthodox Church, tattooed in blurry blue ink. It was a prison job. “Okay, then. Not a problem,” Singh said, turning to the first man. “Spasiba za vashe vryemya.”

  “Nichivo,” the man replied, turning away. He stopped suddenly.

  The Russian pulled a knife and pivoted on his toe, but Singh ducked, kicking out the man’s feet. Singh fired at the second Russian, sending him staggering through the lobby’s glass doors. The first Russian sprang to his feet and slapped the weapon from Singh’s hands.

  Singh stepped back as the Russian jabbed with his knife. Singh seized the man by the wrist and drove the palm of his hand into the attacker’s elbow. He adjusted his grip, locking the Russian’s wrist, and smashed his head into the counter. The Russian flopped on to the floor, unconscious.

  Singh retrieved his pistol and dragged the Russian behind the counter, cuffing him to a foot rail. He crashed through the stairwell door and sprinted up the steps to the fifth floor.

  Elliot turned around slowly. He was blond with a crew cut, his muscles bulging and his grip tight on his assault rifle. He was standing in the doorway, chomping on a toothpick and pointing his rifle at her chest.