No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  “But—”

  “You’re dismissed, constable.”

  The constable stared at her for a moment, then shook his head and walked away.

  She looked down at Rusty. “Hey,” she said, trying to get his attention. “You can go now, Rusty.”

  Rusty’s eyes remained focused on the ruins in the middle of the square. “I want to stay.”

  Hartigan sat on the gutter beside him. “Why?”

  He waved a hand towards the bomb site. “I think my friend was in the restaurant when it blew up.”

  “Are you sure? Did you try calling him?”

  “She isn’t answering.”

  “Oh. Maybe she’s busy.”

  “Maybe.” He hunched over and tugged at the shoelaces on his Volleys.

  “Do you like this girl?”

  He blushed. “She’s just a friend.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Rusty.” Hartigan smiled.

  “I should’ve given her a hug, or something,” he said. “Before I left. I was too scared, though.”

  “You can give her a hug when you see her again.”

  Rusty shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “She doesn’t like to be touched anyway.”

  Hartigan’s thoughts came into sharp focus, her mind racing. She cleared her throat and stood up, studying the wreckage again. The neighbouring shops were all intact, other than their shattered windows, and the art gallery didn’t have a single scorch mark on its structure, despite being less than twenty metres away from the bomb site. She cast her eyes around and saw a police sedan burrowed in a bookshop’s window. The cruiser’s bonnet was peppered with bullet holes, the windscreen shattered. Forensic officers had cordoned off the shop with police tape and were examining the car.

  “Do you want to come for a walk with me, Rusty?”

  The boy looked up at her with wide eyes. “I want to stay here.”

  “We won’t go far,” she said. “I just want to take a walk around the site. Maybe we’ll find your friend.”

  He frowned and scratched the side of his head, deliberating carefully before standing up.

  “This friend of yours,” she began, staring at her feet as they walked along the esplanade. “Why do you think she was in the restaurant?”

  He hesitated. “She asked me lots of questions about it. I think she wanted to see for herself.”

  “Did she ask you about a big Russian guy with missing fingers?”

  Rusty stopped walking and glanced back towards the art gallery.

  Hartigan crouched in front of him. “You’re not in trouble, Rusty.” She nodded towards the command centre. “I’m not like them.”

  He wiped his hands on his jacket.

  Hartigan combed through the debris at her feet, brushing small rocks and smashed bricks aside until she found a shiny brass shell. She picked up the casing and held it up for Rusty to see. “Do you know what this is?”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “This is a shell from an assault rifle,” Hartigan explained. “The same calibre used by the police tactical response team. How many do you see around here?”

  Rusty looked down, his eyes darting left and right. “Lots,” he said.

  Hartigan pointed down the street towards the bullet-riddled police cruiser inside the bookshop. “They were shooting at that.”

  “Why would they shoot at their own car?”

  “Good question,” Hartigan said. “You know, a lot of people think my job is about finding answers. Most of the time, it’s about asking the right questions.” She stood up. “Why would the Russians blow up their own restaurant?” She juggled the shell in her hand. “If it was a terrorist attack, why would they destroy their building but leave the others intact? And why isn’t there a constable-shaped chalk outline on the pavement? Whoever escaped stole the car, so why leave any of the cops alive?” She turned to Rusty. “Does that sound like the Russians to you?”

  Rusty looked away quickly. He closed his eyes. “She said she needed to find out about her friend,” he said reluctantly. “She said the Russians knew where he was.” His bottom lip quivered. “She sent out a message asking who was new in town, what they were up to, and where they were. I told her I could help.”

  “Help?”

  “I’ve been inside the Russian place before.” He shook his head.

  “I told her I’d seen a workshop out the back. They were making something out of yellow bricks and mobile phones and cable.”

  “Jesus, Rusty.”

  “She promised me she wouldn’t go inside.” He sniffed, his voice cracking. “I just need to know that she’s okay.”

  “Simone Elliot is still alive, kid,” Singh said, walking up behind Rusty. “You know how I know?”

  “How?” Rusty asked.

  “Because Agent Hartigan hasn’t killed her yet.” He grabbed Rusty’s arm and heaved him towards another agent. “Take his statement when his mum gets here. I want to know what he knows.”

  The agent nodded.

  “I don’t know anything,” Rusty protested.

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, kid,” Singh said, nodding to the agent.

  The agent dragged Rusty away and Singh turned back to Hartigan.

  “I hope you rot in hell, Lee,” she snapped.

  “Shut up so I can brief you,” he said.

  She scowled.

  “The building had already been evacuated by the time tactical response showed up.”

  “Fire alarm.”

  “Yeah, it went off.” He crammed his hands into his pockets. “Nobody was really around to hear it. The diners took the hint when three guys ran through the restaurant with assault rifles. They all panicked and ran away, clearing the street too.”

  “So the whole area was empty when the cops turned up?”

  “Almost. Some uniforms were shooing away the last of the tourists. One cop was butt-whipped from behind and tossed into the back seat of his car.” Singh pointed to the bookshop. “He woke up on the floor in there.”

  “But if tactical response was breaching the building, how did anyone—”

  “They didn’t set up the play very well,” Singh said, “and only went through the front entrance instead of flanking the Russians. Someone escaped through the emergency exit and used the car to get away from the building.”

  “Elliot.”

  “They didn’t know that until about an hour ago. All the cops who witnessed the gunfight are dead, the bookshop was empty when the car drove through it, and the evacuees were too far away to see anything. Elliot bled all over the car’s upholstery, so they figured it out that way. We’re going to keep her name out of the papers for now, at least until we figure out what she was doing here.”

  “And the Bear?”

  “We’re keeping his name away from the media too. We’re building a story now.”

  She shook her head. “All of these fucking lies. Is he in there or not?”

  “He’s in there,” Singh said, nodding towards the ruins, “along with some friends of his. A couple of charred bodies were in the freezer, which is weird, and another guy has a pool cue through his head, which is pretty fucked up.”

  “Freezer?”

  “That’s a puzzle for another investigator.”

  Hartigan’s tongue searched the inside of her cheek, her arms folded across her chest. “Okay, fine. What do you know that I don’t?”

  “We’ve been ordered to go to Moscow.”

  Her mouth fell open, her eyes wide. “Are you fucking nuts? We don’t have jurisdiction in Moscow.”

  “The National Security Committee has ordered us—”

  “Enough with your bullshit. Tell me why.”

  He shook his head and muttered a curse.

  Hartigan rolled her eyes and pointed a finger across the street. “Under that pile of rock is a Chechen bomb-maker who could’ve destroyed our oil trade but we can’t even confirm that because the only witness is a twelve-year-old boy who thinks he saw s
omething.”

  “This isn’t a court of law, Emily,” Singh said impatiently. “We don’t need proof beyond reasonable doubt. If there is even the possibility of a threat, we—”

  “The threat is now contained,” Hartigan interrupted. “And we are aware of the source. We can tighten our borders and set up a task force. Our investigation is over.” She held out her hands. “What more is there?”

  “The guy who sent the Bear is still alive. You think he’s just going to give up?”

  She poked him in the chest. “I’m not going.” She turned to leave.

  “Nikolay Korolev has been giving arms to militants,” he called after her.

  Hartigan paused.

  “Those militants have been blowing up bits of Moscow, as well as that pipeline you were talking about.”

  Hartigan closed her eyes.

  “An American operative died earlier this week because he knew too much. A friend of mine told me about it today, and he told me what he’d learned.”

  “I, um,” she stammered.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say Andrei Sorokin accepted a freelance contract from Giselle Geldenhuys to kill Natalie Robinson. If he had succeeded, he would’ve brought unwanted attention to the Organizatsiya. That’s why he was killed.” Singh stepped towards her. “But any actions against Australian oil interests perpetrated by the Organizatsiya would also bring negative attention to their operations. Any attempt to fight would only narrowly advance Organizatsiya interests. So why would Korolev attack? It would have to be pure self-interest.”

  Hartigan turned to face him.

  Singh reached into his pocket, taking out a wrinkled slip of paper. “I got that last bit from a note hidden under your keyboard.”

  She took the note from him, rereading her own words.

  “You were reading an article about Nevzorova when you wrote that.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I had this idea but it…”

  “Look, Korolev might be using proxies to do his dirty work, but he’s still taking a big risk. Bombing Moscow brings a lot of unwanted attention,” he pointed out. “So does sending a Chechen bomber to Australia. So what is Korolev’s goal? Why is he willing to risk his comfortable life in the Organizatsiya?”

  Hartigan smoothed out her hair. “I’d, um, I mean…”

  “Tell me in the car,” Singh said, turning to leave.

  Hartigan watched him walk away and took a deep breath.

  Why would Simone risk her life to come here?

  She tossed the shell in the air and caught it as it tumbled towards the ground.

  Physics, she thought. For a woman of Elliot’s height and build to force a pool cue through a man’s head, she would have to exhibit the kind of strength caused by surges of pure rage.

  “The Serpent is angry.” Hartigan gazed at the brass shell in her hand, turning it around so it flashed under the floodlights. “She’s taking the fight to them.”

  Hartigan pitched the shell into the rubble and tugged at the sleeves of her coat, following Singh to the car.

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA SATURDAY 17 SEPTEMBER 7:06 AM MSK

  Grigoriy frowned, looking through the windshield. A blanket of grey clouds stretched across the sky, a monochromatic membrane trapping the colours it sucked out of the city. Even the people lurching in and out of the airport seemed pale and bland.

  He heard the first raindrop thud against the roof of the car. More followed, slapping into the windshield, and the shower turned into a downpour. The glass blurred. He toggled the wipers and they swished across the glass. His view of the grey world improved, but only for a moment. He went to toggle the wipers again but paused, sighing heavily, his hand falling back into his lap.

  Grigoriy jumped when the passenger door opened. “Hi, Boss. How was your trip?” He shifted in his seat and turned the wipers on. “I heard there was a bad dust storm in Dubai. Did you get caught in it?”

  Murphy climbed into the car and slammed the door. “Just drive, Grigoriy,” he said gruffly. He ran his hand through his short hair, flicking drops of water on the dashboard.

  He looked exhausted, Grigoriy thought, putting the car in gear and pulling away from the kerb. His eyes were bloodshot, his face stubbled, and his skin waxy. Murphy slouched in his seat and stared vacantly through the window.

  “Did you see Simone?”

  Murphy grunted and lit a cigarette, cracking the window slightly. He placed a newspaper in his lap and smoothed it out, studying the front page.

  “Okay, then.” Grigoriy popped his lips. “Oh, Anna finished her exams on Thursday,” he said, his grip tight on the steering wheel. “We went out for chocolate cake to celebrate.”

  Murphy blew smoke through the gap in the window and turned the page.

  “I changed hotels too. I moved Anna last night.” He kneaded the steering wheel in his hands. “It’s just a precaution.”

  Murphy flicked the cigarette through the window and closed the newspaper, folding it and tossing it on the floor.

  Grigoriy stomped on the accelerator and weaved across two lanes of traffic, ignoring the honks from the other drivers. The car shot into an alleyway, lurching as it screeched to a stop, and Grigoriy yanked on the handbrake.

  “Jesus Christ, Grigoriy,” Murphy said.

  “Fuck you, Stepan!” Grigoriy shouted.

  Murphy held up his hands. “Grigoriy, what the—”

  “What did you expect?” Grigoriy fumed. “Did you think she’d throw herself at you? Did you really think she was waiting for you all these years?”

  Murphy bared his teeth. “I don’t need this shit.” He opened the car door.

  “Hey! Don’t you…”

  The door slammed shut.

  Grigoriy stepped out of the car and into a puddle, the muddy water splashing his trousers. He ran after Murphy. “I’m talking to you,” he said.

  Murphy ignored him, turning up the collar of his coat and plunging his hands into his pockets.

  Grigoriy grabbed Murphy’s shoulder and turned him around. Murphy smacked his hand away.

  “Watch it, Grigoriy,” Murphy growled. “I’ve had a bad fucking week and—”

  “Shut up and listen to me,” Grigoriy insisted, shoving him towards the alley’s wall. “I’m all you’ve got.” He waved his hand towards the end of the alley. “That world doesn’t care about you. She doesn’t care about you. All of that is in the past. What matters is now.”

  Murphy turned away, his jaw clenched. He started walking again, hunched against the rain.

  “You’ve lost focus, Stepan,” Grigoriy said, walking beside him. “The people in this city are scared. The president is scared.” He exhaled. “Anna is scared.”

  “You’re scared.” Murphy glared at Grigoriy. “You just want to save yourself.”

  “Yes, because you taught me to think that way,” he said.

  “Then save yourself,” he said. “Why do you need me to do it for you?”

  Grigoriy leapt in front of Murphy and held up his hand. “I hacked Maxim’s tablet and I found his map.” He ran his hand through his wet hair and flicked his wrist, flinging water at the ground. “He’s marked all of the targets, including those that are yet to be hit.” He stepped back. “Nikolay has persuaded militants to bomb Moscow and I can’t figure out why, and, yes, that scares the shit out of me.”

  “Nikolay is going to war against Valentina,” Murphy said. “That’s why.”

  Grigoriy’s jaw fell open. “But that’s…” He placed his hand over his mouth. “Jesus, we’ll all be killed.” He looked up at Murphy. “What do we do?”

  “We do our job,” Murphy said. “We play our part.”

  “But Valentina will send the army after us,” Grigoriy pointed out. “We can’t just—”

  “What do you want from me, Grigoriy?” Murphy said. “Do you want me to fight? Who should I fight? Should I take on Valentina or Nikolay? And what if I win, what’s left for me then, huh? Where do I go? Who will have me?”

 
Grigoriy shook his head slowly. “So that’s it,” he said quietly. “You’re a fucking coward.”

  Murphy seized Grigoriy’s lapels and shoved him against the bricks. “Don’t you dare lecture me about cowardice. You’re too scared to ask a girl on a date.” He released Grigoriy and stepped back, taking his phone from his pocket. “Here, one last job for you and then you can run away with your tail between your legs.”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I bugged Maxim at one of Korolev’s restaurants before I left.” He waved his phone in the air. “I listened to it while I was waiting for the dust storm to pass through Dubai, but I want to get the file off the phone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it gives me leverage against Nikolay.” He dangled the phone in front of Grigoriy. “Put the file on a thumb drive and you can leave Moscow.”

  Grigoriy took the phone and dropped it in his pocket. “But I don’t want to leave,” he said. “Is this because of Simone? Why don’t you just—”

  Murphy’s hand darted out, seizing Grigoriy’s throat. “Don’t say her name,” he snarled.

  Grigoriy’s eyes went wide and he tried to inhale, desperate for breath. He blinked, his vision blurring, and he slapped his open palm against Murphy’s arm.

  “Delete that name from your brain,” Murphy said, “because I’ll skin you alive if you say it aloud again.” He let go.

  Grigoriy clutched his knees and coughed, spitting phlegm on the ground. He took a deep breath, the air rasping through his throat. “She will always hate you, Stepan,” he wheezed. “Take a look at yourself right now and you’ll see why.”

  Murphy lit another cigarette and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Grigoriy straightened up and fell back against the brick wall. He looked up, the brick walls towering above him, the rain swirling from the sky.

  People always die when Volkov is in town, he thought.

  But I’m not going to be one of them.

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA SATURDAY 17 SEPTEMBER 7:52 AM MSK

  Murphy closed the door and took a deep breath.

  I shouldn’t have kissed her.

  The thought had been looping through his mind since leaving Simone Elliot in the hotel hallway. Drink couldn’t drown it, the movie on the plane had only muffled it, and sleep seemed to make it louder. His temples throbbed and he massaged his forehead.