No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  Maxim placed the tablet on the ground and turned up the volume of his radio, holding his hands over the earpieces. There were noises, loud ones. A woman’s moans of pleasure, and there was a man, too.

  Again? Perfect.

  He smiled to himself, watching his men slowly enter the bedroom. Maxim’s cheek twitched, a bed materialising on his screen.

  His breath froze in his chest.

  The bed was empty.

  The radio crackled. “Negative contact,” a boyevik said.

  Maxim squinted at the live pictures and stroked his bald head. “What’s all the noise?”

  “There’s a media player,” the boyevik reported. “It’s on the bed.” A ghostly hand extended a finger on the screen. “It’s playing a porn movie.”

  Maxim could just make out the small screen on his tablet.

  “Whoa, wait,” the radio hissed.

  “What’s that?” another boyevik chimed in.

  “I stood on something.”

  The image blurred as the boyevik whirled around to investigate. “It’s nothing,” the radio crackled. “It’s just one of those foot switches for a floor lamp.”

  Maxim saw a man’s boot on a switch and the boyevik lifted his foot.

  “Stop!” Maxim shouted into the radio.

  The earth shook beneath his feet and he lost his balance, toppling to the ground. The hill seemed to split open above him, the soil and rock caving in, a column of dust mushrooming into the sky. Smoke wafted out of the tunnel’s entrance before the stone ceiling collapsed.

  The woods fell silent and Maxim staggered to his feet, tearing off the headset and throwing his radio to the ground. He stomped it into the dust and kicked it away before clutching his knees and panting heavily.

  His mobile phone vibrated in his pocket and he grabbed it, peering at the screen. His heart started pounding in his chest, his blood ice-cold.

  It was Korolev.

  He gazed up at the collapsed hill and shivered.

  ST PETERSBURG, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 11:08 AM MSK

  Grigoriy pushed the empty plates to the end of the table and stood up. He unzipped his backpack and checked its contents. His laptop was still there. Anna’s new identity was also there, along with plane tickets to Sydney via London, departing Helsinki on Monday afternoon. There were also two loaded pistols, two grenades, and a dog-eared paperback that Anna had insisted on keeping. Grigoriy had compromised, telling her that he’d bring the book, but she had to leave her gym bag behind. Essentials only.

  Grigoriy looked up to see Anna walking along the aisles of the service station’s shop. She moved gracefully, her eyes bright, and ran her fingers along the shelves of chocolates, potato chips, tourist maps, propane bottles, and motor oil. She paused in front of a rack of hats and smiled through the corner of her mouth.

  His brow furrowed.

  Being in love shows a man how he ought to be.

  Stephen Murphy had flown halfway across the world to see Simone Elliot because he had hope. He’d known it could mean his death, and he’d known that he could be left with nothing if she rejected him. And then she came for him and he fought back, and Grigoriy found himself hoping that they were both okay, that they were happy.

  Happy.

  Grigoriy grunted. He’d never thought of his boss happy before. Anna picked up a bright green trucker’s cap and put it on, studying it in the mirror. Grigoriy’s back straightened.

  I’m not like Volkov—I’m like Murphy.

  Grigoriy had killed two boyeviks, threatened the world’s most dangerous killer with a pistol before punching him in the face, and had taken Anna—Volkov’s girl, he remembered with a thin smile—from Korolev’s hotel, driving her across the city to hide her.

  I always was.

  Anna was now wearing a hat with flaps. She looked at him, sticking her tongue out between her teeth and crossing her eyes. She laughed.

  Grigoriy grinned but his smile faded. So did hers. He crossed the room but he didn’t feel his feet touch the ground. Then he was in front of her. He cupped her cheek in his hand, lifted her chin, and kissed her lips. She kissed him back, her hands climbing his chest until her arms were around his neck, and he placed his hand on the small of her back. He pulled away, breathless, and her lips quivered, her eyes opening slowly.

  “Come to Australia with me,” she whispered.

  “Okay,” he said. “But only if you let me buy you that hat.”

  “Deal.” She smiled again and Grigoriy laughed.

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, his chin resting on her shoulder. He peered through the window at his motorcycle. A BMW was coasting past and eased to a stop next to it.

  “Anna,” Grigoriy said, unable to keep the stress out of his voice.

  “What is it?” Anna pulled away and turned her head. A boyevik had climbed out of the BMW and was examining the motorcycle. “How did they know we were here?” she asked.

  “They didn’t, otherwise there would be more.” Grigoriy dragged her back to the table and grabbed the backpack, thrusting it into her hand. “Take this. Go through the back entrance.”

  “No, Grigoriy,” she cried. “Please, I can’t.” He held her face in his hands. “Thirty feet away through the back door is a gully that goes all the way around the service station. That’s your first stop. It’s another thirty feet to the woods. Hide in the trees, circle back to the highway. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She shook her head, her eyes welling with tears. “No, please.”

  Grigoriy looked over his shoulder. There were four men examining his bike and a Mercedes had driven into the service station, stopping next to a fuel bowser. Four more boyeviks were inside. “You have to, Anna.” He reached into the backpack and took out the pistols and a grenade. He tucked a pistol into the back of her jeans and gave her the grenade. “Please.”

  She wiped her cheeks and nodded, turning away and running towards the rear of the building.

  Grigoriy shoved his pistol into the pocket of his coat and walked along one of the aisles, scooping up an armful of propane tanks and carrying them to a counter where two microwaves sat side by side. He glanced towards the attendant, but the man was busy with a customer. Grigoriy put his back to him and placed a full propane tank in one of the microwaves, sitting five more on the counter and popping the top off each can. Gas started hissing out of the cans and the air shimmered around him. Grigoriy held his breath and smashed the second microwave’s window before tossing a set of keys inside. He turned his head.

  The boyeviks from the Mercedes were walking towards the shop. The four boyeviks from the BMW were circling around the building to cover the rear.

  Grigoriy set the timer on the microwave and took a deep breath.

  Anna took off her hoodie and pulled the pin on the grenade, holding the lever tight. She bundled the hoodie around the grenade and hung the backpack over her shoulder, pushing through the door. She walked quickly, her eyes fixed on the grassy gully ahead and the trees beyond. She heard gunshots behind her.

  “Hey, you!” a man yelled.

  She dropped the bundle and ran the last twenty feet. Footsteps pounded behind her but they stopped suddenly, and she knew they were about to shoot. She dived to the ground, rolling into the gully.

  There was a loud explosion and she stared at the grass in confusion. She raised her head, peeking over the edge of the gully, and saw three men dead on the ground, her hoodie in tatters. Behind them, the service station was on fire. Grigoriy fell through the back door and ejected an empty magazine from his pistol. He rolled to his feet and ran towards her, his empty pistol in his hand.

  “Look out!” he warned.

  Anna turned around. A boyevik had crawled along the length of the gully and leapt on her. She raised her knee into his groin and he groaned, collapsing on top of her. Grabbing fistfuls of earth, she dragged herself out from under him, but he grasped the cuff of her jeans. She lashed out with her foot, kicking him in the nose, and
he let go.

  Anna tried to draw her pistol but it was caught in her jeans. The boyevik climbed to his feet and raised his weapon. She closed her eyes.

  There was a shot but she didn’t feel anything. She opened her eyes. Grigoriy collapsed to his knees in front of her.

  “No!” Anna cried, her pistol finally coming free. She raised it and fired instinctively, shooting the boyevik between the eyes. He crumpled, collapsing on the grass.

  “No, no, no.” Anna crawled towards Grigoriy, helping him sit up in the gully. He’d been shot in the chest and she held his hand on the wound. “It’s not so bad, Grigoriy. It’ll be okay. We’ll go to the hospital.”

  He blinked slowly, studying her earnestly. “Why? Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

  “Good, because we have to go to Australia.”

  Her eyes were stinging and the world blurred. She gritted her teeth, pushing down harder on the wound. Blood was everywhere, his eyes dull, his skin grey. “You can’t do this, you have to come too.”

  Grigoriy blinked again and gazed at her with his pale eyes. “You’ve got something…” He reached out for her face and wiped away a tear, leaving a streak of blood on her cheek. “It’s gone now,” he whispered.

  She sobbed, grabbing his other hand. “Grigoriy, I—” His hand felt heavy. “Grigoriy!” she shouted, but he didn’t answer. Anna sat back on her heels and sirens wailed in the distance. The tree line was only thirty feet away. She sniffed and leaned forward, touching Grigoriy’s cheek and kissing him softly on the lips. “Bye, Grigoriy.”

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 4:52 PM MSK

  Maxim paused at the door to Korolev’s private study, his shoulders stooped. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, straightening his back and puffing out his chest. He knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a gruff voice said.

  Maxim wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and slowly opened the door.

  Nikolay Korolev’s study was the untidiest room in his house. It was lit by a solitary lamp and an oily window that lured only the coldest rays of sunlight, though the blinds were always closed. An old wooden bookcase stretched across the rear wall, its creaking shelves struggling to carry dusty volumes and stacks of typewritten pages. The towering shelves cast a long shadow over a wide desk that was strewn with maps and newspapers, torn envelopes and bulging brown-paper parcels. The desk was the largest island on a sea of green carpet that was stained with coffee and scorched by cigar ash. There were no power cords, extension leads, routers, or laptops. The most advanced technology in the room was the electric pencil sharpener on the windowsill and the transistor radio that hissed beside it.

  Korolev’s most treasured possession was the chess set on the scarred coffee table in front of a sagging sofa that squatted against the wall.

  Maxim entered cautiously. The room was dark, the sunlight banished and repelled by the heavy blinds, and it took a moment for Maxim’s eyes to focus. A match was struck, the flame casting severe shadows across Korolev’s face as he lit a cigar.

  Korolev shook his hand and the flame went out. He puffed on his cigar and slouched on the edge of the sofa, staring at his darkened chess board, his hand hovering over the wooden battlefield.

  “You’ve been ignoring my calls, Maxim,” he said, without looking up.

  Maxim swallowed, his mouth dry. There was a shoebox on the sofa cushion next to Korolev. It was full of photographs. Maxim knew there were many more shoeboxes just like it, all of them filled with photographs of Valentina Nevzorova.

  But there was one photograph that wasn’t kept in a box.

  His second most treasured possession.

  Maxim had seen it once, under the mounds of papers on Korolev’s desk, hidden but close to hand. Now the photograph was on Korolev’s lap.

  “I wasn’t in a position to answer my phone,” Maxim croaked. “I’ve been tracking Stepan.”

  Korolev dragged on his cigar and rolled his coin across his hand. “Tracking?” A cloud of blue smoke rose to the ceiling. “I thought you knew where he was.”

  Valentina Nevzorova looked young in the framed photograph, Maxim remembered. She was wearing a light summer dress and she was standing on the beach in Marseilles. And then there was her smile. Maxim didn’t know the circumstances but he suspected that the photograph was special. It was perhaps the only photograph she had given to Korolev, whereas he had taken all the others for himself.

  “I heard that we got Grigoriy,” Maxim said, shifting on his feet.

  “That’s not all that happened today.” Korolev placed his cigar on the edge of an ashtray. “Valentina had some of our men arrested. They were conducting surveillance in preparation for the Tverskaya Street bombing.”

  “But we know people who can sign off their release,” Maxim pointed out.

  “Valentina.” Korolev paused, holding his coin in the tips of his fingers. “The president has already stepped in. The men were all executed.” He held his hand over the chess board, his finger touching the queen’s crown. “It was made to look like they died during the arrest.”

  Maxim wiped his palms on his trousers. “Nikolay, we have to change our plans. It’s too risky to move now.”

  Korolev set his jaw and turned his head. “Tell me,” he demanded.

  “I tried,” Maxim squeaked, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face.

  Korolev cried out, flipping over his coffee table. It cartwheeled into the wall and the chess set scattered across the floor. He stared at the wreckage on his carpet, his chest heaving. “Where is he?”

  “I’ve been searching all day,” Maxim stammered. “Grigoriy is dead so he can’t meet up with him and…” He didn’t know what else to say.

  Korolev started to pace the floor, the coin rolling back and forth across his hand.

  “We can’t move while he’s still out there,” Maxim said with a quivering voice.

  Korolev seized his coin in his fist, his face hardening.

  “It’s just that the timing is—” Maxim yelped when Korolev grabbed a handful of his shirt and dragged him closer.

  “She taught me two lessons, Maxim,” Korolev growled. “Two.”

  “She?” Maxim’s eyes widened.

  “Lesson one, from her grandfather, is trust your friends the least.” Maxim panted. All he could smell was vodka and cigar smoke, and it made him dizzy.

  “And lesson two, from Lasker the chess master,” Korolev continued, speaking through his teeth, “is that the laws of chess do not permit a free choice.” He released Maxim, pushing him to the ground. “You have to move whether you like it or not.”

  Maxim stared up at Korolev, his mouth open.

  “Rally the men,” Korolev ordered. “We move tonight.”

  Maxim jumped when the door slammed. It bounced open, the hinges creaking, and a sliver of light stretched across the carpet and over his hand. The chess board lay face down under his palm. There was an inscription engraved on the wooden surface and he traced the letters with his finger.

  “To my princess: one day we will live in the palace of your dreams—Nikolay.”

  Someone had written underneath it.

  “Men like you don’t live like kings—they die like dogs.”

  It was signed with a woman’s name. Maxim whispered the name aloud: “

  Valentina.”

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 4:56 PM MSK

  “What would you like?” She was a young Russian girl wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and her curly hair was tied in bunches.

  “I’ll have the salad,” Elliot said.

  Murphy eyed her suspiciously.

  “And cram it into a hamburger with lots of bacon,” Elliot added.

  “You had me worried for a second,” Murphy said.

  “And a hot chocolate.”

  Murphy cast his eyes around the diner as the girl scrawled Elliot’s order on her notepad. The room was half-e
mpty, but it was still a little early for dinner, and Murphy found himself staring at a young couple entertaining their infant. The child was in a high chair, his chin smeared with baby food, watching as his mother hid behind a menu. She showed her face and said “ku-ku”. The boy squealed with delight, slapping the high chair with his small hands, and she hid her face again.

  “And you?” the girl asked, smiling at Murphy.

  Murphy cleared his throat. “Sausage, bacon, eggs—”

  “It’s dinner time, you sicko,” Elliot said, wrinkling her nose.

  “Also toast, a bowl of fries, and a cup of coffee.”

  “Hungry, huh?” the girl said. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, actually,” Murphy said.

  “Oh, no,” Elliot said, her face crumbling. “Please, no. Don’t do it.”

  The girl’s face twisted in confusion.

  “Mayonnaise,” Murphy said. “Bring the bottle.”

  “You’re disgusting,” Elliot said. “Haven’t you outgrown this habit?”

  “Don’t listen to her,” Murphy said to the girl. “She has no taste buds.”

  The girl grabbed their menus and returned to the counter.

  “I almost forgot how revolting you can be,” Elliot said.

  “I blame your cooking,” Murphy said, placing his phone on the table. “How do you burn lettuce, anyway?”

  She crossed her arms. “Bacteria thrive on foods that contain protein. And, in case you don’t know, mayonnaise contains eggs which are—”

  “How stupid do you think I am?” he asked with arms outstretched.

  “Is this where I grade you between one and ten?”

  “It was a rhetorical question.”

  “You did jump backwards through a window and land on a car, so that will cost you some points.”

  “Don’t you know what a rhetorical question is?”

  “I don’t think I could put a number on it, anyway,” Elliot continued, tapping her finger against her chin. “If I had to, I’d compare you to a gorilla that can play tunes on the glockenspiel.”