by Graham Potts
Murphy wrinkled his forehead. “Glockenspiel?”
“It’s cute and pretty clever, but you’re still a gorilla.”
“Here you go,” the young waitress said, placing a cup of coffee and a mug of hot chocolate on the table. “Your food will be ready in a few minutes.”
Murphy’s mobile phone started to flash, rumbling in a circle on the table.
“You should get that.” Elliot stirred her hot chocolate with her finger. “It’ll give you time to think of a comeback.”
He shook his head and answered his phone. “Anna? Where are you? You can’t be in Helsinki already.”
Elliot raised her mug to her lips, blowing on her drink to cool it.
Murphy felt the veins bulging in his neck. “It wasn’t your fault, Anna,” he said calmly. “You get on the first plane you find and get out of there. Destroy that phone, okay?”
Elliot lowered her mug, her face lined with concern.
“No, it’s not your fault. I need you to understand that.”
Elliot looked down at the table and scratched the veneer surface with her fingernail.
“Okay. Be safe.” Murphy ended the call and immediately stood up. He leaned against an empty table, breathing deeply, his palms flat and his head down. He roared, flipping the table and sending it tumbling into a jukebox. Pictures fell off the wall, smashing on the tiles.
“Stephen!” Elliot climbed to her feet and neared him cautiously.
“I’m going to rip Nikolay’s spine out through his fucking mouth,” he seethed, drawing his pistol.
“Stephen, calm down,” Elliot soothed.
“When I start on him,” Murphy continued, pacing a tight circle, “his soul is going to try clawing its way out of his arsehole.”
“Stephen!” Elliot shouted. “Please, stop.”
Murphy stopped pacing and turned to face her, his chest heaving.
“You’re scaring these people,” Elliot said.
He cast his eyes around the diner. The young waitress was nearby, her hand on her chest, her eyes wide and staring at the pistol in his hand. All of the diners had dropped their cutlery and had stopped talking. They were open-mouthed, some with their hands raised while others made the sign of the cross. The boy in the high chair started to cry, his mother scooping him up and cradling him close to her chest. The boy’s father rose from his seat, putting himself between Murphy and his family.
Murphy looked down at his pistol and saw that his knuckles were white. Elliot placed her hand on his arm. “There’s no going back, is there?”
Her face fell as she realised what he meant. The infant was howling, his mother shushing and rocking on her seat. Elliot glanced towards the young family. “No,” she said finally. “But you can try, if you like.”
“Do you think it will work?”
She dipped her head towards the door. “There’s the exit,” she said. “Turn left, and you can be a beer-drinking baker living in a flat in Footscray.”
“And right?”
Elliot dipped her head again. “Turn right, and you go back to Moscow. You stop these people.”
“And then what happens? There will always be someone who wants a piece of me.” He looked at her. “Of us.”
Elliot nodded slightly.
Murphy took a deep breath and holstered his pistol.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she said. “No matter what you choose.”
He peered at the door. “You and I had a lot of years stolen from us, didn’t we?”
“Yes, we did.”
He reached into his pocket and retrieved a roll of cash, peeling off some bills and placing them on the table. “Let’s get them back,” he said, snatching up his coat.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 4:58 PM MSK
Emily Hartigan walked along a corridor in the Australian embassy, her hand on her hip, her phone held against her ear. “Yes, I know,” she said. “We figured that one out.”
She swept the hair from her eyes, glancing at the doors to the committee room. Voices murmured behind them and she wondered what they could be talking about.
“You were there too?” She frowned, sitting in an armchair and grabbing a glass of water from a neighbouring coffee table. She placed her glass down and froze, holding her breath. “Whoa, I’m sorry,” she said into her phone. “Could you go back a little bit? What did you say the officer’s name was?”
She stood up again, pacing in front of the doors, her muscles coiled, her heart racing. Heat crept into her face.
“Yes, I would like your details.” She scrambled for her organiser, taking out her ballpoint and opening her notebook to a blank page. “Okay, Professor Sharon Little with two tees.” She dutifully scrawled Little’s phone number and address. “No, thank you. I’m sorry you had so much trouble reaching us. We can be hard to pin down.”
Hartigan said goodbye and hung up, bellowing in fury.
“That lying, manipulative coward,” she said.
She stomped around the corridor, zigging and zagging and arching her fingers.
“Agent Hartigan?”
“What?” she snarled.
The young man cleared his throat. “The ambassador will see you now.”
Hartigan watched as a line of suited men and women walked through the door, parading down the hallway. She waited until they were all gone and gingerly entered the room.
The ambassador stood behind the chair at the head of the table. He was slouching, his hand sunk in his suit pocket, a folder tucked under his arm. “Perhaps you should take a seat, Agent Hartigan.” He sat down at the head of the table, placing his folder before him. He took a gold-plated pen from inside his jacket, clicking it three times.
Hartigan sat down at the other end of the table, placing her organiser next to her phone.
The ambassador propped his elbows on the table, pen poised in his hand. “I’ve received your report, Agent Hartigan,” he began. “Agent Singh briefed me on the events that have transpired over the preceding week and he tells me that your report was the product of a substantial amount of reading you did on the flight over. Is that true?”
Agent Singh is a liar who killed a little girl during the war…
Hartigan shut her eyes and shook her head to clear her mind.
“Is that a no?”
“No, I’m just…” She sighed. “The report is incomplete.”
“I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I have to confess I haven’t had a chance to read it yet, anyway.” The ambassador clicked his pen three times. “I can tell you, however, that our prime minister is concerned about the Organizatsiya’s failed attempt to force us out of the energy market. He believes it will inevitably lead to another attempt in the very near future,” the ambassador explained. “Switchboards are melting at talkback stations and people are demanding action so Australia is poised to petition the UN on Monday. Russia is technically in violation of a United Nations Security Council resolution by harbouring those who can now be considered terrorists.” The ambassador swivelled back and forth in his chair, drumming his pen on the edge of the table. “President Nevzorova has seized the initiative and invited us to the Kremlin tonight for informal talks. We’re hoping to perhaps gain some concessions in this initial meeting, especially after the events in Canberra and Melbourne.”
Silence settled on the room. The ambassador shifted in his seat, clicking his pen again.
“I would like your insight, Agent Hartigan,” he added.
Hartigan smoothed out a wrinkle in her blouse. “To be blunt,” she began, “I don’t think Valentina Nevzorova gives a shit about us, talkback radio, or the UN.”
The ambassador narrowed his eyes. “I beg to differ.”
“Were you here when they rolled Ukraine?” Hartigan asked. “How many strongly worded statements did you issue? Did it stop them?”
“To be fair, that was Nevzorova’s predecessor, not—”
“That’s why she gave the territory back, right?” sh
e asked, cutting him off. She clicked her fingers. “Oh, wait. She didn’t.”
The ambassador smiled crookedly. “She’s not the topic of discussion today.”
“She features in my report.”
“Your incomplete report.” The ambassador frowned and tossed his pen on the table. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
“Nevzorova has a large stake in this,” Hartigan said. “She has a long history with Nikolay Korolev and it’s in her interests to crush the Organizatsiya, which she can do now that the oil trade has shut down. Korolev’s source of funds has been cut off.”
“And it’s in Korolev’s interests to revive that trade,” the ambassador said, reclining in his chair. “The collapsed trade deal compels him to act, pushing us out of the market and giving the Chinese no choice but to turn back to Russia.”
“But why would Korolev also fund the bombings in Moscow?” Hartigan asked. “Beijing’s rejection may make Nevzorova look inept, but the bombings make her look weak. It plays into the hands of the traditionalists who opposed a female president, the same men who are in Korolev’s pocket.”
The ambassador laced his fingers together behind his head. “So you believe that Korolev’s ultimate aim is to destabilise her government, securing the existence of the Organizatsiya and re-establishing trade with China.”
“Exactly. Eliminating our trade capacity is just a small part of his scheme.”
“But he has to put a puppet in the Kremlin, someone who accepts his existence or is paid to live with it.” The ambassador stroked his chin. “And that could be anyone. There are many in Moscow who would like to see Nevzorova fail.”
Hartigan fluttered her lips.
The ambassador frowned. “Is there something else?”
She stood up. “Something doesn’t fit,” she muttered. “It’s not grounds for Simone Elliot to pursue Stephen Murphy. Something changed, something that forced her to act.”
The ambassador held out his hands and shrugged. “Is that really relevant?”
“And then there are the militants,” Hartigan added, pacing towards the ambassador. “These guys are very choosy about who they work for. They wouldn’t be participating in Korolev’s campaign unless he’d sweetened the deal. And the pipeline bombing.”
“The Eastern Siberia–Pacific Ocean oil pipeline?”
“It’s out of character. They must be getting something out of it.”
“The militants have a history with Korolev,” the ambassador noted. “Perhaps even a relationship that promotes loyalty.”
“It’s been years since Korolev sold weapons to militants,” Hartigan said with a wave of her hand. “Times changed. Giving them weapons can only reignite a war, which is bad for the energy business in the…” Her voice trailed off and she stared at the table. “Pipeline,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry?” the ambassador asked, grabbing his pen from the table.
“This is not just about oil.” She sighed in exasperation. “Korolev paid the militants to bomb targets, including the pipeline. That means he wanted the deal to fail. China might have paid the high price but only if Russia could secure its infrastructure.” She paced furiously, her hands rolling over each other in front of her. “If Korolev positions himself correctly, he can sign an export deal with Beijing, crush the militants in Chechnya, and control the spread of organised crime. The people would worship him. But he can’t do that through a proxy. In order to have any control over the outcome, in order to get the Chinese back to the table while ensuring they save face, he would…” She stopped pacing and reluctantly looked up at the ambassador. “And he can turn on the militants and seize territory. He can rebuild the pipeline. He can use the Organizatsiya as his own personal army.” Her arms fell by her sides. “He can control everything.”
The ambassador clicked his pen.
“And we’d be too busy squabbling over maritime borders, arguing over drilling rights, and investigating Titan Energy.”
“What are you talking about, Agent Hartigan?”
“Nikolay Korolev is going to stage a coup,” Hartigan concluded.
The ambassador snorted, stretching his mouth in a small smile. “You’re wasting my time.” He rose from his chair, collecting his folder from the table.
“It makes sense,” Hartigan protested. “It fits.”
“You’re over-analysing this, Agent Hartigan.” The ambassador hugged his folder to his chest. “Early this morning, local time, Stephen Murphy tore up a hotel that was a front for the Organizatsiya. Then, there was a shoot-out at Korolev’s nightclub and an explosion at an old underground nuclear shelter just outside the city limits.”
“Murphy escaped,” Hartigan summarised.
“Some boyeviks were caught by the police today, and it led to the arrest of a group of militants who were on their way to Moscow to carry out another attack, a big one on Tverskaya Street. It’s the busiest street in Moscow so it’s a huge win.”
“I see.”
“Nevzorova had the boyeviks executed, though the official statement claims they were killed during the arrest,” the ambassador said. “The militants may meet a similar fate.”
“She’s hitting back.”
“And hard,” he added. “Hopefully, her actions will strengthen her presidency. I’d say Murphy saw the writing on the wall and got out while he could.”
“Then why petition the UN?”
“It’s no secret the Kremlin is marred by corruption. We need to ensure that Nevzorova continues to dismantle the Organizatsiya without making exceptions.” He clicked his pen and smiled with satisfaction. “If you’re right about her desire to starve Korolev of funds, it should be easy to ensure her cooperation.”
“All of that information still fits my analysis.”
The ambassador frowned. “Korolev’s bombing campaign has been stopped in its tracks and his best man has run away with a thief,” he said. “It’s unlikely any puppet president will challenge Nevzorova.” He shrugged. “She has the means to strengthen her position, and having her in the Kremlin is in our national interest, especially if she’s cutting back on oil exports.”
There was a knock on the door and Lee Singh stuck his head into the conference room. “Sir, sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in the communications centre.”
Hartigan cast a withering glare towards Singh.
“Of course.” The ambassador tucked his pen inside his jacket and stuck his folder under his arm. “You have a lot to learn, Agent Hartigan, so I’m going to give you an opportunity. I’d like you and Agent Singh to join me at the Kremlin tonight to participate in our negotiations. Perhaps a real-world education will complement your academic qualifications, and make you better at your job.”
Her mouth fell open and she stared at the floor as the ambassador left the room. Singh closed the door behind him and walked towards her, his hands deep in his pockets.
Hartigan turned to face him, her chest rising and falling, her eyes flashing.
“What’s wrong with you?” Singh said.
Hartigan struck, smashing Singh’s nose with the heel of her hand. He staggered back into the table, blood running down his chin. “You give me one good fucking reason why I shouldn’t arrest you right now,” she seethed.
Singh found a handkerchief in the pocket of his jacket and wiped his nose and chin. “Try it and I’ll kill you.” He sniffed. “Is that good enough?”
“Shut your damn mouth,” she hissed. A bell jingled and Hartigan glanced at her phone on the table. “That will be the Americans.”
He dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief. “What are you talking about?”
She scooped up her phone and peered at the screen. “Apparently,” she said, “the Americans had never heard of you before an operative met you for brunch the other day.”
Singh’s face hardened and he crammed his handkerchief into his pocket.
Hartigan raised an eyebrow. “You gave them some information and they told you about Greg Lambert.”
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“Greg Lambert was executed,” Singh said. “His coffin was left outside the US consulate with a stone wolf sitting on the lid.”
She slid her phone across the table. “Do you happen to remember the American telling you that the Bear had fallen off the grid?”
Singh held up his hand. “He only told me about Murphy.”
“Because that’s all you cared about,” she said through her teeth. “You were looking for reasons to justify killing him. You don’t really need any but those who review the case might like one or two. And that’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?”
He stalked towards her. “Enough,” he growled. “You have no fucking idea—”
“Sharon Little,” she bellowed. “Remember her?”
“I’m warning you, Emily.”
“Little told me what happened during the war.”
“Witness accounts are unreliable.”
“You killed that girl, Lee!” Hartigan cried. “And Murphy went to prison for it.”
“You weren’t there. This is all just academic to you.”
“Jesus Christ.” She breathed out, clutching her head. “You’ve got a huge conflict of interest that compromises our—”
“Again,” he interrupted loudly. “Academic.”
“Tell me you’re not here to kill him.”
“He is a clear and present threat to our national security.”
“No, he’s a threat to you. Kill him and you can avoid prison time. Sharon Little tried to testify against you but no one believed her. But Murphy and her together…” She poked him in the chest. “You’re afraid of him, afraid that the truth might finally come out.”
“I will bury you out here, Emily.”
“Or maybe you’re afraid he’s a better soldier than you.” She held up her little finger. “Or a better man.”
“Fuck you, Emily,” he roared. “You’re no better than any one of us. We’re all neck deep in the swampy moats we call souls and people like you think you can climb out and look down on everyone else.” He jabbed her in the shoulder, shoving her backwards. “You sit on top of a tower of books and hide between the words thinking you’re safe. But no matter how high you build your tower, it will always sink. We always end up back in the swamp because you can’t escape who you are.”