No Free Man

by Graham Potts

  “You don’t know me!”

  “Oh, I know you. I know what you need, and I know what you want.” His eyes were wide, his lips flecked with spit. “Whether it’s your stupid crosswords or the latest lead in a case, you need a puzzle, a riddle, a question.” He stepped closer, forcing Hartigan to step back. “You’ll crawl through broken glass to get the answers. You need to solve it. You need to get your fix.”

  She stopped walking, her back flat against the wall.

  “You came here because I threw you a clue,” Singh said, reaching into his jacket. “You came here hoping to find Elliot so that you can solve another puzzle.” He held up a DVD.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “I know you want a piece of her, Emily.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “She killed all of them except your dad. She crippled him for life instead. You want answers. And then you want her dead.”

  Hartigan threw her hands in the air. “It’s against the law,” she cried.

  “Stop pretending the rules matter to you.” Singh tucked the DVD back into his jacket. “You’ve been disobeying orders and following lines of inquiry that were not sanctioned—”

  “I was doing my job!”

  “You broke the rules,” Singh said.

  “You covered up a crime!” “You’re a self-centred hypocrite, a fucking self-righteous —”

  She threw a punch and Singh blocked it with his forearm, shoving her into the wall and drawing his pistol. He pushed the weapon into the nape of her neck.

  “Get that thing away from me,” she spat, her palms flat against the wall.

  “Enough of this academic bullshit, Emily.” He pushed the pistol deeper and she groaned. “There is no right or wrong here,” he said, “no good guys or bad guys.”

  Hartigan shook her head. “You think you know me, Lee?”

  Singh raised the pistol, holding it against Hartigan’s forehead. “You get on board now, or you will get killed.”

  Her eyes opened. “I know all about you. You were a burnout, kicked out of the army and left to rot in the gutter.”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “The agency hired you when no one else would. You’re worse than him, worse than Murphy.”

  “Last chance.”

  “You’re a killer. Prove me right. Kill me.”

  “Give me a reason!” he roared.

  Hartigan cried out, slapping the pistol away and grabbing a handful of Singh’s lapel. She heaved with all her strength and threw him on his back. He tried to raise the pistol but Hartigan stomped on his wrist and dropped her knee on his neck.

  She pried the pistol from his fingers and sprang to her feet, falling back against the wall. Her hands trembled and she panted heavily, raising the pistol until it was pointing at his head. He climbed to his knees and grinned.

  Hartigan gasped, dropping the pistol as if it had burned her hands.

  Singh stood up and retrieved his weapon. “There’s an animal in you, Emily,” he said, holstering his gun. “Be sure to bring it.”

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 10:02 PM MSK

  Emily Hartigan excused herself from the conference room at the Kremlin but none of the men paid her any attention. Both delegations, Australian and Russian, were busy with their words, too many words that didn’t seem to mean anything. She closed the door behind her and trudged away, her footfalls echoing behind her as she walked along the empty hall. She paused when she felt a cool breeze through a doorway. A breath of wind touched her face and she closed her eyes.

  It looked like a study, she thought, stepping slowly into the room. An ornate writing desk was nestled among towering shelves, and the ledges were neatly stacked with leather-bound volumes. Heavy curtains billowed beside an open door that led to a darkened terrace, and the fluttering cloth flagged a bottle of vodka on the sideboard.

  Hartigan poured herself a drink and found her eyes drawn to a television that was hidden away in the corner cabinet by the entrance. A news presenter murmured quietly on the screen and Hartigan leaned against the chair in front of the fireplace, staring vacantly at the stern anchorman.

  Pictures appeared showing four men on their knees with their hands behind their heads and policemen casually pacing behind them. One policeman was beaming with pride, surveying his prisoners as they eyed the water-stained wall in front of them.

  “Animals,” a woman said in Russian.

  Hartigan started and turned to see a woman in the shadows of the terrace, a cigarette smouldering between her fingers. “Who are they?” she asked, pointing at the television.

  “Militants from Chechnya. A policeman caught them on the train to Moscow earlier today.”

  Hartigan pulled her jacket tight around her shoulders, collecting her glass of vodka and stepping into the darkness. “They don’t look like animals.” Her eyes adjusted to the light.

  Valentina Nevzorova stepped forward, the white streaks in her hair iridescent in the moonlight. Her lips wrinkled around her cigarette as she inhaled. “You are seeing what you want to see.”

  “And what is that, Madam President?”

  “Men with a noble cause.”

  “My understanding is they just want independence.” Hartigan immediately regretted her remark when she saw Nevzorova’s face harden. Perhaps her Russian was worse than she thought.

  “Your understanding is flawed,” Nevzorova said icily. “Who are you?”

  “I’m with the Australian delegation,” Hartigan replied nervously.

  “Your Russian is passable.” Her eyes wandered, focusing on the badge clipped to Hartigan’s belt.

  “I’ve had practice.”

  The cigarette flared again as she inhaled. “What is your name?”

  “Emily Hartigan, Madam President.”

  “Why are you out here?” Nevzorova asked.

  “I don’t understand what they’re talking about in there.” Hartigan took a deep breath. “Nikolay Korolev is threatening our country and yours, but not one word has been said about it in that meeting.”

  “Let me guess, they’re talking about trade tariffs and infrastructure development instead of extradition orders and military intervention.”

  “Shouldn’t we be questioning people, rounding up suspects, studying files?”

  “That’s useful when you’re looking for a purse-snatcher or a man who killed his adulterous wife.”

  “The only difference with these men is the scale.”

  “Perhaps.” Nevzorova grunted and waved at the television. “I see men who want power and an opportunity to seize it. A cause is always a means to gain what they want. They think they will win because they believe we will not fight on their terms.” She gazed at Hartigan. “They believe the same about you.”

  “About us? I don’t understand.”

  “You, we, all of us, have signed treaties and negotiated international oversight to prevent new wars from occurring. Belligerents are punished when they invade another country. They are isolated economically, politically and militarily.”

  “It’s worked.”

  “No, it hasn’t,” she snorted. “These men have no state and no regard for our rules because they were not designed with them in mind. They believe we turned our backs on them so they turn their backs on us: mocking our institutions; bombing our airliners, department stores, and subways.”

  “Out of desperation.”

  “So we should forgive them? We should allow them what they want?”

  “Well—”

  “Do you believe we should lower ourselves to accommodate them rather than expect them to honour the rules that you praised only seconds ago?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Why should their interests be more important than ours?”

  Hartigan felt her blouse cling to her back despite the cold night air. “But their motives—”

  Nevzorova laughed humourlessly. “You police and your mot
ives. If a man breaks into your house, do you consider his motives?”

  “The rule of law—”

  “Is an ideal,” Nevzorova interrupted. “When I call the police, I’m not calling them to see that the thief has a fair trial and his interests are taken into consideration. I am telling them to do what I’m unable to do, and that is to confront the thief, to punish him for invading my house.” She crushed her cigarette in an ashtray.

  “But we correct that behaviour and control it.” Hartigan knew her words sounded hollow.

  “Your rule of law is ignored by these people.” Nevzorova pointed to the television again, which was now showing a story about polar bear cubs born in captivity. “Just like the international regulations the West thought would preserve their way of life.”

  “It works in most cases,” Hartigan said. “People and governments don’t violate the rules because they fear them.”

  “If that were true, Korolev would be afraid of the police instead of Volkov.”

  Hartigan stared down at the drink in her hands and realised her fingers were numb.

  “They don’t fear your laws. They fear power they don’t have.” Nevzorova offered Hartigan a cigarette and the agent thanked her as she took it.

  Hartigan lit her cigarette and dizziness overcame her, the nicotine swimming through her blood. “I didn’t know that he was afraid of Volkov.” She coughed.

  “Everybody is afraid of Volkov because he’s afraid of nothing, least of all you and your badges and uniforms.”

  “He’s an animal,” Hartigan murmured, glancing at the television.

  “And the only way to kill animals is to unchain that part of us we convinced ourselves is no longer there.”

  “But what if that part of us isn’t there?” Hartigan asked, contemplating the cigarette in her hand.

  “It’s in every one of us, Emily. We built processes and treaties and rules around it and convinced ourselves that we were better but we never changed. That’s why when restaurants are bombed, you can hear a growl inside of you.”

  Hartigan shook her head and closed her eyes.

  “You disagree?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” Hartigan whispered. The smoke from her cigarette seemed to swirl all around her, swallowing her in a toxic fog.

  “Think about it, Emily, or find another job.”

  Hartigan sucked on her cigarette.

  Nevzorova looked at her watch and arched an eyebrow. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said, “but I must go. I have to meet your delegation and ensure the negotiations are meeting our needs.”

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, too.”

  Hartigan listened to the fading footsteps of Valentina Nevzorova and butted out her cigarette. She gulped her drink down in one mouthful, grateful for the numb warmth it gave her. Darkness swallowed the balcony and Hartigan looked up to see the moon flee behind thick clouds.

  There was a loud chattering noise in the darkness and Hartigan peered over the balcony. There was another loud chatter and she saw something explode.

  A grenade? Small arms?

  She heard shouting and more gunfire.

  Oh, God. What do I do?

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 10:10 PM MSK

  President Valentina Nevzorova’s protection detail swirled around her, howling orders and smashing open doors. The Australian ambassador and his entourage were swept up in the rush, blown along the halls and down the staircases by blustering bodyguards. Nevzorova was in the middle of the tempest, her face serene and her pace measured. It looked to Singh as though she were slightly late for a board meeting rather than fleeing an attack on her palace.

  “Mobilise the army,” Nevzorova said calmly to her assistant. “I want infantry with armoured support, and get in touch with the Spetsnaz commander. I want a squad on standby and ready to move within the hour.” Another door was thrown open and she didn’t break stride. “I want law enforcement patrolling the Moscow River, both the water and the bank. Tell them to set up a cordon and to restrict traffic for a five kilometre radius.” A bodyguard waved her down a stone staircase lit by halogen lamps. “Contact state radio and television. I need to tell the people what’s going on and assert control before we have panic.”

  She wasn’t his president, but Singh would’ve been happy if she was. They were ushered down the staircase into a cavernous parking garage. The armoured limousines were already idling and soldiers had been deployed to cover her escape.

  “Also,” Nevzorova continued, “contact the air force and tell them to have their jets ready to scramble at a moment’s notice.”

  “But, ma’am,” her assistant protested.

  “I don’t care if I have to burn this city down,” she said firmly, “Nikolay will not live through the night.”

  Her assistant shook his head. “But we don’t know that it’s—”

  “Of course it’s him,” Nevzorova barked. “He had the most to lose.” A bodyguard opened the limousine’s door and Nevzorova paused, eyeing the Australian ambassador. “And contact the Prime Minister of Australia,” she said to her assistant.

  “Madam President,” the ambassador interjected. “I can take care of that.”

  She glared at him. “It’s already done, Mr Ambassador.”

  He nodded submissively.

  An aide neared Nevzorova, a mobile phone in his hand. “Madam President, we have reports that Stepan Volkov has been sighted in the city. It appears he’s heading towards the palace.”

  Nevzorova grunted. “He’ll be in the palace soon. Keep me informed.” She turned to Singh, and he felt like she was looking straight through him. “Your partner was in my study,” she said. “That’s the last time I saw her. If you wish to find her, that’s where you should start.” She climbed into the limousine.

  Singh stared at his reflection in the tinted window.

  Stepan Volkov has been sighted.

  Singh felt for the keys in his pocket, holding them in his fist.

  He’ll be in the palace soon.

  Nevzorova’s car screeched out of the garage, driving up a steep slope towards the streets of Moscow.

  “Lee!” Singh looked up to see the ambassador waving his arms. “Lee, get over here,” the ambassador called out, pointing to a waiting limousine. “You’re supposed to be on detail.”

  “I’m going to stay,” Singh said.

  “Stay? Why?”

  Singh unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his tie. “I’ll see you back at the embassy,” he said, climbing to the top of the staircase.

  “Lee, you get in this car right now and do your job,” the ambassador bellowed, pointing at his toes with a trembling finger. “Don’t you close that fucking—”

  The door closed with a boom and Singh peered down an empty hallway. He threw away his tie and exhaled.

  “Could you shut up for a minute?” Elliot asked sternly, fidgeting with the volume of the radio.

  The taxi driver ignored her and took another breath to continue his rant about the evils of organised crime. He pounded the steering wheel and described how the Organizatsiya had snatched his friend’s sister and turned her into a prostitute. He spat as he told of the police finding her body in the river, claiming she had died of a drug overdose. “She’d never touched it, man, never. It was those bastards, those same bastards who have been paying guys to bomb Moscow.”

  The car lurched over a pothole and fishtailed, bouncing as the driver fought to keep control. Murphy gently laid his hand on Elliot’s shoulder. “Don’t kill him,” he whispered.

  “Why not? I can drive,” she said, turning around. this.”

  “You can’t drive while he’s bleeding to death in that seat and we’re hurtling into oncoming traffic.”

  Elliot scowled and crossed her arms. “Fine.” She slouched into the passenger seat and stared at the radio. She had heard enough between mouthfuls of the taxi driver’s tirade to understand what was happening, anyway.

  Nikolay Korolev had seized
the Kremlin with an army of boyeviks, containing himself inside the Presidential Palace. Nevzorova had been evacuated safely but many others had been killed in the attack. The president had given a speech from Red Square and state radio was playing it on a loop. She informed her people about the coup and assured them that the army was being deployed to overcome the Organizatsiya.

  “Korolev’s crazy for even trying this.”

  “He’s not known for giving up easily,” Murphy said.

  “How are we supposed to get into the Kremlin?” Elliot asked. “The place is literally a fortress.”

  “Just drop us off here,” Murphy said to the driver, pointing at the stairs to the underground subway. The taxi driver obliged, mounting the kerb and screeching to a stop. Murphy grabbed some cash from his pocket but the driver had already left the car.

  “What’s he doing?” Elliot asked.

  The taxi driver went to the back of the car and pulled out a tyre iron. “I’m going to Red Square,” the driver said. “I’m going to help stop these dogs.” He jogged towards the Kremlin, leaving his taxi parked over the pavement.

  “Every vote counts, I guess,” Murphy remarked, grabbing their duffel bag from the back seat.

  “Democracy doesn’t get any better than this.” Elliot pointed to the columns of people heading towards Red Square, rivers of humanity rushing into an ocean.

  “We better make a move before this turns into a bloodbath.” Elliot nodded and followed Murphy, descending into the Moscow underground.

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA SUNDAY 18 SEPTEMBER 10:48PM MSK

  Nevzorova climbed on to the roof of her limousine to look across the sea of bobbing heads that poured through the palace gates. The swelling tide foamed with rage and rolled towards the Presidential Palace, the roar shaking the ground beneath her feet. She reached down and the flow of Russians lapped at her hand, smiling proudly and reminding her that she was still their president. Nevzorova straightened her back and waved her people towards the palace walls. The boyeviks guarding the courtyard shrank back when the crowd surged towards them.