by Mark McKay
She smiled and then left to change into her painting clothes. He sometimes liked to watch her paint, but today he was going to lose himself in a novel for a while. He was also working on a sophisticated alarm system, complete with cameras and motion sensors. That could wait till the afternoon.
At 11am she appeared, as promised. Their self-defence classes were rather limited in scope. Most Aikido moves required two hands, at least initially. He had shown Marielle some basic strikes instead, using just the one hand. Using the heel of the hand into the nose, or a fist in the throat then a kick in the groin. A good strike to the nose would slow anybody down. They would practise these for about half an hour. He’d also shown her how to use one of the Sig Sauers and they’d had a few target practice sessions. It was difficult for her with only one hand, but she was getting more confident. They had to drive to as remote a spot as they could find to actually fire the gun. Although the houses were well away from each other where Marielle lived, he was sure that the neighbours would hear the sound of gun fire. They did the target practice trip three times a week.
A month went by like this. The petition was at 75,000 signatures. The bad news was that Amnesty had heard that Louisa was ill, with some as yet unidentified ailment. All they knew was that it was a gastro-intestinal problem, but whatever it was it had weakened her to the point of being confined to a medical ward in the prison. What, if any treatment she was getting, was still unknown. Marielle had taken the news stoically, but it was obvious that her inability to do anything about it was troubling her. She finished the still life though, and began Nick’s portrait. And today, she was going to the hospital in Rostock, to have her plaster removed. They took her car and set off straight after breakfast.
The procedure went smoothly enough. Marielle emerged from the treatment room rubbing her now liberated left arm, and gently flexing it.
‘God, it’s good to get that off. The bones are completely healed now, I’m as good as new.’
They decided to have lunch in Rostock. There was a restaurant Marielle knew down by the harbour, overlooking the marina. It wasn’t too crowded and they had a delicious meal of freshly caught fish with green vegetables. As they strolled back to the car along the waterfront, Nick had a sudden sense of being watched. He paused, ostensibly to look at a tall ship coming in to dock, and tried to spot the observer. Out of a crowd of late season tourists and assorted locals, he couldn’t see anyone who seemed blatantly out of place. That would have been too easy, it was notoriously difficult to spot watchers unless they made it obvious they were following you. He trusted his intuition though; someone was on their tail.
‘What is it?’ asked Marielle. She’d noticed how distracted he’d suddenly become.
‘It’s nothing. Just thought for a second that I’d left my phone in the restaurant. Come on.’
He kept an eye on the rear vision mirror on the way back. There had been a white Opel sitting three cars behind them for the last ten minutes. It was too far away to make out the occupants, though. He took an unscheduled turning off the main road.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Marielle.
‘Just testing out a theory. We’ll turn around soon.’
She looked a little baffled, but didn’t say anything. He drove at a steady 50kph and a minute later he spotted the Opel again. There were no other cars between them, so it was hanging back a bit. But it was close enough now for him to make out the shape of two men in the front seats. He slowed down a bit and waited for the Opel to overtake him, but it stayed where it was.
‘We have company,’ he said. ‘Don’t look around.’
She didn’t. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Don’t know, yet. They’re not being very subtle about it.’ He saw a lay by coming up. ‘Let’s see if I’m right.’
He pulled off the road and stopped the car. It was a picnic area with a restroom, in the shade of several tall trees.
‘Take your gun from the glove box and wait behind one of those trees,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’
Marielle did as she was told. She was out of sight when the Opel pulled into the lay by. It stopped twenty yards away. The windows were slightly tinted, so he still couldn’t make out the occupants’ faces. His own gun was in his hand when he stepped out of the car. He stood by the driver’s door and held it behind him while he waited for them to make the first move.
He stood like that for several minutes. The men in the car were doing nothing, not even talking to each other. They seemed to be staring through the windscreen like a pair of automatons. He wondered how long they were going to keep this up, and then decided to force the issue. Still with the gun out of sight, he began to walk towards the Opel.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Marielle, from the cover of the tree.
‘If they step out of that car and start shooting at me, I’ll drop to the floor. Just take your time and make sure you get the one on the passenger side. OK?’
‘Alright.’ She sounded frightened, but also determined.
He was ten yards away, now. Suddenly the Opel went into reverse for five yards. Then the driver engaged forward gear and accelerated. He swung out and cruised past Nick at low speed. As he came level, Nick could make out the unmistakable profile of Rubashkin in the driver’s seat. He didn’t turn to look at Nick and his face stayed expressionless as he guided the Opel out of the lay by and turned it back in the direction they’d just come from.
Nick watched them go. He jogged back to the car. ‘You can come out, now.’
She joined him and they both stood watching the empty road. ‘What was that about?’ she asked.
‘That was your friend Rubashkin.’
He saw the colour leave her cheeks. ‘So you were right, then.’
‘Looks like it. Let’s get back to the house.’
They drove back to the main road and resumed their normal route back from Rostock. The Opel had gone.
‘I was just beginning to think Dubrovsky had forgotten about us,’ said Nick. ‘But I think that was just a message. They didn’t mind if we knew they were following us. They wanted us to know.’
‘What message are they sending, then?’
‘Just telling us that they’re still here. Reminding us that they’re still in charge of our lives. A little intimidation goes a long way.’
She was angry. ‘I can’t live like this, Nick. Looking over my shoulder all the time. Why doesn’t he just realise he’s won and there’s no need to intimidate anyone? Bastard.’
‘Because he enjoys it. He thinks because he holds all the cards, he can do whatever he likes.’ He reached for her hand. ‘But two can play that game.’
She squeezed his hand. ‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I think it’s time we sent Dubrovsky a message. One that he’ll sit up and take notice of. And I think if you and I go to Berlin next week, we might find the perfect opportunity to do just that.’
The alarm system he’d been working on was now ready. It had involved a couple of trips into Rostock to buy all the necessary components, and the installation had been something of a learning curve. But he was satisfied with the result. Any window or exterior door that was opened while it was active triggered the alarm, both inside the house and on his mobile phone. There were motion sensors placed at strategic points outside the house that could be controlled remotely and they also sent a message to his phone when tripped. He’d worried that the wind out here would produce lots of false alarms, but that hadn’t proved to be the case, so far. He had cameras inside and out, all of which could be viewed remotely with an internet connection. He could be in Timbuktu and still check on Marielle. Assuming of course, that Timbuktu had internet cafes.
So when they left the house a week later to drive to Berlin, he felt confident that if anyone broke in during their absence, he’d know about it. There had been no further displays of intimidation since the Opel incident, but he had to admit that Rubashkin showing up like that had unsettled him a little. He put
that thought aside as they began their journey. Marielle was driving the BMW, while he sat in the passenger seat consulting the catalogue of ‘What’s on in Berlin’ that she had given him on their night out to the theatre.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Marielle, as they sped down the A19 autobahn in the light of a drab autumnal morning.
‘It will be fine. We won’t hurt her.’
He looked at the catalogue for what seemed at least the hundredth time. It told him that the Bolshoi ballet would be performing Swan Lake and other classics from the repertoire at the Berlin State Opera House, for the next ten days. And one of the bright young stars of the Bolshoi would be on show. Her name was Elena Dubrovsky. Nick thought it was time he and Elena got to know each other.
The plan was simple enough, but it needed some preliminary research. Elena was dancing three nights this week, and all Nick needed to know was what she did afterwards. Did she go back to her hotel? Did she go out with the rest of the company for dinner? He wasn’t even sure he’d know her in the street, even though he’d seen plenty of images online. All tickets for the performances had sold out, but Marielle had managed to get a programme that had photos of the entire company at the back and several full page spreads of the principal dancers. Elena’s photo took up half the page and showed a pretty dark-haired woman with sloe eyes and full lips. For some reason she looked familiar, but there was no way he knew her from anywhere. All he had to do was make sure he recognised her when it mattered.
He waited outside the stage door the first night. She didn’t come out till almost 11pm and she was with two other women. They got into a waiting taxi and promptly disappeared. She didn’t seem to have anyone looking after her security here. She was the wife of a prominent Russian minister, and as such Nick had expected her to be accompanied by at least one minder. If Dubrovsky doted on her as much as Mariko’s original report said he did, then he was being more than a little careless about his wife’s safety.
He didn’t know where the taxi had gone. Marielle was out front of the Opera House, just in case Elena exited through the front door. When he walked around to join her, she was nowhere to be seen. A minute later he saw her coming out with the last stragglers of the audience.
‘She went out the stage door, as we thought,’ he said when she joined him. ‘Then got into a taxi with two other girls. Could be anywhere.’
‘It’s late and she’s got a lot of dancing to do this week. I bet she went back to the Ritz.’
‘How do you know where she’s staying?’
Marielle was quietly pleased with herself. ‘Because I did a little detective work in the foyer. The Ritz hotel are patrons of the Opera House and they have some promotional pamphlets in there that say how happy they are to accommodate the company on this tour. Simple, really.’
‘You’ve missed your vocation. Let’s go and see the Ritz, then. See if we can spot her.’
The BMW was parked close by. They drove to Potsdamer Platz and found somewhere to stop. The hotel was just across the street. They went in and entered a rather sumptuous bar known as the ‘Fragrances’. There were still plenty of people inside, many sipping cocktails while doing their best to match their luxurious surroundings. None of them looked like ballet dancers, and certainly none of them looked like Elena.
‘You sure the Bolshoi really are staying here?’ According to the programme there were more than 200 dancers in the company.
‘I’ll check,’ said Marielle. They left the bar and he stood to one side while she questioned the receptionist. She was back a minute later.
‘They rarely stay up past midnight. Shall I ask what room she’s in?’
‘No. We’ll come back tomorrow. Let’s go.’
They retired for the night to their own hotel, which although comfortable didn’t quite match the Ritz for style. On the way, Nick thought about tomorrow night. It would be tricky trying to intercept Elena between taxi and hotel, but he thought it could be done. He’d find out, soon enough.
They were standing outside the Ritz at 10.30pm the following night. This evening’s performance of ‘La Sylphide’ would be ending about now, and shortly they could expect to see gaggles of tired ballerinas being brought here by taxi. In fact, the first delivery was made in a mini-bus. Around 30 dancers, both men and women, spilled out of it. They seemed to be in high spirits as they laughed and chatted their way into the hotel. Elena wasn’t among them. Then the taxis started coming. Some with two or three occupants and some travelling solo. At 11.15pm she arrived, alone.
Marielle was nervous, but she knew what she had to do. She put on a smile and they walked up to Elena as she closed the taxi door.
‘Ms Dubrovsky?’ she asked. ‘We’re great fans of yours. Would you mind if I took a picture of you with my husband? We’d be so grateful.’
The taxi pulled away. Elena had no doubt been subjected to this kind of attention before and she was obviously tired. But in the best spirit of noblesse oblige she managed a smile and then stood quietly next to Nick. Marielle pointed the phone at them both.
‘Smile, darling.’ She took the photo. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Elena, and that’s when he remembered. She not only looked like Svetlana, she sounded like her.
‘Do you know a young woman by the name of Svetlana?’ he asked her, smile still firmly in place.
She looked up at him, sharply. She was small and slim like Svetlana, too. ‘I know many Svetlanas. Excuse me, please.’
She took a step forward. Nick linked his arm through hers and stopped her taking another one. Marielle stood blocking the view between the hotel entrance and anyone who might have been looking in this direction. Nick pressed the barrel of his gun against Elena’s ribs and she gasped.
‘I’d like fifteen minutes of your time,’ he told a shocked ballerina. ‘That’s all. I have no intention of hurting you. But if you try to run or call out, your dancing career is over. Understood?’
She nodded and he could see the fury in her eyes. ‘What do you want?’ she said, in a voice that was remarkably calm for a woman who had just been held up at gunpoint.
‘We’re going to walk to that blue BMW you can see over there. Then we’re going to talk about your husband.’
She was a little confused by that remark. ‘And for this you need a gun?’
‘I just won’t take no for an answer. Come on.’
They walked 50 yards down the road to the car. Marielle got in the front and then Nick guided Elena firmly into the back seat before joining her. She looked young and vulnerable, but she wasn’t scared.
‘You know my husband? You know who he is?’
‘Yes, we know him. Better than we’d like to, actually. We want to make sure you know him as well as we do. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to tell you a story.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Nick Severance. Make sure you tell Yulian that when you see him. And this is Marielle. About twenty years ago your husband came to Berlin and had an affair with one of Marielle’s friends. Then he murdered her.’
Elena couldn’t help herself, she laughed. ‘Are you mad? Why are you telling me such lies?’
So he told her the story of the tape and how Marielle had wanted to swop it for her daughter. And the mayhem that had ensued as a result. The mention of Beaver Rampage struck a chord with Elena. She didn’t say anything, just looked long and hard at Marielle when Nick told her how Yulian Dubrovsky had gone out of his way to ensure that her daughter stayed locked up.
‘You’re the man who gave Svetlana those useless drugs, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right. But she’s got the real thing, now. Who is Svetlana?’
‘She’s my younger sister.’
‘Are the drugs for her?’
Elena fidgeted. ‘Yes, of course. Now I will tell you a little story. This illness is so rare I don’t think it even has a name. Svetlana was a dancer in the Bolshoi, too. In the corps de ballet, not a p
rincipal dancer. She had at least another ten years dancing in her, until this illness struck. Now she can’t even do a morning class without pain.’
‘I hope the drugs work for her, then,’ said Marielle.
‘She won’t dance again. But already, there is improvement.’
‘Why did your husband want so many courses of treatment? He only needed enough for three months,’ said Nick.
Elena’s defiant expression softened a little. ‘It is genetic. You understand?’
Nick nodded. ‘I see. Alright, Ms Dubrovsky. Looks like I’ve had my fifteen minutes. Please feel free to leave.’
She took a long look at both of them. ‘I don’t know why you told me all this about Yulian. Frankly, I don’t believe it. In Russia he is the minister of culture, not a common murderer. It’s beyond belief. I’m getting out, now.’
She opened the door with a look that dared either of them to stop her. When she was out she walked quickly away and didn’t look back.
‘What on earth does she see in a man like Dubrovsky?’ said Marielle.
‘You should have asked her. Perhaps they’re in love.’
Marielle snorted. ‘That kind of man likes pretty possessions. That’s all she is to him.’
‘Maybe. Anyhow, that possession is probably going to go straight to hotel reception and ask them to call the police. Now drive, please. Get us out of here.’
Marielle started the engine. ‘It’s a nice picture of you two, by the way.’
Nick laughed. ‘I wonder if Dubrovsky will agree with you. He likes sending messages. I wonder how he feels about receiving them.’
Marielle eased away from the kerb. As they passed the hotel entrance they got a last glimpse of Elena. She stood by herself just inside the door, watching them go. Then she turned away and vanished from sight.
Chapter 18
The next day, Nick wasted no time in delivering the message. He downloaded the picture of him and Elena to his laptop and then called Herr Schmidt. Dubrovsky’s go between was his usual irritable self, but gave Nick his email address and said he would forward the picture.