At that, Maxim’s control snapped. He couldn’t hold back the angry swear words that burst scalding from his lips and hung blue in the air, giving Korolev exactly the excuse he had been waiting for.
“Go home, Maxim,” he said. “You’re obviously over-tired and stressed, and under the circumstances you can’t do your job properly.”
“I’m sorry, Fyodor Mikhailovich,” said Maxim, apologizing with ill grace.
“Go. You’re on two weeks unpaid leave, as of now. You’re lucky I think so highly of you, Senior Lieutenant Serebrov, or you’d be in serious trouble.”
Maxim knew there was no point in protesting. It was true that Korolev was within his rights to discipline him much more severely. It was also true that despite the fact they did not click at all – Korolev being not only a desk man but a dab hand at internal politics, neither of which was Maxim’s forte – his superior had not hindered him before. The procurator and who knows who else must really be breathing down his neck, Maxim thought, and there was nothing he could do. So he shrugged, said, “Very well,” and left the office, cursing himself for an impulsive fool.
Now, back in his tiny apartment, re-reading the copies of the notes he’d made on the Rusalka case (he always secretly made copies and kept them at home, not trusting in office security), he felt more troubled than ever. Yes, it was true he’d reluctantly conceded in his report that, given the available evidence, the deaths of Galkin, Barsukov and Makarov looked like accidents. “Looked like” and “available evidence” were the operative words.
Maxim liked to use his eyes and ears as well as his brain when on a case but because the men had died abroad, it hadn’t been possible for him to personally visit the scene of the crime and talk to people locally. The exception had been the first death, Galkin’s, because that had been in neighboring Finland, and the anorexic travel budget of the department had stretched enough to grant Maxim a cheap flight to Helsinki. Not that it had done much good; there had been no direct witnesses to the death, and though Maxim visited the scene, he gained nothing of any significance. And that failure, that waste of good police money, as Korolev had tetchily called it, had ensured that when Barsukov had died in Nice, Maxim had to make do with reports sent over by the French police, and frustrating, garbled phone conversations in bad English. And, of course, there was absolutely no question of his going all the way to Australia, especially as Makarov’s death completely put paid to the theory he’d been leaning toward – that the surviving Trinity director had a strong motive for eliminating his partners, so as to gain complete control of the company.
Over the course of the investigation, Maxim had several times visited the Trinity office, housed on the first floor of an office block not far from the Duma, the Russian parliament building, and interviewed all the staff. After Galkin’s death, he’d interviewed Barsukov – both he and Galkin had been Russia-based; Barsukov in Moscow, Galkin in St Petersburg. After Barsukov’s death, he’d even interviewed Makarov, who had flown over himself to “help the police with their inquiries”, as he put it. And he had been helpful. Suspiciously so, in fact. He had answered all Maxim’s questions with apparent openness, had explained what business his company did with apparent honesty, and had instructed all his staff, from manager Nikolai Volkovsky to receptionist Alla Chernina, to give Maxim full co-operation.
The policeman had soon realized that while some of the companies and individuals on Trinity’s published list of clients were reasonably respectable, others were on the shady side, though not straight-out criminal. In any case that wasn’t his concern. He was investigating suspicious deaths, not companies operating on the windy side of the law. He interviewed the clients, who all – including the shady ones! – praised Trinity as being thorough and discreet. Though Maxim wasn’t altogether convinced by these clients’ complete sincerity, he didn’t find any reason to really doubt them, or to suspect their motives. But what he did begin to suspect was that the work that Trinity did in plain view was only the tip of the iceberg, and that there was more to the company than was obviously apparent.
But it was one thing to suspect, another to prove it, and though he’d tried to surprise Ivan Makarov into admitting it, he’d failed. Yet he’d been sure he’d been on to something when one very early morning, he called round unexpectedly on Makarov in his swish Moscow apartment, and snapped, “I want to see the real files. The hidden ones that your friends were killed for,” and Makarov’s eyes had widened in shock. Only for the merest flash of an instant; and in the next moment, the man shrugged and said, in an amused tone, “You’ve seen all our files. You know all our secrets, Senior Lieutenant. I hope you won’t use them against us.”
Oh, he’d tried. Gone through all the computers. All the filing cabinets. Through the apartments of all three men. And he’d found nothing. He ran up against a brick wall of frustration. And copped a complaint from Makarov into the bargain. He’d alleged “police harassment”.
Maxim had been hauled over the coals. Makarov might have deserted his country to live on the other side of the world, Korolev bawled, but he was still an important man, with influential friends in Russia. Maxim had no such leverage. In fact he’d pissed people off so much he could be transferred to the boondocks if he was keen on stubbornly persisting with his investigation. “Concentrate on the men’s deaths, man,” Korolev warned him, “not on mythical secret files!”
Maxim had to swallow both his pride and his hunch. And a little while later, when Makarov, back in Australia, had also drowned, the detective had had to swallow his prime suspect theory as well. Now he had no suspect. And he was no nearer the truth of any possible motive. All he had was a bad feeling about the case being taken off him. And one single, solitary clue that his hunch about the hidden files had perhaps not been so stupid and far-fetched after all.
It had started with one of the witness statements compiled by the Australian police after Makarov’s death. Makarov’s housekeeper had said that the day before her employer died, he’d been “edgy” and, later that evening, she heard what she thought was the shredder going in his home office. But she hadn’t actually seen her boss, and no shredded documents had been found at the house, so it was concluded that either she’d been mistaken, or that Makarov had disposed of whatever it was. And though Makarov’s computer and cell phone had been seized, and combed for clues, there was nothing. According to the Australians, that is. Maxim asked for and received copies of the files and painstakingly went over them. There was so much stuff, most of which he’d seen already, that he nearly missed it.
It was just a tiny mention, buried deep in the welter of deleted emails from Makarov’s hard drive. The email in question was several months old, and was from Sergey Barsukov, a couple of weeks before his death. It was short and to the point:
Possible Koldun leak. S.
Trinity cases were usually filed under nicknames – “Millennium”, “Mercury”, “Volga” or other such things. “Koldun”, “wizard” or “sorcerer” in Russian, fitted that pattern. But not only was there no file labelled “Koldun”, it was completely invisible anywhere else apart from that one mention in the deleted email. Maxim checked and rechecked. Nothing. But he had an instinct that it was important, that it was part of Trinity’s secret side, and that it was linked to whatever it was Makarov had destroyed the night before his death.
But try as he might, Maxim could not get a single idea of who or what Koldun might have been. When he spoke to Trinity’s staff they were clearly as baffled as he was. Whatever or whoever “Koldun” might be code for, nobody seemed to know. And once Korolev had found out what he was doing, he hit the roof; told him the “Koldun” trail was a wild-goose chase. With heavy irony, he asked what was next in this absurd quest. Would Maxim perhaps go on to theorize that this “Koldun” was none other than Dima Koldun, the Belarusian pop singer, who would turn out to be some kind of criminal mastermind? “Finish your report,” Korolev had said. “Present it to me. And we’ll see where we go fro
m there.” The scene in his office this morning had been the result.
Maxim chewed on his lip. Now the case had been taken from him, the gorillas in Organized Crime would either royally stuff it up – the most likely scenario – or take the glory for cracking it, if it could be cracked. He wasn’t going to let that happen. He had one tiny lead, and he was going to follow it, no matter what Korolev or anyone else said. He was his own man for two weeks of forced holiday. He was going to use it to the full.
There was one person he hadn’t spoken to yet. Makarov’s son and heir, Alexey Ivanovich. His secretive father had probably not told him anything about Koldun, but he’d lived with the man. Without knowing it, he might have heard something. Observed something. Something that might not mean much to him, but that might help Maxim.
He knew the young man was back in Russia, living in Uglich. He could easily have found out Alexey’s number and spoken to him on the phone, but Maxim much preferred to speak to people face to face, you got a lot more from them that way. And his old car wasn’t brilliant, so it might take him most of the day to travel the 200 kilometers or so to Uglich, but he thought the car would make it.
Once the idea had taken root, he knew it was the right one. Unfolding a map of the region, he began to plot his journey.
Chapter 8
“Russia’s one of the most cynical countries in the world,” Alexey was saying over cakes and coffee. He and Helen had been talking for hours. “I think that’s what makes real reform difficult. We’re always looking for the hidden agenda, the secret motive, the truth behind the honeyed words. And our concept of good and evil – well it’s not quite like that in the West.”
“How so?”
“It’s not that we think those things don’t exist – more like we feel they can shade into each other, and that there can be no permanent victory over evil. Not in the human world at least. All that black and white stuff, are you with us or against us – people just don’t go for that. Maybe it’s because that black and white stuff was all they heard in Communist times, maybe it goes further back because our religion places a different emphasis on those things to the Western churches.” He sighed. “And yet, you know, despite the cynicism, we’re such idealists! There’s no one quite like Russians for getting bowled over by grand ideas.”
At high school, Helen had thought a lot about what one of her friends had called “the big things”, but mostly she was too choked by the “bigness” to express out loud what she felt. So she wrote about it, reams of poetry, most of it pretty bad, but deeply felt, as she thrilled with the sadness, the grandeur, the strangeness of life and of people. Later, when she’d got into Simon’s worldly circle, she’d learned to restrain those feelings, unless, of course, she was being ironic. But now, she was free to do as she liked. Think as she liked. And she tingled all over with excitement.
“Oh, but Alexey – doesn’t it make it really hard, trying to make your own path among all that confusion? Trying to do the right thing …”
“Yes, it is,” he said. “But it also makes you look at things with more humility. And that’s no bad thing.”
“It sure isn’t.” She knew just what he meant. Humility wasn’t something that was fashionable in the world she’d lived in. “Alexey – you said that Russians are cynical. And yet they also seem to believe in stuff like – like witchcraft, for instance. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” he said. “Some things just are, that’s all, even things you don’t understand, that aren’t clear. Being cynical doesn’t mean you reject mystery. It means you stop trying to put labels on it, to tidy it away neatly.” He looked at her. “You accept that some things are meant to be, even if you can’t explain them. But we’re not always ready. Like that first time I saw you, in the street. I wanted to speak to you – so much – but lost my nerve.”
She smiled. “Okay, sure. Like I believe that. You, losing your nerve!”
He said, softly, “It’s true. I was struck dumb at the sight of you. You are so beautiful, Helen.”
Helen’s heart was racing so fast she thought it must jump out of her chest. Her face felt so hot she was sure her cheeks were flaming. Her eyes met Alexey’s.
But before either of them could say anything, the spell was broken by Slava. Excusing himself for interrupting, he handed a cell phone to Alexey, who turned to Helen. “I’m really sorry,” he said, “but I’m going to have to take this. Back in a second.” And he took the phone from Slava’s hand and walked off.
Left alone with Slava, Helen felt uncomfortable. She said, lamely, “Would you like to sit down or something?”
His face stayed as impassive as ever, yet she had the impression she’d said the wrong thing. All he said, in heavily accented English, was, “Is okay, Miss.”
Helen smiled nervously, wishing he would go away instead of standing by Alexey’s chair as though he were a dog waiting for his master. She fiddled with her napkin, with her cell phone, with the cold dregs of her coffee cup. It seemed like ages but was only a few seconds before Alexey returned to the table. He handed the phone to Slava, and spoke to him briefly, in Russian. The bodyguard nodded and left. Alexey turned to Helen. “That was Kolya. Something’s come up.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“No, but I have to go home. Got to make some calls.” He ran a hand through his blond hair, a little nervously. “Actually, I was hoping you might come back to my place too. If that’s okay.”
She looked at him, her heart pounding. “Sure. If – if you’re sure I’d not be in the way.”
He laughed. “You might just be a bit bored, that’s all. Never in the way. And I know Kolya would really like to meet you too, after all I said about you.”
“Oh.” She imagined a brusque bear of a man, who would regard her, a stray foreigner who’d caught his rich godson’s eye, with great suspicion. She’d felt uneasy under Slava’s scrutiny. How much more uncomfortable would she feel being given the once-over by a hard-bitten businessman? But she couldn’t back out now. Not that she wanted to.
As they emerged out of the restaurant onto the steps of the hotel, Alexey stopped and said, “Helen, I should have said this before – but I wasn’t brave enough. But now – I have to.”
“Yes?” she murmured, feeling a twist of fear.
“I don’t want to make things hard for you – so if there is someone back in London who you – well, if there is anything that –” Uncharacteristically, he seemed to be having difficulty choosing his words, but Helen understood.
“There’s no one. Not anymore. My ex-boyfriend – he – he didn’t think fidelity was for him and so I …” Her throat thickened. Her eyes filled with tears, and she couldn’t finish what she had been about to say.
“Oh, Helen,” was all he said, but he gently took her hand, and she clung to it, the comfort in his touch and in the tender expression in his eyes so deep that she could have wept for the sweet relief of it. But she did not cry. “I believe in fidelity,” he said, very simply. “I believe in it with every breath in my body.” Their eyes met, and she knew for certain that he was not only telling the absolute truth, but that he was making her a promise that he would never break.
Chapter 9
As they drew up outside the tall iron gates of the Makarov dacha, Slava got out. He pressed a buzzer, the gates opened, and the car swept down a long graveled driveway lined with trees toward a big house that had not been visible at all from the road.
At first sight, it looked rather like an overgrown version of one of the traditional local houses. Much bigger, of course, and with extra embellishments – there was lots of wooden lace around the windows, plus pillars, and a flight of painted stone steps leading up to the massive front door, which itself was decorated with pillars and extra lace. Three storys high, the house, whose neat walls were painted a creamy yellow, also boasted a large balcony on the top floor. Ivy grew thickly up one side of the house, there was a riot of flowers in the small garden in front of it, a s
mall glasshouse to one side, with a path leading to what looked like more garden, and on the other a large garage. As the car pulled up outside the house, a dark-haired young man emerged from behind the garage, holding a pair of leashed Dobermans. It was the dark-haired man she’d glimpsed that first day with Alexey and Yuri in the car. In a small voice, Helen said, “You’ve got some big dogs.”
“They’re not mine. They belong to Oleg over there. He’s a mate of Slava’s.” The bodyguard had not got back into the car but had walked in and was now standing chatting with the other man. Alexey saw her expression. “Don’t worry. The dogs are tied up most of the time. Bloody nuisance if you ask me. Eat their heads off and scare people for no good reason. Wait a moment.” He touched her gently on the shoulder, and got out of the car. She watched him walk over to where Slava and Oleg were standing, saw them glance at the car, at her, at Yuri still sitting silently in the driver’s seat. Moments later, the other two men walked off with the dogs, and Alexey returned. He opened the door for her, led her up the steps to the front door, and ushered her inside.
“So, then, what do you think of our dacha?” he said, smiling at her.
Some “country cottage” this was! Not at all like Irina’s modest wooden house. She looked around her, at the large hall, with its sweeping but plain white iron staircase going up to the next floor, the two large abstract paintings on the walls, and the severe white tile floor. She searched for the right words to describe it, but could only come up with, “It’s really different inside to what you’d expect from the outside.”
“Isn’t it just? Outside’s a bit full on, but it’s really local. As if your standard izba has taken a deep breath and swelled up like a self-important bullfrog.”
Helen laughed. “That’s so true.”
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