Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)

by Sophie Masson

  Volkovsky and Serebrov stayed over with them in the apartment that night, Alexey’s godfather in a spare bedroom, and the big policeman claiming one of the living-room sofas. On her way to bed, very late, Helen glimpsed him sitting there, a blanket wrapped around him, methodically checking his revolver, and she felt glad of his presence.

  *

  Even though they missed the noisy freedom of being alone, there was another sort of pleasure for Helen and Alexey in loving each other quietly that night, feeling like secret teenage lovers, in suppressed giggles lest the bed creak too much while Volkovsky snored like an old walrus next door and Serebrov was watchful as a big cat in the living-room.

  They fell asleep at last, and she woke to bright sunlight to find Alexey leaning on his elbow, looking at her with a strange expression in his eyes. She said, on a catch of breath, suddenly remembering the coffin card, the fear, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.” He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers, one by one. “It’s such a glorious day, we’ll have a beautiful ride home, my Lenochka,” and she knew that it wasn’t just for her sake he was going back now, but for his too, for their sake, their fates entwined, together.

  She snuggled into him and whispered, “I don’t want to be apart from you, not even for a few hours,” and he smiled and said, “I was hoping you’d say that, so will you come and stay with me?”

  “Try and stop me,” she said, fiercely, making him laugh in delight.

  *

  Konstantin the helicopter pilot was as unsurprised and laconic as ever when they turned up flanked by Serebrov and Volkovsky, and he didn’t even bat an eyelid when the big policeman asked him for his license, and the helicopter papers. Producing them with an inscrutable face, he waited patiently while Serebrov ran his eye over them, and though he said nothing when he got them back, only nodded, Helen saw there was a sardonic twist to his lips that told a different story. At last, they were cleared to go, and as the big machine rose up and wheeled away to the north-east, Helen looked back and saw the tiny figures of last night’s guardian angels fast disappearing and a tiny ripple of unease went over her, quickly swept away in a flood of relief. Maybe it was because he hadn’t slept well enough, maybe because the worries were getting on top of him, but Volkovsky had been uptight that morning over breakfast, and more than once Helen had feared that his anxious fussing would make Alexey lose his cool again. But the young man must have made an overnight resolution, for he endured it all patiently and with good humor, agreeing that he wouldn’t give Slava and Oleg the slip, that he’d take care, that he’d not go off to investigate on his own, and that, yes, he promised he’d call Nikolai or Maxim immediately if there was any sort of problem. How long this new patience would have lasted if Alexey had been too much longer exposed to Nikolai’s anxiety, Helen did not know.

  As to Serebrov, he’d been busy trying to hunt up someone at the courier company the concierge had mentioned, and by dint of ignoring the outraged grumbling of “But it’s Sunday,” and stubbornly refusing to take no for an answer, he’d finally obtained a meeting with the reluctant manager at the courier office for later that day, so he could have a look through the records of jobs for the day before.

  “Don’t worry, he’s a smart guy, our Maxim, and he’ll figure it out,” said Alexey, beside her.

  She started. “You’re incredible, how did you know what I was thinking?”

  He took her hand and said, teasingly, “I read your mind, Lenochka. No,” he added, hurriedly, as her eyes widened, “that isn’t true. It was just a lucky guess. Besides, I’ve been thinking about that too.” A pause. “I’m not quite as blasé about that card as I made out last night,” he went on. “It was just – well – it puts my back up, when Kolya acts like I’m too young and stupid to know any better.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he was doing that,” she said. “He’s just worried, Alexey.”

  “Sometimes it’s as if he thinks nobody else knows how to worry like he does. Like he won the world gold medal in the anxiety stakes.”

  She gave a hoot of laughter. “You can hardly blame poor Nikolai! You give a pretty good impression at times of not having any idea what anxiety means.”

  “It’s not true,” he said, quietly. “It’s just that – what is the point of it? Worrying doesn’t stop anything from happening. All it does is make you miserable for no good reason. And it stops you thinking straight about finding a solution. That’s all.”

  He was right, she thought, squeezing his hand. When had worrying ever made anyone stronger? If you allowed it to, it ate at your resolve and your courage, but also at your clarity of mind. It was as insidious as the malice that lay behind the attacks on Trinity. But it was a self-inflicted wound, a weapon you turned against yourself.

  Presently, they touched down in Uglich. And there, waiting for them, was the big black Mercedes, and Slava and Oleg. No Yuri. His daughter in Ekaterinburg had been taken gravely ill and the chauffeur had had to leave, Slava told them. In his absence either Oleg or he would drive them, should they wish to go anywhere. Yes, he’d picked up the motorbike as instructed, he answered Alexey’s next question. It was back at the house. All was in order. And Katya had prepared a fine lunch.

  Alexey and Helen shook hands with Konstantin and Alexey handed the pilot an envelope stuffed full of notes, which he counted at once. He looked at Alexey, sharply, said, “This is more than we agreed.” Alexey held his gaze, and nodded, and for the first time, a smile broke over Konstantin’s face. But true to form, he didn’t waste much time on speech, just nodded, shook Alexey’s hand, said “Poka,”, which Helen knew meant “see you later”, and stalked off.

  Back at Irina’s house, Therese was in a bustle of preparation for what she called a “traditional Sunday”. Irina hadn’t returned yet – she was expected back within a day or two – but Sergey’s sister Galina was picking Helen’s mother up to take her to the Sunday liturgy at the Transfiguration Cathedral in town, and then there would be a barbecue at Galina’s house afterwards. “It’s not that I’m a very regular churchgoer,” Therese Clement told Alexey, when he asked, “I’m more of an Easter and Christmas Catholic, if you know what I mean. But the other night at dinner, I happened to mention that I wanted to go to an Orthodox service last time I was in Russia, but had been too shy to do so, in case I caused offense by crossing myself in the wrong way or standing when I should be kneeling and so on. And then Galina offered to take me, which was very kind of her.”

  “Isn’t Sergey going too?” said Helen with a little smile.

  Her mother said, calmly, “Well, he would have done, only he had a fare to take to Yaroslavl this morning, he couldn’t refuse it, the money was too good. He’ll be at the barbecue though. Galina says that he and Sasha, her husband, will be doing all the cooking, in fact.” She gave them a sideways glance. “Well, that’s enough of my plans. What about yours? You look like you came to tell me something important.”

  “Actually, yes, Mam,” said Helen. “Alexey and I – that is, I’m going to stay at his house.”

  “I see.” Her mother’s tone was a little sharp, her expression unreadable.

  Alexey and Helen looked at each other. It was the young man who said, gently, “Madame Clement – Therese – I hope you do not think I am trying to come between you and your daughter – but Helen and I, we need to be together.”

  There was a little silence. Then Therese said, on a soft sigh, “I know. Oh, I know, Alexey. I understand. It is just that I ...” She broke off, then went on, more strongly, “It’s not that I didn’t expect it. From the first day she’s met you, Helen has been … different. No, not bad different,” she went on, holding up a hand to forestall her daughter’s movement of protest, “not at all, but still – you see, a mother is always a mother, no matter how old she or her child are. She wants to keep her child from hurt. She wants her to be cherished by others, as she cherishes her. Do you see?”

  In her emotion, her mother had re
verted to a French way of doing things, Helen thought, talking about me in the third person though I’m right here. Years of living in England had modified that kind of response, though back in France with Grandpère, she sometimes slipped into it again. But if Alexey thought it strange, he didn’t show it. Instead, he said, gently, “I do see, Madame Clement – Therese – I do see very well. And I promise you that you have nothing to fear.” His eyes in Helen’s eyes, he took her hand and said, “For I will always love and cherish you.”

  Helen’s heart swelled with so much love and pride and gladness that she felt almost choked by it. She whispered, “And I, you, Alexey, always.” She saw the color flame into her mother’s pale cheeks, saw the sudden shine of her eyes. She knew it wasn’t embarrassment at hearing this public promise, made between lovers. It was a tidal wave of emotion that made Therese whisper, “Then I can only be glad to step aside.”

  “Oh, Mam.” Helen impulsively hugged her. “You don’t need to do that, I love you just as much as ever, don’t look so sad!”

  “I’m not sad,” said Therese, wiping her eyes, “I’m just – okay, so I am a little sad,” she agreed, laughing a little now, “but it wouldn’t be natural if I wasn’t, for a time that passes, for a time when my child does not need me in the same way as she did, and you are not to concern yourselves with that. All I want, all I’ve ever wanted, my darling Helen, is for you to be happy and I can see you are and for that I have to thank you, Alexey. And I am thankful, oh so much, and you won’t ever forget that, will you?”

  “No, Therese, I will not,” he said, gravely, and then he took her hand and kissed it in a beautiful old-fashioned way, and said, “Thank you for understanding.”

  “Understanding is not hard,” she said, softly. “It is trust that is not so easy.”

  “Of course,” he said, “and I do not expect it to be.” His voice was as steady and honest as his expression. Somehow, then, everything was different, Helen thought, as though something watchful, almost fearful, in her mother had relaxed. And as she went upstairs to pack her bag shortly after, she left her mother and her lover nattering cheerfully over a glass of tea, and it warmed her all over.

  A little time later, Galina arrived. Two years older than Sergey, she was a good deal like him, with the same kind of friendly light blue eyes, and the same kind of headlong speech as her brother, only she was plumper, her hair had not been allowed to go gray but been dyed a soft, flattering fair shade, and she only spoke a few words of English. She was also much less circumspect in front of Alexey than Sergey had been, chatting away to him apparently quite unselfconsciously in Russian but also, as Alexey said later, not asking him any direct questions. She didn’t seem in the least put out that they had missed dinner at her place the other day; and segued quite naturally into inviting them round for lunch too, a proposition they could hardly refuse.

  As they finally managed to extract themselves from Galina’s chatter and make their way back to the car, Alexey said, shaking his head, “Amazing! I’m sure she managed to find out a great deal about me without even appearing to.”

  “You should offer her a job at Trinity,” said Helen, smiling.

  “Maybe I should,” he said, laughing, “she’d make a great investigator. Talk about determined!”

  Chapter 25

  At least this place had an elevator that worked. That made for a nice change, thought Maxim, as the elevator groaned up to the ninth floor, even if said elevator also carried a distinct whiff of overcooked cabbage. But there were much worse smells, he thought, as the elevator doors clanged open and he stepped out.

  It had been a frustrating day, so far. The courier company’s records showed a call had come from a man who said an envelope had been left with him. This proved to be the barman in a seedy little bar; but he wasn’t the sender, nor did he know the person who had dropped it off, with money and instructions, as he hadn’t been curious. It was that kind of place. When pressed, the barman said the man who’d left the envelope might have had a German accent, but that was all. And even that was doubtful.

  So Maxim had decided to follow another trail, and it had led him here, to this place. The sort of place where a retired civil servant who’d never gone above a certain rung might live. Someone with a bit of money set aside, but not much. Someone who’d never been quite ambitious enough, or far-sighted enough, or ruthless enough …

  The man who answered Maxim’s knock was small and frail-looking, with wispy white hair and hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing tracksuit pants, a zipped-up fleecy jacket and slippers, and looked like he’d just got up, though it was nearly midday.

  “Luka Viktorovich Nevsky?”

  “Yes,” said the old man, in a surprisingly steady voice. “And you are?”

  Maxim knew he was expected. His informant had arranged it. But he still took out his ID and showed Nevsky. “Senior Lieutenant Maxim Serebrov of the Criminal Investigative Department,” he said. “I believe our mutual acquaintance has told you to expect me.”

  “You better come in,” said the man, and shot a glance down the corridor before ushering Maxim in. The policeman hid an inward smile. It didn’t matter how low down the ladder, how unimportant a KGB employee had been, like Nevsky, old habits die hard.

  The apartment was small, almost as small as Maxim’s own, but unlike Maxim’s, it was very tidy. Almost obsessively so. Every flat surface was clear, and showed not a speck of dust. The few photographs on top of the bookshelf were arranged in a neat row; the books themselves were ranked in order of size and spine color. The single armchair was neatly positioned to face the small TV, which had itself been put on a high table in a corner, while in another corner an open door revealed a tiny bedroom, equally as tidy. Nevsky motioned Maxim to one of the two chairs at the small dining table, went to close the bedroom door, and coming back, said, “May I offer you something to drink, Senior Lieutenant?”

  “Thank you. But no. I believe our mutual friend has told you why I have come?”

  “Yes. You are interested in my time in the archives. Specifically a particular time. The 1970s.”

  “That is so.”

  Nevsky frowned. “You understand, I was not at any time in possession of any secrets. I was just a humble clerk. Otherwise I would not be speaking to you now. For I still believe in the honor of the sword and the shield, Senior Lieutenant.” He was referring to the KGB’s coat of arms.

  “Most laudable,” said Maxim, blandly. “But I am not after any secrets, I assure you. Merely a possible memory. Did a Major Mikhail Makarov ever visit the KGB archives when you were employed there?”

  Nevsky shot him a sharp look. “Comrade Major Mikhail Petrovich Makarov of the Second Chief Directorate?”

  “The very same.”

  “Yes. Several times.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “In his work, he had sometimes to check the – the background information we might hold on a suspect. All officers did this sometimes. Or had files sent up to them. But the comrade major preferred to come down himself.”

  “I see. So you knew him.”

  “I wouldn’t say I knew him. I never had the personal contact with him, my superiors did that. But I knew him by sight and by reputation, if you understand me.”

  “I do. What did you think of him?”

  “It wasn’t my place to think.”

  No, I don’t suppose it was, thought Maxim. Aloud, he said, “What I meant was – what had you heard about him?”

  “That he was an excellent officer,” said Nevsky, promptly.

  “Anything else?”

  “That he was much feared by our enemies and much respected by his colleagues.”

  “He was never promoted beyond major, though, was he?”

  “So? Perhaps he didn’t want to be promoted beyond that rank. He was a man who liked what he did. Who wanted to work on the frontline, not be kicked upstairs to paperwork and politics.”

  That at least I understand, Maxim t
hought. “He was a skilled interrogator, wasn’t he? I have heard he could break a man in under an hour.”

  “Yes. He was extraordinary, I believe. There were many, many convictions of spies and subversives to his credit. And he hardly ever used the classic interrogation techniques. He had his own. I heard it said that it was as though he saw direct into people’s souls. If such a thing as a soul exists,” he hastened to add.

  Maxim smiled to himself. Poor old Nevsky obviously hadn’t caught up yet with the idea that atheism wasn’t fashionable anymore. He said, “Was there ever any talk that this … talent of his wasn’t natural?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I think you know, Luka Viktorovich.”

  “There was some talk,” said the man, reluctantly, “but it was silly tattle peddled by gullible people. Typists. Empty-headed girls. What can you expect?”

  “What did they say?”

  “Oh, it’s too stupid.”

  “Please. What did they say?”

  “That he was – uncanny. An absurd idea.”

  Maxim didn’t comment. “Did he have particular friends in the service?”

  “I don’t know for sure. But I believe he kept to himself.”

  “I see. What do you know about his private life?”

  That threw Nevsky. He said, “What?”

  “Was there any gossip about his private life? Any secret life?”

  “No. At least not that I heard. Major Makarov was an exemplary character. No vices whatsoever. He hardly drank. He didn’t smoke. He had a clean family life, and utter dedication to his work. I heard that in his office there was not a single personal memento.”