“But wouldn’t the killer have thought she knew something about their identity, after her story appeared in the paper?”
“Not necessarily. I’ve read the piece. She didn’t mention Kirov’s name at all in the interview, and everything was all vague mystical talk about sorcery and your father, and veiled hints he might be linked to his partners’ deaths. And so it was he who took offense. Although there is another possibility and that is that the killer never saw the piece at all.”
“Yes,” said Alexey. “Do you think you can trust what this woman might tell you about Kirov’s circle, or will she simply try again – to profit by things? To make herself more important by pretending to know more than she really does?”
“It’s a possible risk, yes. But I think she’s learned her lesson the hard way. She’s not a bad woman, just a flawed one. But of course I won’t accept what she tells me without double-checking. And I will also check on Oberlian’s antecedents as well. In case.”
“I intend also to do my own investigating,” said Alexey.
Maxim said, sharply, “I must advise you, Alexey Ivanovich, that it really would not be wise for you to come to –”
Alexey interrupted him, firmly. “Before you go on, Maxim – like I just told Kolya, who made the exact same point as you, I have no intention of leaving Uglich and coming to Moscow or St Petersburg. Not right now, anyway. But there are other means open to me, even staying right here. I could investigate what there is on KGB archives on the Internet, for instance. I don’t know if I can find anything of any use, but it’s worth trying.”
“Hmmm,” said Maxim, in such a doubtful tone that Alexey laughed.
“You are not a fan of the cyber-world, I take it, Maxim Antonovich,” he said.
“No. That I am not.”
“Then we must agree to differ and each take our own path. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Maxim. “But, Alexey Ivanovich …”
“Yes?”
“Take care. And when you are hunting through the shadow forest of the Internet, please don’t forget about the real wolves. Trust in God – but keep your eyes open.”
Alexey said, gravely, “I will. You can be sure of that, Maxim Antonovich.” And he ended the call.
*
Maxim had an urgent call to make now. But nobody answered the phone. His sense of dread grew as his calls went repeatedly unanswered. By the time he reached the street, he was in a lather of anxiety, and took the stairs two at a time, arriving panting and breathless at the door, fully expecting it to be smashed, and the apartment broken into. But everything looked normal. So he knocked. Once, twice, three times. Louder and louder. No answer. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong ...
He was just about to run at it and try to burst in the door, when all at once it opened and Anna Dorskova herself stood there, looking tousled and cross. “What the hell is this damn racket …” she began, then saw who it was. Her eyes widened.
Maxim was so taken aback by this sudden deflation of his dark imaginings that at first he could only goggle at her. Then he said, lamely, “Sorry to disturb you, Anna Feodorovna. I thought you were ... I thought there was something wrong. I tried to call. More than once.”
“I turned my phone off because I was asleep,” she said, sharply. “Is that a crime?”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry. I just wanted – to ask you something. Urgently.”
She gave a faint smile. “Well, I suppose you’d better come in,” she said, stepping aside. “Would you like a cold glass of kvass, perhaps?”
“Oh – thank you. That is, if it’s no trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I need one myself.” She went out to her little kitchen to pour the drinks, and he sat there waiting. It was strange, being here again, he thought. He hadn’t really expected to come back here. Or at least not so soon. But as she came through from the kitchen with a foaming jug of the mild black-bread beer known as kvass, and pickles and olives on a tray, he was suddenly glad he’d come, and not just because she might be a useful source of information. Despite the tousled look – or perhaps because of it – she looked much more appealing than she had the other day, her face less wary, her eyes clearer, her mouth softer.
She set down the tray in front of him, and sat down opposite. She poured out the glasses, and handed him one. She gave him a smile, lit up a cigarette and said, “Help yourself to the snacks. Now, Senior Lieutenant, what is it that’s so urgent?”
He took a gulp of the cold drink and said, on an impulse, “I had to tell Ivan Makarov’s son who you were.” She made a startled movement, and he went on, “I know I promised not to tell anyone – but he is a fine young man, brave and honorable and I think true-hearted – and he’s in grave danger from the homicidal maniac who has already killed several times, including your own dear friend Lev Kirov. He could not be left in the dark. Do you understand?”
She had gone pale. Her lip trembled. She said, “Are you sure that the same person ...”
“Yes. I am. And I also think you may perhaps be able to help us identify this madman. Before he strikes again.”
She stared at him. “How ... can I … possibly ...”
“By giving us a picture of the circles your friend moved in. His colleagues. Friends. Professional contacts.”
“You think someone Lev knew killed him?”
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“But, Senior Lieutenant … Lev – he knew so many people. He was old. Greatly respected and loved. He – it would take years to enumerate everyone he knew.”
Leaning forward, Maxim said, earnestly, “We are looking for three characteristics in particular which may help you to narrow down possible suspects. We believe this person is probably connected in some way with the psychic community and that they may also have some kind of link to the underworld. But the most important thing is a connection to someone with a background as – as a so-called enemy of the State. As a subversive.”
She looked at him, a weary contempt in her eyes. Then she said, biting off the words, “I should have known.”
“Should have known what?”
“That no policeman could be a decent man. But I must say I’m surprised that you should resort to those old tricks.”
Maxim was completely bewildered. “What old tricks?”
“Subversives, enemies of the State, criminals, social parasites, anti-social elements – why, it has quite a ring to it, doesn’t it? A ring straight back to our dear undead past. No, Senior Lieutenant. I will not help you to frame some poor wretch who ...”
Maxim glared at her and hissed, “I’m not trying to frame anyone. Don’t you understand? This person betrayed your friend – killed him in cold blood. And killed three other people who, whatever their failings as businessmen, were innocent of whatever happened to the killer or his family. Do you believe in the sins of the father being visited on the son, Anna Feodorovna? Because if you do – then you must accept that it is not only the Trinity people who suffer. People like your friend are necessary collateral too. You must think then that it is okay that they are betrayed and killed just because of who they are. What they know.”
She swallowed. “How dare you! How dare you – I never said ...”
He leaned forward. “Listen to me. I believe this person knew your friend Lev Kirov intimately – and had confided only in him the secret of his past – that is, that he, or a close family member, had been a victim of the cruel power of the State.”
She shook her head. Stared at him. Said wonderingly, “Could it – be – that you really don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“That Lev Kirov was himself a victim of the cruel power of the State, as you so eloquently put it. As a young man, he spent ten years in a northern Gulag, after being convicted of possessing banned literature.” She paused, and gave him an ironic smile. “To wit, underground copies of the mystical texts of Gurdjieff, Blavatsky, Andreev, Steiner and Rerik.”
“I�
��m – I’m sorry,” said Maxim, with an effort, feeling stupid and wrong-footed. “I’m afraid I – I had no idea.” Why didn’t you think to check the old man’s background before now, you damn fool, he cursed himself, no wonder she’s looking at you like that.
She looked sharply at him, as if summing him up. Then her face cleared. “Look, it was like this. Lev knew several other people who similarly had been recipients of the State’s attentions like himself. And some most certainly had links to the underworld, as they had been imprisoned as what used to be called ‘anti-social elements’.” That was the Soviet euphemism for common criminals. She added, “But none of them concealed their past, as far as I’m aware. And certainly not these days. I know some people are ashamed of what happened to them, but not those in Lev’s circle, I can guarantee you that. They were survivors, and tough with it. But the one you seek – you say they did conceal it – and that only Lev knew their secret. If that’s the case, then I’m afraid I have no idea who it could be.”
“What about his clients?”
“You mean – that it could be a client who had concealed their past?”
“Yes.”
“It’s possible, yes. If a client told Lev in confidence – or if Lev found out – then he would keep the secret, if he knew that’s what the client wanted. And then you might also have a link to – to the underworld. All sorts of people came to ask for Lev’s advice and help. He made no distinction between people. But I don’t understand why he’d be killed for –”
“You told me your friend was troubled, after Semyon Galkin’s death. Perhaps, you see, it wasn’t just because he recognized Ivan Makarov, but because it sparked off an idea in him – that something he’d heard recently; something he’d been told in confidence by a client – could provide a link to Semyon Galkin’s death. Maybe it was only a hint – but if he was still seeing this client, then he may have shown what he was thinking. Even if unconsciously. And the person realized their danger, and acted.”
She stared at him, swallowed and said, in a small voice, “Then – then when I went to you – and to the paper...”
“You could have been in very great danger too. If the killer had perceived it to be so. But for whatever reason, they didn’t. We must be grateful for that.”
Their eyes met. She said, quietly, “What do you want me to do?”
“If there is any way you could help me to get to Lev Kirov’s records, I’d be grateful. Perhaps you might know for example where his personal papers might have gone. If he had a diary, for instance.”
She nodded. “He did have something like that – but I don’t think it’s what you’re after. It’s not a standard diary – not a record – more like a kind of compendium of his thoughts over the years. Way before he died, he lent it to a mutual friend who is writing a book on great modern Russian psychics. I can give you his name and details” – and she did – “I’m sure he will be happy to show the manuscript to you. But I can tell you here and now – there are no names, no addresses, nothing to identify clients or indeed anyone else in it. Lev was a very discreet man. He kept his client records in his head, not liking to entrust those kinds of things to paper. Understandably so, given his experience. And he worked alone. No one else had access to his clients. So any records – I’m afraid they died with him. I could try and rack my memory for anything he might have said – but I’m not sure it will be of much help. Apart from Makarov, I never heard him say anything directly about a client. I’m so sorry.”
That was that, then. Maxim suddenly felt very tired. Every time that it looked like there was a promising breakthrough in this damned case, it hit a brick wall. He said, sadly, “Well, thank you, anyway. You have been most helpful once again, and under most trying circumstances. I am sorry to have caused you distress today. And if ever you need my help – if you feel threatened or concerned in any way – contact me at once. I give you my word I will do anything I can to keep you safe.”
She looked at him, her face softening. Gently, she put out a hand to touch his knee, very briefly. “You are a good man, Senior Lieutenant. I am – sorry – that I jumped to conclusions and abused you before. You did not deserve it.”
“You have nothing whatever to apologize for, Anna Feodorovna,” said Maxim. “I should have explained myself better.”
“Please. I – if it is agreeable to you – please just call me Anna, if you wish,” she said, quietly, reddening a little.
He looked at her, surprised and glad. And said, “Thank you. I will. And please, my name is Maxim. Maxim Antonovich.”
A lovely smile lit up her brown eyes, and she held out a hand. “I am very pleased to meet you, Maxim. And I hope to see you again soon.”
“And I you, Anna.”
And they shook hands, warmly, smiling at each other as delightedly as schoolchildren unexpectedly promised a treat. How wonderfully strange life’s ambushes could be, Maxim thought, as he took the stairs down two at a time again but from sheer, thankful cheerfulness this time.
Chapter 32
Helen had seen that photo in the album, the one where Major Makarov had been looking away, and even then the resemblance had been striking, but this was altogether different. This photo was full-face, and it was uncanny. She’d looked at it a few times now and still she couldn’t get over it. The young man who looked out from the small black and white photograph could have been Alexey’s double. Different haircut, of course, and different clothes and setting – the photograph had been taken in the mid-1950s, in a forest, he’d clearly been hiking, judging from his backpack – but the features of the face were the same, the eyes, nose, mouth, even the set of the shoulders under the sheepskin coat. That was disturbing enough; but what made it more so was that, despite the striking resemblance to Alexey, there was something fundamentally different about the man in the picture. And that was to do with the expression in Mikhail Petrovich Makarov’s eyes. Or rather, the lack of it.
Helen didn’t know how to explain it. It wasn’t to do with the fact that Mikhail Makarov was unsmiling, or that his face was perfectly still. It wasn’t a deliberate withholding. Not a masking of emotion. Not even a challenge. It was the gaze of someone truly unreadable.
And it wasn’t just in that photo. In a crumpled older photo, he was with his parents at a riverside beach. They held him, a beautiful blond child of about four or five, protectively close between them – both of them in their forties or so, his mother Lara plump and dark-haired and smiling, his father Pyotr tall and fair-haired and unsmiling. Helen remembered how Ivan Makarov had written that his father Mikhail had been born late, when his parents had almost given up hope of a child; and it was clear both doted on him, even though Pyotr Makarov wasn’t smiling. But even then he did not have the same expression as his son. Pyotr’s was hard, the gaze of a man used to command. He didn’t look like he’d have been a pleasant sort of guy. But he was readable. Whereas the child gazed out from that photo with the same unblinking stare as he did as a young hiker; as he did in the couple of other framed photos from Ivan Makarov’s study: one of Mikhail walking with a young Ivan in the park, and one of him in KGB dress uniform standing stolidly beside Ivan who was in army uniform.
Alexey said, pointing at the last one, “He died only a few weeks after this one was taken, when Dad was away.” He paused. “You can see, can’t you, why it should give me the creeps to look at my grandfather?”
She nodded.
“When I was a kid these pictures used to scare me. I always tried to avoid seeing them. Looking at him – it felt like – like looking in the mirror, but in a twisted way. And I felt like – if I looked at him too long, I’d get sucked in and never come out again. It was like … like the eyes were hungry. Do you see?”
“Yes,” she said. “I do.”
“That’s why I stuck them all in Dad’s desk drawer, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away, because – well, because he’d loved his father, no matter what he’d been, and it didn’t feel right to ..
. But now, I just look at them and I think, you were a lost soul. And you have no power over me. Not anymore.”
Helen squeezed his hand. “That’s good.”
He smiled. “Yes. It is.” He put the photos down, and hauled her to her feet. “Come on, babe, let’s call it a day. I’ve had more than enough.”
They’d been in the study for a few tiring hours, fruitlessly trawling the Internet. They’d first googled “KGB Major Mikhail Petrovich Makarov” in Russian and English, but not surprisingly there wasn’t a single mention of him in a document or an image. Thinking of the different people who might have had a grudge against him for family reasons, they first tried Boris Repin, the Petersburg gangster suspected of the attack on the Trinity offices. There were several images of him on Google, the man certainly didn’t hide away. He’d been pictured at the opening of nightclubs, at a mayoral function, at the ballet, in a hunting party. Big, blond and hard-eyed, even in the photos he exuded the confidence of the alpha predator. Described as a “well-known Petersburg businessman” and a “generous benefactor to charity” (he had given money to help rebuild a ruined church, among other things), he had a checkered past, as might be imagined, but though he had done prison time in his youth as an “anti-social”, there was no record of any past family connection with the kinds of things a KGB major might have investigated. Repin’s parents had divorced when he was young, both had been factory workers. There was no indication at all they, or their parents before them, had ever been in trouble.
More to eliminate possibilities than a real hunch, they then put in Grisha Chekushkin’s name, and Lebedev’s, but there was nothing about them at all, they were too small fry. They widened the search to KGB archives and ended up with millions of hits. They’d refined the search to dates and places but even then it was clear it was going to take a long time.
*
That night, Helen had a strange dream about Major Mikhail Makarov. In the dream, he looked just like he had in the hiking photo, only he didn’t have a pack, and he wasn’t posing, he was just wandering in a dark forest, a small, lonely figure under towering dark firs growing thickly together. His blond hair shone faintly on his collar and behind him was a trail of gleaming white pebbles – or was it crumbs? They were the only points of light in that dark place. As he walked the trail of pebbles – or crumbs – faded but still he walked, and now only his hair shone, and then it too faded and he got smaller and smaller till he disappeared like a shadow into dark. That was all; the dream ended as suddenly as it had begun, but she found herself awake with tears on her face, and she had no idea why.
Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1) Page 27