A Shadow of Myself

by Mike Phillips

  He drove slowly up the road. After a couple of kilometres he turned and came back. As he’d said, there was nothing there. At the crossroads he swung west again, following the road to the Dutch border. In a few minutes he stopped at another junction.

  ‘You pick them up here,’ he said to Valentin.

  They inspected the site solemnly. There was nothing there except a signpost to Niederkrüchten.

  ‘What happens here?’ Joseph asked.

  ‘It’s simple,’ George replied. ‘We’ll drive the trucks to that spot. They’ll be waiting by that signpost. If there’s more than three we don’t do it. If they’re there, and there’s only three of them, and they have the money, Valentin will bring them up the road to where the trucks will be waiting. They give us the money and drive the trucks away.’

  ‘That’s a lot of ifs,’ Joseph said. ‘How will you know if they have the money, and how will they know that the trucks aren’t empty?’

  ‘Modern technology.’ George held up his mobile phone.

  Joseph couldn’t think of any more questions, or rather he could think of so many that there didn’t seem to be any point in beginning to ask because he sensed that George wouldn’t have the answers that he wanted. Everything depended on Valery Vasselievich’s word, and apart from Kofi’s faith in him, they had no way of knowing how good that was.

  ‘Here it is,’ George said.

  They sped through a village, illuminated by a sign which read SPAR. On the other side was a wide gate flanked by a guard hut, beside which two soldiers lounged. This was the entrance to the base. In another kilometre the high wire fence gave way to a thick line of trees. George slowed down and turned into a dirt road which was almost invisible until they were on it.

  They bumped slowly along through the dark wood, the headlamps bouncing off the tree trunks. The two Russians gazed intently at the fence, and eventually Victor tapped George on the shoulder. Beyond the wire Joseph had a vague impression of the rounded humps of the hangars. Valentin and Victor got out, pushed the fence back and George drove through.

  The hangar was like a big warehouse, which had been emptied of goods in a giant clearance. It was lit by a strip of neon bulbs along the centre of the ceiling which threw a lane of light along the middle of the floor, leaving most of the place in shadow. Parked in one corner the two trucks looked small and insignificant, like toys which had been abandoned by some giant child.

  ‘We wait here till the morning,’ George said.

  They would make the exchange, he explained, shortly after dawn, when there was enough light to see across the fields to the horizon but when it would be too early for a stream of traffic. Afterwards they would drive across the Dutch border to Roermond, in order to shake off anyone who might be following.

  The night seemed interminable. The Russians settled down in the trucks and went to sleep. George lay back in the driver’s seat of the car and closed his eyes. In the back seat Joseph fidgeted.

  ‘Can I look inside the trucks?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  He tossed a torch back at Joseph. Inside the truck it was like an Aladdin’s cave. The paintings were stacked along the sides leaving only a narrow aisle, which was choked with statuettes and boxes packed with jewellery. Joseph lifted one of the paintings away from the stack. It looked like a wheatfield. In the torchlight the colours glowed. He looked at another couple of the paintings, receiving a confused impression of naturalistic landscapes, then suddenly a bold kaleidoscope of angular shapes in grey, black and red. He lowered the canvases back into the pile and climbed down, his head spinning. Suddenly, he sensed why this treasure had been worth so much to his brother and his friends, and why the Georgians had been so relentless in their pursuit of it.

  ‘There’s enough there to fill a museum,’ he told George.

  He had only caught a glimpse, and he had no claim on any of it, but something inside Joseph burnt at the thought of tamely surrendering the heap of beautiful objects. He thought of pirates burying their arms up to the elbows in gold and jewels. It wasn’t hard to imagine men killing merely for the thrill of possessing such things.

  ‘Suppose it goes wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing will go wrong. Go to sleep.’

  ‘It must be hard,’ Joseph said tentatively, ‘to give all that up. It has to be worth millions.’

  George twisted round and looked at him, frowning, as if the same thought troubled him.

  ‘They’ll kill us if we don’t.’

  Joseph had anticipated lying awake, turning and sliding on the slippery leather, but the next thing he heard was the sound of voices and the thud of the boot behind him closing. He opened his eyes and looked around. On the other side of the window Victor was loading a gun. He pulled the slide back, squinted into the chamber and along the barrel, then slapped the magazine in. George opened the door and peered at him.

  ‘Wake up. It’s time to go.’

  Still half asleep, Joseph stumbled over to the truck behind George. Valentin pulled apart the hangar doors, got in the car and drove out. Joseph climbed awkwardly up into the passenger seat of the truck high above the ground. Next to him, in the other vehicle, Victor waved and gave the thumbs up sign. Joseph felt like saying he wasn’t ready, that he needed another hour’s sleep. Starting up, the engines puffed smoke, turning the air in the hangar blue.

  ‘Aren’t you going to close the doors?’ he asked George, looking back as they drove over the tarmac towards the fence, and knowing, even as he said it, that this was a silly question.

  ‘Why? We’re not coming back.’

  The woods, which on the previous night had seemed so dark and forbidding, now sparkled green, and above the grinding of the engine Joseph could hear snatches of birdsong. There was a slight mist hanging over the fields in the distance, but on the horizon, the streaks of bright orange promised a sunny day.

  From the high vantage point of the truck Joseph could see a long way over the fields. George had picked the spot and the time shrewdly. Apart from themselves there was hardly anything moving on the road. They stood little chance of being interrupted.

  The sun was up by the time they arrived at the stretch of road where the trucks were to be parked. The convoy stopped. Valentin got out of the car to consult with George. They spoke in German, George pointing his finger emphatically. They shook hands, then Valentin got in the car and drove away.

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘If he saw more than three or four of them, to keep driving.’

  He led the way off the road. The ground sloped down here into the field. Victor sat on the wet grass, pulling his coat round him, and sighted the Kalashnikov at the trucks. George paid no attention, shaking his mobile phone open and dialling quickly. He held it up to his ear and muttered, then winked at Joseph.

  ‘Valentin.’

  They stood like this, waiting. Somewhere nearby Joseph could hear the chirping of birds, but when he looked around he couldn’t see any in the trees or bushes.

  ‘They’re coming,’ George said.

  At the same time Joseph heard the sound of the car turning into the intersection, and seconds later it came into sight. George stepped out into the road and stood next to the trucks. The car pulled up in front of him and a fat man got out. Behind him a couple of men Joseph guessed were Georgians followed. They looked around, studying the scene and then staring hard at Victor and Joseph posed by the side of the road. They were tall men, dark-haired and dark-eyed, both of them wearing identical black leather jackets. They looked impassive, as indifferent to their surroundings as if they were sitting in a café.

  The fat man stood immobile in the middle of the road, his face creased in a grin.

  ‘Good morning, George,’ he called out.

  ‘Liebl,’ George said. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘This surprises you?’ Liebl asked. He grimaced as if suddenly hit by a revelation. ‘Ah. We were going to be partners and you thought I would know nothing until it was t
oo late. It was very clever. You must be a genius to have found yourself a patron that Abuladze was afraid of. Someday you must tell me how you did it.’

  His eyes glinted with curiosity.

  ‘Neither of us stayed where we were when we lived behind the Wall,’ George said.

  Liebl nodded soberly.

  ‘Yes. I have to admit that, but you are still not my equal.’ He smiled at the change in George’s expression. ‘Don’t be offended. I had an advantage. You see, I have other partners. There was more than one card to play.’

  George found himself searching for a reply that might puncture Liebl’s self-satisfaction. Then he shrugged. It didn’t matter. He waved the Georgians towards the trucks and they climbed into each one in turn, taking their time. From the roadside Joseph could hear them clambering about, surveying the objects inside. Liebl stood at the back, peering in and muttering to them in monosyllables as they showed him what they discovered. Eventually they seemed satisfied.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Liebl told George. Inside the slits of flesh his eyes glittered. ‘As a friend, I can tell you this is robbery. Or it would be if this wasn’t already stolen property.’

  He laughed. Behind him one of the Georgians flipped open his mobile phone and spoke into it. Then they stood there in the road, each one by the door of a truck, waiting.

  In a couple of minutes, there was the sound of an engine and a BMW sped into sight. Beside him Joseph felt Victor tense and he heard the sound of metal snapping as he thumbed the safety catch. The BMW pulled up in the middle of the road, a few metres short of the trucks, and another man dressed in the trademark leather jacket got out and handed George a large briefcase. The money was in dollars, packed in stacks bound together with rubber bands. George didn’t actually count them, but he fingered through the stacks, checking the denominations. It took a few minutes. Nobody moved. Eventually George looked up. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Without a word the Georgians climbed into the trucks and began backing them into the turn. Liebl got into the BMW, gave George an ironic wave, and the driver reversed quickly and sped away towards the intersection. George and Valentin watched them go, standing motionless in the road. As the vehicles disappeared they ran for the car.

  ‘Let’s go!’ George shouted at Joseph. ‘Come on.’

  The car rocketed away from a standing start, its wheels spinning in the grit by the side of the road. Victor unslung the Kalashnikov and put it on the floor. George laughed.

  ‘We’re millionaires!’

  Valentin was holding the briefcase and he shut it and passed it back to Victor, who opened it again and began thumbing through the money, counting the stacks. The mobile phone rang, a piercing warble. George took it out of his pocket and held it in his hand, looking at it thoughtfully.

  ‘Your father?’ Valentin said.

  George nodded, his expression lightening, and he put it to his ear. A moment afterwards he slammed on the brakes. The car stopped, slewing round in a skid which took them across one side of the road to the other.

  George shouted in German. Joseph didn’t understand what he said, but he caught one word, ‘raus’. He scrambled for the door handle.

  ‘Get out!’ George shouted. ‘There’s a bomb in the back.’

  They ran for the side of the road and threw themselves down on the grass. Now that the engine had stopped there was no sound except the chirping of the birds. Nothing happened. Minutes passed. Victor muttered to Valentin in a low voice as if worried about being overheard. Joseph could feel damp seeping through his clothes. George put the phone to his ear, then shrugged and sat up.

  ‘Someone said they’d planted a bomb in the back.’

  ‘If they planted a bomb,’ Valentin asked, ‘why would they tell us?’

  ‘He said it was a message from Valery Vasselievich. He said to get out of the car immediately.’ Victor stood up.

  ‘Wait,’ George said.

  ‘If this is a trick,’ Valentin said, ‘they’ll be coming in a minute.’

  He took the Beretta out of his jacket and began loading it. Victor gestured, a mime of aiming a gun and pulling the trigger.

  ‘He’s left his gun in the car,’ George told Joseph. ‘Wait,’ he called out.

  Victor ignored him and started across the road. He moved cautiously at first, looking to right and left, ready to dash back, then getting to the open door of the car he turned to grin triumphantly at George before reaching in to pick up the Kalashnikov. The car blew up then, the explosion thudding in their ears, before they saw the whoosh of flame blooming into the sky. In a moment there was the thump of another explosion. The column of flame and smoke mounted like a finger pointing. Huddled in the ditch, Joseph felt George tugging at his arm and he sprang up and ran behind his brother, putting a distance between themselves and the fire.

  Joseph’s ears rang, so deafened by the explosion that he didn’t hear the car driving down from the junction till it was close to them. Valentin swung round, pointing the gun at the driver, who got out and shouted.

  ‘Come!’ he waved. ‘Kirichenko. Come.’

  They walked slowly towards the big black limousine. The driver, neatly dressed in a dark suit, ignored Valentin’s gun and waved them impatiently into the back seat. He spoke rapidly as he gained distance from the burning car, his manner busy and matter-of-fact, as if he was a taxi driver picking up an ordinary fare.

  ‘He says he’s been sent by Valery Vasselievich to pick us up. He says he telephoned you on the mobile.’

  The driver grinned back at them and waved his mobile phone. At the same moment they heard the sound of a siren and a lone police car streaked past, hurrying to where they could still see the column of smoke pouring into the sky.

  A few kilometres further on the limousine turned into a narrow lane masked by a row of hedges. Beyond it was a farmhouse. They skirted it and pulled up in a broad yard ringed by trees. The two trucks were parked there, alongside four cars, including the BMW. There was no sign of the drivers.

  Valery Kirichenko was sitting on a straight wooden chair below one of the trees, his legs stretched out in front of him, the trainers on his feet sticking up like the shoes on a tired athlete. Their driver waved them towards him. He was talking on a mobile phone and when they approached he closed it and put it away.

  ‘I just talked to your father,’ he said. ‘I told him you were safe. I was told about the bomb earlier, but I couldn’t let you know before.’

  ‘Why not?’ George asked. He sounded angry. ‘If we had known one of my friends would be alive. We could all have been killed.’

  ‘It was a risk,’ Valery said. ‘I’m sorry about your friend, but if you had been warned, the man who told me would have been killed, and the deal would have been off. It was worth the risk.’ He smiled. ‘I came to see the paintings. That was worth it, too.’

  ‘You’re keeping them?’

  ‘Of course.’ He paused, looking them in the face and smiling. ‘I’m negotiating with a man who wants some of those things. He wants them very badly. Maybe he’ll start a museum in Tbilisi. But I’ll give them to him. He’ll put a muzzle on your Georgian friends, or get rid of them.’

  ‘What will he give you?’ George asked.

  Valery chuckled.

  ‘Control of a company I want. There will be many more of these things in my possession. In Kiev they’ll build me a statue.’ He gestured. ‘Benefactor of the arts.’

  ‘Is this why you helped us?’

  The smile left Valery’s face.

  ‘No, it was because of your father. But this is the best way. If I had offered to buy them from you, maybe you would not have sold, and then too many problems. How could I put pressure on Kofi’s son? Now the problem is mine, and they’ll leave you in peace, but don’t go to Georgia.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t go to Moscow, either. Go somewhere quiet.’

  ‘What about Liebl?’

  ‘Go look in the car.’ George hesitated, and Valery made a gesture of command. ‘Go.’

/>   The neat young man in the dark suit led the way to the BMW. The car made a quick beeping sound, and he threw open the boot with a flourish, like a headwaiter displaying a dish. Liebl was lying, stuffed in the boot, dark blood staining his clothes and body. He was dead, but he looked relaxed and peaceful, one hand curled beneath his head, a smile still curving his lips.

  Valery hadn’t changed his position, still sitting on the wooden chair with his feet up, Valentin and Joseph standing a few paces away, looking towards George with puzzled expressions.

  ‘Tell your father,’ Valery said, ‘the debt is cancelled.’ He laughed. ‘Tell him to keep out of the forest.’

  Valery’s driver dropped them off round about lunchtime in Düsseldorf. Valentin had left his car in the basement car park of a hotel off the Haroldstrasse, and they went through the hotel lobby. Joseph was moving automatically, simply following George. It was as if he was too tired and stressed to think for himself, and for the moment, he was relying on his brother to guide him back to calmer waters.

  ‘Let’s take a drink.’

  They went into the bar. Joseph sat at the nearest table, then, looking around, realised that Valentin had disappeared.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s okay. He’s gone to get the car. Later we’ll take you to the airport.’

  ‘To the airport?’ Somehow the idea of making the trip alone alarmed him. ‘Why don’t we drive back?’

  ‘I’m not coming back,’ George said. He reached over and touched Joseph’s arm. ‘I was thinking about why I was angry with you. Maybe because of my son. You know I always feared that idea, that she would leave me and go to another man, maybe a white man.’ He laughed. ‘Around here, almost certainly a white man. Then my son would be calling him his father, or thinking about him in that way. He would forget me or hate me. I don’t know. The idea frightened me all the time. Then I was thinking, you are my brother. Kofi is my father. Katya is my mother. If my son was with you, how could you be cruel to your own blood? No problem. Maybe Radka understands that. You know it is strange. All these years I’ve had dozens of women. Suddenly she goes for my brother. I think she wanted to get rid of me without changing anything except me. The funny thing is that I feel the same.’