by Sean Heary
Kalinin sat forward. “How independent?”
“I gave him a list of highly credible sycophantic cheerleaders who owe their very existence to me.”
“That’s reassuring. We shouldn’t take unnecessary risks,” Kalinin said. “And how far did you get with the rest of the Godhead plan?”
“He agreed to everything. I was extremely persuasive.”
Chernik, who had already been briefed by his audio surveillance team, coughed into his fist, masking a snigger.
“Then we need to get on with it or risk losing control of the narrative,” Kalinin said. “The social networks are already all over this.”
Chernik knitted his brow. “Bozhe moy, Sergei, don’t worry about the social media. I have my web brigade of sock puppets trolling the online community as we speak. The Kremlin sets public opinion. Remember, we are the conscience of the people.”
Arms folded, chin raised, Volkov paced behind his desk. “If there is no God, then I am God.”
Chernik glanced up, puzzled. “Sorry?”
“A little imagery I’m experimenting with,” Volkov said, sitting down again. “Incidentally, whatever happened to Inspector General Rossi? I thought he would be part of your dog and pony show. Rumour has it you’ve lost him.”
“He had a bit of beginner’s luck,” Chernik said defensively.
“Or maybe he had help. I wouldn’t put it past the Americans to be sticking their noses in where they don’t belong.”
“You mean into our perfectly legitimate plan to disrupt the world order.”
Laughter.
“But it plays to my point,” Kalinin said, maintaining his serious tone. “We need to get on with it.”
35
Rossi stared, mouth agape, at his reflection in the last fragment of mirror still hanging above the water-stained basin in the bathroom.
“Hold still,” Cathy said, hacking at his hair as if it was an overgrown hedge.
“Couldn’t we have just gone with glasses and a silly hat?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Inspector General,” Cathy said smugly. “Silly hats come later. First, we must erase all those distinguishing features that make it easy to identify you from a photograph or a description. Like your once-gorgeous long, thick black hair.”
“And which other distinguishing features are you planning to erase?” Rossi asked, his gaze catching hers in the remnants of the mirror.
Taking a step back, Cathy pursed her lips and stroked her chin. “Now let me see. Italian confidence – that’ll have to go. Stylish wardrobe – easily fixed. Perfect teeth…”
“That could prove more difficult.”
“Not at all. I saw pliers in the kitchen.”
Rossi bared his teeth in the mirror. “Couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?”
“You?” Cathy scoffed. “Not likely.”
“Brother, what happened?” Lawrence said, in the bathroom doorway.
Cathy tenderly ran her soft hands over Rossi’s strong naked shoulders, brushing away the hair. “Short and functional. Sit down, Lawrence. I have time for one more customer before I close up.”
“In your dreams, Doherty,” Lawrence said, moving back into the living room.
Cathy brushed the last few strands of hair off Rossi’s back. “You’re done. Clothes are on the bed. Put them on.”
After a few minutes, Rossi wandered into the lounge transformed. He was wearing dark blue trousers of dubious origin, scuffed black boots, a grey woollen jumper and a rabbit skin ushanka hat.
“Don’t you look the part,” Cathy said, cupping her hand over her nose. “Almost invisible? I for one wouldn’t give you a second look.”
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful but these clothes have been lived in.” Rossi sniffed under the armpit. “More than once.”
“But the underpants are new. I picked them out myself.”
“Ferrari red is à propos, but they’re a trifle small,” Rossi said, tugging at the seat of his pants.
Cathy’s head shot forward a tad; she appeared to be eyeing his crotch. “Really? You don’t look that big.”
As Rossi’s jaw dropped, she stepped forward and placed a pair of black-rimmed glasses on his nose. “Perfect.”
36
Perched precariously on the edge of a bar stool, David Krotsky threw back another shot. “Forbes calls them ‘self-made billionaires’.”
“If you regard stealing state assets through rigged privatisation auctions to be self-made, then I guess they are,” his pallid-faced companion said with a roll of the eyes.
“Why did we let them get away with it?”
“We were all asleep.”
“The young were too naive. They believed fame and fortune didn’t discriminate.”
“And the old folk had forgotten how to think.”
“So it was up to us to prevent the pilfering,” Krotsky said. “But we did nothing. Intoxicated by our new-found freedom.”
“And a belief in the magical elixirs of capitalism and democracy. We’re a country of fools.”
The barmaid refilled their ryumkas with cheap chilled vodka. Krotsky, a small man with a pinched face, was out celebrating his fifty-ninth birthday with his only friend, Leonid Kats. They had been at it since early afternoon and intended to go home in wheelbarrows.
Although they caught up regularly, it was usually at one of their apartments, with a light meal of borsch, blinchiki and black tea. Their finances didn’t allow for much more. However, each year on three occasions, namely their respective birthdays and Victory Day, they headed to one of the city’s fast-disappearing Soviet bars for the purpose of reminiscing their glory days.
As idealistic young members of the Komsomol, they were recruited within a week of each other, thirty-six years ago, by the KGB’s Office for Active Measures. Their primary responsibility had been to produce high-quality forgeries and propaganda material to promote the communist ideology. Leonid Brezhnev was still General Secretary and Yuri Andropov was Chairman of the KGB.
“Remember what Solzhenitsyn said – ‘Don’t lie! Don’t participate in lies, don’t support lies,’” Kats said, laughing.
“We used to always think he was talking directly to us.”
“When I think about the lies we churned out, it makes me cringe – and you’re still doing it, David.”
Krotsky drummed his finger on the bar. “Despite all its faults, communism gave us certainty.”
“Yeah, the State looked after us. Not well, mind you. But there was always food on the table and a roof over our heads.”
“We did it for the ideology; a classless society, common ownership…”
“From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs,” Kats interrupted, quoting Marx.
Krotsky scoffed. “Instead we got Stalin’s state capitalism; Marxism-Leninism.”
“And a succession of incompetent peasant leaders.”
“And then Mikhail Sergeyevich gave us glasnost and perestroika and destroyed the Soviet Union in the process.”
“The Soviet Union collapsed because the system didn’t work,” Kats said, spilling his vodka as he shook his finger at his friend, “not because of Gorbachev’s policies. Sure, he could have violently suppressed the protests in Eastern Europe, but what for? The break-up was inevitable.”
Krotsky nodded. Kats was right. “Then the cruel hand of fate saw fit to inflict Tsar Boris upon us. The drunken dancing bear.”
“From superpower to flea circus,” Kats said, lighting a cigarette. “We never saw that coming.”
“And now we’re faced with Volkov’s totalitarian democracy.
“Stuck in the middle of another social experiment.”
Krotsky shook his head. “We’re a hopeless lot.”
Toast. A splash of glasses. “To old times and inn
ocents.”
Krotsky glanced suspiciously at the faces in the room. Close to Kats, he said in a toneless whisper. “I’m worried about Volkov.”
“You and the rest of the world.”
Krotsky turned to the barmaid and held up his empty ryumka.
“Another one?” she asked, with an old-fashioned smile, emptying the last few drops of the second bottle into his glass.
Krotsky missed the smile. His eyes had drifted to her breasts; cradled in a black low-cut bra, lightly veiled behind a transparent white blouse.
“What’s happened? The Concordat?” Kats asked. “You’ve never let it bother you before.”
There was a long silence before Krotsky answered. “In the old days, we were fighting for an ideology. Now there’s nothing. No moral high ground. Just power and greed, concentrated in the hands of so few. What is Volkov planning?”
“Revenge. The dwarf feels aggrieved. Never got over losing the Cold War. He’d prefer to live in chaos rather than see Russia disrespected on the world stage. Volkov’s the de facto Russian ego.”
“And that’s at the heart of my concern. Why should I help him?” Krotsky said, his tone solemn.
Kats funnelled a handful of peanuts into his mouth then spoke. “David, you are something rare, a KGB forger with a moral conscience. The two are incompatible. Live with it or retire. Now shut up and relax – it’s your birthday.”
“I can’t relax. This thing could go pear-shaped very quickly. Remember the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion?” Krotsky said, referring to the anti-Semitic forgery created by Tsar Nicholas II’s security apparatus.
Kats nodded.
“Subsequently used by the Nazis to justify genocide against the Jews – and it is still being circulated by extremist groups today.”
As Krotsky’s mood darkened, Kats knew it was better to let him talk. Get it off his chest.
It was ten o’clock before Krotsky ran out of steam. He had said all he needed to, and drunk as much as he could. Krotsky, being the only one with an income, paid the bill. Then arm in arm they staggered out of the bar and headed towards the Metro.
37
Heavy snow fell as Cathy bounced the Escalade up onto the pavement next to the western entrance of Kolomenskoye Park. Through the iron railings she saw the apple orchard was deserted. A blue disc nailed to the base of a lamp post signalled the exchange was on.
Thirty minutes earlier, Cathy and Rossi had been on the opposite side of the four-hundred-hectare park. Together they had buried a stash of US dollars in the snow amongst a thicket of pea trees. Before leaving, Cathy had attached a blue disc to a nearby tree.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Cathy said, putting on her hat and gloves.
Rossi glanced about. “Aren’t we going to look a little conspicuous?”
“Not really. Russians do strange things. Besides conspicuous can be interpreted as having nothing to hide.”
Like lovers on a romantic early morning stroll, Cathy and Rossi walked arm in arm through the unmanned gate into the park. In front of them lay a field of white. So much snow had fallen that the path running east past the apple orchard to the Church of the Ascension was not visible. If it wasn’t for fresh tracks laid down by two horses, finding the path would’ve been problematic.
“The fifteenth row,” Cathy said, looking back and counting from the road. “Now all we need to do is find the marker.”
“A blue disc?”
Cathy nodded.
“Don’t you have any other colours at the agency?”
“If it was up to me, they’d all be pink.”
“Really! I’d never pick you as a pink sort of person.”
“It’s my lucky colour. I always wear something pink.”
Rossi threw her a questioning glance. He could not once recall seeing her in anything pink. Blacks and reds; always short. Never pink. “If you say so.”
Their feet sank deeper into the snow as they left the firmer ground of the pathway and headed into the orchard. Bent over like chickens eating corn, they high-stepped their way under the low-hanging branches searching for the disc.
“It’s got to be here somewhere.”
Rossi made a snowball and tossed it at Cathy. “The best-laid plans of mice and men,” he laughed.
“That’s why they’re called plans,” Cathy said, scooping up a handful of snow herself. As she let fly she spotted two mounted policemen on the service track, which ran down the centre of the orchard, riding towards them.
Rossi glanced back over his shoulder at what had caught Cathy’s eye. Fumbling, he pulled the earflaps of his ushanka down and fastened it under his chin.
“Best if you keep your mouth shut.” Cathy then wrapped her arms around Rossi and gave him a long, wet kiss on the lips.
Rossi wanted to say something clever, but nothing came out.
For the policemen who patrolled the former royal estate several times a day, it was not uncommon to see people playing in the park during the height of winter, especially after a heavy snowfall. It was something Muscovites did. However, given they were on patrol and had not seen a single soul all morning, they decided to make a nuisance of themselves. And maybe earn a few roubles for their trouble.
“Good morning,” the older of the two officers said, looking down from his mount.
“Good morning, officers,” Cathy said in Russian, with a relaxed pleasant demeanour. “I’m surprised to see you out on patrol in such conditions. Particularly given the park is empty.”
“We need to exercise the horses.”
“But you don’t?” the younger policeman said, in a more challenging tone.
“We’re in Moscow for a couple of days on business,” Cathy said. “We were here eight years ago on our honeymoon – mind you, it was summer then. Some Russian friends brought us here for a picnic. We shouldn’t have done it. But we carved our initials into one of these apple trees. We’re trying to find it.”
Whatever she’s saying he seems to be buying it, Rossi thought, impressed with how calm Cathy appeared.
“Your documents,” the policeman said, without commenting on Cathy’s imaginative story.
“Oh, I’m sorry. They’re in the SUV. Should I fetch them?” Cathy said, pointing west.
The policeman traced their footprints back to the path, but could not see further because of the trees. “Under Russian law, you are required to carry your passport at all times,” he said, like a reluctant headmaster about to dispense punishment.
“I’m sorry, officer. It’s my fault. An oversight, no more – I assure you. There will be a fine?” she said, sliding her hand into her coat pocket, signalling she was ready to negotiate.
The policeman pulled out a well-thumbed copy of the civil and criminal penalties handbook and pretended to study it. “Six thousand roubles.”
“Unfortunately we’re leaving Moscow tomorrow. Perhaps we can pay in cash? I know it’s unusual, but I would feel terrible if we left Russia without paying.”
The policeman nodded.
Cathy stuck her hand back into her pocket, took out a small bundle of one-thousand rouble notes and counted off six.
“Each,” the younger policeman said sharply.
Cathy smiled and continued to count.
“Next time follow the rules,” the older policeman said, turning his gelding about.
Rossi gave Cathy a sideways glance in disbelief as the police rode away. “That was impressive. Why didn’t they recognise me?”
“During Soviet times, the workers had a saying. ‘You pretend to pay us and we pretend to work.’ Cops like that have one thing on their mind. Money. They’re not searching for criminals. They’re looking for opportunities.”
“Found it,” Rossi called out, digging up the package.
Ten minutes later, Cathy swung the Escalade
into a quiet residential street and pulled over. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” she said, cutting open the package with a Swiss Army knife. Inside was a typed note, a thin document stapled at the corner, a small bottle containing a liquid substance, some strands of hair in a zip-lock bag, and a black-and-white photograph of three men. The head of the man in the middle had been circled with a red marker.
“This document is of no interest to us,” Cathy said, laying it aside. “But the note is, together with the photograph.”
Rossi shifted in his seat impatiently. “What does it say?”
“Interesting,” Cathy said as she read. “The Concordat is part of a highly classified FSB operation called Red Dove. Naturally he couldn’t access the files. But he suggests that if the document is an FSB fake, then the forger is probably David Krotsky – the Rembrandt of counterfeited historical documents. That’s him circled.”
Rossi picked up the photograph and studied it. “Finally we have a name.”
“And an address and mobile phone number.”
“Fantastico. Your man’s done well. How soon can we jump him?”
“Enzo, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The message says if the document is an FSB fake. For now Krotsky is simply a person of interest.”
38
Krotsky took the escalator from the depths of the Park Pobedy station looking tired and worried. Blindly he followed the evening pilgrims through the swinging glass doors onto Kutuzovsky Prospect.
He turned down the dark, empty side street towards his modest apartment. Deep in thought, he didn’t hear his phone ring. The caller persisted. Krotsky’s gaze rose sharply when the melody finally penetrated his consciousness.
‘No Caller ID’. That worried Krotsky. Only a handful of people knew his number. Curiosity then piqued. He answered, but said nothing. A long silence.
“Mr Krotsky, we need to talk,” Cathy said in Russian.
Again silence.