Today it was all about Vagit’s decision to give priority clearance to a Japanese cargo vessel, the MV Toyota, over Northwest Shipping’s MV Coral Blue, a decision he would never have made had he been made aware, (a) the Coral Blue was now part of Kaskiv’s Northwest fleet, and (b), that he would that day be visited by the man himself. Already, he couldn’t wait to get back to his office to sack his prick of an administrator, Karloff. He had had enough. If he had told the man once he had told him a thousand times, he was to let him know whenever a Northwest ship was in.
But the thing Gudenov really couldn’t get his head round was that Anatoly Kaskiv was wealthy. Immensely wealthy. And though he had never visited the place, Gudenov had no trouble imagining that Kaskiv’s own office in the plush concrete and steel edifice that was his new Corporate Headquarters, just outside Odessa, would make even his office look barren. So why spend so much time here? Staying for hours to immerse himself in the minutiae of running a shipping line that by all accounts was not even one tenth of his business empire? It didn’t make sense, unless the claims of some of Kaskiv’s detractors were right. That he suffered from a type of attention disorder that meant, like a little boy in a toyshop, he couldn’t resist the temptation to play with whatever was at hand. Gudenov could only hope that the phase would soon pass and that Kaskiv’s attention would soon move elsewhere. In which case the sooner the better, for everyone.
'Well?' Kaskiv demanded, jarring Gudenov out of his wishing and back to the present.
Gudenov, took a deep breath. 'What you have to understand, Patron Kaskiv, is that-.'
'What?'
'Well you see, it is not as easy as simply following the order of berthing….'
'Why not?'
Inside, Gudenov grimaced. 'There are other things that must be taken into account-.'
'Such as?'
'Such as…' An idea came to him. Fanciful maybe, but it would do. 'The Wharf Ladies.'
Kaskiv started, and looked to his entourage. Smirks were already passing between them. His ever-present contingent of advisors and bodyguards always enjoyed the spectacle of watching Vagit’s weekly squirmings. And whilst they thought he was nothing if not imaginative, the only reason most kept coming back each week was to see what sort of hole he would dig himself into this time.
'Please explain, Vagit. Exactly how do prostitutes affect your handling schedules?' Unlike his posse, if Kaskiv saw anything amusing in the direction Gudenov was heading, it didn’t show.
'You see Patron, it is like this….'
'Carry on.'
'Well as you know, the ladies belong mainly to the Coptic Church, yes?'
'I am sure I have no idea, but if you say so I will not argue.'
'But most of the sailors who land here are Muslim.'
'So what?' Kaskiv’s impatience began to show.
'Well if you knew anything about dock work-' As Kaskiv’s eyebrows rose Gudenov hurried to cover his gaffe. 'As of course you do, you know that Muslims would never allow themselves to work-' Outside, the noise of some commotion suddenly carried through the window. The wah-wah of a siren amidst shrill shouting. Gudenov ventured on. '-Never allow themselves to work in an environment where-' A horn blaring. More shouting. Kaskiv’s people moved to the windows to see what was happening. 'Where there may be a risk of-' Kaskiv’s minder-in-chief, a bulky Russian named Bogdanof, came forward.
'The Police, Anatoly.'
Gudenov let his words trail off. Police? Now what could they want? Kaskiv wasn’t moving though his gaze remained squarely on the now silent Port Official. If he shared any of Gudenov’s concern about the police’s unexpected arrival, he didn’t show it. There seemed even to be a trace of a smile at the extremities of his mouth. Nevertheless Gudenov was relieved. There were no problems involving the police he knew of that couldn’t be sorted with a few crates of Khortytsa. And their arrival at that particular moment was, for him, fortuitous.
'Excuse me, Patron. I must see what they want.'
But Kaskiv’s eyes held him. 'Do not worry Vagit. I know what they want.'
'You do?'
'Yes.'
Vagit swallowed. There was something unnerving, disquieting even, about Kaskiv’s even manner. 'Then… may I ask what it is?'
Kaskiv rose, slowly. 'They want-'
'Yes?'
'You.'
Gudenov froze, his mouth gaping. The colour drained from his face. There was silence in the room. For long seconds the two men regarded each other. The sound of heavy, plodding feet mounting the steps came to Gudenov’s ears. Had there been a hole beneath Gudenov’s feet, his stomach would already have dropped through it. My God, surely they have not found out about-. On the verge of panicking, Vagit caught himself as he saw the broad smile that suddenly broke across Kaskiv’s face. On cue, those around burst into laughter.
Gudenov looked at them, then back at Kaskiv. They were all shaking their heads. A couple wiping at their eyes. Kaskiv rose. Coming round the desk he draped an arm around the shaking Port Manager’s shoulders.
'I am sorry, Vagit. I was joking. It is not you they are here to see. It is me.'
The words barely registered in Gudenov’s ears as he fought to recover himself. What was that? Did he say a joke? The BASTARD.
The door opened behind him and he turned. Framed in the doorway, the ample frame of Colonel Boris Kiryenko of the Odessa Militsiya, more than filled out the sky-blue shirt that was his new uniform - the Ministry of Internal Affairs’ latest attempt to distance itself from its old Soviet roots. As always, the policeman looked suitably serious. Gudenov heaved a sigh of relief. If it was Kiryenko, then it certainly couldn’t mean trouble for him. Thank God.
'Come in Colonel,' Kaskiv said, beckoning to the Police Commander. 'We are expecting you.'
The policeman nodded at Gudenov as he passed. 'Hello Vagit.'
Relief turning rapidly to annoyance, Vagit’s response was bordering on curt. 'I was not expecting to see you here today, Colonel.' What he meant was, Why did you not tell me you were coming? What do you think all those deliveries to the villa in the hills are for? Goodwill?
And the policeman’s face was a mask as he stopped to address him. 'My business today is not with you, Vagit.' He turned back to Kaskiv.
Silence now fell in the room. Eventually Gudenov realised everyone was waiting for him to leave. He jerked himself into action.
'Excuse me Patron, I must- Er…. I have to return to my office. People waiting. You understand.'
'Of course,' Kaskiv said, benevolently.
But as Gudenov reached the door Kaskiv hailed him.
'Oh, Vagit.'
He turned.
'I still look forward to hearing the end of your explanation concerning the Coral Blue.'
Gudenov smiled. 'Whenever you are ready, Patron.'
Closing the door firmly behind him, he let out a long breath before starting down the steps. As he neared the bottom, where the Colonel’s car waited, single blue light still flashing, the policeman’s driver-body guard, called to him.
'Hello Vagit. Do you have that case for me yet?'
Lost in thought, Gudenov didn’t answer. Nor did he pay any attention to the figure in the back of the car and who, had he done so, would undoubtedly have aroused his curiosity. Instead, Gudenov was trying desperately to dream up a plausible reason why Muslim prejudices towards prostitutes might necessitate having to rearrange cargo-handling schedules.
CHAPTER 28
From the window of the dock foreman’s office, Anatoly Kaskiv watched Vagit’s scurrying figure disappear between the gantries before turning to face the policeman.
'You have brought him?'
Kiryenko jerked his bear’s head back towards the door. 'Downstairs.'
Kaskiv pursed his lips. 'Is he genuine?'
Kiryenko shrugged. 'All I can say is, I am satisfied he is who he says he is. Our Intelligence boys have been able to check that much. Beyond that, who knows?'
Kaskiv waited, thinki
ng. Eventually he said, 'Bring him up. I will speak with him.' As Kiryenko turned, Kaskiv added. 'Alone.'
Words of protest sprang from his team. Bogdanof came forward. 'I cannot allow that, Anatoly. I-.'
But Kaskiv was ready. 'Not this time Viktor. This, I must do alone.'
Seeing the set of his master’s features, Bogdanof relented, but made sure Kaskiv could see it was begrudged.
By way of response, Kaskiv grasped his arm, feeling the hard muscle. 'I appreciate your loyalty Viktor, but please, trust me. I know what I am doing.' Bogdanof said nothing.
As they all filed out, Kaskiv settled himself behind the desk. As always, he felt comfortable here, more so than his ridiculous office in the new building which, in a rare moment of weakness, he’d let himself be talked into commissioning. No, this was far more his sort of place. Somewhere he could remember who he was, where he was from, how things had been before Sissi’s death. And he was glad he’d arranged the meet here, away from all the prying eyes and ears at his organisation’s HQ. Even so, he needed to be careful. There was something about the message that had arrived telling him he should grant the man’s request to speak with him alone, that had set his antenna buzzing. A footfall sounded outside the door. In the next few seconds he would know if his instincts were correct.
The door opened and the man, a westerner, entered. He seemed to be limping.
There was nothing in the face or demeanour that told Kaskiv anything, not immediately. He had the obvious bearing of a soldier. Hints of a maybe-dormant athleticism. The eyes were sharp, but cool. No sign of nerves. But these were qualities many were capable of displaying. Of themselves they mean nothing. On the other hand, the cuts to his face - they looked recent. Together with the bandaged wrist and the limp - more a stiffness now he’d had time to weigh it - it pointed towards some recent trouble. And while that didn’t mean anything either, it spoke of someone who at least knew how to survive.
For several moments the two men eyed each other, gauging. Neither offered a hand. Eventually Kaskiv nodded to the old office chair under the cracked window. The man shook his head.
'I’ve been sitting for twelve hours. I’m fine here.'
Kaskiv nodded. English, as he’d been told to expect. 'As you wish.' He came straight to the point. 'Colonel Kiryenko says you have information that will interest me.'
The man nodded.
'Concerning my daughter?'
Another nod.
'And how did you come by it?'
A barely-discernible shrug. 'Contacts.'
Kaskiv suppressed a smile before shaking his head. The standard answer. He sighed.
As well as the results of his own, detailed investigations, Kaskiv had long ago become familiar with the various agency reports. They were all the same. Speculation, nothing definite. Never enough for him to take the decisive action he had always longed for. Already, he doubted the man could tell him anything he hadn’t heard a hundred times before. He placed his hands flat on the table. He was a busy man.
'You asked to speak with me alone. I am here. What have you to say?'
Despite all his doubts, Kaskiv was impressed when his visitor didn’t prevaricate but came straight out with it.
'The man responsible for the death of your daughter is standing at the bottom of those steps.' He made a half-turn, towards the door.
Kaskiv held a breath, then let it out as he shook his head, the familiar feeling of disappointment taking root. He was foolish to have expected otherwise. 'You think people have not suggested him before?'
The man didn’t seem put off by Kaskiv’s show of scepticism.
'I am sure they have. But the source of my information would know, whereas others wouldn’t.'
Already weary of the conversation - would the pain never end? - Kaskiv gave a short, mocking laugh.
'Then in order to convince me, you must name your source.' Again, the face showed no surprise.
'Fair enough. Her name is Marianna Podruznig.'
Kaskiv froze. And as his scepticism disappeared in a flash, he decided to give the visitor his full attention.
CHAPTER 29
Major Glyn Westgate let rip his exasperation.
'And THANKS. For NOTHING.'
Not that the faceless official in the Nicosia Passport Office heard. Westgate had slammed the receiver down a split second earlier.
For close to a minute he glared at the phone, jaw cradled in one hand, fingers of the other drumming on the desk, impatient. He hated being thwarted. And right now it seemed it was happening at every turn.
For the best part of the past three days, working from one of the two portacabins that, tucked away in a remote corner of Episkopi Sovereign Base Garrison served as the SIB Office, the army investigator had been making phone calls. None had taken him anywhere. Twice during that period he’d given up, grabbed his car keys, and taken off to re-visit all the places he could think of, all the while knowing it would be a waste of time. He was running out of options.
He wasn’t so much surprised to find himself in this position as annoyed. It had always been likely that at some point they would all go to ground. He just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Or sudden. But then he hadn’t foreseen the bomb either.
Of course, he moved as soon as he heard the news on the BFBS radio, but that was a full eight hours after the event, and by then he was shut out, completely.
His first port of call was the Pafos Police Station, but it was locked down tight as a drum. Even those on the gate weren’t saying anything, under orders so strict that even his usually-sufficient credentials were not enough to bypass them. He couldn’t even get hold of Iridotu on the telephone, never mind get to see him - though that was perhaps not surprising either, given what had happened. The station itself was buzzing with activity and he could imagine the sort of things that would be going on within the thick stone walls. He could also guess at the numbness and anger those inside would be feeling over what had happened in a town that had a reputation as one of the more tranquil - and safe - among the Mediterranean’s holiday resorts.
Much of the overt speculation, understandably, concerned terrorism. Some of the news reports were still speculating an Al-Qaeda or ISIL connection, though others had ruled it out quickly, worried how such a rumour might impact tourism. But as soon as Westgate learned the location, his investigator’s instincts told him the real story.
Getting nowhere with the police and sensing from all the activity what might be about to happen, he headed back to the base, grabbed a CROPS kit and went and staked out the house, lying low in the hills with everything he needed for a prolonged Covert Rural Observation - just in case it turned out to be a protracted wait. As it happened, the circus arrived within four hours of him setting up, just as the sun was rising. It was still less than twenty-four hours after the blast, which wasn’t at all bad considering the levers Westgate suspected Iridotu would have had to pull to get a warrant.
And judging by the size of the police convoy that rolled up the main road from Coral Bay and turned left onto the track leading to the house, Westgate would have bet it contained just about every Crime Investigation and Search and Forensic Resource available to the Cyprus Police Force.
From his prime vantage point, equipped with field glasses, night-scope and video, Westgate watched the whole thing unfold before him.
To begin with, the house erupted at the police’s arrival. Westgate got the clear impression that if the men on the gates hadn’t opened them when they did, whoever was leading the convoy was prepared to bulldoze his way through. It was Podruznig himself who came down the steps to greet them, flanked by the big Siberian and two other minders. He looked suitably astonished of course, mixed with just the right amount of, why-am-I-being-persecuted-like-this resentment.
But within minutes, after seeing the way the Russians offered only token resistance, objecting not-too-strongly before giving in and becoming almost welcoming, Westgate realised what was going on. Notwithstanding th
e magnitude of the miscalculation by which the daughters of the local Police Commander himself were caught in the blast, the police’s likely response had been factored into the Russians’ plans from the start.
Over the next few hours, Westgate monitored the operation’s progress. Separate Search and Forensic Teams were allocated to different parts of the house, garages and outbuildings; others to the grounds, front and rear. And though the police were clearly pulling out all the stops, Westgate guessed what the outcome would be. Whatever illicit materials might once have lain around the house – weapons, components, bomb making equipment, documentation - anything that could possibly justify arrests, detentions or even ‘voluntary questioning’ - they weren’t there now. The disappointed, and in some cases exhausted, looks on the faces of the various Team Leaders as, one by one, they reported to the Mobile Command Vehicle the police had set up in front of the house, confirmed as much. During all the searching, Westgate saw not so much as a single cardboard box or black plastic bag - the staple of police-search operations the world over - come from the house or anywhere else. In fact the only things he saw being carried out were used Crime-Scene kits taken back to the Forensic Teams’ Land Rovers. Given that a trained Evidence-Gatherer can usually find something in the most innocent of households that is capable of being made to look sufficiently ambiguous to invite further enquiry, it was remarkable. Confirmation, if any were needed, that Podruznig had left nothing to chance.
Throughout, Pippis Iridotu remained notably absent. Wisely, he appeared to have stayed away, not risking putting himself in a position where he could later be accused of ‘contaminating’ the investigation. In any case, Westgate assumed, other things, not least family, would still be occupying his attention. Instead, the Operation appeared to be being led by another Commander from Force Headquarters at Nicosia. Westgate remembered meeting him once, briefly, when he was introduced as a former Chief of Detectives who was now Head of the Force’s Operational Support Division. Westgate was impressed that despite the heightened emotions that would undoubtedly be running through the whole Force, the Chief Constable - no doubt the Government as well – had made sure his force’s response was at least seen to be as professionally impartial as the circumstances allowed for, whatever may be going on elsewhere.
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