Corruption!

by Elizabeth Ducie

  Charlie snorted.

  “Well, it wasn’t that easy for us! And we’re still only part way through. We know—” but Francine cut her off with a wave of her hand.

  “I think we should listen to what Mercy has to say, Charlie.”

  Once again, Mercy stared at Francine in silence. Then she nodded her head.

  “Yes, you’re right of course, Madame Politician. Don’t give away your hand too soon.” She paused and then smiled. “Okay, we’ll play it your way. I’ll tell you what I know and then we’ll see if it agrees with the outcome of your ‘investigations’.” She used her fingers to mime speech marks and glanced at Charlie, irony dripping from her words.

  Her tale, when told, didn’t really add anything to what they already knew. The tablets were being made at the Mladov-owned factory in Ukraine; were being imported legally into Russia by Petrovpharm; and were being sold on to the Africans. The drugs were leaving the factory and heading for the port.

  “But somewhere along the way, there’s a switch taking place,” she concluded, “and I’m pretty sure that’s where my father’s involved.”

  “And Boris Lechkov,” added Francine, “don’t forget him.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” said Mercy, “Boris is definitely involved in some way. But I’ve not been able to find out what the swap involves, where the drugs, if it is drugs in those boxes, come from, and where the changeover is taking place.” She paused and looked at Charlie. “And that’s why I’ve come to see you guys. I think there’s a European connection, probably in the former East Germany. Hawkins has made several trips to Berlin in the past six months. And I don’t have any contacts outside of Russia and Ukraine.”

  Charlie sat up straight in her chair and opened her mouth, but no sounds came out.

  “But why would we be able to help with that?” asked Suzanne. “We don’t have any contacts in Eastern Europe either, as far as I’m aware.” She raised her eyebrows at Francine who shrugged and shook her head.

  “Oh, I’m not sure that’s true,” said Mercy, “is it, Charlie—or should I call you Rose?”

  Charlie jumped to her feet.

  “I’ve had enough of this. I’m out of here.” And she strode towards the door. But Mercy was too quick for her and stepped across the room, blocking her way.

  “Think about it, Charlie. This could be the way to solve all our problems once and for all. If you help me sort out what’s really going on with those shipments, the police will arrest both Stefano Mladov and Michael Hawkins. And believe me, the Russian authorities don’t muck about like the Brazilians or—forgive me, ladies—the Brits would. They’d be going down for a very long time.” She put her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “And you could go home to your Annie and forget all about me.”

  Charlie bit her lip, sucked in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. Then she turned and walked back to the centre of the room.

  “Alright, Mercy, I’ll help you,” and she glanced at the others for confirmation, “we’ll help you. But remember the saying ‘once bitten, twice shy’? I don’t trust you—and if you do anything, anything to make me suspect you’re doing the dirty on me or my friends, you’re going to regret it.”

  She sat down in her chair again and looked at her sister.

  “Suzanne, I need to talk to Mercy alone.” Suzanne opened her mouth to object, but Charlie held up her hand to forestall her. “Trust me, sis, I’ve got to do this bit on my own.”

  Suzanne shrugged and then looked across at Francine.

  “Come on,” she said, “it looks as though we’re surplus to requirements at the moment.” Then she looked at Charlie and smiled. “But don’t forget we’re only in the kitchen. If you need us, just yell.”

  The two women left the room, leaving the door ajar. Charlie walked across and closed it firmly. Then she sat down on the sofa and crossed her arms.

  “Right, Mercy, let’s get on with it. What exactly do you want me to do?”

  Chapter 41

  Boris Lechkov woke with a start, wondering why his mattress had become so hard all of a sudden. He heard a snore, coming from somewhere above his head. Then someone coughed. A rough, hacking sound, dredging the depths of the lungs. And the smell; what was that terrible smell?

  Then it all came flooding back. The banging on the door late at night; the shouts of police who ignored his wife’s pleas and cries; the rough way they pushed him into the black van—and then threw him into a cell. He’d been confused, uncertain of what was happening or why, and no-one would answer his questions. But as they pushed him down the corridor towards his cell, past similar cages holding a variety of desperate-looking men, he’d spotted a familiar figure.

  Anton Dimitriov was sitting on the bottom bunk in a cell, with his head in his hands. Suddenly everything started to fall into place for Boris. The Africa project. That was the only thing involving both Anton and him. There were lots of other reasons why he might be here, if he was honest—and Boris was always honest with himself, if not with other people. There were the bribes he paid at the time of the last election, stopping a strong candidate from standing against him, and persuading a weak-minded, poor speaker from the sticks to take his place. Beating him had been like taking candy from a baby—but more fun. Or there had been the gang he’d paid to go around to the houses he owned—houses where the tenants were out of work and falling behind with the rent. The gang talked to a few of the leaders, roughed up a couple of them—although only one was hospitalised—and the money soon started rolling in again. Or even further back, there was the case of a rival in love who’d met a rather unfortunate end. But none of these had anything to do with Anton. The only thing connecting them was the purchase of codeine phosphate tablets from Kharkiv and their supposed onward sale to Africa. It had to be that.

  It had seemed such a good idea to start with, using his old college friend as the front man for the purchase and transit of the tablets. He’d been resistant at first, but the threat of telling his mother and precious sister about the accident in Vladivostok had done the trick. But then that English bitch had started nosing around. And Anton’s resistance was growing. Once they got out of here, there might need to be a few changes made. Starting with Ms Francine Matheson.

  He was still smouldering when he returned to his cell that lunchtime after a long morning of interrogation. Boris had been in local politics for a long time, so he knew how to answer questions without giving any information. And he was pretty sure the police had no real evidence, nothing concrete anyway. It all depended on them both keeping their mouths shut. He wondered if that was possible. Especially if Anton was being advised by his girlfriend. He’d heard she was not only a failed politician, but also had a background in the legal system. Although he doubted whether her training in a fancy law firm in London prepared her in any way for what passed for justice here in Russia. Nevertheless, she’d been working in the company with Anton for the past couple of months. She was probably aware of the details of the shipments. If the police started talking to her, they just might get the lead they needed to unravel the whole thing. Boris decided he needed to do something about the former MP right away. He wondered who else was in here he could get help from.

  It must have been around nine o’clock when there was movement further down the corridor. They’d confiscated his watch when they processed him on arrival; but it was starting to go dark outside the grimy window high up in the cell wall. Pressing his face against the bars, he could just see two uniformed men opening a cell door—Anton’s cell. He walked out, smiled at the two police officers and shook their hands, and then cast a quick glance down the corridor towards the place where Boris stood watching and seething. It was only for a moment before he walked away, but Boris was sure he saw a mixture of relief and pleasure in Anton’s expression.

  The next morning was taken up with court proceedings, at the Dzerzhinsky District Court, where he’d been joined by his lawyer Dima Ilyich Guskov, a long-time contact of his, who
was well aware of his client’s activities but had a great track record of successful plea bargaining. The details of the case were sketchy at the moment, but he was told he would be sent for trial, charged with illegal trading of pharmaceuticals without a licence; illegal importation and exportation activities; and supplying drugs to the youth of Mother Russia on the black market. He tried to protest his innocence. He knew it was pointless to do so at this time, even if he really had been innocent, which he wasn’t, and he’d always thought it strange when people tried to persuade someone who had no real influence. But he found himself incapable of keeping quiet.

  “Not now,” said Dima, putting a hand on Boris’s arm. “Boris Paulovic, this isn’t the place. We’ll have plenty of time later on. The time for plea bargaining isn’t now.”

  “Yes, I know,” Boris spat through gritted teeth, “but in the interim, while you are sitting in your nice office just opposite St Isaac’s Cathedral, and spending evenings in the bars of St Petersburg with your mates and your girlfriend, I’m going to be locked in a cold cell with eight or nine desperate characters who probably have no respect for the mayoral office or anything I stand for.”

  Dima pulled a face and admitted Boris was probably right. But he said he would work at keeping the time on remand to a minimum, and he would certainly do everything possible to make sure Boris was found not guilty. Boris grunted at this, not at all convinced. He wondered if it was time to call on Stefano Mladov. He’d certainly know someone who could help.

  But before any of that, he had to decide what to do about Anton and Francine. The sooner they could be shut up, the better for everybody—or at least for Boris—and he was the most important person in his mind at the moment.

  Chapter 42

  After his court appearance, Boris was transferred to the infamous Kresty prison. The huge cross-shaped red brick buildings on the north side of the Neva River held nearly one thousand cells and up to ten thousand prisoners at any one time. He would remain here on remand, pending his trial, which Dima told him would be in around twelve weeks’ time. At that news he started to panic, but then remembered he had friends in the judiciary. With a bit of luck, he could persuade them to let him out on bail. He instructed Dima to begin the appeal process straight away. And in the meantime, he would concentrate on two things: keeping his head down, thus avoiding any difficulty with either the staff or the other inmates; and finding a way to silence Anton Dimitriov and Francine Matheson.

  His chance came just two days later. He was queuing for the evening meal, a watery stew with dried rye bread, when someone sidled up to him and hissed in his ear.

  “The Shef would like a word with you if you have a moment, sir.”

  He hadn’t been in here long, but had already heard about the Shef, leader of the notorious Neva gang. He’d been implicated in numerous schemes over the years, up to and including murder. But he’d always escaped the justice system. Until the previous month. He’d ditched his latest girlfriend in favour of a younger model. On all such previous occasions, the women in question had taken the generous pay-offs as sufficient compensation for any hurt caused. But the latest one had taken exception to being dumped, especially as it was for her own younger sister. On leaving his apartment for the final time, she grabbed a handful of papers from his private filing cabinet and headed for the nearest police station. The fact that her body was later found floating in the harbour may have been some consolation for the Shef, but he still ended up on remand, facing a ten-year term for bribery, corruption and fraud. The police were still investigating more serious charges.

  Of course, being the Shef, he hadn’t just sat back licking his wounds. Within a couple of weeks, he’d taken over leadership of the Kresty underground systems and put in a few enhancements. Apparently, the Shef could get hold of anything he wanted—and frequently did. Rumour had it even the prison governor did his bidding. I guess everyone has their price; it just depends on the size, thought Boris as he followed the messenger—the youngest inmate in the place and therefore the one who got sent to do most of the messages—to the corner of the room where the Shef was holding court.

  Khariton Grigorovic Bubliov may have been a big name in the underworld and in the prison system, but at first sight, it wasn’t obvious. He was below average height and whippet-thin. His sandy-coloured hair was thinning and receding. His wispy beard was pepper and salt. He doesn’t look much at all, thought Boris, I wonder what all the fuss is about? But then, the little man turned to look at him. His eyes were a blue so pale they were almost transparent, and they stared at him, unblinking. Boris thought he heard the murmur of past foes, defeated and still crying for mercy. This was ridiculous. He shook himself and stepped forward, holding out his hand.

  “Khariton Grigorovic, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. The little man just stared at his hand for a while before pointing to a chair next to his.

  “The Shef doesn’t shake hands with anyone,” hissed the young messenger who was still standing there. Boris lowered his hand with a shrug and took the proffered seat.

  “I always like to meet the new guests in this wonderful establishment,” Bubliov said. His voice was deeper than might be expected for a man his size but fitted completely with the rest of his reputation. “Especially when they’re members of the political fraternity.” He grinned suddenly, although the frost in his eyes thawed little more than a fraction. “I do love a politician with a record.”

  Boris realised he was going to have to tread very carefully if he was to get out of this situation completely unscathed. He didn’t think he was in any physical danger. The Shef was far too wary to get his hands dirty in that way, especially when he was working with his lawyers to end up with as light a sentence as possible. But there was a fair chance he could get himself tied in knots with this man, and he didn’t want to end up promising things he wouldn’t be able to deliver. Other people always believed politicians were more powerful than they really were. But if he could keep the Shef happy, there was a slim chance he might be able to extract some help in return. And that help might be just what he needed to get rid of Anton and Francine. He smiled again and stretched his legs in front of him, attempting to show a level of relaxation he wasn’t really feeling.

  “Well, Khariton Grigorovic,” he said. “I’m some way from my home territory, but I guess at the moment, I’m part of this community, so if there’s anything I can do to help you, just say the word.”

  The Shef shook his head.

  “There’s nothing at the moment. I have everything I need, and I suspect your influence is much less than you think—otherwise why would you be in here at all?” The messenger sniggered at this, but was silenced by a glance from the cold blue eyes. The Shef went on. “But once you get out of here, I think you could probably be useful to me; very useful indeed.” Boris just nodded, guessing there was nothing he could say at that point. “So, tell me, Boris Paulovic; how did you end up in here? And would you like us to kill whoever’s responsible?”

  At this, there was a roar of laughter from the group around the table, a laugh with which the Shef briefly joined in. Boris guessed this was a joke; probably one he cracked with every new inmate he met. But he wondered if this would be a good opportunity to raise his little problem.

  “Oh, it’s all a bit of a misunderstanding,” he said, “although I suppose most people in here say that. And it all comes from trying to do a good deed for someone. There’s this friend of mine,” he paused and shook his head, “actually, he used to be a friend back in our college days, but I hadn’t seen him for years. Then he suddenly turned up out of the blue one day last year with a proposition for me.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said the Shef, “and I love a good story of an evening.” At that moment, the young messenger leaned over and whispered in his ear. He nodded and turned back to Boris. “I have to go now. It’s time for my daily walk in the yard.” He stood and patted his flat stomach. “Have to stay fit somehow. But we will talk again,
tomorrow, Boris Paulovic.”

  Chapter 43

  “You’re really sure this is necessary?” Suzanne had asked the question three times already since they’d got into the car and headed for Pulkovo Airport.

  “Yes, I’m sure, Suzanne,” Charlie replied patiently.

  “You can’t contact this person, whoever he is, by email—or phone?”

  Charlie snorted.

  “No, dear sister, I can’t contact him by email. That’s not the way these sort of people communicate. And somehow, I don’t think he’d take my call, even if I did have a number for him.”

  Suzanne sighed and shook her head.

  “Charlie, I do wish you wouldn’t be so mysterious. Why not tell me who this guy is and your connection to him. Is he dangerous?”

  “It was all a long time ago, Suzanne. I’ll tell you about it someday. And as to whether he’s dangerous; well, I guess he is—” she paused and then went on “—but everyone’s dangerous in some way or other, aren’t they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we think Michael Hawkins and Stefano Mladov are dangerous.”

  “They are.”

  “But from their point of view, it’s you and Walter Mukooyo who are the dangerous ones. You’re the ones who can bring them down.”

  “Charlie, that’s ridiculous! Neither Walter nor I would ever physically hurt anyone.”

  “No it’s not ridiculous, Suzanne. Are you really sure, in the right circumstances, you wouldn’t physically fight to save yourself—or someone you loved?” She smiled. “But that’s not really what I meant. There are different types of dangerous. And there are different ways of facing and defeating danger.”

  “Which is why you’re heading off to Germany to meet goodness knows who, for goodness knows what reason?”

  “Precisely. Although it’s so long since I was there, and I’ve not talked to him since I left, it may well all be a wild goose chase.”