Gray Shadows: Russian Historical Thriller

Chapter One

Nikolai slipped his Makarov pistol into the shoulder holster, put on his jacket, and stepped outside. He checked the time: a quarter to ten. As agreed, his client’s black Audi was parked on the corner. Everything was exactly like it was supposed to be. So far, the only unusual thing that winter morning was the bright sun that enveloped Moscow with a surreal warm glow.

He squinted and crossed the street, looking for things out of place, for anything different, anything that suggested a possibility of danger. He passed by a small playground where two young mothers were pushing their toddlers on the swings. An elderly couple, hand in hand, walked by him. A middle-aged man turned the corner and kept going, his black poodle on a long leash. So far, nothing looked alarming.

At twenty-eight years old, tall, fit, muscular, and with prior military experience, Nikolai was one of the most sought-after bodyguards in the prestigious Centurion Personal Protection Agency in Moscow. Nikolai credited his success to his attention to detail and his ability to maintain his cool even in the most extreme circumstances, and his job provided plenty of such circumstances.

Nikolai’s younger and less experienced colleagues joked that he was as meticulous and as thorough as someone suffering from paranoia. Nikolai took such comments as a compliment because his so-called paranoia had saved more than one client’s life, and Nikolai’s own life, on more than a few occasions.

As he neared the familiar four-story building, Nikolai closed his left eye in preparation for the darkness inside, a trick that cut the eyesight adjustment time in half. He opened the heavy spring-loaded door, stepped inside and started walking up the steps to the top floor, looking for anything that could be a threat. Business as usual.

His goal was to detect any changes from the day before, check for anything potentially lethal, and eliminate it. On the landing between the second and third floor, a piece of cardboard was stuck behind a radiator. That was a change, so Nikolai carefully pulled it out, inspected it, and swept the ray of his flashlight all around the radiator: nothing. On the third floor, an old kitchen sink was leaning against the wall. Another change. Probably, someone was remodeling, but Nikolai had to be sure. He lifted the sink, scaring a white cat that meowed angrily and ran up the steps. Nothing behind the sink. So far so good.

Nikolai kept walking up, all the way to the top. He inspected the floor by the door to the attic: it was clean and shiny, which meant that nobody had been inside the attic. The day before, Nikolai had sprinkled a thin line of powdered chalk right by the door. The line was barely visible, but if somebody had opened the door and walked around, Nikolai’s flashlight would have revealed white chalky traces. There was nothing.

Nikolai took one last look around, ran down to the second floor, and rang the doorbell. Vasily Petrovich, his client of the last three months, opened the door and motioned for Nikolai to come in. Vasily Petrovich was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late thirties, but looked closer to mid-forties. His face was youthful, but his manner and formal suits suggested someone more mature, a man who grew up too fast, like many of his generation and social status.

Nikolai liked and respected Vasily Petrovich: he was smart, rational, and level-headed. He was also an honest and genuinely good person, and that made working for him so much easier. Money was not enough for Nikolai to continually put his life at risk; he had to have respect for his client and believe that saving that client’s life was a worthy endeavor. Nikolai often wondered how Vasily Petrovich managed to work as a lawyer for the government and resist corruption. His honesty was part of the reason for Nikolai’s presence.

Vasily Petrovich called the Centurion Agency after a wave of high-profile murders of judges, prosecutors, and prominent businessmen swept through Moscow. Even though no direct threats were made against Vasily Petrovich, contentious disagreements were frequent and unpredictable at the current period of transition from government-owned to privately owned property. And many such disagreements got settled in the streets, with guns and car bombs. Vasily Petrovich needed a bodyguard to help him avoid falling victim to one such disagreement.

Today, Nikolai was to accompany Vasily Petrovich to a meeting between the Russian government and potential investors.

Vasily Petrovich buttoned his coat and picked up his briefcase.

“Ready to go?” Nikolai said.

“Ready if you are.”

The tension in Vasily Petrovich’s voice was palpable. Nikolai had witnessed enough of such meetings to know how heated and unpredictable they could get. The constantly changing investment, tax, and business laws made coming to practical agreements difficult, and the prospect of enormous monetary gains or losses trumped existing laws, pushing the participants to find other ways to settle disputes after the meeting, often outside of the legal realm. Nikolai’s job started right where the civilized disputes ended.

Vasily Petrovich lit a cigarette, and they walked downstairs. As usual, they did not talk much. Nikolai needed to stay focused on the surrounding circumstances. He also did not want to get too emotionally close to Vasily Petrovich. Getting too friendly with clients could lead to loss of vigilance, potentially fatal for both. Danger was especially likely when it was least expected.

When they reached the first floor, Nikolai opened the front door and stepped outside first, his Makarov at the ready. He looked up and down the street. Nothing. He motioned for Vasily Petrovich to come out.

As soon as the two of them were out on the street, an old truck, its bed covered with thick black tarp, careened around the corner and hit the brakes, coming to a screeching halt.

“Get back inside!” Nikolai shouted even before he saw the long gun barrel appear from under the tarp. Multiple shots were fired, and Nikolai shot back, aiming alternately at the tarp and at the wheels. He pushed Vasily Petrovich down on the ground, back towards the building entrance. Immediately, Nikolai felt a sharp searing pain in his left leg and saw blood on Vasily Petrovich’s coat. Ignoring the pain, Nikolai kept shooting as he struggled to get them both back inside the building.

The thud of the heavy door slamming shut shielded them from the thundering gunfire. And almost at the same time, Nikolai heard the whine of a revved-up truck engine, followed by the screeching of tires. Nikolai reached for his phone to call the ambulance. All sounds faded and everything went dark.

The next sound Nikolai heard were voices he couldn’t recognize, low mechanical humming, and faint sounds of footsteps. He listened for a little longer before opening his eyes, trying to get oriented. When he opened his eyes, he saw exactly what he had expected: he was in a hospital bed, with medical machines, monitors, and tubes connected to him.

“Nikolai! You’re awake!” he heard Olga’s voice from the corner. A second later, she was next to him, taking his hand in hers.

Olga sat down on the chair next to his bed. She smiled. It was a bittersweet smile, with relief, love and worry mixed together. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked a little tired and even thinner than usual. She tended to lose weight when she was stressed, and that was a lot lately, largely because of Nikolai’s job.

“I was so worried about you!” Olga said. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” Nikolai said.

“Do you need anything?” Olga said. “Besides all that.” She pointed to the bedside table.

He turned his head to the side and saw a large basket of fruit and a teddy bear.

“I feel like a real sick person with all these gifts.”

“The fruit is from Vasily Petrovich. It’s been here since yesterday morning. And the teddy bear is from me.”

“Thank you, Olechka. Did you say yesterday morning? How long have I been here?”

“Forty-eight hours, most of them unconscious.”

“That’s a long time. How’s Vasily Petrovich?”

“Just fine. He was treated and released. Nothing serious, thanks to you. Just a few scrapes and bruises, mostly from the fall. No bullet wounds. He was worried about you and said you were a real hero.” Olga’s voice cracked a little, and she looked away for a moment.

“And he’s got real enemies,” Nikolai said.

“Do you know who was after him?” Olga said. “And after you?”

Nikolai wished he could tell Olga that the assailants had been caught and were about to be prosecuted and put in prison for a long time. But that would be a blatant lie, a lie that Olga would not believe.

“Not exactly, but I have my suspicions,” Nikolai said, settling for a half-lie. He had no idea who the guys in the truck were, and even if they were ever found, the odds of which were lower than winning the Moscow City Lottery, they would never admit as to who had hired them. Most likely, they did not know who it was as the order would have been handed down through a string of intermediaries, none of whom knew the whole chain of command. The only thing Nikolai was sure of is that this was no botched burglary. These guys were contract killers. Luckily for Nikolai and Vasily Petrovich, they were not the highest professionals.

Nikolai forced a smile. “Let’s talk about something else. How are you doing? How’s work?”

“Work is fine. Going to St. Petersburg for a few days to get some things finalized before the big presentation next week,” Olga said.

“I’ll take some time off and come with you.”

Olga leaned in and kissed Nikolai gently. “That’s a nice thought, but the doctor thinks you’ll need to stay here for about five more days.”

“I don’t have to listen to the doctor. I can recover better in St. Petersburg.”

“No, you can’t. You have a lot of bone and soft tissue injuries, and they need to do some more X-rays on your knee now that the swelling has gone down.”

“My knee will be just fine.”

“I hope so. But to make sure that it is, you need to recover here, and not in St. Petersburg. But I’d love it if you came with me to the big corporate dinner party next week. That’s where I will really need your support.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Nikolai said.

“Great. But for now just rest, and I’ll send the nurse to check on you. I’ll call you in the morning, when I get to St. Petersburg.” She smiled and waved from the door. “Take care of yourself. I’ll be back soon!”

As soon as the door closed behind her, Nikolai stretched and rubbed his sore back. Lying in a hospital bed for two days did not do any favors for his physical condition or his morale. He did not like Olga to see him in this weak state; right now, he was not a good match to her energy and independence. He wanted to be strong for her. Always.

When he first met Olga, he was still a student at the Moscow Military Academy, planning for a career in the military, with a stable income, good benefits, and an ability to provide for his family. Most likely, that was what Olga expected at that time, too. All girls from the Pedagogical Institute who came to their Saturday night dances wanted a husband and children. Olga’s teaching degree would have been a perfect match for his military career: teachers were needed in all cities, towns, and villages, so she would be guaranteed a job. That was then. Now, just a few years later, life was different.

Olga was amazing. Many of her college friends were barely surviving on their teacher salaries or were still looking for jobs, having a hard time finding their place in the new Russia. Olga adjusted to the new circumstances with ease, grace, and even a certain playfulness.

Nikolai realized that most men would have been ecstatic to have a woman like Olga in their lives and would have no qualms about accepting her love and attention, and reciprocating it. For a while, that was how Nikolai felt, too, but lately things have been changing.

Nikolai admired the way Olga had adjusted to the new life, but he liked the old Olga more. She used to be passionate about teaching, about making kids’ lives better, and she was an idealist. When Nikolai used to think of their life together, he imagined her going to work at a school every morning, coming home in the afternoon, marking papers in the evenings, and sharing school stories with him, just like his mom did with his dad.

But that’s not what happened. Olga’s life now was all about business trips to St. Petersburg, fancy dinners, presentations, high heels, and business suits. It took her no time to apply her math degree to accounting. And she was quite successful, as evidenced by yet another likely promotion after this latest presentation. Nikolai felt out of place in her new world. Of course, his life was very different now, too, but he felt that at his core, he was still the same: the warrior, the protector, and the idealist.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening door.

“Sleeping on the job?” Anatoly, his boss and the owner of the Centurion Personal Protection Agency, strolled into the room. As always, he looked elegant and dignified, his broad shoulders and muscular build accentuated by a well-tailored coat. In his mid-forties, he was still in a great shape, physically and mentally. He prided himself on not only running the administrative part of his agency but also teaching martial arts classes and getting personally involved with all the cases and clients. His life was busy, but he often told Nikolai that he could not imagine it any other way.

Anatoly looked around and smiled broadly. “Quite a resort here. And I’m paying for all this?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Nikolai said. “What are you doing here? Things are slow at the office?”

“Things are always slow without you,” Anatoly responded, pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. “Which is not always bad.” He chuckled, then his expression got serious. “You’ve had all of us worried. I’m glad you’re looking and feeling better. “

“Thanks. Any news on the guys who tried to kill us?”

“Not much.” Anatoly shook his head. “The police are investigating, but we both know what that means.”

Nikolai nodded. “They’re going to say it was a robbery, but nothing was taken. As usual.”

“As they have said in similar cases, the robbery was botched because a passer-by scared them off.”

“Right,” Nikolai said. “So what do you think? Hired killers?”

“No doubt. The question is who hired them and why. Of course, we’ve always known that Vasily Petrovich has plenty of enemies.”

“Has he told you any more about the meeting he was scheduled to attend the morning we got attacked?”

“Not yet. Why?” Anatoly said.

“He seemed stressed and tense about it, more than usual. We need to find out the details about it.”

“I’ll look into that, thanks. But you rest. We need you back healthy.”

The next few days dragged on and on. The doctor insisted on keeping Nikolai in the hospital for more tests, observations, and physical therapy. Any objections on Nikolai’s part were met with doctor’s stern comments, “Your boss told me that you will not observe the rest regimen at home if we discharge you early. So, we won’t.”

Finally, a week later, the doctor announced that Nikolai could be discharged. His leg was mostly healed, and the soreness in his back was going away. Nikolai was ready to get back to work, but when he mentioned the idea to the doctor, the doctor shook his head and said, “Your job for the next few weeks is to use a cane and get plenty of rest. Nothing else.”

Nikolai was fine with using the cane. But plenty of rest? That was questionable. He could never deal well with rest or too much idle time. Plus, he was all alone since Olga was still in St. Petersburg, so rest meant boredom and loneliness.

As soon as his hospital release papers were signed, Nikolai took a taxi to Anatoly’s office, a small two-story building with a tall wrought-iron fence around it. Nikolai pushed the intercom button, looked up, and waved to the camera mounted on top of the gate. The lock buzzed, Nikolai pulled on the gate, and walked inside.

The security guard greeted Nikolai, and Nikolai headed to Anatoly’s office located at the north end of the long hallway. The walls were painted light brown and decorated with prints of Moscow cityscapes.

The door to Anatoly’s office was open. Anatoly sat at his desk, busy with a thick file and two laptops at the same time.

“May I?” Nikolai said.

Anatoly looked up as soon as Nikolai walked in, leaning on the cane.

“You’re looking sophisticated,” Anatoly said. “With that cane, you could pass for a writer or an artist. What brings you here? Shouldn’t you be at home resting?”

Nikolai shrugged. “I can’t handle playing patient anymore. I need an assignment. Anything.”

“You are not ready to work with clients yet. Not with that cane and a limp. Also, the doctor said two more weeks of rest.” Anatoly shook his head. “Can’t violate doctor’s orders. If we do, your recovery will only take longer.”

“If I don’t have something to do, I’ll go insane. And no recovery time will help with that.”

Anatoly nodded. “I’ll look for something for you to do at the office. For now, why don’t you come with me to the classroom. I have a new group starting today.” Anatoly gestured to the door. “Let’s go. I know teaching is not exactly your thing, but that’s as much excitement as I can offer you right now.”

“Better than sitting at home,” Nikolai said. He wanted to get back into action as soon as possible. He was impatient, but he had to admit to himself that he wasn’t ready. Physically, he was not all back yet, and the medication he had to take for another week was not helping him mentally, either.

They walked to the south end of the same hallway and into the classroom at the end of the building. The classroom was medium-sized and could comfortably fit fifteen people, which was plenty for the type of training they were receiving. Future bodyguards, or personal protection officers, as they preferred to call themselves, needed individual attention from their instructors, and the small size of the classroom and of each class suited Anatoly just fine. The front of the classroom had a whiteboard and a rolled-up projection screen. A projector was mounted to the ceiling and connected to the computer at the instructor station at the front. The student desks were arranged in three rows, with five or six chairs in each row. The walls were bare. Anatoly considered posters, maps, slogans, and other decorative elements that many other classrooms had an unnecessary distraction and opted for clean walls painted light blue.

Nikolai found an empty seat at the back of the classroom, walked over to it, and sat down, carefully placing the cane on the floor next to his chair but out of the aisle so as not to create a tripping hazard.

The group was mainly young men who probably had just returned from the mandatory military service. Many looked like they had served in combat, Chechnya most likely. Nikolai could spot the ex-soldiers by a certain look in their eyes, despair mixed with relief. The physical and weapon training these men had was a definite advantage. The problem with the ex-soldiers was their tendency to be too aggressive and too ready to fight, and it was a challenge to convince them that a bodyguard’s main task was to calculate, predict, and prevent violence. Shooting and fighting was the last resort.

Only two women were in the group. One, a dark-haired woman in khakis and a hooded sweatshirt, sat in the back. The other, a blonde with a long ponytail, black eyelashes, and bright red nails, was in the front. She did not look like a fighter, but Nikolai had learned a long time ago that looks could be, and most often were, deceptive. Women made excellent bodyguards, but not all clients realized that. Most clients still did not believe that women could be effective. Plus, many clients were men, and their egos and images still had a hard time accepting physical help from women. But the smarter businessmen realized the advantages: women were much less obvious as bodyguards. When somebody saw a woman, they assumed she was a friend, a sister, a lover, or a nanny for the kids. Nobody instantly thought she was a bodyguard, and the surprise element made her job easier, and the client’s life was safer. The blonde girl in the front definitely did not look the part, and that could work to her advantage.

Anatoly greeted the students, walked over to the podium at the front of the room, placed his notebook and phone on it, and started his lecture.

“Before you commit to this course and to the career of a bodyguard, you need to know what a bodyguard is and, even more importantly, what a bodyguard is not. A bodyguard is not a tough muscular guy armed to his teeth who wears a leather jacket and looks scary. If you are here because you like that image and want to become that image, this career is not for you. If you think a bodyguard is a person who does not care about his own life and whose job is to use his body to shield his client, it means you have been watching too many Hollywood movies. That’s not what we train for and not what we do.”

A young male with a shaved head raised his hand. “But that’s the kind of bodyguards we always see, like at concerts, big presentations, and fancy restaurants.”

Anatoly chuckled. “That’s exactly the point. We always see them. Real bodyguards should not be seen. They should be gray shadows, unseen, unheard, and unnoticed. The bodyguards we see in all those places you talked about are a different category. They are more image-makers than bodyguards. If a mediocre singer, actress, or public figure wants to boost popularity, they hire a tough-looking guy to stand around and look menacing. And that often works, for the image. But as far as real protection goes, that accomplishes nothing. In the face of real danger, these image-makers can do nothing except put their clients and themselves in danger. Often, mortal danger.”

“So what does a real bodyguard do?” the same student asked.

“Good question. I’ll get to that.” Anatoly glanced at his phone, then at Nikolai. Nikolai nodded his understanding. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Anatoly walked outside and shut the classroom door behind him. The students shuffled in their seats and started chatting with each other quietly. For a few seconds, Nikolai heard Anatoly’s voice and his footsteps as he walked further from the classroom. Then, everything went quiet. Nikolai sat in silence, observing the room and waiting.

A moment later, the door opened and a man in dark clothes and a ski mask rushed into the classroom, his gun drawn.

The class gasped.

“Quiet!” The man looked around the room, then pointed the gun at the young blonde woman in the front.

“Get up!” he barked. “Anyone else moves, and I’ll shoot her.”

The young woman stood up. Nikolai could not see her facial expression, but her posture looked cautious and collected, in control.

Nikolai shuffled in his seat, evaluating the scene. He kept his eyes on the man and the young woman, trying to hide his emotions.

With a quick movement, the young woman flipped her chair over, tripped the intruder, and applied a headlock. He fell to the floor, and two other students subdued him while she wrestled his gun away. A little unrealistic, but not bad for the first class exercise, Nikolai thought.

The classroom door opened.

“Good work, everyone!” Anatoly said from the door, then addressed the blonde woman. “Physical preparation classes were not wasted on you.”

“Thanks,” the woman said and sat down in her seat.

Anatoly nodded to the kidnapper. “You’re free to go. Everyone else, have a seat.”

He walked to the front of the classroom and addressed the young woman. “You handled this situation well. And such situations are part of our job. But our main challenge and goal as bodyguards is to do everything in our power to prevent these types of scenarios.”

He paused and turned to Nikolai. “Can you take over for the remainder of class? I need to settle this one problem.” He pointed to the phone. “And stop by my office once you’re done here.”

Nikolai picked up his cane, got up from his seat, and walked to the front of the room. “If you are here because you think that the job of a bodyguard is glamorous, because you think you will make a fortune, or because you think you will become famous, you are wrong. If that’s what you expect, it would be best for you to leave now. Don’t waste your time. There are plenty of other jobs out there.”

He paused and looked around the room. “No shame in leaving if that’s what you want to do.”

Nobody moved.

Nikolai nodded, then continued. “Being a bodyguard is a dangerous job. And most of the time, it’s an invisible, hidden job. The best thing you can expect at the end of the day is to keep your client alive. If you manage to keep yourself alive as well, that’s an added plus. For obvious reasons.”

He picked up a marker and walked to the whiteboard. “Earlier, you asked what a real bodyguard is. A real bodyguard is like a gray shadow of his client: always there, always next to the client, watching and thinking, but never intrusive. The best bodyguard is barely noticeable, barely seen, both by the clients and by their potential enemies. As for what a bodyguard does, it’s three things.”

Nikolai stepped closer to the board and started writing. “One is foresee a threat. Two is avoid the threat, at any cost. And if, and only if, the first two fail, then it’s on to number three.”

Nikolai stopped writing and looked at the class. The students were quiet and attentive, so he continued. “The third and the final task is to eliminate the threat. And if you follow these three tasks, in that order, and with a cool head, then you are likely to keep your client and yourself alive. But there are no guarantees and no certainties. Except for these two: if you stay in this job, you will develop problems with your health and problems in your personal life. If you can’t handle that certainty, you can still leave the training. You need to make the best choice that fits you and your life. Some people don’t want to be constantly putting themselves in stressful and dangerous situations. Others, however, cannot imagine their life in any other way. They crave the satisfaction of a job well-done and they would rather risk their life than spend it in a regular desk job. If you are one of those people, then you’ve come to the right place.”

Nikolai looked at the class again. The students were quiet, looking at him, and listening, probably weighing their options. He paused, allowing them to consider what he had just said. It was an important choice to make. After a pause, he continued.

“The first and foremost muscle needed for a successful bodyguard is this one.” Nikolai pointed to his head. “The brain. You need to gather information, analyze it, synthesize it, and apply it to the situation at hand. Most of the time, all of that needs to be done quickly.”

Nikolai finished the lecture and dismissed the class. As the students left the room, he lingered at the desk, not wanting to show his physical vulnerabilities to the class. He remembered the time three years ago when he took the same class. Having had many of the same misconceptions about the life and work of a bodyguard, he knew exactly how these students felt. Nikolai rarely admitted it to others for fear of sounding too sentimental, but he was an idealist and wanted to make the world better. He believed that his job as a bodyguard, his ability to prevent acts of violence and save a life of a client was his small way of making this world a better and safer place.

“Great job, professor,” Anatoly said when Nikolai walked back into his office. “I could use some help in the classroom, you know. With more demand for personal protection and many new potential clients to work with, I’m having a hard time balancing teaching and client work. And the students like you.”

“Thanks, but it’s just not my thing. Classroom feels too confining.”

“And I’m guessing you’ll say the same about office work? Background checks, client interviews, things like that?”

Nikolai nodded. “Right. I don’t want to do office work. Isn’t there a real job I can do while I’m recuperating? I feel pretty good.”

“Not now. ‘Pretty good’ is not good enough for our clients. Get back to ‘excellent’ and we’ll talk again. But if you change your mind about teaching, the classroom is waiting.”

“Thanks, Anatoly. You’re right. I at least need to get off all those weird drugs they keep giving me. I don’t feel as alert as I should be on a real assignment. I’ll think about the classroom.” Nikolai turned around and headed outside.