Londongrad

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

I didn’t go with Larry Sverdloff, I left the party, and walked out of the park, along the avenue next to it, turned right, looking for a place I’d spotted earlier, figuring that on Queensway, a bar would still be open. Found myself near an all-night cafe, no booze, kept moving.

From behind me there were steps on the sidewalk again, the scuffle of feet, the raucous hoot of young men, a low mean whistle. The crummy street where I found myself was lined with shuttered shops. The sidewalk was crumbling. A few teenagers drinking out of paper bags wandered into a late-night game arcade. A shitty chicken takeout was empty except for the counter man asleep on a table. Some Arab-looking boys glared at me from the doorway of a kebab place.

I kept walking. I heard a car coming slowly along the dark road. It slowed to keep pace with me, and then I heard her voice.

“Artie, please, get in the car,” called Fiona. “I’ll give you a lift.”

“I want to walk,” I said.

“Then at least buy me a drink,” she said, and parked her Mini and got out. “Sverdloff’s club will still be open,” she added.

I need a drink, I thought.

“I’ll walk with you,” said Fiona.

“If you want.”

“You’ll come to Sverdloff’s club?”

“Maybe.”

Overhead, clouds scudded away, revealing a piece of white moon that cast a strange light over the empty streets where we walked.

Fiona had a big stride like an athlete and she talked very softly, had a way of projecting her voice just far enough so I could hear clearly but keeping it low. Nice voice. English, husky.

For a while we walked silently, Fiona smoking, and then I realized we were in Moscow Road.

“Something about this road strikes a chord?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

Then the shabby streets of cheap hotels and small shops gave way to tree-lined roads, pretty houses, foreign cars parked in front, trees thick and green.

Finally, I said, “What are you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What are you? What’s your job? How come you know all the Russians? How come you knew my name? Spell it out for me.”

“You didn’t know?”

“How the fuck would I know? I figured you were something official,” I said. “But what?”

“Didn’t Agent Pettus tell you?”

“Roy Pettus?”

“Yes. I’ve been waiting for you to ring for several days, Pettus told me you were coming across.”

“Jesus.”

“What did you think?”

“Tell me what you are.”

Lighting one smoke from another, she told me she was a special liaison, coordinated projects between Scotland Yard and MI5.

“Your FBI,” she said.

“Right.”

She went on talking, told me she had studied Russian at university along with Polish and Swedish, and had done graduate work in Warsaw. Her grandmother was Polish and a scientist, and Fiona had a background in physics and chemistry because of it.

“My grandmother raised me,” she said. “She thought girls should learn.” Colquhoun’s looks suggested an ice queen but she was open, warm, surprising. “She left me the house in Highgate where I live,” she added. “A lot of Russians there, the new, the last wave, we’ve got them all, white, red, dead, rich, oligarchs, we’ve even got Karl Marx. Did you know he’s buried in the cemetery at Highgate?”

“Yes.”

“Unusual for an American to know, but you aren’t entirely American, are you, Artie?”

“Yeah.”

How much did Fiona know about me? Why was she making small talk? I wondered, and then she said, “Will you let me help?”

I didn’t answer, not then. Maybe she was connected to both Pettus and to Larry Sverdloff, and it didn’t make me happy, but I needed Colquhoun’s help. In the street light her face was pale, the expression on her lips wry.

“I’m also a cop, Artie, if that makes you feel better,” she said.

Pravda22 was almost empty, but the bartender, Rolly, saw me and beckoned us in. A few people sat at tables in the back. He knew Fiona’s name.

“I’ve been here before,” she said by way of explanation. I asked for Scotch, Fiona for a small brandy. We sat at the bar.

“You’re a cop?”

“Yes, as I said. I moved in and out of the police, I went to higher education and back, took a graduate degree, worked for a while designing gender-related studies for the police college. I was a homicide detective, British style, you know, like Morse?” She smiled. “Then I shifted to one of the joint forces.”

She had done the business, I realized, though she looked younger, she was probably my age, even a couple years older.

“You speak Russian?”

She nodded.

“You work with Roy Pettus?”

“I work with a good number of people,” she said. “We’ve had to gear up quite quickly.”

“On the Russians?”

“Yes, and not long ago we had good relations with them. Just after the attacks on New York, and then on London, we had marvelous relationships, your people, even the bloody Russians.”

“But not now?”

“I wouldn’t say we’re exactly friends. The Litvinenko thing has triggered a little Cold War, we accuse them of killing him, they retaliate by persecuting Brits in Russia, the ambassador, anyone they can. Did you know there are as many Russian agents here as during the real Cold War?”

“So you work with them?”

“Not if I can help it. I prefer you Americans,” she said.

Perched beside me at the bar, Fiona had great legs, a witty curious face, beautiful when she smiled. Another time, place, I would have been interested, but not now. Now there was only Val.

“I believe you worked quite a big case here in London once,” said Fiona. It wasn’t a question.

“How did you know?”

“It’s a small country. I worked once with a detective who knew you.”

“Who’s that?”

“Chap called Jack Cotton.”

“Christ.”

“That’s pretty much how Jack thinks of himself now. He’s one of our top cops. He’s Sir Jack now.”

“No shit, so he’s a top dog?”

“One of the biggest, and when Sir Jack barks, all the little puppies sit up and beg,” said Fiona. “Shall I send your regards? He’ll give us some help on this if I ask, if I say you asked.”

“Not now.” I wanted to operate on my own for now, I didn’t want red tape.

“He said you were very good and rather unreliable,” said Fiona Colquhoun. “That you did what you liked, and people put up with it because you get results. Good taste in music, Artie had, he said. He says you had mixed feelings about this place, always called it bloody London.”

“You asked him if you could trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Because he’s one of yours?”

“Of course. And Sir Jack said you liked carrying a gun even in London. Is that right, Artie?”

“If I have to.”

“Please don’t do that,” she said. “I can’t help you if you do.”

“Listen, I’m here because of Valentina Sverdloff’s murder,” I said. “I’m guessing you knew that. I’ll do what I have to do,” I said, and tossed back the Scotch.

In the gilded mirror over the bar, I saw a familiar figure moving in behind me, coming at me, the woman who had cried like crazy at the party, long sad face, pointed nose. I ordered another drink.

“I understand, Artie, I’m still a cop in my bones, and I know how good your people, how good they were to me, when I worked in New York,” said Fiona, tapping me lightly on the arm.

“When?”

“Nine-eleven. There were Brits who died in the Towers, and a few of us volunteered to go over, our tragedy, too. Your people, police, firemen, were extraordinary. When I got back, I asked to move over to an anti-terrorism squad,” she said softly. “I would like to have stayed.”

“But?”

“I have a daughter, Gracie, she’s twelve.”

I was moved and pissed off. She meant what she said but she knew, like a great detective, if only instinctively, how to seduce. Telling me about her part after 9/11, how she had taken part in the now holy events, got to me.

“I met Valentina Sverdloff once,” said Fiona.

“Where?”

“At her uncle’s house. My daughter is friends with one of Larry’s girls.”

“Larry Sverdloff?”

Yes.”

“You get around.”

“He’s the father of my daughter’s friend, or do you think I use my daughter to spy on Russian oligarchs?”

“You tell me.”

“You think because I know Agent Roy Pettus and Larry Sverdloff, I’m working both sides? Did Larry give you my name, too, is that it?” She looked at me. “I see.”

“Are you? What sides?”

She knocked back her drink and got off the bar stool. I put out my hand to keep her from going.

“You met Val when?”

“About a year ago at Larry Sverdloff’s house in London, one of his daughters was playing piano, Val was sitting near her, I had never seen anyone so alive, so incredibly vivid. I’m so sorry. I know you and her father are great friends.”

“Was she alone?”

“Greg was there. I think he had a Russian name as well, which I didn’t catch, and frankly until the other day when this case came up, I didn’t think about him again. I told him I spoke the language and I loved the literature and he just opened up. Bit of a bloody nationalist, I thought, just a fraction too zealous, but he was a good-looking young man, charming, and deeply in love with Valentina. Greg told me how he and Valentina were working for the fatherland, explained to me how Putin was turning things around. Very persuasive, but he waited until Valentina was out of his hearing. ”

“What else?”

“They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. She was besotted. They were an astonishing couple, wonderful to look at, whispering to one another as if they had all the secrets to being alive.”

I didn’t answer.

“When Valentina was murdered, Larry Sverdloff called me,” she said. “He thinks whoever killed her did it to warn his cousin, Tolya. Is that what you think?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been doing a little asking around privately,” she said.

“Can you find this Greg?”

“You really do think he’s a suspect?” Fiona said. “You’re going to need a lot more than thinking, Artie, you need a little bit of evidence,” and then we were interrupted by the long-faced woman I’d seen in the mirror.

“Elena Gagarin,” she said, and held out her hand to me, ignoring Fiona. “We met at the ball.” Sloshed, she had been crying, mascara streaked her face. “I was Valentina’s friend,” she added. “She showed me a photograph of you. She said, this is my Uncle Artie, my dad’s best friend. Also at her daddy’s house, there is a picture of you. So I see you, I try to say this at the party, I think, God, is this Valentina’s Artie?”

She had a mild Russian accent. “I know you loved her,” she went on in the naked way Russians sometimes do, especially women, as if they could peel back your skin, help themselves to your emotions. No embarrassment, nothing coy, she just said, again, “You loved her. Now she is dead. I am very drunk.”

“Let’s get you home,” said Fiona, but Gagarin shoved her away and went on bawling.

“As soon as I heard about Val,” she said, “I cried for one whole day without cease. Val was so good, she helps orphans.” Gagarin looked at the ceiling. “Perhaps she is in better place now?”

“You met these girls Val helped?”

“Some, yes, surely. A few she helped particularly to come from Russia to England.”

“Was one of them named Masha Panchuk? She worked as a maid.”

I saw the hesitation; I saw the eyes twirl like dark saucers, then dart inward. I was sure Gagarin had met Masha, but she wasn’t saying.

“I don’t know this person that worked as maid.”

“Think about it.”

“I am glad you are in London and living close to me, I feel more secure, I am living on same square with Tolya Sverdloff, this is how we all meet.”

And then without warning, Gagarin threw her glass at the wall of bottles behind the bar. The bartender Rolly took her by the arm.

“Go home,” he said.

“No.”

“You don’t feel safe in London?” I said to her.

“No, I think first this Masha is killed, then Valentina, and next, next is me.”

Somehow Rolly bundled Gagarin out into a taxi, came back.

“She comes here a lot?”

He shrugged.

“Some of the time,” he said. “She was friendly with the Sverdloffs. She’s done this before, she gets drunk and breaks things.”

“I must go,” said Fiona, looking at the tiny gold watch on her slim wrist.

“You left your car.”

“I’ll get a cab, I’ve had too much drink to drive. Shall I drop you, Artie?”

“No,” I said, and watched her go.

I liked Fiona Colquhoun, but I didn’t trust her. Her brief wasn’t dead girls in New York. For all her talk about 9/11, she wasn’t a cop anymore. She worked with Roy Pettus and she was some kind of spook, a security liaison between Scotland Yard and MI5, whatever that meant.

Most people in the spy business are so impressed with their own theatrics, the stuff they’ve read or seen, I never really believed them. I didn’t buy the act.

Truth was, I didn’t give a fuck who was running Russia or if another revolution was coming, or for Larry Sverdloff’s feverish fantasies. All I wanted was the creep who had killed Valentina. I wanted something hard, sure, pure, evidence like diamonds that I could give to Tolya to make up for not saving his daughter. Then I wanted to go home.

“You asked me about Valentina Sverdloff?” said Rolly, wiping down the bar. “I didn’t tell you everything.”

“Yes.”

“Once or twice she asked me to post some packages for her. She always asked nicely, but there was this imperious quality, and also she seemed bloody obsessive about it.”

“What was in the packages?”

“I didn’t ask. Best not to. Always to Moscow.”

“You know where the boyfriend lived?”

“Valentina’s fellow?”

“Yeah. Somewhere in south London. He asked me if I knew anybody who wanted to rent a room. Fuck me, it was somewhere, Putney, I think, or maybe Wimbledon.”

“You have any more thoughts about him?”

“Maybe, but not anything I can swear to.”

“Go on.”

“Yeah. You know, no reason, when I heard somebody killed Valentina, it just came to me that it was him.”

“How come? You said he was charming.”

“Don’t know. When I heard, it came into my head. You want a last drink?”

I didn’t. I left. Into the dark empty London night where it was raining, rain dripping down my collar, I walked to Tolya’s house. Bloody London, I thought.