Private Moscow

Chapter 61

Leonid regretted every sip of vodka he’d had the previous night. His tongue felt like an old babushka’s pumice stone and his head was as tender as a steak put through a mangle. But he’d needed to blow away the residue of his brush with death. An inch or two above his protective vest and his drinking buddies would have been toasting his memory.

He’d blustered his way through the experience and brushed off Dinara’s concerns for his wellbeing, but deep down he’d been shaken. Why was he in this job? He could easily have got a quiet desk job as head of security for a big firm, but instead had chosen to put himself back on the front line without any real support.

Who wants to live forever? a small voice inside him asked.

Was that it? Did he have a death wish?

Leonid shook the thought from his mind, and focused on Erik Utkin’s apartment building. The Black Hundreds’ recruiter lived in Meshchansky District, on Shchepkina Street, in a traditional villa that had been split into large apartments. It was a lovely home in a great neighborhood, one that was beyond the reach of most Muscovites.

Leonid had relieved Larin, one of the ex-cops who lived at the Residence, and who’d staked out Utkin’s place overnight. Leonid had been parked fifty meters along the street from the yellow-fronted building for an hour when Erik Utkin finally emerged and climbed into a black BMW 6 Series.

Leonid followed Utkin across Moscow to Kapotnya, a neighborhood almost twenty kilometers from the city center. Kapotnya was one Moscow’s most crime-ridden, poverty-stricken areas, and even in the arctic conditions, there was clear evidence of drug use on the streets. Leonid drove by a group of scrawny men gathered around an oil-barrel fire, sharing a crack pipe. Soon afterwards he passed a couple of skeletal men shooting up in a bus shelter.

Erik Utkin finally stopped on the corner of Kapotninskiy Passage and Kapotnya Block, and Leonid pulled over a short distance behind him. Filthy tower blocks rose either side of the street, and the bare branches of the trees that lined the road looked like jagged scars against the ugly buildings. Utkin kept his engine running, but Leonid cut his to avoid the vapor of exhaust fumes attracting unnecessary attention.

Leonid could see the Black Hundreds’ recruiter through the BMW’s rear window. He had his head turned toward a gray high-rise apartment building to their right.

Soon, three men came out. Two of them wore hooded tops beneath heavy coats, but Leonid recognized them as fighters from Grom Boxing. They were scowling as they were accosted by the third man, who was gaunt and covered in sores. He didn’t have a coat and shivered as he capered around the two boxers. His face was grubby and pinched and his hollow eyes spoke of years of drug addiction. He chattered away, oblivious to the boxers’ rising anger, and even at a distance Leonid could sense the desperation of an addict.

Finally, one of the boxers ferreted in his coat pocket and produced a small plastic bag, which he handed to the gaunt man in exchange for crumpled notes. These two boxers were dealing drugs, and unless Leonid was very much mistaken, they were doing it with Erik Utkin’s approval. Sitting in his BMW, the man had watched the trade without emotion.

The addict ran off, and the two boxers approached Utkin, who opened his window. Clouds of vapor escaped their mouths as they exchanged greetings in the cold, and after a minute or so of chatter, Utkin popped his trunk. One of the fighters went to the rear of the BMW and removed a plastic bag from the car, while the other man handed Utkin an envelope.

Erik Utkin was giving these men more than his approval; he was supplying them with product.

Leonid pulled his phone from his pocket and made a call.

“Dinara,” he said when she answered. “I think I’ve found Erik Utkin’s secret. It looks like he and his men are dealing drugs.”

“But the Black Hundreds would crucify him if they found out,” Dinara replied. “They kill dealers.”

“I know. He’s gambling his life,” Leonid agreed. “Which is why he didn’t want us digging around. You want me to stay on him?”

“Can you arrange for someone else to pick up his tail?”

“Of course,” Leonid replied. “Why?”

“We could use your expertise,” Dinara said. “Meet us at Ernest Fisher’s apartment as soon as possible.”

“OK,” Leonid said, hanging up.

Sava Efimov was due to relieve him at 3 p.m., and almost certainly wouldn’t appreciate being summoned early.

“Da,” Sava grunted as he answered the call. He’d been one of the previous night’s biggest drinkers.

“I need you to take over early,” Leonid said. “Duty calls.”

Sava groaned. “I should never have agreed to help. This is why I left the force.”

“You left the force because someone shot you in the gut and you got pensioned off,” Leonid corrected the man. “You love this and you miss it.”

“You’re a jerk, Leonid Boykov.”

“I’m also right,” Leonid replied. “Hurry up and get dressed. Head for Kapotnya. I’ll call you with the final location when you’re nearby.”

“OK,” Sava said, and Leonid hung up.

Up ahead, Erik Utkin bid the two fighters farewell and drove away. Leonid followed. He’d stay on the man’s tail until Sava arrived.

Maybe that’s why you do this, he told himself. Same as Sava, you love it and you’ll miss it when it’s finally gone.