Stroika

Chapter 14

^LENINGRAD

Misha drove his fourth-hand battered red Zhiguli into the icy courtyard behind his new premises, a nineteenth-century three-floor construction on Malaya Morskaya. Outside, a team of workmen busied tearing rusting balcony railings from first-floor windows and replacing them with modern glass balustrades, while another repaired lintels and the façade ready for painting. He parked to the side of the Kamaz, got out, and admired his car for at least the third time that day. Two men standing guard with Kalashnikovs acknowledged him as he approached.

‘Rodion, where’s Ivan?’

‘In the warehouse, boss,’ replied the taller of the two, waving the barrel of his machine gun in the direction of the warehouse door.

Men ferried merchandise past him from the truck. He stopped one of them and lifted up a neat compact box labelled Amstrad.

‘If only I could get more of these,’ he said. The handler looked at him blankly. Misha replaced it on the trolley and continued into the warehouse.

Ivan saw him first. He was fifteen metres down the main aisle, talking with the warehouse manager who was busy ticking off items from a clipboard.

‘Do you have the number of the agency you were talking about the other evening?’ he asked him, deadpan.

‘I do,’ he answered with an amused look. He reached inside his leather jacket, extracted his wallet, retrieved a business card, and handed it to him. ‘Leningrad Angels, and they are, truly.’

Misha looked at him blankly, and without saying a word he put the card in his back pocket. He climbed the steps two at a time to the first floor and stepped into the main building. Elegant rooms with long ornate French windows looked out onto the courtyard below. In one, a painter was put finishing touches to the new showroom. Half a dozen brands hung neatly grouped around the walls. Misha switched on the accented spotlights and turned the dimmer for effect.

Alina walked in with a cup of coffee and handed it to him. Misha recognised the two-ply cream cashmere roll neck from a new Italian supplier.

‘Ilaria has been on the phone for you.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll call her back.’ He twirled the dimmer again. ‘Beats the old place.’

He took a sip of boiling hot coffee and winced at its bitterness before taking another. Below, two men with AKs slung over their shoulders lingered in front of the high steel gate. Misha watched as Rodion walked up to one of them and said something.

He turned back to the room and took the card Ivan had given him out of his pocket and looked at the graphic outline of a topless angel. He dialled the number. A woman with a sing-song voice answered the phone and asked him how he had heard of Leningrad Angels, did he have any preferences? ‘A friend’… ‘attractive’, and ‘two’ was all he said in response, slightly disappointed with himself when nothing more definitive immediately came to mind. He agreed the money – US dollars of course – and gave her the name of the new restaurant: Canali, next to the Mariinsky Theatre.

How much was it all going to cost this time, just to open a currency account?

That morning he had appeared at the bank laden with small gifts and had asked to see a manager. He had sat there for an hour and a half mesmerised by the clack clack of a hundred typewriters and the elongated zip of the carriage return. A legion of clerks, sitting at grey metal desks, typed forms in triplicate. Eventually a manager had appeared. Heavyset, in a dark grey ill-fitting suit, Misha guessed him to be in his early forties. He had introduced himself as Grigory Vasiliev and led him to a wooden and frosted-glass cubicle.

‘How can I help you?’ he had asked, distracted. A clerk had entered without knocking and placed a form in front of him to sign.

‘I want to open a foreign currency account, US dollars… to pay suppliers,’ Misha had continued when the clerk had left. He chose to omit the bit about siphoning money off to a Swiss account.

Vasiliev had simply stared at him.

‘You’ll need Central Bank permission… three to four months, if you are lucky.’

That was when he had suggested dinner.

Misha made it to the restaurant earlier than planned. He took the Zhiguli and parked it on the embankment. As he stepped out of the car a sudden gust of Arctic wind forced him to take a step back. He grabbed the iron balustrade and looked down onto the canal. He shivered. Ice stretched in every direction, a silver filigree knitting snow-covered island to snow-covered island. A man wrapped up in a wool blanket, standing next to a bucket, stood over a hole cut in the ice holding a fishing rod in one hand and a lantern in the other. He wondered if he’d had any luck.

Canali made Misha feel he was back in Milan. Konstantin had done a good job, no doubt with input from Viktoriya. An open, custom-built, stainless steel kitchen gave on to a limestone floor dining area, where low lighting illuminated exposed brick and discretely placed tables.

At the bar, two women sipped champagne while balanced on elegant cream leather stools. The blonde caught Misha’s eye as he stepped down into the restaurant from the entrance. No doubt the Angels he had ordered, he thought. She introduced her raven-haired friend as Sveta and herself as Dasha. Misha guessed them both around twenty. They were certainly dressed for the part. Dasha wore a short black tube dress and Sveta a diaphanous gold-coloured loose blouse over leggings. Misha took two envelopes from his inside jacket pocket and gave one to each.

No sooner had he finished explaining that he and, by implication, they were entertaining a business associate did the door open and Vasiliev appear. Gone was the ill-fitting crumpled suit Misha had seen in the bank. Grigory wore an expensive-looking three-piece under a half-open navy wool coat. A man of many parts, thought Misha. Grigory looked over to the bar, caught sight of Misha chatting to the two girls, and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

Vasiliev took an instant liking to the blonde Dasha. The girls turned out to be well educated and from cities east of Moscow; occasional escort work at university had gravitated to full-time after they had moved to Leningrad. They could earn more in one night than they could in a month in some boring and grim state factory or office job. The punters, they said, generally had more going for them than the loser boyfriends they had knocked around with in the past.

Outside, an old lady carrying an almost empty string shopping bag caught Misha’s eye as she walked, stooping, past the side window of the restaurant. When he returned his attention to the group, he found Sveta studying him.

‘I don’t want to end up like her,’ she said seriously.

‘Well that makes two of us… Come on, let’s eat.’

The maître d’ led them to their table. Misha had asked for a private corner. As it turned out, it was a quiet night. Dasha sat opposite Vasiliev – who insisted on being called Grigory – and Misha, Sveta, whose long legs stretched under the table, occasionally brushing his.

They ordered food and a good bottle of Georgian wine. Dasha rarely broke eye contact with Grigory, constantly running her jewelled fingers through her long hair, flirting outrageously. Grigory was clearly enjoying himself. Why wouldn’t he! Misha thought. Sveta sat quietly taking it all in.

‘So tell us more about your business,’ said Grigory, turning to his host.

‘Import, about to move bigger into export… fashion, perfume, computers, you name it.’

‘You have a tie-up with Leningrad Freight, I understand.’

‘Yes, you are well informed.’ He wondered how well informed. Did he know he was also bringing in merchandise across the border at Smolensk to avoid the prying eyes of the military customs in Leningrad?

Misha felt the tip of Sveta’s high heel rub against his leg. She looked at him across the table in a steady gaze and smiled. It was hard not to be aroused. She was striking, now he looked at her again, with thick, straight shoulder-length hair, high Slavic cheekbones and wide, dark oval eyes that sparkled in the subdued restaurant lighting.

It was after coffee that Misha asked the two girls if they could wait at the bar while he talked to Grigory privately.

‘Pretty girls, Grigory.’

The banker added his confirmation. ‘Will they be staying?’ he asked, clearly afraid Dasha might leave.

‘That depends,’ said Misha. ‘What will it take to open that foreign currency account within the next two weeks?’

‘Two thousand US dollars.’

Nothing came cheap, thought Misha. ‘How about one thousand dollars and Dasha stays?’ he countered.

Grigory considered the proposal.

‘I’m interested in long-term business relationships,’ said Grigory. ‘I appreciate this might not be the case with Dasha.’

Misha watched Grigory take a sip of brandy and replace his glass slowly on the table.

‘Can I ask you what you want to use this account for?’

Misha considered giving him a flat no, but the banker would have access to his account anyway. He’d see what he was doing, or at least guess.

‘A number of reasons: firstly, paying overseas suppliers – the business is getting too big now to be making payment via suitcases; secondly, the rouble is headed in only one direction as far as I can see… who wants to be holding a currency worth less and less every day; thirdly, moving money to safer jurisdictions; and finally, receiving hard currency payment for exports.’

‘Exports?’

‘Hard currency assets: timber, fuel, nickel… oil. So I’ve told you about what I am after, what is it you want? Beyond Dasha, and, of course, helping me open a currency account.’

Grigory took another sip of his brandy.

‘I am a banker. I’ve worked for state banks overseas, London for three years. I know how money works. You’ve been to Milan. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Soviet banks are antiquated and that most have no idea how the international system works. There is opportunity in that.’

‘Okay,’ said Misha, warming to him. ‘Like what specifically?’

‘Investment banking… currency trading, for starters.’

‘Well, the second part we can start to do now… once you have that foreign currency account open. Investment banking…?

‘Buying state property… companies when they start selling them. It’s going to happen.’

‘Let’s talk more, later, who knows…’

Grigory looked pleased with where the conversation had gone. He paused before asking: ‘And why don’t you get yourself a decent car; that red Zhiguli parked on the embankment is yours, isn’t it?’

‘I like it,’ Misha answered defensively, and laughed. ‘I think we should join the girls now and not waste any more time!’ Misha looked at his watch; it was still only ten fifteen.

Misha stood up and Grigory followed him over to the bar. The girls were standing close to each other. Dasha leaned towards Sveta and whispered something in her ear, and whatever it was caused her to almost choke on her drink. She put down her glass on the bar and covered her mouth, her slim body shaking with suppressed laughter. Misha eyed her skinny frame balanced on pin-like stilettos and slipped his arm around her waist. She leaned back against him. His thumb massaged her hip through the silky fabric of her top as they watched Vasiliev and Dasha collect their coats. Dasha gave her friend a knowing wink before disappearing through the door, her escort in tow.

‘Your place or mine?’ said Misha, suddenly impatient to be in bed with her.

‘I think yours. It has to be better than mine,’ she said, squeezing his hand. He helped her on with her grey woollen coat and noticed its frayed edge around the lapel.

‘You’ll have to call in at the showroom, choose some samples,’ he said, holding open the restaurant door for her. They were hit by a blast of freezing cold air.

‘How long have you had this?’ Sveta asked teasingly as she walked around the red car in mock admiration, avoiding the icy snow banked up on the kerb.

Misha considered how long it had taken him to acquire his first car and how many strings he’d had to pull to find this one, even if it was a hundred years old. He knew he could afford a much more expensive model now he was beginning to make serious money, but he didn’t see any point in attracting unwanted attention, either from the authorities or the criminal fraternity.

‘All I can say is that it’s colder inside than out.’ Misha walked round the car, tugged the door open and watched her slide in. When he turned back, he nearly stumbled straight into Konstantin. He was standing almost directly behind him, Viktoriya on his arm, three bodyguards behind him.

‘Nice car,’ said Konstantin.

‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

Viktoriya stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks.

‘Misha is not into the cars like you are, Kostya.’

‘Clearly not.’ He pointed at the ZiL parked fifty metres away. ‘You should get yourself one of those. And take my advice, you shouldn’t be walking around on your own, not in this city.’

Viktoriya and Ivan had been nagging him about the same thing. He had doubled protection at the warehouse but he didn’t want a band of men following his every movement.

‘You probably need it more than me, Kostya. What’s that old joke about paranoia?’

‘Quite,’ said Konstantin frostily. ‘We should talk business, you and I, soon.’

‘I think we’re better off doing our own thing.’

‘Pity, you need allies, we all need allies. Shall we go, Vika?’

‘She’s very beautiful, Misha,’ said Viktoriya, casting a glance into the car, a wry smile on her face.

‘I do my best. She’s probably frozen by now.’ He looked in the car. Sveta blew a cloud of iced vapour at him. ‘I rest my case.’

Ten minutes later, Misha stopped outside his new apartment. Sitting there gazing up at its newly painted neoclassical façade, he sensed Sveta was considerably more impressed with it than she had been with his car.

‘Your friend back there is very beautiful… old girlfriend?’

‘Funnily enough, she said the same thing about you… no, school friends.’

‘Really… I’m not so sure… and I know the other guy – owns that restaurant and a pile of clubs. You don’t want to be mixing with him.’

‘Good advice… I won’t be.’

He felt the warmth of her delicate hand run down his inner thigh and up onto his crutch. Misha leaned forward to kiss her, only to be pushed back by an outstretched index finger.

They took the lift to the fifth floor. She leaned back against the mirror as he slid his hand inside her coat and ran his fingers down the outside of her silky leggings. This time she did not pull away. The over-warm corridor smelled of new paint and varnish. Sveta slipped off her coat and hung it over her arm as Misha inserted the key to his apartment door. The barrel lock sounded its familiar double dead clunk; Misha pushed open the door and waved her ahead. She eased past him, heels clipping the wooden floor, her body brushing his. Misha turned his head towards the switch and glimpsed the silhouette of a fast-moving object crashing towards his skull. He raised his hand reflexively. Sveta screamed, and whatever it was connected solidly with his head, triggering a fire-burst of yellow light and… blackness.

The first thing he experienced when he came round was a sharp stabbing pain to the left side of his head above his ear. He reached up and felt a sticky wetness. It was pitch black. For a moment he struggled to recollect where he was. His flat… a girl… Sveta. He pushed himself up onto all fours. The sharp pain turned to an insistent throb; unsteadily he climbed to his feet. The room began to swim. He squatted down for a moment and was violently sick. Struggling back on his feet he edged forward until he felt the wall. It took him a few seconds to find the light switch. He clicked it on.

At first he didn’t see Sveta, but then at the end of the hallway, jutting out through the half-open living room doorway, he noticed her feet twisted at an awkward angle, one shoe partially detached hanging by a strap twisted round her ankle. Misha struggled along the hallway using the wall as a prop and pushed open the door. Sveta looked up at him with blank unseeing eyes, her neck terribly twisted.

The living room had been ransacked. Drawers lay empty and upended, contents strewn across the floor, the bookcase emptied a brand new computer he had brought home to experiment with, missing. The bedrooms and kitchen were more of the same. Even the contents of the freezer had been emptied onto the kitchen floor.

Misha stopped, walked back into the living room and looked at the sofa. It was on its side. The photographs… He ripped off what remained of the hessian underside of the sofa and came up empty-handed. He searched again, this time checking the floor in case the envelope had fallen out inadvertently or been abandoned. Nothing… they were gone.

Chapter 15

‘Am I completely surrounded by idiots?’ spat out Konstantin. He peered closely at the four black-and-white photographs: two men standing by a waterway, the prints heavily fogged, it was impossible to make out any discerning features. He couldn’t imagine they would be of use to anyone. ‘At least we have the photos, if not the negatives,’ he added, somewhat placated. Maybe the KGB would get off his back now. He looked at the glass-domed clock on the mantelpiece of his study – a quarter past one in the morning. Bazhukov hovered apprehensively in front of him.

‘Who was it?’

‘Erik Fyodorvich Harkov.’

Konstantin shrugged; he didn’t recognise the name.

‘He’s not one of our crew, hangs out with Stef. A break-in merchant… I thought this was going to be straightforward.’

Konstantin let out a guffaw. ‘We have a dead prostitute, a man assaulted, a flat trashed and the police involved. It’s hard to see how it could be more complicated. You will have to deal with Harkov. We can’t have Mikhail Dimitrivich, the police, or anyone else tracing him back to us.’

Bazhukov nodded.

Why couldn’t the KGB take care of its own affairs? Why involve him? He wondered why with all their resources they had never managed to find these photos before.

‘Where did he find them?’

‘Inside the base lining of the sofa.’

Konstantin wondered if Mikhail knew why these photos were so important.

There was a knock. Viktoriya appeared in the doorway, her hair dishevelled from being in bed.

‘I heard voices,’ said Viktoriya, her voice throaty from sleep. Her eyes went to the photographs in his hands. He replaced them on his desk, face downward.

‘Misha is being questioned at the police station on Liteyny Prospect. Apparently some scuffle at his apartment, and that girl we saw with him is dead… He’s fine, apparently a little concussed… I would have told you later.’

Viktoriya frowned uncomprehendingly, shaking off her slumber.

‘Misha wouldn’t have anything to do with that.’

Konstantin felt a stab of jealousy. Why did she always defend him?

‘I’m sure it’s just a formality. His apartment was turned over…’

He could see her hesitating, undecided as to what to do. ‘Call him tomorrow from here or your apartment. I’ll have one of my men drop you off early if that’s what you want. Let’s go back to bed. I’m sure Mikhail will not be up to much tonight.’

She relaxed a little. ‘You’re probably right. Yes, if someone could drop me back early that would be good.’

Konstantin gave a silent gesture of dismissal to Bazhukov. Konstantin slid his hands inside her silk robe and followed the curve of her stomach. She moved closer to him and kissed him on the mouth.

Konstantin looked into her eyes and not for the first time that night felt himself aroused.

Chapter 16

‘Erik Harkov.’ Ivan said when Misha finally emerged from the police station.

‘Who?’

‘The man who did this… How’s the head?’

Misha reached up and touched the clean dressing; his head still throbbed.

‘Fine… How do you know it’s him?’

‘I had you followed. Rodion recognised him leaving your building. He’s a petty criminal, used to hang out on the islands.’

‘I thought I said I didn’t want any protection.’

‘God keeps them safe who keep themselves safe. Besides, anything happens to you and we are all in trouble.’

Misha looked at his watch – two fifteen in the morning. He had been questioned for over two hours. The police had emptied the entire contents of Sveta’s handbag on the table in front of him and rummaged through its contents: two hundred dollars, three condoms, a make-up bag, fifty roubles and a business card for the Angels escort agency. It was clear what she did. Had there been some dispute over money, a service he had demanded that she hadn’t been prepared to provide? What and trash his apartment into the bargain? he had replied. He’d been attacked and had no idea why. At least, not one he would share with them.

‘Where does this Harkov live now?’ asked Misha.

‘Fifteen Sovetskaya.’

‘That was quick.’

‘Friends in high places…’

He pointed at the Lada parked on the corner. Misha could see Nestor at the wheel and Rodion sat beside him gesturing with a lighted cigarette. Life going on, he thought. Anger welled up in him for the girl who had been killed. She was no innocent but she hadn’t deserved such a fate.

Sovetskaya was a sixties’ concrete apartment block in the east of the city. Misha climbed out the rear of the car and took the beany out of his coat pocket and pulled it down gently over his bruised ear and dressing. Nearby a dog nosed rubbish by an open bin. It stopped and watched a man enter the building opposite before resuming its business. The dull thud of a door closing echoed down the street.

‘This is it,’ said Ivan pointing at a building with an outsized ‘15’ painted above the main entrance.

Here and there, lights burned in windows; an old lady on the second floor looked down at them.

‘Nestor, you take the rear,’ ordered Ivan.

The stench of urine overwhelmed them when they entered by the main entrance.

‘Rodion, you wait here,’ said Ivan. Rodion held up a scarf to his face.

‘Thanks, boss.’

Misha followed Ivan up the concrete stairwell, suddenly conscious that the shoulder of his jacket was covered in dried blood. They stopped for a moment before moving on to the next floor. A black shape scurried by, glancing his foot. Involuntarily, Misha kicked out and caught the tip of its thin tail with his boot.

On the fourth floor a flickering fluorescent light illuminated the plastic number ‘25’. Ivan pressed the doorbell. A grinding sound escaped from the mechanism. A door opened three doors down. A woman peered out before closing it again quickly.

Misha put his eye to the small square frosted-glass door panel of number twenty-five and banged the door loudly.

‘Who is it?’ It was a woman’s voice, high and anxious.

‘Ivan Antonovich Pralnikov and Mikhail Dimitrivich Revnik,’ Misha said, trying to reassure her. ‘We’ve come to ask you some questions about Erik Fyodorvich.’

‘I’ve already spoken with the police,’ she answered, making no move to let them in. Misha looked at Ivan. There was no way the police could have found out about Harkov.

‘I doubt they were the police…’ There was no response. Misha sensed her thinking on the other side of the door, her hand resting on the catch, trying to decide. ‘Look, if those people get to your partner first… well, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.’

For a moment Misha thought they might have to put their shoulders to the door and force it open, but the rattle of a security chain being unhooked and bolts being slid back signalled otherwise. The door swung open and a short young woman with mousy hair in her early thirties stepped back to allow them in. She directed them into a small living room furnished with a fading brown tweed sofa, a coffee table and small plastic-topped dining table with two pine chairs. The three of them pretty much filled the space.

‘Thank you,’ said Misha, appreciating that the presence of two men in such close quarters must be intimidating. ‘We are trying to locate Erik,’ he went on. ‘This is his address?’

She nodded.

‘I don’t know where he is though,’ she said. ‘I’ve only known him a few months.’

‘Is he from Leningrad?’ asked Misha.

‘Kalinin, I think, although he never calls or has any calls from family there… I shouldn’t be talking to you really.’

‘Have you any idea where he might be?’ said Ivan.

‘No, he pretty much keeps himself to himself,’ she said, pulling her dressing gown tight around her. She looked exhausted.

‘Where did you meet?’ Misha asked.

‘At the Imperial on Kirpichny. It’s a nightclub. He promised we would be moving to a new apartment … That doesn’t look like it will be happening any time soon now.’

Misha felt sorry for her. He guessed she had no part in this but had been caught up in it anyway.

They fell silent. Misha looked around the room. On the coffee table, next to a half-empty cup of cold tea, stood a photograph in a metal frame of three people standing in front of a fountain smiling broadly at the camera. Ivan recognised the girlfriend immediately, looking a lot happier than she did at that moment, with two men standing either side of her. The girlfriend caught him looking at the photo and picked it up.

‘This is Erik,’ she said, pointing at the man on the right.

‘And who is this?’ said Ivan, indicating the other man.

‘Stef Baturin, a friend of his, someone he used to work with years ago. We met him one Sunday afternoon for coffee. He lives somewhere in Oktabrsky… more than that I don’t know. Wait a minute. I might have his telephone number, I wrote it down… in my diary I think. He had just moved, and I was the only one with pen and paper at the time.’

The young woman rearranged her dressing gown.

‘Wait here,’ she said, and disappeared from the living room. She returned a few moments later with her handbag. From inside she pulled out a small diary and began leafing through it; recognising an entry, she paused.

‘Here you are. This is him, the man in the photo.’ She read out his telephone number. Ivan took it down.

‘And you think he lives in Oktabrsky district?’ he asked her again for confirmation. She nodded.

‘Look, here is my number. If you think of anything else, let me know… and thank you,’ Misha said sympathetically. For a moment he thought she might cry.

‘We need to find a phone box,’ Ivan said once back in the car. They found one after a couple of blocks. Ivan jumped out of the car. Misha checked his watch – three fifteen in the morning. Rodion lit another cigarette and took a long drag. Misha’s head had at last stopped throbbing. What he really needed now was a strong black coffee – not the best for concussion, he knew. Ivan climbed back into the car.

‘Thirty-three Fonarny pereulok, flat seventeen. It’s registered to a Stef Baturin, mechanic… no previous record for subversive activity,’ Ivan informed him for good measure.

They crossed the frozen Fontanka and followed the embankment. Five minutes later, they pulled up a couple of blocks down from Baturin’s apartment building.

Ignoring the lift, Misha took the stairwell with Ivan. At the third floor, bent over with his hands resting on his knees, Misha signalled Ivan to stop while he caught his breath. Seventeen was only two doors from the stairwell. This time they were going to be less polite.

Ivan handed Misha an automatic and released the safety catch on his own.

‘You remember how to use this?’ said Ivan, a faint smile on his lips.

Misha nodded. After two years in Afghanistan it felt almost second nature. He put his ear to the solid door. Inside he could hear muffled voices arguing in a panicky staccato. Ivan nodded at him. In unison they took one step back and rammed the door with their shoulders. Three hundred and eighty pounds of bone, flesh and muscle tore the inside lock from its fixture, snapping the door chain in two.

The two of them all but fell into the unlit apartment. Ivan found the light switch first as Misha darted into the living room… nothing. By the time he turned around, Ivan was already pushing a man, dressed in a scruffy T-shirt and boxer shorts, into the living room. He was Harkov’s friend from the photo.

‘So where’s your friend? We haven’t time to be nice,’ Ivan said threateningly.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about? Who sent you?’ he said breathlessly.

‘The good guys.’ Ivan slapped him hard around the face. ‘Where is Harkov?’ Before he had time to respond, Baturin’s eyes gave the answer away.

‘The fire escape!’ shouted Ivan. ‘Move from here or make a call, you’re dead, is that clear?’ Ivan swept the side of his Markov across the top of Baturin’s head, knocking him to the floor.

The door to the fire escape from the living room was unlocked. Harkov could have only gone two ways: up or down. Misha shouted down to Rodion, and with Ivan right behind him he took the fire escape to the roof, covering the three short flights in less than twenty seconds. Unexpectedly, Misha discovered his second wind.

At first they didn’t see him. Misha and Ivan stood stock-still searching among the TV aerials and electrical service boxes that peppered the flat roof. Ivan waved his gun in the direction of a large water tank. Misha went one way and Ivan another. The sudden crunching of shoes on asphalt alerted them that Harkov had broken cover. He dashed from behind the tank and sprinted across the rooftop to a doorway giving onto the internal stairwell. Barely missing a step, Harkov disappeared into the building. He was faster than they would have credited and kept just one flight ahead as they hurtled towards the downstairs lobby.

At the third floor a figure stepped forward from an apartment doorway. A gun exploded. Misha dropped to one knee and shot Baturin in the chest. Ivan was already past him. He could hear him pounding down the stairs.

Jumping over Baturin’s lifeless body, Misha raced after Ivan and the echo of descending footsteps. The thud of a heavy door being shoved open and then a second told him he had escaped onto the street. Misha skidded into the entrance hall, ran past a dazed Rodion, prostrate on the hallway floor, and punched open the half-open plate glass door. East down Fonarny, Misha spotted Ivan in close pursuit of a clearly flagging Harkov.

Misha saw the flash of the car’s headlights first. A black Volga, its windows down, lurched from the kerb, U-turned and, fighting to find traction, slewed past him in the direction of the two runners. Ivan turned at the sound of spinning tyres and threw himself to the ground as the flash of two AK47s ruptured the night in an ear-splitting staccato. Harkov’s last expression was one of terror and disbelief. The gunfire stopped as abruptly as it had started. Misha stood there, frozen, staring at the receding taillights as they faded into the night.

‘Who was that?’ asked Ivan as Misha helped him to his feet. He looked over at the lifeless body of Harkov.

‘I’m not sure. Looked like one of Kostya’s cars. It was a private Leningrad plate. Can’t be many of those. I’ve memorised the number.’

Chapter 17

Two security guards watched Misha’s car draw up outside Konstantin’s club. It had just turned two in the afternoon. Misha had managed to get a few hours’ sleep at Malaya Morskaya while one of Ivan’s men traced down the car registration plate.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ said Ivan. ‘You know what he is like.’

Misha had to agree that turning up unannounced on Kostya’s doorstep was not necessarily the best plan, but he was not about to duck the fact that Ivan had tied the Harkov murder to one of Kostya’s cars and, by implication, to Sveta’s murder.

‘Just pretend we are at high school… with guns,’ he answered, climbing out.

‘Boris, Pyotr,’ Ivan addressed the guards as they pulled open the door for them and pointed to the back stairs.

Inside, more men, all armed, sat at empty tables; the club did not open for a few hours. One of them stepped in Misha’s way and told Ivan to wait before escorting Misha down the back stairs.

Konstantin was sitting on a sofa at the far end of the room. A dark-haired girl got up and walked past him and out of the door, her deep brown eyes momentarily holding his as she passed him.

‘Misha, you’ve not been here before,’ he said, gesturing him over.

Misha took in the oak-panelled basement room, the large mahogany desk, green leather armchair, the sofa and coffee table, and the wall of books. He was struck by the lack of natural light; only a single ceiling lamp suspended over Kostya’s desk and a table lamp by the sofa provided any illumination.

Konstantin flicked his head in the direction of the man who had escorted him down. The door closed behind him leaving Misha and Kostya alone.

Misha took Konstantin’s desk chair and swivelled it around to face him.

‘With your capacity for maths,’ Misha said, eyeing the books behind Kontantin, ‘I don’t know why you didn’t do something more worthwhile.’

‘Like rocket scientist?’

‘Precisely.’

‘You and I know there is not enough money in it… So what do I owe the honour of this unexpected visit?’ Konstantin was staring at his matted head wound. “A coffee if you want it, but I don’t think that would be very good for concussion.”

“Harkov,” Misha said.

Kostya gave him a blank stare and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Am I supposed to know him?’

‘I was there when your men took him out.’ Misha recited the registration number of the vehicle.

‘Do you think I memorise every registration plate?’

‘Well, take it from me, it’s one of yours.’

‘And if it is, so what? Wasn’t he the guy that killed that hooker-date of yours? Wasn’t that justice?’

‘I’ve never thought of you as big in the justice department… looks more like a failed cover-up and a botched burglary. Harkov worked for you.’

He could see Konstantin struggling to control himself.

‘You really don’t know how lucky you are,’ he spat out. ‘If it wasn’t for me…’ but he didn’t finish.

‘So you stole the photos?’

‘Such as they are. I don’t know what all the fuss is about… but you have rubbed some important people up the wrong way. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.’

‘Who?’

Konstantin shrugged again and rose to his feet.

‘That’s for you to find out. Interview over. And don’t let me find these ugly rumours on the street… or these other people, they will be the least of your problems.’

Chapter 18

The temperature had dropped to minus twenty. Two men seated at the far end of the café, a bottle of vodka between them, watched Viktoriya as she pushed the door shut behind her. Towards the front, a pensioner dressed in a shabby brown coat, still wearing his sable ushanka, its flaps hanging limply round his ears, chatted to an elderly woman.

Viktoriya walked over to the food counter and examined the paltry selection: three unappetising pastries on a chipped green plate, a small stack of hazelnut teacakes dusted in sugar, and a tureen of thin cabbage soup. The serving woman behind the counter, her hair tied up roughly in a bun, wiped her hands down the front of a grimy apron and waited for her to speak.

‘Tea, please.’

Silently, the woman selected a mug and held it under the samovar until it was full.

‘Sugar is extra,’ she said bluntly.

Viktoriya declined, paid her twenty kopeks, and carried it over to a table facing the front window. She took off her fur hat and padded coat and placed them on an empty chair where she could see them.

A solitary photograph of the previous general secretary, a stern looking Chernenko sporting thick snow-white hair, a blue jacket and a medal pinned to his chest, stared down at her. The glass sparkled in its glossy black frame and round it hung a red-and-silver garland. Viktoriya studied the woman behind the counter again and tried to guess her age: late fifties, early sixties, born in the twenties, old enough to have experienced the siege as a young girl. How different their lives had been. All that sacrifice, and what had it brought her… communist Utopia? She thought of her last visit to Milan. Maybe ignorance was bliss… or at least less bewildering. The portrait seemed ridiculous to her now.

She looked at the wall clock, its second hand frozen at thirty-two; the effort of its upward journey had clearly proved too much: three forty, ten minutes late. Suddenly anxious that this should be over, she fought the desire to get up and walk out. She had no desire to meet her father, even after so many years. His drunken binges had made her and her mother’s existence a living nightmare. She remembered the feeling of coming home from school on an afternoon when he wasn’t working and the feeling of apprehension as she turned the key in the door. How often had she invited herself round to Agnessa or Misha to put off that moment? Agnessa knew about her father – they lived on each other’s doorsteps – but she had never told Misha, she was not sure why, but thinking on it now she was certain he had known or suspected… the absence of return invites, his mother always so welcoming, always asking after her mother, never her father. It wasn’t such a big neighbourhood… and that final night, when he had taken the poker to her mother in one of his blind rages. She had fought it from him and cracked him over the skull. That had been the last time she had seen him. He was gone when she had returned from Agnessa’s the next morning.

The sound of the café door opening made her turn. A tall figure, a scarf wrapped tightly across his face, stepped into the café and quickly closed the door behind him. He turned looking for someone. His eyes settled on her. Still standing by the door, he pulled off his beanie and scarf and shot her a tight-lipped smile. The serving woman attempted to tidy her hair and poured her father a steaming hot mug of tea without him having to ask. How many years had it been since she had last seen him? Nine, ten, more…?

From where she was sitting he didn’t seem to have changed. He still had the same thick thatch of fair hair swept back off his forehead and was as lean and sinewy as he had always been. He sat down opposite her. She was glad he didn’t attempt to touch her.

‘Been waiting long?’ he asked, clearly not intent on making an apology.

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘You were always one for being on time, the reliable one.’

He raised the mug of tea to his lips and fixed his icy-blue eyes on her as he took a sip and blew the steam in her direction. ‘You’ve turned into a real beauty. I always thought you would, just like your mother.’

Growing up, most people had commented on how she looked like him, not her mother. She didn’t think that had changed. Close up now, she could see the signs of ageing, weathered skin from working years outdoors and the all too familiar signs of too much vodka: thread veins and reddened skin.

‘How is your mother?’

‘She is fine,’ she said – all the better for not seeing you, she wanted to say.

‘Leningrad Freight? Hear you’re quite the director’s pet… big operation.’

She felt herself blush.

‘I’m not here to talk about work.’ From her handbag she extracted a small unsealed brown envelope and slid it across the table to him. ‘Five hundred roubles – that’s what you asked for. You don’t have to pay me back; just don’t bother my mother – or me – again.’

He flicked through the notes without taking them out and, satisfied, tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat.

‘From what I hear, you’re doing pretty well there, got a good little business running on the side with that old school friend of yours – what’s his name… Konstantin Ivanivich. He was always a nasty piece of work.’

Unlike you, she didn’t say.

She could sense where this one-sided conversation was going. ‘You’d be best not to start bandying his name around,’ she darted back coldly.

‘Pouf… I’m not worried about that young man.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve got a job back down at the docks… stopped drinking, you know.’

How many times had she heard that in the past?

‘So I heard.’

‘The place I’m staying at is pretty crappy though. It’s not like the place you have. It’s over on Trefoleva, I share it with a family of four… pretty wife though.’

How did he know where she lived? Had he been following her around? She pushed back the chair to leave.

‘One minute,’ he said, gesturing her to sit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an official-looking document. It was an old internal passport, badly frayed at the edges. She frowned uncomprehendingly. He flipped open the photo page. It took a second for her to register. Staring up at her was the face of a man she would never forget: Pavel Pytorvich Antyuhin.

‘How did you get this?’ she hissed angrily. She reached out to grab it but his hand got there first. He slipped it back safely into his pocket.

‘Wouldn’t be good for this to fall into the wrong hands, have people asking questions… they never did find the killer – nasty business.’

Outraged, she started to say something and stopped herself. She wasn’t about to confirm what he did or didn’t know.

‘What is it you want?’ she said coldly.

‘More of what you just gave me… somewhere acceptable to stay. I know you can afford it. It doesn’t have to be as nice as your place, one bedroom would do fine… after all, I am your father.’

Chapter 19

^MILAN

Misha handed Ilaria a small key he’d taped under the filing cabinet in her office. She looked surprised.

‘Put this somewhere safe. Maybe give it to a friend.’

Misha wondered whether he should be giving it her at all. Hadn’t somebody already died in search of what the safe deposit box contained? But this was Italy, not Russia, he reminded himself. Yesterday, locked in Ilaria’s office, he had pored over four blow-up black-and-white photos with renewed interest: two men – he guessed early forties, similar height, five foot ten, maybe eleven, dark raincoats, one with thick dark spectacles – half turned towards the Neva. The man on the left – the one without glasses – had extended his arm just past his bodyline, his palm open as if denying some point the other was making. Was it ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t care’? The last shot was of them facing the camera and the man with the spectacles pointing a finger at him. He was shouting: ‘Get him!’ Misha could still hear his voice.

He thought back to that April morning ten years ago. It had been raining, he remembered. Cloud had malingered heavily over the city for days, casting a grey oppressive pall over the Neva, turning it a deep black. He had just crossed the Lomonosova Bridge on his way to Apraksin Market, when a man blocked his way. He was taller than Misha’s then five foot ten, wiry, intense. He had flashed him some official-looking ID but it was too quick for him to take in beyond a photograph, the hammer and sickle. He waved him towards a café only a few metres away. Misha had held his ground at first as people streamed past them on either side.

‘Just a coffee and a chat. I have something that might interest you.’

Curiosity had eventually got the better of him. It didn’t look as though whoever-he-was would take no for an answer either.

‘What would you like?’ the man had asked once inside the café. Misha could remember precisely what he had chosen: sweet tea and honey cake. The waitress had somehow divined his new benefactor’s status – perhaps it was the highly polished black shoes or a raincoat that fitted him better than the average raincoat fitted an average citizen, or was it simply his air of confidence or sense of underlying menace? ‘Yes comrade,’ was all she said after scribbling down their order and hurrying back to the serving counter. They had sat there in silence and waited. The waitress returned shortly, deposited the contents of her tray and retired safely out of earshot.

‘I am told that you are a bit of a chancer around here, up for things?’

Misha shrugged noncommittally, wondering who he was and how he had come by that information.

‘If you are interested, I might have a small job for you, something suited to your talents.’

Misha had remained silent.

‘There’s a meeting taking place, Saturday morning, eleven o’clock, two men… Can you use a camera?’

Misha had nodded. Back home he had an album packed with photos, mostly friends larking around. A third-hand Zenith had been a present from his mother for his fifteenth name day.

‘I need someone to get close, close enough to get a clear shot, and you fit the bill.’

Misha had asked if he was to do it how he would identify them, and he had been shown a photograph of a man wearing heavily rimmed spectacles and a fedora hat. He had known better than to ask who he was or why he wanted a photo of him.

‘Fifty roubles, take it or leave it,’ the man had said bluntly.

Misha stared again at the photo until his anonymous host had leaned across the table and plucked it out of his hand.

‘Eighty,’ Misha had countered, as the man placed it back in his wallet.

‘Seventy.’

He had nodded his assent, not quite believing his luck. It was more than his mother earned in a month. Misha remembered the man pulling a small camera out of his raincoat pocket and handing it to him.

‘Just point and shoot. And don’t worry about finding me. I’ll find you.’

But, of course, ten years later he still hadn’t. Things had not gone as intended, but at least he had had the foresight to put a backup plan in place; when his pursuers had searched him they had come away empty-handed.

‘Can I ask whose those men are?’ said Ilaria, staring over his shoulder.

He had asked himself the same question for years. ‘I wish I knew.’

‘Why have you held onto them?’

Because someone wants them badly enough, he thought, enough to have ransacked his place, enough to kill for. Months before, Misha had had Ilaria’s photographer friend blur a set of prints to abstraction. Whoever had them now, he hoped, would assume he had nothing of value and leave him alone.

‘You never know when something might be useful,’ he said, ‘particularly in Russia.’

From the look on her face he sensed she was disappointed he had not told her more.

‘Look, Ilaria, I’m sorry, but I suspect the less you know about these photos the better. The fact is I don’t really know any more than you do. You’ve looked at them – two men standing by the Neva on a wet April morning… period. But whoever they are, or whoever they are involved with, ten years later they are suddenly important again.’

‘What’s changed?’ she said, softening.

‘That’s it… I can’t figure it out… the Soviet Union, Russia, everything is changing, falling apart… why now… the renewed interest… how valuable can a ten-year-old photo be?’

She stared at him for a moment.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,’ she said, rolling the key between her fingers.

‘I think we should go back to work. Can you ask one of the girls to go to Carlo’s and fetch me a cappuccino? I want to talk with you about the oil business.’

Chapter 20

^LENINGRAD

Viktoriya ran a finger over the faint scar under her right eye and searched for her reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. She reached forward and with the palm of her hand cleared a small patch. She stood there for a moment just staring into her own eyes, her father’s eyes, trying in some way to see into herself, beyond the superficial exterior. She knew she was beautiful, but that same beauty had got her into trouble, had drawn her attacker too. Maybe it was impossible to see oneself as someone else might. She wondered how Kostya viewed her; time had not made him any more transparent. Was she just the trophy girlfriend – replaceable, expendable? He never shared his fears with her or discussed his business interests… not in any meaningful way. They might spend a night together and the next day she would receive a call from him; he would be in Moscow, Yekaterinburg, Novgorod, or some other place, and would not have mentioned anything about it to her the night before. She had given up asking why. She did not want some veiled excuse, or, worse, be lied to. Was there another woman? She never had a sense of that. Did he have sex with other women? It was hard to believe he didn’t. In the sort of places he frequented, he had only to point. Misha was right, of course. You didn’t acquire the cars, the property and the standard of living Konstantin enjoyed just from owning nightclubs. Her life felt in limbo, unresolved, uncertain.

Through the half-closed door, Viktoriya heard the phone ringing in her bedroom. It was Misha.

‘I thought you were in Milan,’ she said, pleased to hear his voice.

‘I was. I’m at Pulkova. I landed fifteen minutes ago.’

She looked at her bedside clock; it read 8:10 a.m.

‘How about I pick you up in an hour? I need to talk to you about something.’

Fifty minutes later, the concierge called, a Mikhail Dimitrivich was waiting for her in the lobby. He looked a lot better than the last time she had seen him. The bandage was gone and he was bubbling with supressed energy. Outside, three cars lay parked up against the kerb. Ivan and four men with Kalashnikovs covered the space between the lobby entrance and the street.

‘Vika!’ Misha kissed her on both cheeks, holding her by the shoulders. He looked at her intently, as though he hadn’t seen her in years. Did he see something in her that she had been unable to find earlier?

‘You look great, Vika.’

He kissed her again and took a deep breath.

‘Givenchy,’ she said, amused, before he asked. ‘You gave it to me. You had a consignment of it delivered to the warehouse, I seem to remember.’

Misha raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it was a good choice.’

As they drove across the city to Malaya Morskaya, chelnoki traders standing alone or in small groups plied their wares on street corners. Here and there, queues were forming; on the Moika embankment, Viktoriya saw women and men stoically wait their turn at a vegetable stall. She thought back to the last time she and her director had visited the central food distribution centre in Leningrad – an oxymoron in itself – how long ago could it have been? A month, six weeks? She remembered the smell of rotting food and rats the size of cats.

‘Any more on your break-in and that unfortunate girl?’

Misha shook his head, but she sensed he was not telling her everything; Ivan had been much the same, despite her prodding. And why had Misha flown to Italy so soon after the incident? She didn’t believe it was all about business.

They pulled up at the solid steel gate that separated the street from the rear of the building. An armed guard turned to a speakerphone and the heavy doors moved back electronically. Three cars lay on the far side of the oval courtyard, a truck parked at the warehouse entrance. Viktoriya had not been to his office for several weeks; each time she visited it had morphed into something different.

On the first floor a young model showed off a new collection to a group of buyers. In an adjacent room three men sat at desks busily engrossed in telephone conversation. The older of them waved at Misha and replaced his receiver.

‘Grigory Vasiliev,’ he said, introducing himself. Viktoriya took in the heavily set man, his jowly face and alert eyes.

‘Meet our new currency and – soon to be – commodity trading floor,’ said Misha. She looked at him quizzically.

‘Roubles for US dollars, yen, Deutschmarks… it’s just another trade when it comes to it.’

‘Perhaps a bit more complicated than that,’ countered Grigory, clearly not wanting to be downgraded.

Misha ushered her to a meeting room on the first floor overlooking the courtyard to the rear. A van that hadn’t been there when they arrived had pulled in close by the warehouse door. The movement of an armed man on the rooftop caught her attention. She counted at least ten men in the yard. What had happened to the man who never bothered with security? Two men were busy hauling boxes from the rear of the vehicle into the warehouse. The driver skirted round the side of the vehicle trying to get a look in. A security guard blocked his way and pushed him back with the barrel of his gun. She wondered what the van contained that was so valuable. When she turned around she found Misha quietly studying her, a look of faint amusement on his face.

‘So what is this new idea?’ she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He was clearly inured of her cynicism.

‘It’s not so new. I’ve been thinking about it for a while… well, a couple of weeks at least. It was you who planted the seed.’

‘Well it can’t be all bad then,’ she said, sitting up straighter.

‘I’m going to register one of these new cooperatives tomorrow – you know, private companies by another name. The city gorkom have been pushing me to do something; those communists are not so dumb that they can’t smell an opportunity. It’s the how that baffles them. Nothing is for free; they’ll want their cut, of course.’

‘To do what precisely,’ she asked, intrigued.

‘Trade in diesel to start… you’ve told me Leningrad Freight runs half-empty trucks all over the country to meet some ridiculous quota that has nothing to do with efficiency. Am I right?’

‘Yes.’ She had been complaining about it since she joined.

‘Well no one cares about quotas anymore. Tell your director boss that you are going on a maximum economy drive. I want Leningrad Freight to transfer its surplus diesel to our new cooperative enterprise… at cost.’

Viktoriya could see where this was going.

‘At the state subsidised price, which is nowhere near the market price?’ she filled in.

‘Precisely, and we ship it over the border at Smolensk where we sell it for quadruple what we pay for it… in hard currency, US dollars. No loss to Leningrad Freight – they charge us what it cost them. We repay them in six months, a year with depreciating roubles. And the second phase… you start requisitioning fuel in much greater quantity than you use now and pass it through.’

‘And if the director won’t cooperate…?’

‘…the gorkom will lean on him. He’ll have nothing to complain about anyway. He’ll be looked after, as he always has been. And before you say anything, I’m going to make you a significant shareholder in the new cooperative… I couldn’t do this without you, Vika.’

Misha got up from the table and walked over to the window. From where she was sitting she could see another van had taken the place of the previous one, and the same unloading process was underway.

‘Come,’ he said firmly as if he had suddenly made up his mind about something.

Misha led her downstairs to the ground floor. For an instant she thought he was going to give her another guided tour of the warehouse and show her his latest favourite thing, but instead he pointed to another flight of stairs she hadn’t noticed before. She followed him down.

Misha had not said a word since leaving the meeting room. As they stepped around the last curve of the newly constructed concrete stairwell, she was totally unprepared for what she saw next. She let out a gasp. A large open vault door, perhaps six feet in diameter, set in the middle of a recently cast grey concrete wall, stretched floor to ceiling, from one side of the building to the other.

‘A Mosler,’ Misha said proudly, pointing at the name engraved on the vault door. ‘One of these even survived the blast at Hiroshima.’

A man pushing a trolley with two of the boxes she had seen being taken out of the van exited the service lift and steered past them and the two armed guards at the strong room door.

‘After you.’ Misha gestured with his hand, a huge grin on his face.

She stepped inside the steel and concrete sarcophagus; it was a step up from the old lock-up she remembered on the English Embankment. The intensity of the light inside was almost painful. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. She blinked hard, not believing what she was seeing. In a space as large as the warehouse above, piles of dollars lay on open shelves wrapped tightly in clear polythene. The man with the trolley emptied a box of dollars onto a large counting table, where two men sorted through mixed denominations.

Misha took one of the packets off a shelf and threw it to her. She caught it.

‘Ten thousand US dollars. Hold on to that; it will help oil the wheels of our new venture.’

She was dumbfounded.

‘It’s not all mine… I hold some for other people. I’m officially a bank now – Moika Bank… Grigory’s idea.’

She looked around the room again, trying to calculate how much might be sitting there.

‘There must be what… fifty million here?’ she guessed wildly.

‘Not even close! Let’s walk over here.’

Misha led her to the back of the vault and a small safe embedded in the concrete wall. Misha spun the dial lock with his fingers.

‘Russian dolls,’ she said.

‘Yes, a safe within a safe. Ivan, Grigory and I have the code for the main vault but this one is just you and me, Vika.’

She stood there about to ask what it contained and the combination number, but he had already turned his back on her and was halfway back to the steel door.

Chapter 21

^SMOLENSK

Misha rose from the table. He was freezing. A lone paraffin heater struggled vainly to cast off the winter chill gripping the small barrack meeting room and the Arctic air that forced its way past the newspaper stuffed into the gap between the rusting metal window frame and the sill itself. The state of decay only seemed to reinforce the low mood that had set in when he and Viktoriya had landed at Smolensk an hour earlier. Like some ghostly armada, row upon row of rotting aircraft fuselages lined the taxiways and airfield, engines stripped and cavities boarded over, standing there useless, abandoned and desolate, somehow a symbol of what the Soviet Union was or had become. Misha wondered how long it would be before the whole edifice collapsed and whether he would be dragged down with it.

Outside, a soldier shouted something towards the sentry box. In the near distance, snow-capped domes cast themselves against a deepening grey sky and blue and brown high rises. The Dnieper eased its way lugubriously towards them.

‘I think I’m going to die of cold,’ Viktoriya said, hugging herself for warmth. ‘How long do you think he will keep us waiting?’

‘We’re early,’ he reminded her.

Outside, the crunching of tyres alerted them to a jeep pulling up in front of their hut. A young man in his early thirties wearing a padded khaki winter Afghanka and a grey fish fur ushanka climbed out and bounded up the narrow cindered path towards their hut. Misha wondered if he had been sent by the colonel to collect them.

‘I see they’ve put you in the warmest room,’ he said with a wide grin on his face. He was tall, perhaps six foot two, broad-shouldered with thick dark eyebrows and close-cropped black hair. His blue eyes darted between him and Viktoriya. The two red stripes and three gold stars on his chest gave him away.

‘Colonel Marov?’ Misha said, extending his hand.

The young colonel pulled off his gloves and shook hands.

‘I think we should go somewhere a bit more comfortable, certainly somewhere warmer. The city is only a few minutes away. I know a restaurant; the food’s passable, not great… if you haven’t eaten lunch yet?’

‘That would be fantastic,’ said Viktoriya with obvious relief. The colonel’s natural exuberance had already begun to snap them out of their low mood.

The restaurant was warm, hot even. They peeled off their winter coats and hung them over their chairs. A young waitress, recognising the colonel, made a beeline for them.

‘Sausage and cabbage with rye bread or hot cheese pasties today, Colonel.’

‘Like the rest of the week, Alisochka.’

‘The sausage is new, sir.’

Misha noticed that the colonel had used her diminutive name. Alisochka’s eyes hardly left Marov’s.

‘Have you seen the freighter cab yet?’ the colonel asked once they had made their choice. ‘Not that there is much that can be done with it… spare parts, perhaps.’

On arrival they had been directed to the burnt and bullet-ridden Kamaz in the military vehicle park close to the gate. It was a wonder anyone had survived, Misha thought.

Viktoriya shook her head. ‘I doubt even that. Can you dispose of it?’

He nodded.

‘You were in the forces?’ he said, turning to Misha.

‘Conscript, rose to the rank of corporal, two years in Afghanistan, 1981 to 1983, more of a fixer than a fighter.’ Misha reflected on how he had become a sort of unofficial quartermaster with generally more success than the official version at procuring anything from cigarettes to mortars.

‘Well, fixing is often a lot more useful, and now… still the fixer?’

‘Colonel, you probably have a better idea about what I do than I do.’

There seemed little point in beating about the bush. After all, how many Leningrad freighters had the colonel seen carrying merchandise across the border from Western Europe?

‘The last time I looked at a manifest it was computers, fashion, perfume, CDs, players, TVs… and oh, brandy,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, a faint crease of amusement on his face.

The door opened, and a man walked in and took a table in the far corner of the room.

‘How many men under your command, Colonel?’ Viktoriya asked. ‘You have quite a border to patrol.’

‘Twenty thousand regulars and conscripts,’ he replied, as though it were nothing in itself. The colonel turned and looked at the man who had just walked in. He was reading a newspaper, a steaming hot cup of tea in front of him.

He turned back to address Viktoriya.

‘And you are a friend of Konstantin Ivanivich Stolin?’

Viktoriya blushed, taken by surprise, not knowing quite how to respond. He had clearly done his homework.

‘The three of us all went to school together,’ Misha cut in. He’s the main reason I ship my stuff through Smolensk. He and the local military have Leningrad pretty much under siege when it comes to freight: land, sea or air. You, on the other hand, seem more reasonable, Colonel.’

Misha noticed that the man in the corner had not turned the page of his newspaper.

‘KGB…’ said the colonel. ‘Old habits die hard… at least it keeps them out of trouble.’

‘Are you a security risk?’ Viktoriya half joked.

‘We all are… the question is to whom? There are so many opposing views and factions.’

‘And which side of the debate are you on?’ Viktoriya asked, trying to regain the initiative.

‘Progress…’

The colonel looked at his watch. Misha decided it was time to come to the point. He wished he had more time to get to know him but his gut feeling told him that the colonel was someone they could trust. He hadn’t robbed them thus far.

‘I think we are on the same side, Colonel. Progress comes in many forms. I provide people what they want… and make a profit – still a dirty word in Russia – doing it. And there are, of course, plenty of people who try and stand in my way. I am sure this is not foreign to you.’

The colonel did not reply but continued listening.

‘I am starting a new venture. It has some small but important political backing in Leningrad, buying diesel and oil from state companies and shipping it across the border.’

‘At Smolensk.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And you want my support.’

‘Yes.’

‘And for me?’

‘A stake in the business, a significant stake. I need partners, long-term partners with the same interests. There are going to be plenty of opportunities out there. It strikes me that you are just the sort of person we need… progressive, by your own admission – not like Vdovin in Leningrad – of a similar age to us, plenty of contacts, and you can organise… like Viktoriya here. I could go on. Weren’t you strategic command in Afghanistan?’

‘Yes.’

‘Graduated top at the General Staff Academy, a rising star until your reformist views had you consigned here. Somehow I don’t think you are the sort of person who will be held back long, and in the meantime… this is an opportunity – dare I say historic – to make serious money. The smart communists already have a sniff of it, but years of doing what they are told has deadened their senses. The world belongs to our generation now, at least Russia…’

The colonel nodded, stood up abruptly and held out his hand. ‘Let me think on it. I have to take my minder for a walk now. It’s been a pleasure meeting you both.’

And with that, he and the man in the corner were gone.