Stroika

Chapter 22

^{LENINGRAD NIGHTCLUB}

General Vdovin leaned forward and helped himself to a Cohiba from the lacquered box sitting on Konstantin’s desk. Dance music interspersed with loud cheering and clapping filtered from the club floor above. Someone wolf-whistled, joined by several others.

‘Busy night?’ he asked in between puffs of the aged cigar. ‘This is very good.’ He helped himself to another and put it in his jacket pocket.

‘Help yourself,’ Konstantin said sarcastically.

Despite the millions he had placed in the general’s Zurich bank account, Vdovin still clung to the old dress code: an ill-fitting dark grey double-breasted suit. Konstantin could even picture the store he purchased it from in the GUM arcade opposite the Kremlin, one of those outlets exclusively reserved for party members. It was a joke, ridiculous, that such things were still regarded as a sign of privilege. He wondered which bright bureaucrat years ago had come up with the original design and how many committee meetings he had had to endure while the lapel size and number of cuff buttons were finally determined. Konstantin reached for a cigar himself, and, without lighting it, put it in his mouth.

‘There’s talk of a pull-out,’ said Vdovin.

‘We’ve been here before.’

‘Serious talk… it’s an unpopular war and the new general secretary wants an accord with the Americans. The arms race is beyond the country’s means, he says… not that it has ever bothered any other general secretary that I have known.’

‘And does he have the support to do it.’

‘At the moment… but there is increasing internal opposition… not just with his policy towards the imperialists.’

Imperialists, thought Konstantin, hadn’t the Soviet Union donned that epithet when it invaded Afghanistan? How long ago? Christmas Eve, 1979… at least, the Catholic Christmas Eve when the so-called imperialists were waiting for Santa. Brezhnev should have left well alone, but then again he would have missed a huge business opportunity. The drugs business was booming.

‘And will they continue to support Najibullah?’

The general shrugged.

‘I don’t know, perhaps, but I doubt it will be decisive. The Americans have created a monster in the mujahideen. They will tear the country apart.’

And the price of opium sky will rocket, he thought. If Vdovin was right, the general secretary would indeed prove to be a sore in his side. He would have to renegotiate his supply routes and make friends with a whole new circle of tribal leaders, who might not be quite so well disposed to a Russian.

Above, someone had turned up the music. Konstantin looked at his watch – eleven o’clock. He wondered whether the new girl Bazhukov had hired would be on the floor yet. She had been sitting at the bar when he had entered earlier that evening before the club had opened. For some reason he had found it hard to concentrate on Bazhukov’s daily update and had found himself staring at her across the room. Wearing a T-shirt and stretch jeans, she was tall with alabaster white skin, jet-black hair, and a wide, sensuous mouth. At first she had ignored him, intent on the men checking out the stage floor lighting. Perhaps she had thought him a punter. It was Bazhukov, sensing his distraction, who had finally waved her over.

‘Adriana… meet the boss.’

‘Where are you from?’ he’d asked.

‘Horlivka,’ she had replied in a deep, throaty voice. He didn’t know the place but recognised her Ukrainian accent. She was older than most of the girls at the club; he guessed late twenties, sexier, more mature-looking.

‘First time in Leningrad?’

‘She knows Cezanne’ said Bazhukov, interrupting. She was another Ukrainian, with a reputation for doing a lot of coke.

Half an hour later she had been ushered down to his office by one of the guards. Wordlessly, he had unbuttoned her blouse and slid his hands under her bra, cupping her breasts. She had stood motionless and looked unflinchingly into his eyes as he had caressed her nipples and then pinched them hard. Her eyes had only closed when he found the moist space between her legs and forced her back on the sofa, roughly pulling down on her jeans and taking her.

‘I need a meeting with the KGB chief,’ Konstantin said, snapping back to the present. ‘In fact, the defence minister and KGB.’

Vdovin looked surprised.

‘Isn’t it best to go through me?’ Vdovin said defensively.

‘Here in Leningrad or in Moscow, it doesn’t matter, just fix it up,’ he said, ignoring him. He needed a face-to-face meeting. Go-betweens could only accomplish so much. ‘And what about those photographs, thinking about the KGB?’

‘Bah… much ado about nothing! They’re just a blur. You have to wonder why Revnik kept them at all. My KGB contact seemed satisfied, so you are… we are, off the hook.’

Konstantin felt relieved. It had been more problematic than it should have been but the KGB was off his back and Harkov taken care of.

‘They wanted Revnik dealt with,’ Vdovin added. Konstantin sat up. ‘I told them they were misguided; there was no advantage in it. He’s become too well connected; it would just stir up a hornet’s nest for no good reason. I think they’ve backed off. I told them you wouldn’t have anything to do with it.’

He certainly wasn’t in the mood for bumping off his girlfriend’s best friend – anyway, not before he had a foothold in his flourishing business interest. The rest he would pick up for free, or rather, after a few well-placed inducements.

Vdovin rose heavily from his chair. Stolin pushed a button under his desk. Two girls appeared in the doorway: Adriana, changed into a short black tube dress, and a skinny brunette with flushed cheeks and heavily made-up eyes. They stood there waiting his instructions.

‘Look after the general, make sure he has whatever he wants,’ Konstantin said, addressing the two of them. He was still procuring girls for him, he thought, years later.

‘I’ll be back to you shortly on the other matter… the meeting.’

Bazhukov entered the moment the general left.

‘We may have a problem, boss.’

‘Sit.’ Konstantin pointed at the chair the general had just vacated.

‘There’s a man, claims to be Viktoriya Nikolaevna’s father. One of our men overheard him bragging in a bar. He’s a drunk, hangs around there a lot, and doesn’t seem to work. Has a nice apartment, though, off Makarova, across on Vasilyevsky Island, by all accounts.’

‘And?’

‘Says he has the goods on a mafia boss.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘No.’

Konstantin shook his head, wondering if indeed it was Viktoriya’s father and what it was he could have on him. What teenage misdemeanour that could be so terrible? He laughed dismissively. His recollection of her father was at best vague. But it was odd, if he was who he claimed to be, that Viktoriya had not mentioned him. He remembered the neatly stitched cut she had turned up with that morning at school. She had told the class that she had caught her face on an open cupboard door, but he had guessed there was an alternate explanation.

‘And he hasn’t said anything specific?’ Konstantin prompted.

‘No. He hangs out with the guy that used to work for you years ago – they are drinking partners. I fired him a year or two back.’

‘What was his name,’ Konstantin asked, suddenly alarmed.

‘Just trying to remember… Lev, that was his name… Lev.’

Chapter 23

^LENINGRAD

Viktoriya turned the key in the lock and tentatively gave the door a push. It swung inward into the small hallway. Apprehensive, she stood there steeling the courage to go in.

‘Father,’ she called. There was no response. Her father had telephoned her making one of his usual demands for more money and then not turned up at the café, their usual meeting place. At first she had put it down to his general unreliability; perhaps he had been lying drunk somewhere or had forgotten. But that was two days ago, and she had not heard from him. The woman at the café had not seen him either. If he was ill or in hospital she was sure he would have managed to make a call or had someone do it for him. It was unlike him to drop off the radar quite as he had.

From where she stood on the threshold of the tiny hallway, everything had the appearance of normality. She had only once visited her father’s apartment, and that was the day he moved in; for the most part she had succeeded in keeping her distance.

The door to the living room was closed. Instinctively she sniffed the air – musty, but no obvious smell of rotting food or worse. Bracing herself, fighting the desire to turn and run, she stepped into the hallway and closed the front door quietly behind her. Warily, she opened the living room door. Mayhem confronted her: table and chairs turned over, the sofa and armchair slashed, books strewn across the floor. In the bathroom the panel under the bath had been torn out and the drugs cupboard emptied into the bath. She walked into the bedroom. The bed had been shoved off its base and clothes from a small wooden chest of drawers thrown all about the room. There was no sign of her father. She looked out of the window, trying to gather her thoughts.

Five floors below, cars and bicycles hugged the embankment, an endless stream of traffic making its way homeward. She wondered what had befallen him. Had he got himself into more debt? But then he would have come to her as he was planning to do. Or was this some random burglar chancing his luck at one of the better apartments in town? Her thoughts were interrupted by the click of the front door and someone being shoved roughly into the living room. Quickly, she slid back the mirrored wardrobe door and squatted down inside, leaving it a quarter open. Outside, she could hear whoever it was moving around the apartment. She caught the exasperated sigh of a man. He entered the bedroom breathing heavily. She imagined him looking around the room, at the chaos. At any moment she expected to be discovered, for him to slide open the wardrobe door.

‘So where is it?’ a voice said. ‘Your twenty-four hours is up.’

‘You’ve made a mess of my place. My daughter won’t be best pleased.’ It was her father’s voice, slurred from alcohol.

‘Wasn’t us, it was your mate, Lev; he couldn’t help us either. But he won’t be bothering anyone anymore.’

Viktoriya’s blood ran cold.

‘Where’s the passport,’ asked another familiar voice she could not place.

‘I don’t know. I sold it,’ her father said belligerently.

‘You’ve got five minutes,’ sneered the second man.

Viktoriya knew she would only have seconds before she was discovered. She slid back the wardrobe door and pulled up the sash window a few more inches. Below, perhaps only three feet down, stood a wide ornate plinth stretching right and left to the building’s edge. It looked solid enough. She had no time to weigh up her situation; it just seemed a lot more dangerous inside than out. Easing herself over the windowsill, Viktoriya dropped onto the stone shelf and shuffled sideways away from the window. As long as they didn’t look out, she thought to herself. Heart racing, she edged along the stone ledge towards the neighbouring apartment, leaning in against the wall, her hands flat against the stone, her feet gingerly trying to find a secure purchase. Two feet from the next apartment window, her right foot slipped on loose plaster. Struggling to find her balance, she lunged for the wooden frame and grabbed it. She took two deep breaths, trying not to panic, and looked back at the window she had exited, half expecting a head to appear and spot her. She needed to get off this cliff face and call for help. Edging her way level with the window, with the sill at waist height, Viktoriya looked in on an empty kitchen. There was no way of knowing whether the occupant was in, but staying out here, five floors up, about to be discovered, was not an option either. The window was firmly shut and locked from the inside. Carefully, she tugged off her short leather jacket and placed it against the window. When the next car horn sounded, she drove the jacket through the glass with her elbow. The glass shattered inward. Expecting someone to come rushing in at any moment, she quickly released the inside latch and pulled up the sash window. Fortunately, it gave easily. She slipped in and landed on the kitchen floor feet first and stood stock-still, expecting the door to burst open at any second. She tried to picture the layout of the apartment. If it was the same as her father’s it would give onto a small hall off which the bedroom and living room extended. Carefully opening the kitchen door, she peered out. The flicker and booming sound of a television reached her from the living room. She edged out into the hall and peered through the crack of the door jamb. An old lady with a rug over her legs sat in an old leather armchair staring at a TV screen, a smile on her face. Relieved, Viktoriya opened the apartment door. The corridor was empty. She stepped out, closed the door and rang the bell. There was a pause. She wondered whether the old lady would actually hear it with the TV turned up so loud, but the next second it opened.

‘I’m from the floor above,’ Viktoriya announced. ‘I’ve just moved in. I was having a window frame repaired and the workman managed to knock his bucket of tools off the ledge. It was on a rope. He heard breaking glass; I think it may have been your window.’ It sounded improbably true, she thought.

The old woman looked momentarily confused.

‘Would you mind if I checked; I am very happy to pick up the bill and get a glazier over here straight away? Can I use your phone to call him? Mine’s not working.’

‘I thought it was Mr Ikanov that lived upstairs,’ she said suspiciously, not opening the door further than six inches.

‘He moved out,’ said Viktoriya. She reached into her handbag and handed the woman a business card. Time was running out. This seemed to reassure her.

‘You best come in then,’ she said finally, and opened the door onto the kitchen. The old lady looked through the gaping hole that was once the window.

‘Something seems to have happened,’ she said, pointing outside and at the street below.

‘Let me see,’ said Viktoriya. The old lady pulled back. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement around a motionless body. One or two faces looked upward. Across the street she caught sight of Bazhukov climbing into a car with another man. Bazhukov, why hadn’t she thought of it before – it was his voice. She looked back at the inert crumpled figure and at the familiar dark blue coat that was her father’s. It was all too much to take in. How did Konstantin know about Antyuhin’s passport, if that was indeed what they were looking for? It would only be minutes before the police arrived and worked out from which window her father had fallen. She had to find that ID before they did.

‘I have to be going,’ she announced suddenly, her voice trembling. ‘You have my card. I’m going to send someone round.’

The door to her father’s apartment was closed. She opened it and quickly slipped in. The flat was in even more of a mess than when she had entered only half an hour ago. Bazhukov and his companion had ransacked the place a second time. Maybe he had found what they were after? Where would her father have hid it if it were here? Her eyes darted round the room at the turned-up furniture, broken crockery and ripped-open cushions. Her eyes alighted on an old photo of her mother in a new frame. It struck her as odd, out of keeping. He rarely mentioned her mother. She picked it up and turned it over. The cardboard backing was fixed by three small hinged fasteners. She flipped them sideways and pulled off the cardboard back. The ID card her father had shown her in the café fell to the floor. She picked it up. Why had he not given it to them? But then it was her father she was thinking about, not anybody… maybe he had simply calculated it would end badly either way and decided not to give them the satisfaction – he was bloody-minded enough. Anyway, this was not the time to speculate, she chided herself. She stuffed the card into her pocket and dashed out of the apartment to the lift.

As she stepped out on the ground floor, two stern-faced policemen walked in past her. Viktoriya flagged down a taxi and ordered him to take her to Pravdy. She guessed Kostya would be at his club now.

The taxi driver ogled her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ she snapped.

‘No problem!’ he said gruffly, as though she had misunderstood his prurient attention.

By the time she arrived at his club on Nevsky Prospect it had begun raining. The club doorman rushed towards her with an umbrella and sheltered her inside.

‘Thank you, Erik.’

‘I’ll tell the boss you’re here.’

‘No need.’

The bar was already busy with punters chatting up girls. On a circular stage two girls gyrated to the throb of beat music while men, both single and in small groups, looked on, beer in hand. A third dancer peeled off her top to catcalls from the male audience.

A man stepped in her way. He was a good four inches shorter than her. ‘When are you on?’ he said, raising his voice above the din. A wave of beer breath rolled over her.

‘In your dreams,’ she answered, stepping around him.

Viktoriya headed to the stairwell at the back of the room leading to the basement, brushed the bodyguard aside, and made for Konstantin’s office. Unsure what she was going to say to him, she knew he had to be confronted. He had killed her father… or had his men do it.

She wasn’t sure how she felt… confused… conflicted… guilty… she had told her mother she would handle her father and she hadn’t.

‘You can’t go in, Viktoriya Nikolaevna.’

‘Get out of my way, Boris,’ she said, and bowled past him, seizing the handle of the double door and pushing it wide open.

Konstantin was already standing up, adjusting his shirt. A tall dark-haired girl with crimson lipstick pulled down the hem of her skirt but made no move to raise herself from the sofa. To her surprise, Viktoriya felt no pang of jealousy or sudden rage.

‘Get out her out of here, Kostya,’ she ordered him. The girl stood up, readjusted her skirt and stared insolently at Viktoriya, who turned her back on her.

‘Leave us, Adriana,’ said Konstantin. There was a pause before she heard the door close.

Viktoriya reached into her handbag and threw the ID card on his desk.

‘Is this what you are looking for?’

Konstantin picked it up and opened the passport at the photo page. ‘He got what he deserved,’ he said. She was unsure whether he was referring to her assailant or her father.

‘Why didn’t you discuss it with me? I could have handled it.’

‘But you hadn’t.’

‘I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you,’ she said. ‘That was my mistake, but I didn’t want you taking things into your own hands, not like before, not with my father, as despicable as he was… I had it under control.’

‘He was blackmailing you… threatening to tell everyone… how could you trust him?’

She thought of the young girl in the room a few minutes before.

‘And what about me? Am I to be trusted? Am I a threat too?’

She realised, of course, that that was the reason he never shared anything with her, certainly not his business interests. The girl who had just exited the room was a fool if she thought she meant anything to Kostya. He would have no compunction in getting rid of her or anyone if they became a danger.

‘Look, Kostya, I’m no angel… I certainly don’t want to be judgemental, but I don’t want this either, living life in the shadows…’

‘…but it’s over… is that what you are saying? It’s that small-time hustler,’ Konstantin almost spat at her.

‘If it’s Misha you are referring to, it has nothing to do with him, nothing. I just don’t want to live like this.’

‘Well, it’s a rough world out there,’ he said coldly, ‘and your friend is not up to it.’

‘If killing all the opposition means up to it – no, I don’t think he is.’

Konstantin raised his fist and dropped it back to his side.

‘Boris!’ he barked. ‘See Viktoriya Nikolaevna off the premises.’