The Domino Game (26 page)

Leonid picked up the lighter, struck it and stared at the flame. One eye lifted to Nikolai’s. “Would you have done it? Just now? Would you have burnt the place down?”

Nikolai answered without the slightest hesitation. “Of course.”

The former KGB officer closed the lighter and regarded him with a hard stare.

‘Then you have your answer.”

Nikolai walked back to the waking city. Past the old chocolate factory, the place where Gilmanov’s gutted body had been dragged from the river, then further on until he reached the Kamennyy Bridge. He used the time to think, barely aware of his surroundings, until he came to the mid-point of the span and there he stopped to lean on the railing, gazing out to the east across the dawn-gilded surface of the Moskva River to the towering blood red walls of the Kremlin that rose from the Embankment on the other side.

The episode with the lighter seemed to have helped bring the bar owner’s thinking into focus. After that Leonid had been almost cooperative in imparting everything further he claimed to know about Nikolai’s former partner.

He drives some kind of black car. Some American model. If he’s going to show it’s usually by midnight. Always comes by himself. Sits alone. Drinks scotch. Never speaks to anyone. Doesn’t like to be interrupted. Just sits there quietly, staring at the river, then after an hour, maybe two, he pays his tab and
leaves.

“And there’s nothing else?” Nikolai had pressed. “Nothing more you know about him? What he does? Where he gets his money?”

Leonid had studied his cigarette again before responding.

‘There are stories,” he shot a glance at Nikolai.” Just as there were stories about what happened to you. I’ve heard he runs businesses out of town. Out of Russia.” The ex KGB officer glanced up from hooded eyes. “The Balkans. Bulgaria.” He strung out the middle syllable.

Nikolai thought about it. “What kind of businesses?”

Leonid drew on his cigarette and pushed a stream of smoke at the ceiling.

“You want to know more, like I said, you ask him yourself. Just remember one thing. The newspapers say that by world standards Moscow is a safe city now, and you know what? It is.” The left side of his face twisted in a sarcastic grin. “Until you start asking too many questions.”

From the Kamennyy Bridge Nikolai turned right into Revolution Avenue, walking through the gardens that lined the western edge of the Kremlin. It was six a.m. now. Already thirty degrees, he guessed, but cooler there on the grass, in the shade of the massive brick walls.

Whether it was the constant draining heat, the lack of sleep or the tension, he wasn’t sure, but he was beginning to feel immensely weary. Deflated. Numbed by the sheer unfathomable complexity of everything.

He noticed two mounted policemen approaching along the concrete path to his left and the weight of Leonid’s pistol in his pocket became suddenly unbearably heavy. Apart from a handful of vagrants and a few tourists intent on making an early start, at this hour the Alexander Gardens were practically deserted. It occurred to Nikolai that in his black jeans and black T-shirt and wrap-around sunglasses he looked like neither a tourist or a vagrant, and therefore probably obvious by default. One of the officers turned towards him, letting his gaze play lazily over Nikolai as the horses sidled closer.

What should he do? Ignore or not?

Ten years ago, when his life was normal, such a question would never have crossed his mind, but this was a different world: at once completely familiar yet totally foreign. For some reason Nikolai recalled a movie he had seen back in his days at university: some oblique, artistic, underground science fiction piece made in the fifties, in black and white, where the hero had woken up to find every other soul in his community taken over by an alien life form. They all still looked the same but now they were different. Suspicious. Wary. And the hero was the only one who could see it because he was the only one who was different to them. Suddenly, overnight, he was alone and everyone else had become a threat and that was how the plot had gone until, in the final scene, the hero had suddenly realized the truth. The others hadn’t changed at all. It was he alone who had become the aliens’ victim. And then, at the very last moment there had been a final twist and the audience was left wondering. Did the aliens ever exist at all. Or had the hero simply gone insane?

He turned aside as the policemen drew nearer, feeling more than seeing the watchful eyes slide over him one last time, hearing the receding hollow clop of hooves on concrete as the horses ambled on.

He ordered pizza and coffee at a food outlet in the mall beneath Revolution Square. The blonde teenage girl who served him wore a candy-striped shirt and a baseball cap. She smiled as she passed him his change and told him to
have a nice day.
He thanked her. Told her he’d try and wished her the same. He stopped to buy a newspaper from a kiosk, took his order to one of the laminate tables in the center court and wolfed down the pizza while he turned and scanned the pages.

He’d kept the throwaway razor he’d bought at Novosibirsk. A clean-shaven face, he reasoned, suggested discipline and conformity which in turn should make him less conspicuous. When he had finished his food he found the washroom, used the razor and examined his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were ringed with dark translucent circles and his features remained drawn through lack of sleep, but the hours he had spent in the sunlight the day before had at least brought a hint of color to his face.

The face. Would Vari remember the face, he wondered.

After that he moved on from the food court and killed time browsing the stores that lined the underground mall, astonished at the range of goods he found displayed in their windows and on their shelves. It was more than nine years since he had been in a place like this. Back then the free market economy had been just staggering to its feet but now there could be no misconception. It was up and running. Sprinting. Wearing Nike sports shoes, and Benetton colors and leaving the scent of Calvin Klein fragrance fingering in its wake.

He stood in the middle of it all, dazed, as the New Russia swirled around him, until the lights and color and the music reached a crescendo that was suddenly all too much and he felt the cold sweat on his brow and the back of his neck and knew he had to get out.

He found the exit and burst through the double glass doors, leaving the glitter and the noise behind him, through the airlock and back into the gloomy sanctuary of the underpass that carried him to the other side of the square.

By the time he got back to the Gardens it was eleven. A reasonable hour. There were more people now: tourists and students and tour guides and soldiers on leave. He found a quiet shaded corner at the intersection of two carefully tended flower beds, spread himself out on the lawn, unfolded his paper and pretended to read.

20

Twelve hours later
Nikolai was back in the shadows of the Krymsky Bridge overpass, rested and alert.

He had slept and that had helped. Dozed on and off for several hours on the grass of the Alexander Gardens then at five, when the Kremlin gates closed and the tourists moved on in search of other sights, he had fallen in with those heading for Arbat Square. Once there he mingled with the crowds browsing the souvenir shops and market stalls that lined the ancient cobbled street.

He found what he was looking for at the river end of Old Arbat, in a stall crouched beneath the shadow of the massive Foreign Ministry. Given its location and the nature of its merchandise, it was a curiously whimsical affair. A canvas tent with green and white striped walls and a bright green roof that rose in a pyramid topped by a large floppy mannequin of a court jester perched cross-legged, leering up at the massive neo-gothic tower. Inside and out the tent’s walls were lined with trestles stacked with military paraphernalia of every kind: fur-lined hats; greatcoats; submariners’ uniforms; petrol cans; tinned rations; compasses; canteens. Nikolai rummaged by himself for a while before the girl who ran the stall decided he needed help. She was bright and skinny with happy eyes and vivid blue hair and a safety pin piercing her nose, and she knew where to go immediately. Dropped to her haunches and rifled through a carton and stood back up and produced them in a flash. Army field glasses. Afghanistan campaign, she grinned enthusiastically, so who knew what they’d seen. Nikolai tried them out on the Foreign Ministry spire; zoomed it in and back out again; looked them over and noticed the shrapnel scar on the casing and what was probably dried blood still ingrained in the embossed patterned grip, and agreed with her. Who knew what they had seen?

He raised them now and scanned the embankment, sweeping backwards until the old gas station came into view then fixing on it, adjusting the focus. There were three vehicles in the parking lot at the front of the building, none of them black. Nikolai checked his watch, lowered the glasses and settled in to wait.

He came at a little after midnight in a sleek, black, two-door sedan. By then the last of the summer twilight had faded so it was the headlights Nikolai saw first. He raised the binoculars and zeroed them in on the vehicle, tracking its advance along the embankment.

The car swung into the lot and eased to a stop nose forward, facing the bridge. Nikolai drew back instinctively, edging further into the shadows around the concrete pylons. The car’s windshield was dark tinted. Impenetrable. He held the glasses evenly. Waiting. Seconds passed then the driver’s door swung open and a squat solid figure stepped out.

Nikolai’s fingers worked the lenses until the driver’s face and upper torso filled the frame. It was Vari, there was no doubt about that. His face and jowls were heavier and his hair and moustache were streaked with gray, but it was him.

Vari pressed the car door closed and thumbed a remote and the indicators blinked, registering the command, then he hesitated, like an animal sniffing the wind, before turning and making his way across the parking lot towards the rundown building. Nikolai followed him through the glasses, taking in the walk. Confident. Assured. The expensive cut of the lightweight gray jacket that hung loose over the dark open-neck shirt. Then the figure disappeared into the alcove that led to the doorway and Nikolai brought the binoculars down and put them aside, measuring his breathing.

He let a half hour pass and then rose. Left the binoculars discarded on the ground and made his way down from the knoll beneath the bridge and across the Embankment towards the riverside bar.

There was no cover now. He was in the open.

Nikolai calculated his approach, skirting the parking lot, moving forward in an arc that brought him to the corner of the building where it joined the timber walkway that ran along its side above the river. When he reached it he moved in close, pressing himself flat against the wall next to the entry and dissolving into the shadows.

Over the next hour a half dozen patrons came and went. Each time the closing door sent a shudder rippling through the flimsy timber wall, Nikolai tensed and made ready to move. But each alert proved to be a false alarm, until finally the door slammed again and a familiar lone figure stepped out of the alcove into the night.

If he had been further away it may have been difficult to be certain, but in the cast of light from the glass panel in the doorway Nikolai recognized his former partner immediately. The stocky solidness of the form; the broad, heavy shoulders; the arms that hung loose and wide at his sides. Nikolai’s hand slid under the edge of his soft cotton shirt and closed around the handgrip of the pistol. He eased the weapon free from his belt and waited. Waited until Vari was almost at his car and had taken the remote from his pocket and pointed it then, as he hit the button and the indicators flashed, Nikolai moved. Moved with the silent swiftness of a black leopard, closing the distance between them in three strides, raising the pistol and bringing it to rest on the skin of the back of the other man’s neck so that there could be no mistake. So that he would be able to feel the cold ring of steel and know what it was.

Vari froze. Not so much with fear, or surprise, it occurred to Nikolai, but more with caution. His arms rose slightly from his sides, the remote key in his right hand suspended lightly between thumb and forefinger. When Nikolai spoke his lips were only inches from the other man’s ear.

“It’s been a long time, my friend.”

He read the reaction. The way Vari’s shoulders jerked slightly, up and back. The minute twist of the thick neck as his brain processed the voice. The hesitation and then the release. The slow turn as the apprehension dissolved then – as he swung wider and his face turned into the light – the way his jaw dropped and his thick face unfolded in unconcealed delight.

“Niko? Little brother? Is this really you?”

He finished his turn and stared at Nikolai. At his face first, then briefly at the raised pistol, then – unconcerned, it seemed, by the weapon – back to his face again. Nikolai wondered what he had expected. In truth he wasn’t sure but it seemed there was little point in persevering with the gun. He lowered it to his side and Vari stepped closer, taking him by the shoulders.

“Niko…” There was a tone of hushed awe in his voice. “Let me look at you.” His eyes scanned Nikolai’s and faltered for just an instant, then his voice rose in delight. “I can’t believe it!” Shaking his head. “My little brother! Where have you been?”

Nikolai didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Vari stared at him, his eyes interpreting the silence, then there was a noise from the building. The door opening again. Someone else about to leave. Vari snatched a glance towards the entry then swung back, his eyes alert now. Calculating. He nodded towards the car and spoke with quiet insistence. “Get in. Quickly. We’ll go to my place.” Nikolai hesitated just a moment. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe there. I promise.”

It was a tower block. In Prechistenka. Just a few streets removed from the Ivankov Gallery.

From his seat at the wheel Vari glanced at Nikolai as they passed the restored palazzo, its grounds still floodlit despite the hour. Nikolai caught the look but ignored it, staring straight ahead as they turned the corner. His eyes fell to the dash. The car was a Cadillac he noticed, from the elegant, cursive script. New, or near enough, by the rich smell of the soft black leather. Vari eased back on the accelerator and Nikolai looked up through the windshield as they turned again.

The building was tall and majestic, set in landscaped grounds behind a high wall and massive iron gates that folded open automatically somehow as Vari’s car approached. A different universe, Nikolai observed. The New Russia had been kind to Vari Vlasenko, it seemed.

Once inside the gates there was a second tier of security. A guard stepped forward from a turret-roofed booth, the heel of his hand resting on an automatic holstered at his belt. Recognizing the vehicle he touched his cap and stepped back again, waving them through. In the wing mirror Nikolai caught a glimpse of his reflection as he made a note on a clipboard before returning to his post.

He turned to the front again watching through the tinted glass as Vari guided the vehicle down a ramp into an underground parking lot, bringing it to a stop alongside a gleaming burgundy Range Rover, the number on its plates just one digit removed, he noticed, from that of the Cadillac.

They hadn’t spoken at all on the journey and didn’t yet.

The quiet, softly lit elevator delivered them to a silent stop on the twentieth floor and Vari led the way down the corridor to the door at its end. There was no keyhole. Just a handle and a touch pad. Vari’s squat fingers danced over the buttons and Nikolai stored the numbers to memory. Then they were inside and the door closed behind them and Nikolai found himself confronting a wall of glass suspended above the city.

To the right lay the dark-snaking ribbon of the Moskva, its edges defined by the glitter of the traffic that flowed along the Embankment. Below, in the foreground, loomed the massive floodlit dome of the Redeemer Cathedral. And, beyond that, the Kremlin, and the rest of the city unfolding in an endless, undulating carpet of lights.

He felt Vari’s hand settle on his shoulder and flinched. Felt it lift again and turned, studying his former partner’s face.

If he had expected guilt or even awkwardness at Vari’s altered circumstance he found neither: just a measured awareness of the moment. Then the hand was on his shoulder again steering him forward into the expansive living room, guiding him to one of the black leather sofas that faced each other across the low stainless steel table that separated them. Vari moved on to a sideboard while Nikolai sat, using the moment to study his surroundings, taking in the white marble and Persian rugs, the designer furnishings, the wide screen TV and the paintings that hung on the walls. Vivid abstracts. Sharp slashes of thick acrylic color. Originals. The sweep of his gaze returned to its starting point and he found Vari standing over him again, setting down a bottle and two glasses on the table. The older man moved aside and lowered himself onto the opposite sofa. Nikolai blinked at him. Glanced around again, quickly this time, and then he spoke.

“Things have changed for you, old friend.”

Vari’s eyes held his, unwavering. “Things have changed for everyone, Niko.” He leaned forward, unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured for both of them. “You adapt,” he glanced up, “or you die.”

Nikolai felt the hollow apprehension gathering in his chest.

“Natalia? Larisa?” He breathed their names.

Vari dropped his gaze. For a long moment he was silent then he leaned forward and pushed one of the glasses towards Nikolai and glanced up from beneath his heavy brow.

“Drink, Nikolai.”

Nikolai felt the swelling of impossible hollowness at his core. He tensed and took a breath. ‘Tell me.”

Vari’s thick fingers toyed with his glass, turning it one way first, then the other. Finally he lifted it, drained it and set it down. His eyes met Nikolai’s.

“Natalia’s gone, Niko.”

Nikolai felt the muscles of his chest draw tight, pulling him in on himself. He shook his head.

“What do you mean, gone?”

Vari looked away. Answered in a voice that was barely more than a whisper.

‘Dead.” He forced himself to look at Nikolai again. “Natalia is dead, Nikolai.”

In that instant Nikolai saw her before him as clearly as though she were there. Her perfect face and shining dark eyes. The strand of hair that fell forward across her brow, chased back by her slender fingers while her lips curved in her extraordinary smile. Then the image faded, replaced by a vision of Florinskiy lying gaunt and emaciated and pale and lifeless in his shabby pine coffin.

Dead.

The finality of the word rang in Nikolai’s brain and even though he remained perfectly still it felt as though he were moving. As though he had been propelled into some yawning dark tunnel through which he was now tumbling over and over and over, flung against sharp images that tore at his mind and soul and sliced them raw the way jagged edges of stone would have shredded his flesh. And as he fell a single thought came to his mind.

It had been their anniversary.

Their last day together had been their anniversary and he had forgotten, and now she was gone and he had lost her forever.

The groan of denial started somewhere deep within him and rushed upwards, bursting out in a broken cry of despair and he fell forward, burying his face in his hands, surrendering himself to the terrible pain.

How long he remained like that he had no idea but finally it stopped. Finally the sensation of falling ended and the dizziness began to subside and Nikolai imagined himself stumbling to his feet, broken and exhausted, at the bottom of the abyss. He lifted his head slowly and opened his eyes. Vari was watching him; hadn’t moved. He inhaled and breathed more than spoke his daughter’s name.

“And Larisa?” Even he could hear the defeat and resignation in his voice.

Vari broke his gaze and looked aside to the windows. Nikolai waited. Then the older man’s head began turning slowly, side to side and Nikolai felt the dread rising inside him again.

“It’s all so long ago, Niko,” Vari’s voice was so faint he could hardly discern the words. “So long ago.”