The Domino Game (3 page)

For ten minutes he sat like this, filled with an ominous dread, waiting, expecting them to come for him; expecting Vitaly Kolbasov to appear at any moment in the open doorway. Then, when they didn’t come for him – when no one appeared – the terror began to slowly ebb away and Gregori began to experience a curious light-headedness. A strange sense of guarded elation.

Fifteen minutes more and he set the papers aside, rose unsteadily from his chair, walked the few steps to his private bathroom, closed and locked the door behind him and fell back against the heavy timber panel.

Holy Christ! He had actually done it!

He waited for the throbbing in his temples to subside then shook back his cuff and stared at his watch.

Almost seven thirty. Late enough. And the sooner this was over now, the better. He was an accountant. Accountants weren’t made for this kind of thing.

He dragged himself upright, pulled the tapes from his belt and the papers from his shirt and set them down on the vanity, then stepped across to the closet and pulled out an oversized shopping bag. Gloss white, red silk cord handles, the Laura Biagiotti logo, emblazoned stylish and bold in cherry and gray. The single, boxed silk chemise inside had cost him the best part of a month’s salary when he’d bought it at the designer’s store in the Radisson Slavjanskaya a week ago, while what was left over had covered a second purchase from a far less salubrious shop in an alley at the back of the Arbat. But why worry about the cost? If the plan came off it would have been a small price to pay, and if it didn’t…

Moving quickly now he set the bag down on the closed lid of the toilet, pulled a penknife from his pocket and started work.

Twenty minutes later Gregori Gilmanov snapped off his office light and set out again along the corridor, this time heading in the opposite direction.

The work stations he passed were empty now, the evening darkness that had settled over them tinted by the faint electronic glow of a single active monitor. He walked evenly, with an apparent confidence that belied the clutching tightness that had once again settled in his gut.

At the end of the passage he turned left, then left again into the main entry hall. The door that led to the car park behind the building lay just half a dozen paces ahead now, but with the manned security desk set squarely in front of it, it may as well have been on the other side of the Volga.

The uniformed guard saw him coming, set his copy of
Pravda
aside on the table and rose to his feet. Gregori met him with a silent nod, hoisted his briefcase onto the desk and followed it up with the shopping bag.

He watched silently as the guard worked through the normal routine. Open the briefcase. Shuffle back and forth through its contents. Close the briefcase. Satisfied, he snapped the locks and moved on, turning his attention to the Biagiotti carrier.

Gregori tried unsuccessfully for a smile. “My wife’s birthday.”

The security guard stared at him blankly, regarded the bag a moment more then spread his hands above it in a gesture of apology. Gregori nodded his allowance and watched as the man’s fingers disappeared inside and re-emerged clutching the gleaming white box. He glanced at Gregori again, set the box down respectfully on the desk, pried off the lid, placed it to one side, and began exploring the delicate tissue with his thick fingers, finally lifting the chemise gently from its wrapping. Uncertain about what to do next he shook the garment lightly and the cream silk slinked and roiled out of his fingers and slithered into a pool on the table’s surface. It occurred to Gregori that his attention remained inappropriately fixed on the empty carton’s lining. He snapped aside quickly to meet the guard’s eyes, finding in them, to his relief, nothing more than clumsy embarrassment.

He reached forward with both hands.

“Here, let me help.”

This time the smile worked.

Gregori scooped up the clearly expensive garment, folded it back to order, lowered it carefully into the box and was reaching for the lid when he felt a strong hand settle on his shoulder. He started in fright and the blessed relief he had just begun to feel recoiled like a snake. When he turned he found Vitaly Kolbasov standing behind him, observing him with a watchful smile.

Ivankov’s assistant dipped his head towards the white and red bag.

“You have been doing some shopping I see.”

Gregori’s brain scrambled to catch up.

“Vitaly. You startled me.”

He turned away again, spinning out time to recompose, concentrating on his packing, sealing the lid of the box carefully before facing Kolbasov again with a clumsy grin.

“Lena, my wife. Today is her birthday. I wanted something special for her. I recalled you mentioning how impressed you and Mr Ivankov had been with the Biagiotti showing you attended at the Kremlin and then I heard last week that she had opened a store here in Moscow.”

Kolbasov gave a nod of approbation and traced a finger across the slick surface of the carrier. “You’re learning well, Gregori. I’m flattered you pay me such attention.” His gaze swung across to the guard who had been watching their exchange. “So, Andrey, are we all finished here?”

The guard looked from Kolbasov to Gregori, then back at the carrier. Kolbasov gave an impatient wave. “Well go on, man. Do not keep Mr Gilmanov waiting.”

The guard nodded quickly, dipped his hands back into the bag, rummaged for a moment and came up clutching two plastic boxes, tipping them towards him and studying them with an expression of growing astonishment.

Kolbasov’s smile thinned out and his face tightened. His eyes darted between Gilmanov and the boxes. When he spoke he addressed his question to the guard.

“Well. What is it?”

The aluminum taste was swelling through Gregori’s mouth again and he felt a strange quiver at the base of his tongue as if he might at any moment be about to vomit. He swallowed and turned away, unable to bring himself to watch as the guard surrendered the cassette cases into Kolbasov’s outstretched hand. Gregori’s legs were trembling now; the heat flaring in his cheeks. His mind was stumbling to measure the probability of escape when he heard the peculiar sound behind him. It started as an abrupt chuckle of amusement, stopped then started again, growing steadily louder until it became a shrill wave of hilarity that filled the empty lobby.

Gregori forced himself to look back. Vitaly Kolbasov was clutching a plastic cassette case in either hand, rocking with laughter as his eyes roamed the lurid montage of body parts displayed on their covers. He shook his head and skimmed a tape across the table to the bemused guard.

“
Bozhe moi!
Andrey, take a look! Can you believe it? Would you ever have thought our studious Mr Gilmanov had such eclectic interests?”

He followed the first tape with the second, burst out laughing again and raised a finger to wipe his eyes. Now that he had been invited the security guard joined in with his own tentative snigger. Kolbasov’s fingers tightened again on his shoulder and Gregori could feel the damp warmth of the other man’s breath in his ear as he leaned forward confidentially.

“Italian lingerie and American pornography. A fine selection. My congratulations, Gilmanov. I’m sure your Lena will be absolutely delighted.”

Gregori managed a nervous laugh.

Kolbasov pulled himself upright and flicked a hand towards the cassettes. “Put them away, Andrey. Hurry up. Mr Gilmanov’s wife is at home waiting for her surprise.” He turned back to Gregori, grinning broadly. “And you my friend… you have a wonderful evening. And I shall expect to hear all the details tomorrow.” He released his grasp on Gregori’s shoulder, turned abruptly and strode away towards the main staircase, calling back as he went. “Remember, Gregori … every little detail.”

Gregori Gilmanov half walked, half stumbled across the car park in the descending darkness, tossed his briefcase and the shopping bag into the trunk of the Mercedes and fell into the driver’s seat, drained and exhausted. His heart was racing, the blood pounding in his temples. He closed his eyes and clamped his fingers around the steering wheel, squeezing so hard he was almost certain it would snap in his grasp, sitting like that for a full minute, trying to drain the tension from his body.

Finally he let go his grip, dragged his seatbelt into place, turned the ignition and – an afterthought – hit the central locking. Backed up from his parking space and eased the vehicle slowly out onto the street and into the Moscow night.

Marat Ivankov looked up across the edge of his reading glasses as Vitaly Kolbasov re-entered his office.

“What was all that noise about?”

Kolbasov walked across to Ivankov’s desk, paused to regard him questioningly for a moment, then, realizing what his boss was referring to, broke into a wide grin.

“My laughing, you mean?” He chuckled lightly again to himself and began sorting through a stack of correspondence. “Just Gilmanov. I happened to be passing by as he was having his evening shakedown. He seemed nervous as a cat so I hung back to find out why, and you know what it was?” Kolbasov found what he was looking for and drew a piece of paper out of the pile. “He was smuggling out some underwear and a couple of dirty movies he’d bought for his wife’s birthday.” Kolbasov shook his head with recalled amusement. “You should have seen him. He looked like some schoolboy caught jerking off in the toilets.” He chuckled again and started to turn away but Ivankov’s calm, measured voice held him.

“And have you checked, Vitaly?”

Kolbasov blinked. “I’m sorry? Checked what?”

Ivankov lifted his glasses from his nose and lowered them tolerantly to his desk, regarding Vitaly Kolbasov with a chill stare.

“Checked his personnel records, Vitaly. Checked that it
is
his wife’s birthday.”

Vitaly Kolbasov blinked again, looked aside, down, then answered in a subdued voice. ‘To be honest? No, it didn’t occur… ”

Marat Ivankov cut him dead.

‘Then perhaps you should check, Vitaly. Don’t you think?”

3

Vari Vlasenko swung
the black Volga off the Garden Ring and north onto Prospekt Mira. Beside him Nikolai sat gazing vacantly at the passing blur of colored neon that marked the relentless advance of the city’s Westernization. They passed a towering pylon sign crowned by the now familiar golden double arches. How did the saying go?… Napoleon couldn’t conquer Moscow. It had taken McDonald’s to do that.

“A nice area,” Vari observed, throwing him a glance. “You’re a lucky man, Niko. A beautiful wife and daughter. Money in the bank. You can afford a good apartment in a nice part of town.” His gaze trailed away, following the passing of a sleek, black Jaguar headed in the opposite direction. “You know, I still wonder why someone who can have all this would choose to spend his days wading in the sewers.”

Nikolai glanced at his partner, lips bent in a dry smile.

“Ever had a problem with your plumbing, Vari?” He turned back to the streetscape, not expecting a response.

“We did, a few weeks back. A blocked toilet, nothing major at first. Natalia reported it to the superintendent but he didn’t want to get his hands dirty so he called a plumber. But the plumber was busy doing another job that was worth more to him and he didn’t come. So before long the drains in the bathroom and kitchen began backing up and the same thing started happening in the other apartments on our floor. Then the neighbors upstairs started having problems.”

Vari slung him an uncertain look. ‘So, what’s your point?”

Nikolai drew a breath and swung back from the window. “My point, Vari, is that if you have a problem with your sewer and no one’s interested in trying to fix it, then pretty soon everyone’s swimming in shit.”

Vari considered this a moment. Gave Nikolai a thoughtful nod and turned back to the road. “I see… I think.” He drove on for a while, one hand draped loosely on the wheel, then threw the long gear shift back a notch, steered the black sedan into the central lane, signaled a left turn and changed the subject. ‘So. What did you get her?”

“What did I get who?” Nikolai replied absently.

Vari shot him another glance. “Natalia of course.” He slowed the Volga to a stop, dropped it into first and spoke across the wheel as he searched for a gap in the traffic. ‘Today’s Friday, right? Yesterday you told me that Saturday is your anniversary. So, what did you get her?”

“Oh shit!” Nikolai groaned. Slumped in his seat. “I forgot. Totally forgot.”

He shrugged back the sleeve of his jacket and raised his wrist to the light, throwing a desperate glance at his watch. Five after eleven. Vari echoed his own conclusion.

‘Too late now, my friend.” The traffic eased and Vari hit the accelerator, plunging the car across Mira and into Ulitsa Kapelski. He looked sideways. “And what was that you were saying about swimming in shit?” He eased off the gas and swung right into Schepkina, continuing on for a few hundred meters before sliding the Volga into the curb, leaving the engine running. Nikolai sat for a moment, staring up at the facade of his building then grimaced and sprang the door.

‘Thanks for reminding me.”

“Anytime, little brother.” Vari brushed a hand from the wheel. “What are friends for?”

Nikolai watched from the front stoop as the Volga’s tail lights meandered down the street. When they rounded the corner back to Mira he dragged his keys from his pocket and turned to the entry. The glass panel floated against the gloom of the foyer beyond, forming a leaden mirror of his image. The lobby lights had blown a week ago and still weren’t fixed; why would he have imagined they would be? He lifted the keys to the lock then paused, studying his own reflection.

He was changing. It wasn’t just the unfavorable cast of the light. He was tired and he looked it, but there was more to it than that. His clothes hung more loosely on his slender frame and his face seemed to have become more angular, the cheekbones and the line of his jaw more pronounced, his eyes harder and more cynical.

At university in Leningrad he had worn his hair long with a moustache and beard, his mother remarking how much he looked like the image of Jesus Christ in the faded print that hung above her bed. If there had been a resemblance it had faded as well with the passing years. He was clean shaven now, his chestnut hair cropped short, still thick enough, but the progress of its recession clearly evident above his forehead. Still… He drew a breath. When you considered it, for thirty-three what did he have to complain about? From what he could recall, at that age Jesus Christ had been dead.

When he and Natalia had first moved into the apartment three years ago, just after Larisa had been born, the elevator had worked. But then six months ago their landlord – a young entrepreneur who had begun buying up flats the moment the privatization starting gun went off – had finally persuaded the last of the old tenants to sell their occupancy rights, and since then the breakdowns had become more frequent until one day the elevator had stopped running altogether. Since then the car had been converted into a kind of ground floor stock room from which the building superintendent – the owner’s brother-in-law – now traded his limited supply of light bulbs and other maintenance requisites to the neighborhood’s highest bidders.

At least there were no secrets about the owner’s agenda. He’d been happy to lease out those flats he already owned while his game of Moscow Monopoly played out. Presumably the rent helped pay interest to some
mafiya
shark who had loaned him the money. But now that he’d won the game he wanted the building vacant. And why was that?

The answer was easy. Quality pre-revolution building. Six floors with five spacious apartments each. Nice design, good location, good condition… well, comparatively speaking, anyway. And now just one owner to deal with. That meant, for a sale as it stood, their entrepreneur landlord could now probably expect to pick up $4.5 million minimum. Not bad on what Nikolai had calculated as a cost of less than one. Then the developer who bought it would spend another three or so renovating before tipping each apartment out at around half a million a time, to gross $15 million; maybe even more. American dollars of course. And all completely legal.

So, now Nikolai and Natalia and Larisa were searching for somewhere else to live. It was a pleasant neighborhood, as Vari had observed, and while between Nikolai’s salary and their savings they could still afford the thousand a month this place had been costing, from what they’d seen so far, the likelihood of finding anything as good in Mira for that kind of rent was now little more than a dream.

Nikolai passed the locked elevator car and rounded the corner to the staircase. At least it was only a three-flight climb. For now, most of the tenants from level four down were still hanging on. Everyone on five and above had given up and abandoned ship weeks ago.

He reached his lobby, found the right key and let himself in.

The apartment lay still and silent; in darkness save for the soft glow from Larisa’s nightlight that trickled along the hallway. Nikolai grimaced at his own guilt. Tonight – like so many others – he’d promised he’d be home early for dinner. By nine Natalia would have put Larisa to bed; by ten thirty she would have given up herself. He set his keys down quietly on the hall table, slipped off his shoes and padded along the corridor towards the bathroom.

He undressed in the dark, hung his clothes behind the door, splashed some water across his face and made his way to the bedroom at the end of the corridor.

The light from Larisa’s room pooled at the entry, falling across a shopping bag set on the floor just inside the doorway. Shopping. Forgotten anniversary. Broken promises. Guilt. Nikolai sighed, stepped around the obstruction and made his way across to the bed, slipping beneath the covers beside Natalia and lowering his head carefully onto the pillows so as not to disturb her. For a time he lay there quietly in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, wondering about his life and where it was taking him –where it was taking them all – then gradually the soft even flow of Natalia’s breathing and the warm scent of her body next to him began to wash the anxieties aside and he fell asleep smiling, despite himself, at all of his blessings.

Nikolai woke a little after seven to the rich smell of fresh coffee and the sharp insistent tug of tiny fingers on his left earlobe. “Daddy! Daddy! Look, look, look, look, look!”

He shook away the remnants of sleep and turned in the direction of the pain. Satisfied that she had her father’s attention, Larisa let go her grip on his ear and thrust something large, brown and woolly into his face. Niko drew back, blinking to focus, and came eye to uncomfortable eye with Boris the Bear, resplendent in drop earrings, two strands of pearls and a small pink tutu that appeared uncomfortably tight on his ample waist. Boris seemed to be looking decidedly uneasy.

“Look, Daddy!” Larisa insisted. “Boris is going out.”

Nikolai looked, not at Boris, but at his daughter. At the perfect oval of her face, her long silken hair – already as dark and lustrous as her mother’s – and the impenetrable depth of her almost black eyes. He smiled and ran a hand across her forehead.

‘So I see,” he nodded seriously. “And you’d better keep your eye on him. Dressed like that you never know what he might pick up.” He looked at the bear again. Could have sworn Boris was glaring at him.

Natalia’s voice reached them from along the corridor. “Larisa, leave your father be. He’s tired. And hurry up or you’ll be late. Aunt Raisa will be here any minute.”

“Okay, Mummy,” Larisa called. She started to trot away, then stopped abruptly, turned and hurried back to the bed, set Boris down on the bedclothes, threw her hands around Niko’s neck in a giant hug, then plucked up the unfortunate bear and pattered off with him again. Nikolai shuffled upright as Natalia appeared in the doorway. She was wearing one of his shirts, three buttons open, cuffs turned back, a preview of her long slender thighs available to the point where they disappeared beneath the hem of the striped, cotton fabric. She propped against the architrave, smiling, dangling Larisa’s small pink rucksack from one hand, using the other to toss back a lick of dark hair that had fallen forward across her eyes. She lifted her chin, a fraction of a nod directed back over her shoulder.

“Raisa from downstairs is taking her to the markets. Back at lunchtime.” Her tongue teased her upper lip. ‘Seeing it’s our anniversary, I thought you might like…” The sharp trill of the buzzer from the hall cut her off.

“Mummy, Mummy!” Larisa’s tiny feet began stuttering back along the corridor. “Raisa’s here. Raisa’s here!”

Natalia called across her shoulder. “Coming, darling.” She turned back to Nikolai, picking up where she’d left off… “You know.” Her eyes slid down to the shopping bag that still sat on the floor inside the door. Nikolai’s gaze followed.

“Know what?” he answered hesitantly.

Natalia raised her eyebrows, gave a little shrug. “A private showing?”

The buzzer rang again, followed a second later by another insistent, high-pitched demand from Larisa.

“Mummy! Come at once or I’ll be late!”

Natalia rolled her eyes again and called back with an indulgent voice.

“Coming, Larisa.”

She began to turn then stopped and reached into the pocket of her shirt. “Oh, by the way,” her slender fingers withdrew, clasping a tiny package, “This is for you.” She lobbed it lightly across the room towards him and his hand shot up instinctively, clutching it from the air. When he looked back again Natalia had gone.

She returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray of coffee and rolls and set it down on one of the bedside tables, all the time watching Nikolai for his reaction. He was holding the small gold crucifix in the palm of his hand, soothing the fine engraving with his fingers, the wrapping from the tiny package discarded beside him.

Natalia settled cross-legged on the bed and looked at him. “Do you like it?” She seemed anxious. “I mean, I know you’re not really a religious person, but it belonged to my great-grandfather. He died in the Revolution, and I just thought…”

Nikolai bit his lip, holding back his emotion. He stared into her black, liquid eyes, watching them searching his own. “It’s beautiful,” he answered softly. “I’ll never lose it, I promise.” He closed the crucifix into his fist and reached forward, drawing her to him, kissing her gently on the forehead. She hugged him back, tilted her head until her mouth found his, kissed him, then pulled back and grinned.

‘So!” She smacked the bedclothes with an open hand. “That’s my gift. So now for yours!” She bounced from the bed before Nikolai had a chance to speak, scooped up the oversized white shopping bag and clutched it to her chest then stopped and looked serious for a moment. “I have a confession. I did peek when the delivery man brought it last night, but only a little peek, okay? Now, stay there. Back in a minute.”

She skipped out of the room leaving Nikolai totally perplexed.

What delivery man? What present?

He tried to rewind his brain, backing up past the bag he’d seen last night when he’d come to bed, to the conversation with Vari in the car on the way home. He hadn’t bought Natalia a gift because he’d been so goddamned self-absorbed he’d forgotten to. The only remote possibility he could think of was that his partner had anticipated that he would forget and had arranged something for him, but that just didn’t make any sense either. His mind was still clutching for answers when Natalia reappeared in the doorway, his shirt replaced by a stunning cream slip that clung to the curves of her body like liquid silk. She stood before him, turning her head slowly from side to side.

“Niko,” she breathed in awe. “It’s just glorious.”

She spun slowly for him, letting the fabric glide with her, tracing the shape of her breasts, following the curve of her back and hips, then she was facing him again, flicking the same errant strand of hair from her eyes.

“You are a bad boy, Niko. This must have cost a fortune.” The corners of her mouth lifted in a mischievous grin. “And that’s not the only reason you’re bad, is it?”