The Domino Game (30 page)

Ivankov stalked across the room casting a hand in the air again. “You know, I was just thinking how much I miss the old days.” He fell onto a couch and waved Kolbasov over. “Come. Come. Sit with me.” Kolbasov strained a brief smile. Followed the direction. Ivankov flicked open a box of cigars, pondered the choice, selected one and spun the box around to his guest. Kolbasov sat. Took a cigar and put it aside. He had found himself becoming more health conscious lately. Age, perhaps? He doubted that smoking Havanas at four in the morning was good for one’s health. Ivankov lit up, inhaled and lay back, holding the smoke then letting it go, sending a thick aromatic cloud towards the ornate plaster ceiling. He sat still for a moment then plucked the cigar from his lips with sudden animation and leaned forward, his face serious now.

“Time is running out, Vitaly. So far, so good, I admit, but I have to be certain this is going to work.” He regarded Kolbasov with a cold, uncompromising stare. “There is a great deal at stake here. More than you can imagine. We cannot afford anything to go wrong.” His eyes trapped Kolbasov’s and held them, longer than was necessary to make the point
. “You
cannot afford anything to go wrong, Vitaly.”

His meaning was clear. Thanks to Marat Ivankov, Vitaly was now wealthy beyond his dreams. He had it all. Anything he wanted, whenever he wanted it. For almost six years now a quarter of the profits from the black operations had been his to keep while the balance was laundered and moved to wherever Ivankov directed. Vitaly’s job was to handle the sharp end while Ivankov provided the capital and the
krysha.
The sharp end was dangerous. It was where people got hurt. Often. And, not infrequently, fatally. Vitaly didn’t handle that sort of thing personally of course, but he was the link to those who did. A very important link. So in one sense he and Marat were partners but in another they weren’t, since it was Ivankov who held the ultimate power. Vitaly Kolbasov did not need reminding that there were a thousand others ready and eager to take his place; that he could be crushed like a fly if Marat Ivankov ever chose to give that order. Taking all of that into account it was understandable that he seldom felt wholly at ease in Ivankov’s presence, but this was different. The smile he allowed himself now came easily since it was a reflection of his absolute confidence.

“Don’t worry, Marat, it will work. In fact, I have excellent news for you: it’s working already. Everything is going exactly to plan.”

23

MOSCOW

Try to
imagine.

Nikolai lay on his back in the darkened bedroom measuring his breathing.

Try to imagine that it is night. That you are lying on the floor of the forest looking up to the sky through the branches of the towering firs and that the chilled air drifting down from the ceiling vents isn’t air at all, but snow. The first flurries of winter tumbling softly through the trees, settling over you layer upon layer, closing around you. That you are sinking into sleep, losing yourself, and when you wake you will find it has all been just a terrible, crazy dream. That your life is just beginning and that the world is good and anything is possible and there is no such thing as reality.

But he couldn’t. Couldn’t imagine. That was the problem. He turned abruptly and blinked at the digital clock. Watched it flick over from five fifty-nine to six and swung back again, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t imagine anything any longer because cold reality was all that was left.

It had taken Vari nearly two hours to finish his account. Nikolai had sat in silence and listened, incapable of stopping the relentless flood of images that poured into his mind, until in the end all that remained was the terrible anguish and a silence so intense that it had echoed between them.

“You need sleep, Niko,” Vari had finally said. “We can’t go on, now. You must rest, little brother. Rest for a while and then we will talk again.”

And he was right of course, Nikolai knew that. So he had managed somehow to lift himself unsteadily to his feet and follow his old partner along the hall to the spare room, collapsing on the covers of the bed, broken with grief and exhaustion. But even there, in the cool, still darkness, alone for the first time in so long in a place so strangely calm and silent, his mind would still not stop.

There was no pain now, just numbness. All the guilt and the despair and the rage fused together into a single raw mass at the core of his being. A reality so dark that there was nothing left to imagine. He stared at the ceiling, listening to Vari’s words playing over again in his head.

“I told them nothing, Niko. As God is my witness, I promise you. About Ivankov, the tapes, Hartman…
nothing!
That was our agreement and I kept it. Why
would
I tell them anything?”

Why would he? It was a question Nikolai had asked himself over and over and over again. He caught Vari’s eyes searching his own.

“Christ, Niko!” The older man’s voice flared with anger. “Whose fucking side do you think I was on?” He spat the words. Let them hang in the air then turned aside as they faded, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, little brother.” His tone softened. “So much happened that night. More than you understand. More than I understand.” He looked aside, his jaw moving behind closed lips, his eyes looking inwards, scanning his memory. Then he turned back slowly, gripping Nikolai’s gaze.

“The Americans double-crossed you, Niko. They sold you out.”

The words settled over Nikolai without impact. It was what he had expected. What he had always known. Vari watched him, reading the understanding.

“Don’t ask me what really happened, Niko, I’m not sure. All I know is that everything turned to shit. That night after I took you home I got a call from Hartman wanting to meet. He tells me there’s a problem and he needs help. A car and a driver. Someone who can handle himself and the cost doesn’t matter. Someone who will do whatever he’s told without asking questions. So I did it, Niko. I busted my guts and put it all together because I thought I was helping you and Natalia and then…” He spread his hands and stared at Nikolai. “Christ! I don’t know. I don’t know what the fuck happened.

“The next thing I get home and there’s this crazy, hysterical message from Natalia on my machine so I race for the car and blue light it across town to your place and its fucking chaos. Police and MVD everywhere and the street’s cordoned off and your building’s sealed and some guy with half his head blown off is lying outside.” He stopped to pull a breath. “My badge gets me through the line but no one’s talking and I don’t have a clue what’s happening. So I race upstairs to your place and those MVD bastards are already there and they’ve got Natalia bailed up inside and they won’t let me near her, so I have to cool my heels until they finish and then they won’t let me talk to her until they interview me. So I’m trying to work out who knows what, and what I’m going to tell them because I’m expecting the third degree, and then when they do start questioning me you know what happens? Fuck all, that’s what happens. They’re as meek as little lambs. All they want to know is when I last saw you and whether you’ve been acting strangely and shit like that that doesn’t go anywhere and then they just say,
‘Thank you, Mr Vlasenko; we’ll be in touch,”
and…” He tossed his hands in the air. “… then they’re gone! Nothing about the tapes or Ivankov or Hartman or anything!

“It didn’t make sense.” He stared at Nikolai and shook his head. “I couldn’t work it out. Then finally I get a chance to talk to Natalia and she tells me the fucking MVD’s got you and then, Niko, that’s when it all falls into place. That’s when I realize they didn’t want to ask questions because they didn’t want answers. All they wanted was a nice simple interview statement to pin on the file and cover their asses.” He slumped. Tossed his head in disgust and stared at Nikolai again. “It was all just a fucking game, Niko. Someone up above had told them how to play it and that’s what they were doing.” A bitter smile twisted his lips. “Following instructions.”

Images faded by time ran through Nikolai’s mind. Viktor Patrushev, the Deputy Minister of the Economy. Aleksey Stephasin, secure in the top echelon of the FSB. Friends in high places. How many more had Ivankov had, he wondered. And who else perhaps, even above these? With people like that to look after the details, how easy it would have been.

“Natalia was in a bad way, Niko.”

Nikolai looked up sharply.

“So was the child,” Vari breathed. “I had to do something. There was a doctor I knew named Aleshkin who used to work for the KGB and lived not far away. I tracked down his number and called him and he came around right away and gave them something to calm them down then while he was still with them I went upstairs and I took the tapes.”

Took the tapes… Nikolai blinked.

Vari leaned towards him, insistent, shaking his head. “I had to, Niko. Don’t you see? I had to take them because they were all we had. I had to use them to protect us.”

Nikolai’s mind ran to the interrogation at the Ministry. To the two hard-faced men from the Prosecutor’s Office who had listened to his story then returned from their search empty-handed, their faces twisted in contemptuous sneers.
You were lying, Aven. There’s nothing there… nothing anywhere.
Would it have changed things, he wondered? If they had found what they were looking for would it have made a difference? Would they have given him back his life? And now, how would he ever know? He shook his head and stared back at his former partner.

“And how exactly did that work, Vari?” His voice was edged with a tone of deadly calm. “I’ve spent nine years in hell and now you tell me Natalia is dead, and so far I don’t even know what’s happened to my daughter. So how did that work? Exactly how did they protect us?”

Their eyes locked and held through a long silence before finally Vari answered and when he did it was hardly an answer at all.

“Just be patient, okay, Niko,” His eyes were steady; his voice was measured and controlled. “Just be patient and hear me out.”

Three weeks. That was how long it took. Enough time for the dust to settle and a cloud of uncertainty to start gathering in its place.

Had he made a mistake, Vari wondered?

And if he had, then what happened next?

With the MVD and the police still crawling all over Niko’s building and the street, and with Ivankov’s own people scattered around God knew where, it was too big a risk to try and carry the tapes out himself so he’d cut a deal with old Dr. Aleshkin. Given him three thousand rubles to put them in his bag and walk them, no questions asked, through the security line. Then a few days later Aleshkin had left them for him, as they’d agreed, at the little shoe repair shop a block from his apartment and he had picked them up on his way home from work, wrapped up in brown paper tied off with twine, so that even if someone was watching they wouldn’t have made the connection. And after that he had
disappeared
them. Disappeared the tapes where no one would ever find them and waited, because he knew then it would only be a matter of time.

It was a Monday, sometime after midnight, at the bar on the embankment. He was sitting alone by the window lost more in alcohol than thought, since thought hurt too much, he’d found, and solved not much at all, while alcohol – though it still solved not much at all – at least lessened the urge to think.

He had visited Natalia every day for the first week, then every few days. And now? Now he had stopped because… what use was he anyway? Aleshkin was still dropping in to check on both her and the little girl each afternoon and reporting back to him, and according to the old doctor they were coping now, as well as could be expected, anyway. And the woman from downstairs, Raisa, was still helping out with the child and doing the cooking and cleaning so what more could he do?

Vari didn’t see the stranger to begin with.

Didn’t notice him enter the bar or walk across to the table until he happened to glance up from his almost empty glass and found the man standing there, staring down at him from his pale blue, expressionless eyes. And then the effect of the alcohol retreated as rapidly as if he had plunged into a frozen stream and as his mind swept clear it occurred to Vari that perhaps this man wasn’t a stranger after all. Perhaps he was familiar. The lean, rigid face; the broad, square shoulders; the razor-cut blond hair. Perhaps he had seen all these features together somewhere before and he wondered where, until his eyes fell to the man’s hands and it came to him in a sudden flash. The leash. The Doberman. The house in Prechistenka.

The recognition must have registered on his face since at that point the man took a step closer, smiled at him deliberately, then just as deliberately, made a point of letting the smile die. Then a moment later he spoke, his voice as soft as the sound of rustling silk.

“I have a proposition for you.”

Vari’s eyes trailed across the man’s features, down to his feet and back up again. He thought a moment then he shook his head. “Sorry,” a smile lifted the corner of his mouth, “You’re not my type.”

The blond man made and unmade the smile again, let the bait pass and continued just the same. “My employer feels you may be able to help him locate some materials that belong to him.”

Vari’s eyes travelled over him again, inspecting the cut of the suit, the silk shirt, the designer tie, coming to rest on the outline of the gold Rolex that hung beneath the blond man’s cuff. “Looks like your employer pays well.”

The man shrugged. “He can be generous.”

Vari took time out to consider the response. Kicked back the empty chair opposite and pushed the bottle forward across the table. “You’ll have to get your own glass.”

The blond man cast around, caught the bartender’s eye, held up a thumb and forefinger pretending, then eased the button of his jacket and slid into the seat, folding his hands on the table, waiting for the glass to arrive and its bearer to depart. He reached for the bottle, poured for himself and looked up with a question.

Vari shook his head. “I’ve had enough for now.”

The other man shrugged. Lifted his glass and downed its contents in a single motion. Ran a knuckle across his lips and spoke again. “A hundred thousand rubles.”

Vari ran a thumbnail between his front teeth; inspected it, wiped it on his shirt. Repeated the number as a question. “A hundred thousand rubles?” He sniffed loudly. “That’s not very generous. I bet you get more than that each time you suck his dick.” He saw the color rise in the other man’s cheeks. Watched with amusement as he struggled against instinct, bringing his anger to heel. It took a while.

“Okay.” The blond man drew a breath. Clasped his hands at the edge of the table again and leaned forward, fingers tensed. “A million. That’s it.”

Vari lifted his glass. Tipped it side to side, weighing the offer. “Quite an improvement in two minutes. I’ve got plenty of time. Another hour or two and we might start making some progress.”

The pale blue eyes streaked with anger.

“Don’t overplay your hand, old man. Look at yourself. Who do you think you are?” The blond man’s face twisted in a sneer. “You’re a fucking
mussor
, that’s all. A fat, worn-out, dog-eared old cop. You’re not worth shit. Take what you can get and be grateful. A million’s the limit.”

Vari steepled his fingers, considering again. After a moment he shook his head. “You know… I don’t think that’s right. I don’t think there
is
a limit.” His leg shot out and hooked the other chair, throwing it sideways, sending the man opposite sprawling to the floor. The bar fell silent. From the corner of his eye Vari saw Leonid reach beneath the counter, preparing for the worst, but there would be no need for that. That was the one good thing about the ex-Spetsnaz clowns. They were predictable. Trained to exercise restraint.