Disposable Asset Page 14

  ‘Perhaps frostbitten.’ Vlasov smoked. ‘Perhaps internally damaged.’

  ‘Desperate. Getting off the streets will be her priority. She’s hunkered down somewhere, out of sight.’

  ‘Your city, Inspektor. Out of sight where?’

  Bordachenko pulled at the tip of his fleshy nose with two fingers. ‘Where does the tree hide best? In a forest.’

  ‘The besprizornye?’

  ‘My first thought. But it’s too obvious. So she’ll avoid it.’

  They considered.

  ‘Since escaping Moscow,’ observed Vlasov, ‘she has stowed away; she has latched on to an American tourist; she has stolen vehicles. But she has not tried to pass herself off as a native. Because her Russian is not fluent enough. Her knowledge of our culture is superficial. She cannot show up at a door and claim to be an old friend of an absent daughter.’

  ‘So she’s with foreigners like herself,’ said Bordachenko. ‘In a hotel.’

  ‘Again, too obvious. We’ll check hotels before anything.’

  ‘A basement or an attic, then. Unknown to the true occupants of the residence.’

  ‘Or she may have found someone she can threaten into silence. Someone isolated.’

  ‘Or stupid. Or blind.’

  ‘Or vulnerable. The American slut has seduced them.’

  ‘Or greedy – she has bought their silence.’

  A helicopter passed outside the window, rattling a loose pane in its frame.

  ‘Concentrate on outcasts,’ said Vlasov after a few moments. ‘The fringe of society. Orphans, elderly, derelicts. Drunkards, foreigners. Anyone living alone. Also abandoned buildings, back alleys, heating grates.’

  Bordachenko nodded pensively.

  ‘We’ll get her.’ Vlasov funneled smoke out through flaring nostrils. ‘She’s just a girl with some set of yaitsa—’ balls – ‘far from home.’

  VYBORG

  Nikolai could work the remote control all by himself, just like a grown-up.

  He restarted from the beginning his favorite episode of Spokoynoy nochi, malyshi!, in which the presenter, a pretty dark-haired lady, helped the puppets clean up their toys, and then together they screened Adventures of Luntik. As he watched, he avoided turning his head to look at Mama, who slept on the floor at the other end of the living room.

  He would leave her alone, he thought, and let her JUST SLEEP IT OFF. That was what she and Sasha were always telling each other to do. One would complain about a splintering headache or upset tummy, and the other would say JUST SLEEP IT OFF. The sick person would get left alone, and the one who was awake would yell at Nikolai to be quiet, didn’t he know someone was sleeping, and when the sick person reappeared some time later, they would look pale and thin, but mostly better.

  He watched the entire episode again. When the credits were rolling, he went to give Mama another once-over. Standing very close, right thumb hooked into his small mouth. She lay on her side, eyes closed. Her skin was the color of parchment. Something about her mouth seemed not quite right. It looked caved in, like a rotten piece of fruit. She held so still, he thought, that she didn’t even seem to be breathing.

  His eyes moved to the bottle lying on the floor beneath the coffee table. Her medicine, Mama called it, and the medicine-smell was very strong around her today.

  Maybe he should try to give her another dose. Medicine made sick people feel better.

  When he climbed down to retrieve the bottle, however, he saw that the last of the contents had already spilled out into the carpet. That was why the medicine-smell was so intense today, hanging over this part of the room in a cloud.

  On hands and knees, inspecting the empty bottle, he noticed a gleam beneath the couch. Stretching out one arm, he managed to fish the item in question out into sunlight. It was a small plastic baggie, half-filled with chocolate drops. For the first time he became aware of his hunger – breakfast was often late, but never this late.

  He stood again in front of Mama, holding the bag. After a few moments he began to sing lightly beneath his breath, hoping to wake her. ‘The little bird cooks porridge,’ he sang tunelessly. ‘She gave it to this one, she gave it to this one, she gave it to this one … but none for you! Why? You did not bring water. You did not chop firewood. There is nothing for you … ’

  Mama didn’t stir.

  Looking straight into her face, he deliberately opened the bag. Dipping a finger inside, he dared her to wake up and scold him. Kolya, she would snap, just because I’m sleeping doesn’t mean you should eat candy you find on the floor for breakfast – can’t you see that I’m VERY SICK?

  But she didn’t move, even as he slipped a chocolate into his mouth and slowly chewed. It wasn’t chocolate. It tasted like dirty socks and made his head spin unpleasantly, and after a few seconds he considered spitting it out. He chewed a few more times anyway. ‘Yuck,’ he said then and spat the half-melted glob on to the floor. Now his empty stomach was roiling. ‘I’ve got a SPLINTERING HEADACHE,’ he declared, ‘and an upset tummy.’

  No response from Mama.

  He kicked the glob out of sight beneath the couch.

  Leaving the baggie on the table, he went back to the TV. Now his head was throbbing, his stomach flipping miserably. A clench, a stitching cramp. He groaned.

  He restarted the episode again from the beginning.

  But he had trouble concentrating. Maybe because he had just watched the episode so many times in a row, and of course he’d already seen it a thousand times before. Or maybe because he was hungry. When you were hungry, Mama said, you didn’t have energy. You had to keep your tank filled with gas, just like a car. Then you could run and play and jump. He had never before been so low on energy that he couldn’t even watch TV. But as the pretty dark-haired lady helped the puppets clean up their toys, the screen seemed to turn gauzy. He daydreamed for a while – rockets slipping through the void of space, cosmonauts drifting on the ends of tethers – and when he came back to reality the puppets had already finished screening Adventures of Luntik and the credits were rolling again.

  His stomach felt better now – just very empty. He almost wished Sasha was around, even though he never wished Sasha was around. Sasha might know how to make Mama feel better. At the very least, Sasha could give Nikolai some breakfast.

  He cast a guilty look over his shoulder and then, leaving the television on its blank blue screen, went into the kitchen. For a time, he looked longingly at the cereal shelf. Nobody knew that he could reach it by himself. But then Mama would find the box half-empty, and he would get into trouble.

  Instead, he helped himself to a juice cup from the refrigerator – he was allowed to help himself to drinks. He went into the bathroom and used the potty, getting a little pee-pee on his pants, but not too much. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands like a good boy. He went back to the living room, to gaze wistfully again at Mama, hoping that his dutiful following of the rules would have changed something. It seemed to make sense. If he had somehow made her sick – by being bad, no doubt – then being good should make her better.

  But she still didn’t move.

  His belly growled.

  He went into his bedroom and fetched an armful of stuffed animals. Back before the TV, he lined them up – piglet, crow, dog, hare, and bear – and then sat, awarding himself a position of honor in the center.

  He was crying now. Lower lip turned down; hot tears burning his cheeks.

  Everything would be OK. No matter what he had done wrong to make Mama sick, everything would be OK. It always had been before. Eventually, she would wake up and make him breakfast and give him kisses and hugs and tell him she loved him and everything would be fine. Just a matter of time. Just had to let her SLEEP IT OFF.

  His eyes dallied on the small baggie on the coffee table, filled with chocolate that was not chocolate. Maybe, he thought, he had just gotten a bad piece. Maybe another piece would taste better.

  But he should be good. Being good was the way
to make Mama better.

  Snuffling, he restarted the episode from the beginning.

  SAINT PETERSBURG

  A group of men crossed a footbridge above a frozen canal.

  After regaining cobblestones, Captain Nikita Loginov paused to get his bearings. Then, stamping his feet against the cold, he delivered orders: dispatching two men to check hotels upriver, and two down; two pairs to engage the derelicts and runaways who squatted beneath bridges and in alleyways behind cafés; a trio to visit the docks, to interview captains of restaurant boats, the only ships out on the frozen waters; four of his most stalwart and untemptable to visit restaurants and pubs (not for nothing was Saint Petersburg considered the beer, as well as the crime, capital of Russia); half a dozen to sweep through nearby tram, Metro, and trolleybus stations. With his remaining men he prepared to embark on further doorstepping, a process he would lead personally.

  As the sun made its foreshortened trek across the winter sky, similar scenarios played out in every neighborhood in the city. Doors were pounded, photographs proffered, questions posed. North of Nevsky, the efforts encompassed public squares and gardens. On windy Vasilevsky Island, they included the eighteenth-century campus of Saint Petersburg State University. As every one of Petersburg’s five million inhabitants could not be visited, lists of likely suspects – the fringe of society – were assembled from interviews with postal and sanitation workers, meter readers and bartenders.

  During the course of the afternoon, one hundred and twelve young women were taken into custody. The thirty most promising were delivered in person to the war room in Sledkom Headquarters on the Moika, where they were interviewed at length. Of these thirty, eight were deemed suspicious enough to be passed for further attention to an inner sanctum.

  Here the young ladies found themselves facing a curious pair: a hazel-eyed giant of a man who gave as his name Inspektor Bordachenko, and a smaller man with short blond hair and a neatly waxed mustache, who offered no clue as to his identity, and in fact said nothing at all. By seven p.m. the last of the young women had delivered a detailed statement, convinced the pair that she did not merit further incarceration, and been released.

  TAURIDA GARDENS, 7:25 P.M.

  ‘Evening, comrade. Quiet night?’

  ‘Could be worse. Just two brawls so far. But the night’s still young. What are you drinking?’

  ‘I’m on duty, comrade. You trying to corrupt me?’

  ‘Sorry, sir … What can I do for you, then?’

  ‘Have you seen this girl?’

  ‘No, sir. We don’t get many pretty young things in there. They know better. It usually gets rough for them.’

  ‘Anything out of the ordinary? Regulars who haven’t shown up, like that?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’ll keep your eyes open, though.’

  ‘Yes, sir, you’ve got my word. Something to do with that terrorist out on M-10?’

  ‘Mind your business, comrade … and keep those eyes wide open.’

  KUPCHINO, 8:00 P.M.

  ‘Cold night, eh?’

  ‘That’s what the flask is for, officer. Care for a nip?’

  ‘And pick up your herpes? Not likely … Now, come into the light, buddy, and take a look at this picture. Seen this girl?’

  ‘Not a chance. The girls who come through here don’t look nearly so … clean.’

  ‘Look closer. She’ll have dirtied up a bit since this was taken. It would be just in the past day.’

  ‘Haven’t seen her. Only new girl’s a chornye from Ichkeria. Dark but sweet, if you take my meaning. The darker the berry, I find, the—’

  ‘Ask around. Whoever turns her in gets a nice reward. One thousand rubles, out of my own pocket.’

  ‘I’ll ask around, officer. Promise.’

  VETERANOV LIGOVO, 8:30 P.M.

  ‘Petro! Fancy seeing you out here. And jimmying your way into a locked car …’

  ‘Lost my keys, sergeant, I swear to God.’

  ‘Don’t try me, Petro. Take a look at this picture. Seen this girl?’

  ‘Never in my life. Wouldn’t mind running into her, though. I could teach her a thing or two.’

  ‘If you did run into her, you’d give me a call. Otherwise I might decide you were trying to steal this nice vehicle and run you in.’

  ‘Sergeant! What about old times?’

  ‘It’s been a long fucking day, Petro …’

  ‘OK, forget old times. I’ll keep my eyes peeled. All right?’

  SOUTH OF NEVSKY, 9:00 P.M.

  Cassie stole glances from the corner of her eye.

  The old woman was preparing tea by the stove. Seen from the back, she very nearly described the shape of a pear. After setting the kettle on a burner, she tidied up: whistling as she worked, affecting casual disinterest. But who knew what was actually going on inside that whiskered old skull?

  As the water boiled, the babushka set out loose chunks of sugar to be held between the teeth when the beverage was sipped. Settling carefully into a chair, she lit the latest in an endless chain of fragrant, vaguely-anesthetic Djarum Blacks. A smile creased the seamed face, rearranging the wrinkles. ‘Still hungry, dear?’

  Cassie shook her head.

  ‘So after the tea, you’ll lie down and have another good rest. And I won’t hear any argument.’

  The babushka was old. Solidly built, but old; she would not put up much fight.

  ‘You should see the look on your face.’ The woman chuckled. ‘As if you’re considering murder, just to shut me up. That’s the danger of robbing a lonely old lady, isn’t it? You might get killed with kindness. My name’s Mariya, by the way. Masha, to my friends.’

  Cassie said nothing. Her head was thumping again. The tide of fatigue was rising.

  ‘Not a talker, eh? That’s all right; I can do enough talking for the both of us. When you’ve had enough of my voice, you just go lie down. I won’t take offense. My husband did it often enough. Ivan, his name was. Masha, he would say, you could talk the ear off a brass monkey …’

  With the Russian character, Quinn had said, there is always more beneath the surface than meets the eye.

  Through an open doorway Cassie watched the silhouetted figure of the woman, slouched dozing in the damask chair.

  Russian character encompasses European character, but it originates in the Far East. Everything you think you know is therefore slightly, crucially, different. Russian mentality is not based on what we consider common sense. Spirituality trumps religion. Sophistication trumps formality. And suspicion of authority is deeply ingrained in a way that you – even you – cannot ever truly comprehend.

  Before Cassie had removed herself, Mariya had talked at length – the propensity to ramble had not been exaggerated – about her dead husband, her arthritis, her problems with the tax collector, her favorite recipes, her tendency to overstock on dry goods. The old woman’s loneliness was nothing less than pathetic. And yet it was a lucky thing. Food and a day’s rest had paid some immediate dividends; the fever had broken, and Cassie thought she might manage to keep all ten toes. But now she needed real, sustained sleep. And until she could bring herself to throttle the life from the old woman, the babushka’s loneliness offered her best chance at shelter. Suspicion of authority, solitude, senility, spirituality, all of the above … Who cared? Just so long as the tea and sympathy kept coming.

  The radio murmured quietly, ceaselessly. The announcer reported a fire at a psychiatric hospital in Kolomna, a rising wave of anti-American demonstrations, a policy overhaul at the Central Bank, a brazen and fatal attack on five prominent Muscovites, one of whom had been considered a leading contender for the city’s next mayor, at a popular restaurant in the middle of the day. No mention was made of her escape. Because that would embarrass the Kremlin, she thought. They would be looking for her on the sly – but officially, she remained in detention.

  Maybe saving face would be enough for them. Maybe if she kept her head down for a couple of
weeks, they would move on to other things.

  Carpets and kilim hulked in corners like pillowy fortifications. The old woman dozed, propped in her chair like a sentry. The bedroom was cozy, agreeably redolent of cooking. Cassie could almost feel safe here.

  Almost.

  Even safer, she thought, to remove the old woman, leave nothing to chance.

  Am I capable of that? Rodion Raskolnikov had wondered. Can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open … that I shall tread in the sticky warm blood, blood … with the axe … Good God, can it be?

  She blinked sleepily. The bed was comfortable, the flannel nightgown Mariya had lent her warm and soft. Eventually, her eyes closed and she slept – a deep, dreamless sleep.

  THE MOSCOW MARRIOTT GRAND

  ‘Sean?’ An outthrust hand. ‘Bill Benson! Christ – I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been.’

  Ravensdale had never seen the man before in his life. He was about thirty-five, starting to go soft around the middle, but still clean-jawed and sharp-eyed. Clasping Ravensdale’s hand, he leaned in and added with no particular emphasis: ‘Andy’s waiting.’

  He led Ravensdale out of the lobby, through a sea of perfumed and bejeweled women, chattering about the late-night sushi joint they just had to try. Climbing into a taxi, he gave the driver an address two kilometers away. Several blocks later, he called an abrupt stop. They walked the length of an industrial side-street; he hailed a passing Combi. They rode another ten blocks, past round-the-clock construction projects lit by sodium glare. In the shadows waited a parked car, a black Opel. The man produced keys. They slipped inside and drove wordlessly to the eastern border of Sokolniki Park.

  ‘He wants a game of chess,’ remarked ‘Bill Benson’ as he discharged his passenger.

  Before stepping over the park’s threshold, Ravensdale cast a cautious glance around. At this hour on a Friday morning, Sokolniki’s daytime crowd – joggers, tourists, and shoppers visiting the cash-and-carry warehouses – was nowhere to be seen. The night owls – homeless and besprizornye, dealers and junkies – circled the park warily, knowing better than to go inside after dark.