The Russian Idea

The Russian Idea

by

Steve Evans

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Steve Evans

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover image courtesy of Silentiger and Dreamstime.com

Cover by Joleene Naylor

This book is written in New Zealand English. Enjoy the difference

Other books by Steve Evans on Smashwords are:

Demented

Evilheart

The Kleiber Monster

Savonarola's Bones

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

PART ONE

Chapter One: Welcome to Russia, Daniel

The man was slumped over the keyboard of the grand piano, his body twisted slightly to one side, hands on the middle keys, eyes closed, as if he was intensely seeking in his mind the notes he was about to play, and when he found them, would squeeze them out so delicately, so sensitively, that listeners would be transported to ecstasy. The twisted grimace on the pianist's unshaven face, the blackness of the beard with tousled hair to match, all set in the soft half-light of a tiny lamp on the far end of the piano, added to the charm. Only he wasn't meant to be there. No one was.

Daniel turned around and left the room.

Nadya.

Yes?

There's some one at the piano, in the front room. Do you know about this?

Nadya came out of the kitchen, where she'd been fiddling with an automatic espresso maker.

No. She frowned. I have no idea. Just a moment please.

As Daniel moved to follow, she waved him away.

Wait in the kitchen unless I call you, please.

Daniel introduced himself to the kitchen. It was tiny, a kitchenette really – just room for a small table and two benches to squeeze into the space between the stove and sink on one side of a bank of windows and the refrigerator on the other. Good I'm not all that big, he thought. Otherwise being here would be a problem, even though it's only a fortnight. The windows using up most of the outside wall meant a view of some kind during the day; there would have to be, from a fifth floor flat. A clock above the tiny table showed it was two - two a.m. It had been a long day. He pulled out one of the benches from under the table and sat on it just as Nadya came bustling in, her thin body pushing past him so she could rummage around in a small cupboard under the windows next to the stove. She yanked out a pair of rubber gloves and was pulling them on as she squeezed back past him.

Nadya. What's going on?

Not now, Nadya said. The look on her narrow face with large round eyes was stern, as if she was his mother, or employer, instead of someone he had met just hours before. Wait for me to call.

Daniel sat stunned. His brain was fogged, as if he was thinking through a haze and could not quite make out his thoughts. What was it about? He really had no idea. He had no idea why he was there at all, actually – except for the fat wodge of dosh that had landed in his bank account back in Manchester. Twenty thousand American dollars with a promise of eighty thousand more for two weeks in Moscow, all expenses paid, a guide and translator thrown in, itinerary all sorted too, and if things worked out – a job offer worth much, much more. That would be welcome - his contract was coming to an end, his life was not really going anywhere otherwise either. It was time for a change.

Nadya came back, wearing the rubber gloves. She didn't come into the kitchen.

Please. The big eyes in the narrow face seemed even larger. You must help – help now. There is a pair of gloves in that cupboard. Put them on and come. She turned and left. Daniel fossicked in the cupboard, found a pair of rubber gloves, with an effort squeezed them on over his dry skin and trailed Nadya into the front room and the man at the piano.

She'd turned on the overhead light and when Daniel came into the room he realised with a start that the man was dead. It woke him up.

Dead? he exclaimed. He's dead?

That is correct, Nadya said quietly. Murdered. Now – help me. I need you to hold him while I search his pockets.

Don't you think – the police...?

She looked at him strangely, as if he were from some other planet.

This is Russia, Daniel. I will explain everything later. But just a moment– I was not thinking. Wait here. She rushed out of the room.

Daniel looked at the dead man. He had only seen him from the far side of the room, across the top of a grand piano, in dim light. Up close, lit by the far more powerful overhead light, it was obvious he was dead from the flaccid skin tone of his face – but also from the large knife sticking out of his back, through the thick leather of his black jacket. There was no blood on the floor, but a dark stain discoloured the leather, leaving it stiff where the rest was supple.

Here. Nadya returned and handed him a plastic apron. Put this on, please. You may lean on him, but try not to do it if possible.

Surely...

Be quiet, Nadya said in a firm voice. You will get us both in trouble. We will call the police – we must. But we will first find out something about this man, if we can. She pointed. Hold him – there. Otherwise he will fall over, and they will know at once that we have been – been snooping.

Daniel shoved his panic as far down as he could, willed it to disappear though it wouldn't, and did as Nadya commanded. The dead man was lumpy, unwieldy, like a sack of coal.

Far too deftly for Daniel's liking Nadya fished around in the man's jacket. From the inside she produced a wallet, and from a pocket on the side, a wad of banknotes. She felt his trousers but to Daniel's relief did not dig into them, which would have meant more shifting the corpse about, and Daniel was feeling queasy.

Um. She had put the notes on a piece of paper sitting on a table behind the piano, but opened the wallet first, rifling through the thick wedge of cards slipped into the slots of the sleek leather. Ah. Then - He is a police officer – a detective. One of Maxim's. Hold him again please. While Daniel kept the man upright, she put the wallet back where she had found it. Then she counted the money, grunted, and put that back too.

You can let him go, carefully, she said at last, so he doesn't fall. When he'd pulled away, she held out her right hand. "The gloves please, and the apron. And touch nothing in here – nothing, do you understand? You didn't touch anything when you came in, the first time?

Only the door handle...that light was on.

Yes, we will return everything as it was. The door handle is good. Come into the kitchen.

I want to throw up, Daniel said, and made for the toilet.

As he rushed for comfort her voice seemed far away. Yes - certainly.

The toilet was next to the kitchen, across from the bedroom where he'd stowed his bags when they'd first come in. He barely squeezed into the tiny space, heaving the heavy airline food into the bowl, then again, and finally, on his knees, a third time. He'd left the door ajar and Nadya's hand came through the gap with a tissue.

Here, she said. The bathroom is next door, if you would like to wash when you are finished. The hand went away.

The coffee is ready, he heard her say from the kitchen. I will ring Maxim now. When you are better – we will talk. And then – the police.

Chapter Two: Cops

The first two policemen were drunk. They were in grey uniforms with red trim, wearing absurdly peaked caps whose shiny black brims made them look more unsteady as they tumbled their way through the door from the landing off the ancient liftwell and the creaky lift that had borne them to the fifth floor.

Nadya threw them out, pushing them back the way they'd come scarcely they had got in, shouting over what Daniel took to be wounded protests.

Drunkards! She vented her outrage to Daniel. Murder – and they send drunkards. I don't care if it is three o'clock in the morning – drunkards! She was on the phone again in an instant. When she finished they sat in silence in the kitchen; Daniel had already had his instructions and explanations from her: the police were corrupt and taking precautions was necessary; only Maxim could sort things out. Meanwhile, Daniel was to follow her lead, and do as she said. She was completely businesslike, apparently unaffected by the grisly welcome.

Ten minutes later there was an almost discreet knock. Nadya peered through the peephole. Maxim has reached them. That's better.

The door swung open to reveal a huge man dressed like the corpse – black turtle neck shirt, black leather jacket, black trousers and shoes, but with his dark hair cut very close. He seemed to lunge into the hall, followed by three men in white coats, two lugging a stretcher. Nadya waved them toward the lounge and followed. Daniel didn't, not straight away. He didn't want to look at the dead man again.

To his surprise the men in white coats were back in a flash, two carrying the corpse covered with a sheet. The third man was writing on a clipboard. Daniel had expected more – photos, forensic examinations...not this time. The trio trooped out the door with their ghoulish cargo, not looking at Daniel. In the room with the piano he could hear the big man speaking with Nadya. He ventured in.

The policeman pointed at him and said something. Nadya shrugged. The policeman made a call on his mobile and said to him in English, You will wait. He pointed out of the room. Daniel went back to the kitchen and sat on the blond wood bench. He was dead tired. It had been a long flight from Manchester, followed by customs and immigration at Domodedovo airport outside Moscow, to be met by this strange dark-haired woman Nadya, whose back was unusually straight and whose direct and somehow uncompromising gaze made him feel uncomfortable. He felt exposed by her - as if she knew all about him, and wasn't greatly impressed. They had driven to the city in the dark almost in silence. He didn't know what jet lag was, but if he had it, it wasn't fun. Finally, he put his head on his arms and went to sleep.

A gentle shaking woke him. It was Nadya. She smiled at him, the stern gaze replaced with a welcoming softness, her short dark hair lit from behind, a halo accenting shining large brown eyes. He shook his head to try to clear out the cobwebs in his mind. Had it been a dream? No...

You have been sleeping, she said. Good. Now come – there is a man to speak with you. I will make a coffee for all of us.

As he stumbled into the hall a man appeared from a room on the right. He wasn't wearing anything like a uniform, but a light brown leather bomber jacket over a beige crew neck jersey, jeans and Nike trainers that made his feet look too big for his body. He was slender and not tall, not as tall as Daniel’s five feet ten inches. His wavy light brown hair was too long for its cut and flopped over his forehead; as they talked he had to keep pushing it out of his deep-set blue eyes.

He stuck out his hand.

Hello. Daniel. My name is Arkady Filatov.

Daniel shook the proferred hand dumbly. Hello.

Come, Filatov said. Come in here. He gestured for him to go into the room he'd come out of. Daniel had not been in the room, which turned out to be a media centre. A large flatscreen television occupied a narrow wall above a DVD player, a stack of discs in their cases, and a remote control on a low coffee table. Opposite was a sofa covered in a rough fabric dyed in a green swirl, and near it, a matching chair.

The man took the chair and pulled it round so it faced the sofa, sat in it, and pointed at the sofa.

Sit.

Daniel sat down just as Nadya appeared with three demitasse coffees on a tray. Filatov took one almost absent-mindedly and set it down on the coffee table in front of him. Daniel took the second and Nadya, who remained standing, the third.

Your passport, please. Filatov’s gaze was calm, assured, unhurried.

Daniel fished it out of his shirt pocket and passed it to him. The man flicked it open and stared at his photograph, comparing it to his face.

Yes, he said finally with a smile, it is you – even if it does not look much like you.

He stared off into space for a moment, as if he was searching for something in his mind, then turned back to Daniel and smiled again.

Do you know very much about Russia? he asked. His English, like Nadya's, was very good – smooth and fluent, with a hint of vernacular.

Daniel shrugged.

People who think they know much about Russia probably don't.

Filatov laughed.

Very good. Well, you have no doubt heard many things, he went on. For example, that Russia is very bureaucratic, or that in Russia the police are corrupt. He grew serious. Of course, there is always some truth in stories like this. But these stories are never quite true, never the whole truth. There are corrupt police everywhere, and Russia is no different. But there are police who are not corrupt – who can not be corrupted, and I am one of those. And there are policemen who are not bureaucratic, who go the most direct and even creative way to a result. I am also one of those. He beamed with pride, seemed to puff himself up, a bantam rooster, ready to preen his feathers and strut.

I am very glad to hear it, Daniel murmured.

Filatov ignored him.

:So I am keeping you awake – for a few minutes more, for some details. You are of course not a suspect..."

I am glad to hear that too.

But you disturbed the body. I know this – you and your companion. He stared at Nadya.

Daniel was suddenly awake, alert. What he called his suspicion antennae began to throb. What was going on?

Nadya smiled at the policeman in a way that was plainly false - meant to be seen as false.

Yes, of course we did, she said, before Daniel could speak. What do you expect?

The policeman beamed even more widely.

Yes, that is true – I did expect you to do it. It is normal, human. But you left the money...

We only wanted to know who he was, Nadya said. The money was not important to us.

Even to you? the policeman looked at Daniel.

I would not steal it, he said. How did you know we touched the man?

The police are not required to answer such questions, Daniel. You know who he was. And he was? Filatov turned his face to Nadya.

He was one of you - a policeman. And he worked for Maxim – as a security advisor. There was a card, in his wallet. Daniel would have no idea. Nadya looked bored, as if the detective was wasting his time – certainly hers.

Ah yes, Maxim. Maxim Maximov, the famous industrialist and financier. The detective smiled. He has thrown his weight around about this man, already, in the middle of the night. You work for him. Daniel could not tell if Filatov was asking a question or making a statement as if he already knew the answer, and was merely making small talk.

You know this, Nadya said flatly.

And you? he turned to Daniel.

Maybe. I am here for a – for a job interview.

The detective raised an eyebrow.

Indeed? Here in Russia? Is your Russian so good you can be an asset here?

My Russian is poor, Daniel said, feeling edgy. It is for a position in England – my home. Is it of concern to you? Is there something to do with this murder that you are asking these questions?

Oh, no! Filatov put up his palm in mock protest. At least – not that I am aware. But all the information we can gather is of course potentially useful. The man was not killed here, you know – he was killed somewhere else, and brought here...there is a meaning to it, but it is unclear to us.

It is a warning to Maxim, Nadya said. A tragic one. Whoever did this could not get close to him, so they chose this method. You should ask him. She yawned then. It is very late. Daniel has slept only a short while in the past 24 hours, and you yourself must be very tired. Please – let us continue this, if we must, another time.

Filatov smiled a very thin, not entirely happy smile.

Yes, of course. Go to bed, Daniel - go to bed, both of you. We can speak again.

Chapter Three: New plans

Guh.

Daniel lurched out of bed and into the kitchen to find Nadya busy on a laptop.

Oh! she looked up, surprised - maybe. Do you know you have slept twelve hours?

Guh. Coffee?

She smiled.

Yes. It is in the machine behind you. I will show you; I am already tired of making it for you.

When she had shown him, and he'd made a cup of espresso, she put the laptop away and gestured for him to sit at the small table facing her.

We've missed the appointment with him – with Maxim, Daniel said after gulping down some wake-up call. It was late afternoon.

It is not a problem. I rang this morning and made new arrangements. We will go tomorrow. Today – tonight – we will see some of Moscow.

I haven't even seen the flat.

She laughed.

Yes, take a look around...there is not much to see.

It was dark last night and the – the -

Yes, she said again. That is over. Maxim is of course quite concerned. It is not a very nice introduction to Russia, to Moscow. But you should not worry - we will be safe here. The locks have already been changed.

Daniel went exploring, thinking that if Maxim was concerned, Nadya didn't seem to be.

The main room, with the grand piano, was quite dishevelled. He hadn't noticed that the night before. Next to the piano, stacked against the wall, were hundreds of music sheets in a large untidy stack. In the far corner, next to the door, a heap of CDs crowded around a stereo, and behind that, a glass-fronted bookcase crammed to overflowing with books. The only seating apart from the chair in front of the piano – respectfully put into its place, as if awaiting the next corpse, Daniel thought grimly – was a chaise longue on the opposite wall, shoved before a full-length mirror. There was a large table jammed up in front of two tall sashed windows, but no chairs. The faded wallpaper behind the piano was broken by paintings in a range of styles, some traditional, others more modern. The largest was a strange pastiche of a wooly mammoth made up of tiny pieces of paper printed with mathematical symbols and technical drawings. All the paintings were framed and had glass covers.

A room for living, Daniel murmured. He liked it. He wondered whose it really was.

The rest of the flat was cramped – the room with the huge plasma television screen scarcely had room for anything else apart from a built-in wardrobe, and beyond that a small study with another chaise longue instead of a desk, slotted in among bookcases stuffed with books in Russian and English. There was a pillow on the chaise longue; Daniel guessed Nadya had slept there the night before.

Apart from the lounge and its macabre piano the biggest room by far was the bedroom he'd been given, at the back of the flat looking out over a large garden and children's play area. It was furnished with a desk and a computer on the far wall past the double bed. The paintings in this room too, all originals, were well-framed and tasteful. Above the regency desk with the PC a portrait of a very elegant woman wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a flowing scarf was especially well-done, he thought.

So. Nadya appeared behind him, in the bedroom. What do you think? Would you live here? She smiled.

Yes, he said slowly. I would. It's nice, lived-in. Whose is it?

It is mine now, she said. It was a music teacher’s.

And?

She seemed nettled. And what?

And what happened to the music teacher? Why is the piano still here?

It doesn't matter. The teacher is no longer here, but it is not so easy to remove a grand piano from a fifth floor flat. Now – let us go to see the sights.

This means Red Square.

Yes, to start, she agreed. If we go quickly we can see the Kremlin Armoury museum and some of the churches inside the walls as well as St Basil's cathedral on the Square. She smiled. If you wish to see Lenin's tomb, you will go alone - I am not an admirer.

I am not sure...

She looked at her watch. "Well, not being sure is not a bad thing as we really do not have enough time to do all of those things.

No Kremlin or Red Square please.

No? She looked surprised. And why not?

"Everyone sees the Kremlin and Red Square and that