She could sense where this one-sided conversation was going. ‘You’d be best not to start bandying his name around,’ she darted back coldly.
‘Pouf… I’m not worried about that young man.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘I’ve got a job back down at the docks… stopped drinking, you know.’
How many times had she heard that in the past?
‘So I heard.’
‘The place I’m staying at is pretty crappy though. It’s not like the place you have. It’s over on Trefoleva, I share it with a family of four… pretty wife though.’
How did he know where she lived? Had he been following her around? She pushed back the chair to leave.
‘One minute,’ he said, gesturing her to sit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an official-looking document. It was an old internal passport, badly frayed at the edges. She frowned uncomprehendingly. He flipped open the photo page. It took a second for her to register. Staring up at her was the face of a man she would never forget: Pavel Pytorvich Antyuhin.
‘How did you get this?’ she hissed angrily. She reached out to grab it but his hand got there first. He slipped it back safely into his pocket.
‘Wouldn’t be good for this to fall into the wrong hands, have people asking questions… they never did find the killer – nasty business.’
Outraged, she started to say something and stopped herself. She wasn’t about to confirm what he did or didn’t know.
‘What is it you want?’ she said coldly.
‘More of what you just gave me… somewhere acceptable to stay. I know you can afford it. It doesn’t have to be as nice as your place, one bedroom would do fine… after all, I am your father.’
Chapter 19
MILAN
Misha handed Ilaria a small key he’d taped under the filing cabinet in her office. She looked surprised.
‘Put this somewhere safe. Maybe give it to a friend.’
Misha wondered whether he should be giving it her at all. Hadn’t somebody already died in search of what the safe deposit box contained? But this was Italy, not Russia, he reminded himself. Yesterday, locked in Ilaria’s office, he had pored over four blow-up black-and-white photos with renewed interest: two men – he guessed early forties, similar height, five foot ten, maybe eleven, dark raincoats, one with thick dark spectacles – half turned towards the Neva. The man on the left – the one without glasses – had extended his arm just past his bodyline, his palm open as if denying some point the other was making. Was it ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t care’? The last shot was of them facing the camera and the man with the spectacles pointing a finger at him. He was shouting: ‘Get him!’ Misha could still hear his voice.
He thought back to that April morning ten years ago. It had been raining, he remembered. Cloud had malingered heavily over the city for days, casting a grey oppressive pall over the Neva, turning it a deep black. He had just crossed the Lomonosova Bridge on his way to Apraksin Market, when a man blocked his way. He was taller than Misha’s then five foot ten, wiry, intense. He had flashed him some official-looking ID but it was too quick for him to take in beyond a photograph, the hammer and sickle. He waved him towards a café only a few metres away. Misha had held his ground at first as people streamed past them on either side.
‘Just a coffee and a chat. I have something that might interest you.’
Curiosity had eventually got the better of him. It didn’t look as though whoever-he-was would take no for an answer either.
‘What would you like?’ the man had asked once inside the café. Misha could remember precisely what he had chosen: sweet tea and honey cake. The waitress had somehow divined his new benefactor’s status – perhaps it was the highly polished black shoes or a raincoat that fitted him better than the average raincoat fitted an average citizen, or was it simply his air of confidence or sense of underlying menace? ‘Yes comrade,’ was all she said after scribbling down their order and hurrying back to the serving counter. They had sat there in silence and waited. The waitress returned shortly, deposited the contents of her tray and retired safely out of earshot.
‘I am told that you are a bit of a chancer around here, up for things?’
Misha shrugged noncommittally, wondering who he was and how he had come by that information.
‘If you are interested, I might have a small job for you, something suited to your talents.’
Misha had remained silent.
‘There’s a meeting taking place, Saturday morning, eleven o’clock, two men… Can you use a camera?’
Misha had nodded. Back home he had an album packed with photos, mostly friends larking around. A third-hand Zenith had been a present from his mother for his fifteenth name day.
‘I need someone to get close, close enough to get a clear shot, and you fit the bill.’
Misha had asked if he was to do it how he would identify them, and he had been shown a photograph of a man wearing heavily rimmed spectacles and a fedora hat. He had known better than to ask who he was or why he wanted a photo of him.
‘Fifty roubles, take it or leave it,’ the man had said bluntly.
Misha stared again at the photo until his anonymous host had leaned across the table and plucked it out of his hand.
‘Eighty,’ Misha had countered, as the man placed it back in his wallet.
‘Seventy.’
He had nodded his assent, not quite believing his luck. It was more than his mother earned in a month. Misha remembered the man pulling a small camera out of his raincoat pocket and handing it to him.
‘Just point and shoot. And don’t worry about finding me. I’ll find you.’
But, of course, ten years later he still hadn’t. Things had not gone as intended, but at least he had had the foresight to put a backup plan in place; when his pursuers had searched him they had come away empty-handed.
‘Can I ask whose those men are?’ said Ilaria, staring over his shoulder.
He had asked himself the same question for years. ‘I wish I knew.’
‘Why have you held onto them?’
Because someone wants them badly enough, he thought, enough to have ransacked his place, enough to kill for. Months before, Misha had had Ilaria’s photographer friend blur a set of prints to abstraction. Whoever had them now, he hoped, would assume he had nothing of value and leave him alone.
‘You never know when something might be useful,’ he said, ‘particularly in Russia.’
From the look on her face he sensed she was disappointed he had not told her more.
‘Look, Ilaria, I’m sorry, but I suspect the less you know about these photos the better. The fact is I don’t really know any more than you do. You’ve looked at them – two men standing by the Neva on a wet April morning… period. But whoever they are, or whoever they are involved with, ten years later they are suddenly important again.’
‘What’s changed?’ she said, softening.
‘That’s it… I can’t figure it out… the Soviet Union, Russia, everything is changing, falling apart… why now… the renewed interest… how valuable can a ten-year-old photo be?’
She stared at him for a moment.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,’ she said, rolling the key between her fingers.
‘I think we should go back to work. Can you ask one of the girls to go to Carlo’s and fetch me a cappuccino? I want to talk with you about the oil business.’
Chapter 20
LENINGRAD
Viktoriya ran a finger over the faint scar under her right eye and searched for her reflection in the steamed-up bathroom mirror. She reached forward and with the palm of her hand cleared a small patch. She stood there for a moment just staring into her own eyes, her father’s eyes, trying in some way to see into herself, beyond the superficial exterior. She knew she was beautiful, but that same beauty had got her into trouble, had drawn her attacker too. Maybe it was impossible to see oneself as someone else might. She wondered how Kostya viewed her; time had not made him any more transparent. Was she just the trophy girlfriend – replaceable, expendable? He never shared his fears with her or discussed his business interests… not in any meaningful way. They might spend a night together and the next day she would receive a call from him; he would be in Moscow, Yekaterinburg, Novgorod, or some other place, and would not have mentioned anything about it to her the night before. She had given up asking why. She did not want some veiled excuse, or, worse, be lied to. Was there another woman? She never had a sense of that. Did he have sex with other women? It was hard to believe he didn’t. In the sort of places he frequented, he had only to point. Misha was right, of course. You didn’t acquire the cars, the property and the standard of living Konstantin enjoyed just from owning nightclubs. Her life felt in limbo, unresolved, uncertain.