‘Please…’ Antyuhin begged, his eyes rolling around wildly.
Konstantin roughly shoved a handkerchief in his mouth and kicked him hard between the legs. He writhed in agony, twisting to free himself from his two captors.
‘Your turn, Vika,’ invited Konstantin.
Despite what he had done to her, she found herself unable to respond.
She turned away as Lev swung his boot into Antyuhin’s ribs. She heard bone crack. When she turned to look again, Konstantin was rubbing a handful of snow into the face of an unconscious Antyuhin. He started awake, terror taking hold once more.
Ilia pulled off the man’s belt and bound his hands tightly.
‘Any last words?’ said Konstantin.
Antyuhin started to babble incomprehensibly, his words strangled by the cloth he tried to spit from his mouth.
At a nod from Konstantin, the two men dragged Antyuhin the last twenty feet to the embankment before grabbing him roughly by his arms and his feet. On the third swing they let go. Ten feet below, his body crashed through newly formed ice and disappeared under a thicker sheet behind. They stood there in silence, not moving, staring at the water, watching the last ripples fade.
Ilia picked up the dead man’s briefcase.
‘Let’s see what’s in there,’ said Lev. He flicked open the catch, pulled out a wodge of official-looking papers and passed them to Viktoriya, who was standing next to him.
‘Pavel Antyuhin, Director Khozraschet North-West,’ Viktoriya read out loud. ‘They’ll be looking for him now.’
‘They can look as long as they like, but that river won’t be giving him up until the spring thaw,’ said Konstantin. ‘He’ll be perfectly preserved, of course.’
Lev pulled out a wallet and ID.
‘Get rid of it,’ ordered Konstantin. ‘You don’t want to be caught with that. You can split the cash with Ilia’
Viktoriya watched Lev divide the roubles and pocket the wallet and ID.
‘It’s safe,’ he said, and patted his breast pocket. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll dispose of it.’
JUNE 1986
Chapter 5
LENINGRAD
The door banged shut behind him. Misha pulled the lock bar tight and slid over the interconnecting bolt of the bauxite-coloured lock-up. Letting the two half-empty duffel bags slide off his shoulder, he shone his pocket torch onto the racking. He found what he was looking for, struck a match and lit the candle. Before long, several candles burned steadily around the metal sarcophagus. Misha carefully unpacked and placed jeans, T-shirts and illegally imported CDs in their proper place behind him. A good day’s trading. For a Tuesday, the flea market at Apraksin Dvor had been busier than normal. From the side pocket of the canvas bag he pulled out a wallet and removed its contents onto a wooden fold-up table: one hundred dollars and a pile of roubles. Looking at the shelves, he made a mental note of what he was running short of. He must ask Viktoriya to get him some heavy overcoats; it would be autumn in a few months.
The sound of a heavy fist banging on the container made him jump.
‘Who is it?’ he shouted. He lifted his old service automatic from its holster on the table.
‘Ivan! And you can put the gun away,’ a barely audible voice responded.
Misha walked over, unlocked the door and swung it open. The damp late-summer afternoon air rolled in from the south across the Bolshaya Neva and Vasilyevsky Island. He took a deep breath, exchanging it for the stale atmosphere of the container.
‘Coffee?’ was all his flatmate said.
‘Good idea.’
Misha turned and looked at the money on the table.
‘Just one minute.’
He pulled the door to and placed the day’s takings in an old combination safe bolted to the container floor under the racking. He closed the door and spun the dial once, tugging on the handle to make sure it was locked.
‘Stefan’s or Oleg’s?’ Ivan asked his friend when he reappeared.
‘Stefan’s today, I think.’
Misha liked Stefan’s: the coffee was passable and probably was actually coffee. It was also a source of the rarest Soviet commodity: information. Street traders swapped stories, traded goods and alerted each other to the latest city crackdown.
Boats carrying coal, timber and building supplies chugged past. In the opposite direction, a barge, piled high with rubbish, stinking in the summer heat, glided by on its way out to sea. The waitress placed two steaming mugs of black coffee in front of them and a plate of piroshki ‘Mushroom and pork today,’ she said. Ivan reached for a pastry, took a bite and idly inspected the inside.
‘Expecting to find something?’ said Misha.
‘You never know in this place.’
Misha studied his old school friend and wondered how much he ate in one day. Five foot ten and thickset, Misha guessed Ivan weighed at least a hundred and ten kilos.
‘You should have one,’ Ivan said, tucking into a second pastry.
‘I will, if there are any left… I’ve been thinking,’ said Misha, taking another sip of black coffee.
‘Then we’re probably going to be in trouble again.’
‘I was at the Hotel Grand Europe last night,’ Misha replied, ignoring him.
Ivan gave him a look. ‘Not in those clothes I hope.’
Misha looked down at his worn leather jacket and faded denim jeans and shook his head.
‘Look, things are opening up… all this talk of glasnost and… what was the word our new general secretary has been using?’
‘Perestroika,’ said Ivan, swallowing the last of his pastry and reaching for a third. Misha beat him to it. ‘You think it will last? How many fancy policies have you seen so far that have come to nothing… zero?’ Ivan added, unimpressed.
‘We’re free to travel…’
Ivan shrugged a so what?
‘Don’t you see? We have a huge opportunity.’ His friend just didn’t think big enough. ‘Start with the basics,’ Misha said enthusiastically. ‘People are crying out for everything… clothing… fashion, for instance.’
‘And what do you know about fashion? Jeans and T-shirts, yes, but…?’ said Ivan disbelievingly.
‘Jeans? What do you mean? You can hardly get your hands on a pair, let alone anything decently made.’ He looked at his own, where the stitching had come apart at the seams.
‘Last night I talked to an Italian fashion manufacturer trying to find a way into the market. From the lookbook it seems right… perfect, in fact, and the price works. I’ve decided to pay him a visit, go direct… cut out the middleman.’
‘And how do you propose to bring it in? You can’t trust a carrier or customs.’
‘Hand luggage… you’re strong.’
Ivan pulled a face.
Misha pushed back his chair and stood up. He counted out some coins and put them on the table.
‘Are you in?’
‘Of course, you know me… I just hope I don’t live to regret it.’
‘You won’t… I’ll see you later. I’m going Gleb hunting.’
Chapter 6
Gleb hung out in only a few places. It didn’t take long for Misha to find him: he was holding court in the back of one of the faceless cafés that nestled under the graceful and neglected ochre apartment buildings of Pirogova.
Misha counted two minders: one outside as he went in and a second at a nearby table just out of earshot of his boss. Misha ordered a tea while he waited for Gleb to finish with his current visitor, a wiry-looking middle-aged man busy leafing through a slim zip-up briefcase he had opened on the table. He teased out a sheet of paper, studied it briefly and handed it to Gleb, who examined it with a magnifying glass before nodding, satisfied with whatever it was. The minder caught Misha’s eye and gave him a warning look.