Филип Керр - Dead Meat

‘We’ll transfer him across the river to Kresti later this morning,’ he announced. ‘Perhaps a stretch on remand will persuade him to change his mind. Organise it, will you, Sasha? But let’s have someone keeping an eye on him. I don’t want any accidents. And if we do manage to charge those Georgians we’d better make sure they’re remanded somewhere else: Shpalerny or Nizhegorodsky, anywhere but Kresti.’

He glanced round at me and grinned.

‘Talking about Georgians, that reminds me. You’ve got a visitor.’

Oemyon Sergeyevich Luzhin was a brisk, small man, bald on top, with a short sandy-coloured beard and thick black-framed glasses, more like a university professor than the Mafia’s favourite lawyer. He wore a checked short-sleeved shirt, grey flannel trousers, and was smoking a small cigar. I guessed him to be about fifty. I found him waiting in my office. He was reading some international law journal that was written in English but I decided that he probably did that just to impress me.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he said and stood up politely.

We did not bother to shake hands, and although I knew exactly why Luzhin was there, I decided to let him earn his fee. So I sat down behind my desk and reached for my cigarettes. Luzhin offered me a cigar from the tin he had laid open on top of his papers, but by then I already had the cigarette alight. I said nothing and watched him get ready to make his move.

He shuffled his papers, disposed of the cigar, glanced at me over the top of his glasses and finally spoke in a firm baritone, his manner brisk and businesslike.

‘Now I understand that you are holding my clients,’ he said and proceeded to name every one of the seven Georgians, patronymics included, and all without consulting any of his notes.

That did impress me. Some of those Georgian names were a mouthful.

‘You seem to know them very well,’ I said. ‘And you’re very well-informed. We’ve only just picked them up.’

‘I’m on a permanent retainer with Mr Gankrelidze and his colleagues,’ Luzhin said without a hint of embarrassment. ‘A friend of Mr Gankrelidze contacted me late last night and informed me that they’d been arrested. I thought it best that I come straight here this morning.’ He paused and waited for me to say something, but when I merely shrugged at him, he smiled politely and added:

‘I presumed that at some stage during the day you would observe the normal protocol whereby the suspects are re-acquainted with the charges that are facing them, in the presence of their advocate. Well, I am here and I am at your disposal.’

‘Thank you, Mr Luzhin, that’s very helpful of you,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure we’ll be doing that until I’ve asked the State Prosecutor’s Office for a search protocol.’

‘May one inquire what you are looking for?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

The fact of the matter was, I hadn’t much of a clue what we could look for that was specifically related to the firebombing of the Pushkin Restaurant. I could hardly have asked Voznosensky for permission to search for some empty vodka bottles, some assorted rags, a can of gasoline, oil and a box of matches. The whole idea of a search protocol was simply a delaying tactic. I knew it. He knew it.

‘And when will you be going to see the State Prosecutor?’

‘Some time today,’ I said vaguely.

He made a note with his gold pen and lit another of his small cigars with a slimline gold lighter. I noticed that it was the same kind of lighter that Grushko had. Then I saw the gold watch and the gold wedding ring to match. Maybe he had a sensitive skin, I said to myself: one that could not bear the touch of any metal except gold.

‘And what are the charges facing my clients?’

‘Racketeering, extortion, arson and murder.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Not without compromising our witnesses. But I’ll certainly keep you informed, Mr Luzhin.’

‘Please do,’ he said, and taking out his crocodile leather wallet he handed me his business card. It was printed on both sides, in Russian and in English.

‘Now then. I understand my clients were arrested early yesterday afternoon,’ he said. ‘That gives you fifty-three — well, let’s be generous, say fifty-five — hours before you must either bring charges against my clients or release them.’

‘No, let’s just say fifty-three,’ I said coolly. I didn’t want any favours from this snake.

‘Fifty-three it is then,’ he said, without sounding insulted, and made another note. ‘Naturally if my clients are charged I shall be applying for bail.’

‘Which I will oppose.’

He smiled patiently.

‘Might I see the interrogation protocols? I merely wish to ascertain that my clients’ rights under Article 51 have been observed.’

I opened my drawer and took out the file.

‘Sometimes these fellows in Criminal Services can get a little carried away,’ he added by way of an apology.

‘Not in this particular case,’ I said, handing him a sheaf of paper. ‘One protocol for each of the seven dwarves. I think you’ll find everything’s in order, Mr Luzhin.’

‘Thank you,’ he said and inspected them carefully. When he was satisfied he returned them to me and puffed several times at his cigar, almost as if he had been about to light a length of fuse.

‘You’re not from St Petersburg, are you?’

‘Moscow.’

‘You’ll like it here,’ he said confidently. ‘It’s a very civilised sort of city.’

I thought of the firebomb sailing through the window of the Pushkin Restaurant, the bodies at the monument to the Heroes of Leningrad and outside the cinema on Nevsky, and nodded politely.

‘Much friendler than Moscow. Let me know if I can be of service to you.’

He collected up his papers and placed them inside a smart black leather attache case. Then he lingered as if there was something else he wished to tell me.

‘It’s several years since I went to Moscow,’ he announced.

The last time was in 1987. Margaret Thatcher was on a visit to the Soviet Union. I saw her when she was walking round the city.’

I smiled. Luzhin just wanted to be able to talk to another lawyer, someone who wasn’t a criminal at least. I wondered if Thatcher’s trip to Moscow had also been the occasion of Mikhail Milyukin meeting her.

‘That’s a very great lady,’ he said. ‘A very great lady indeed.’

This was not an uncommon view. Most Russians were of the opinion that ‘little Maggie’, as she was affectionately known, would have made a great Russian premier.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but don’t forget: the British had the same opinion of Gorbachev.’

Grushko had disappeared when I returned to his office. Nor was there any sign of Nikolai or Sasha. But Andrei was in his usual seat, staring at the telephone; however on this occasion he was looking rather pleased with himself.

‘Where’s Grushko?’ I asked.

‘Gone out with Nikolai,’ he said. ‘They’re checking out a lead.’ He grinned proudly. ‘Something I turned up with that telephone inquiry.’

‘Well done,’ I said. ‘What was it?’

‘You remember that body they found the other day — Tolya?’

‘The one with the electric-iron burns? I could hardly forget it.’

‘Turns out he worked for one of those Anglo-Russian joint-venture companies. An outfit called Anglo-Soyuzatom Transit. One of their truck-drivers apparently. They’re in the nuclear-waste-disposal business.’

‘Grushko told me they just dumped the stuff in the ocean. I guess he must have meant the low-level stuff.’

‘You mean there’s more than one type?’

‘Low-level, intermediate and high-level. You need a proper disposal programme for the intermediate and high-level stuff.’