A. Zander - Moscow City

“I’m more of a whisky man I have to say.”

Katusev smiled. “Me too as it happens. The single malt that follows the hunt is one of my favourite parts of the day. You know, the last time I was…”

“With all due respect Mr Katusev, is it possible we could get straight onto the business at hand,” said Russell.

The smile disappeared from Katusev’s face. “Why of course. I don’t want to take up any more of your time than is necessary.”

“Please forgive my colleague if he is a bit short,” said Cohen. “It’s just our time in Moscow was extremely frustrating and, naturally, we would like to push ahead with our enquiries as swiftly as we could.”

“Yes, it was unfortunate your time in Moscow was wasted,” said Katusev. “I did my best to secure us a private meeting, but you can imagine the obstacles that were put in my way.”

“We understand there’s nothing you could do,” said Cohen. “And we appreciate the invitation to come and see you today.” Foreman came back into the room pushing a squeaky service trolley with coffee and biscuits. He handed them each a cup and walked back out.

Katusev took a sip of his coffee and placed the cup back down on the saucer. “Please understand that I am happy to cooperate as far as I can with the authorities here. I have always respected your legal system and I have made this country my second home over the last few years. Some of my children are still at school here and I have some very important investments that I do not plan to jeopardise. So please, how can I help you with your investigation?”

“How about telling us who you think massacred Simeon Cavendish and his mates in Warwick Avenue?” said Russell. “That’d be a start.” Katusev looked towards Morton, seemingly looking for some kind of reprieve from such an aggressive line of questioning, but the Scotsman contented himself with sitting back and waiting for an answer.

“The truth is I have no idea who killed them,” said Katusev. “They were all three good friends of mine, especially Simeon. We had known each other a long time, since before the wall came down.” Katusev stood up and walked over to a wooden cabinet at the side of the room. He took out a framed photograph and handed it to Morton. “This is a picture of us at a scientific convention in Paris in 1987. It was the time of Glasnost and it was very exciting for the scientific community on both sides of the iron curtain. The chance to meet the so-called enemy face-to-face was a unique experience. And of course, once you begin to talk to people, you understand that the enemy is actually not so dissimilar to yourself.”

“And did Mr Cavendish have any enemies?” said Cohen.

“When you are a successful businessman like Simeon, you will always have enemies.”

“There are lots of successful businessmen who don’t end up tied to a chair with a knife in the back of their head,” said Russell. “You for example, Mr Katusev. You’re a successful businessman and you’re still walking around with air in your lungs.”

“Really Mr Morton,” said Katusev, raising his voice slightly. “The line of Detective Russell’s questioning is more than a little insulting to me.”

The three officers turned their heads as a legionnaire in black military fatigues opened the door and stepped inside the room. Katusev put his hand up and said a few words in French and the man reluctantly retreated back into the next room. “Apologies for the interruption officers, he is just doing his job. As you can see, I don’t take the air in my lungs for granted.”

“We are not trying to accuse you of anything Mr Katusev,” said Cohen. “We are just trying to get a bit more understanding of why those men are dead. When was the last time you saw Mr Cavendish?”

“Just before he left Moscow for the last time.”

“And what can you tell us about the work you were doing together?”

Katusev stood up and walked over to one of the large bay windows in the office. “You know we have taken extraordinary measures to stop leaks about our work.”

“If you’re worried about confidentiality, I can give you my word that whatever you say will stay within the investigation team,” said Morton.

Katusev turned and walked back to his desk. “These worries about leaks seem far less important now Simeon is dead. Worrying about leaks is worrying about money and it seems somewhat…crass… to worry about these things now.”

A look of cynicism flashed over Russell’s face as Katusev spoke. “Right, crass, forgive me, but you don’t come across as a man who ever sees money as crass.”

Katusev ignored the comment. “How much do you gentlemen know about high-frequency trading in the financial markets?”

“Not too much,” said Morton, “but we’d be happy to learn. Are you talking about stocks and shares?”

“Stocks, bonds, oil, derivatives. It doesn’t make much difference in our world. We go where the money is. To put it simply, the days of traders in brightly-colored jackets shouting at each other are long gone my friends. The trading world has been taken over by computers and this means the man with the best programme makes the most money.”

“And this was your project?” said Cohen. “Making the best programme.”

“If you get it right, it’s modern day alchemy. And we were very close to getting it right.”

“You were close?” said Morton. “You mean you were close when Cavendish was killed?”

Katusev took a small black and white photograph from his desk drawer and handed it to Morton. “This man is called Seva Vitsin. He was one of our researchers. In fact, he was our best researcher.”

“Was?” said Cohen.

“He disappeared with some key research.”

“Do you think his disappearance is connected to Cavendish’s death?” asked Morton.

“It’s possible. Everything is possible.”

“And do you think he disappeared of his own accord? Or do you think he may have been kidnapped?”

“Both are a possibility,” said Katusev. “Seva was our star. He devised the key parts of our programme and some people would go to great lengths to possess what is in this boy’s mind.”

“Boy?” said Cohen. “How old is he?”

“He is 19. Somewhat of a prodigy.”

Cohen picked up the picture from the desk. “So one possibility here is that whoever killed Cavendish was in fact looking for Seva Vitsin?”

“You are right. It is hard to believe Seva’s disappearance and Simeon’s death are unconnected. There are a lot of people looking for Seva at the moment. The Russian government recently became a partner in our venture. They were very insistent. This was not my choice, but sometimes compromises are necessary. They are as anxious as we are to locate the boy.”

“Anxious enough to torture Simeon Cavendish and his partners?” said Russell.

“I have told you what I know,” said Katusev. “I am not going to start pointing fingers directly. I am not a fool.”

Morton stood up and extended his hand to Katusev. “We appreciate your help. It’s likely we will need to speak to you again.”

“Of course.”

“Do you mind if I keep the picture of Vitsin?”

“It’s yours.” Katusev walked the three detectives back to their car. More legionnaires had now appeared on the roof and around the gravel drive.

“What sort of money is this programme worth?” asked Cohen.

“If you can beat the market,” said Katusev. “The potential for profit is…intimidating.”

“And you found a way to beat the market?”

“There is only one person on the planet that knows how to beat the market Sergeant. His name is Seva Vitsin.”

Alpha arched his back a little to relieve the pain simmering away near the bottom of his spine. He reached for the heater and turned the dial up a couple of notches, all the while keeping an eye on the darkness beyond the border. The driver, Randall, was sucking slowly on a boiled sweet, making a faint clack clack sound as he rolled it from one side of his mouth to the other and it collided with his teeth. The three other cars were parked close by, all with their headlights turned off. The goods they had come to trade were sitting quietly in the black Saab estate a few yards away.