A. Zander - Moscow City

Nastya marched after them, shouting while holding the towel on the top of her head in place. “How long has he been dead? Tell me? His body isn’t even cold and you FSB bastards already divided up his fortune. If you think I’m going to make this easy for you, believe me, you’re wrong.”

Harper made a quick call for his taxi driver to meet him outside and headed towards the gate with his head down. One of the guards was calling for assistance on his mobile phone, while the other nursed his throat. A line of black FSB BMWs blocked the road. Harper looked for his cab, but it wasn’t in sight. As he set off in the direction of the estate’s exit, a voice called out in Russian from the motorcade.

“You, come here.”

Harper kept walking, but the voice got louder and more forceful. “You. Who do you think you are walking away from?” Harper stopped as he heard the spin of car tyres behind him. One of the vehicles lurched in front of him and skidded to a stop. Major Oleg Nikolaev kept his eyes firmly on Harper as he got out the car. The back window of the BMW rolled down and more eyes bored into him from inside.

“Documents,” Nikolaev barked as he stood toe-to-toe with Harper, leaving just inches between their faces. Harper reached into his inside pocket and handed over his passport.

“Why are you here?” Nikolaev said, flicking through the pages. “Ryan Evans.”

Harper stuck to English, figuring knowing Russian could lead to more complicated questions. “I teach English to Nastya Katuseva. I was just leaving.”

Nikolaev spat on the floor. “English? That’s the problem with these fucking people. They hate being Russian. It humiliates them when they are in fucking London or wherever they go. So they pay people like you, to teach them a new nationality.”

“Ne ponimayu,” said Harper. I don’t understand .

Nikolaev walked back to the car with Harper’s passport and picked up his radio to phone in the details. Harper froze as a rifle barrel emerged from the window and pointed straight at him. He looked around for an escape route, but there was nowhere to go. The man in the back of the car smiled as Harper squirmed and pulled the gun back inside. Nikolaev’s radio finally buzzed to life and he returned to Harper and pushed his passport into his chest.

“Are you here to fuck our women?” asked Nikolaev, stepping forward.

“I’m here to teach English,” said Harper, avoiding Nikoalev’s eyes.

“The only Russian women that sleep with foreigners are whores.”

Harper said nothing and stepped back slightly.

“Dirty fucking whores with fucking diseases.” Harper turned his head to the side to avoid the smell of coffee on Nikolaev’s breath.

“Now leave,” he said finally, shoving Harper backwards. The taxi suddenly pulled round the corner and Nikolaev watched as Harper got in and it drove off into the distance. He walked back to the BMW and sat back down in the front seat. He adjusted the rearview mirror, so he could see his men in the back.

“Check him out properly. Today.”

Danny Garrett sat sipping coffee in the small café below his fifth-floor office. He bobbed his head a little to the Russian pop music filtering through the speakers and turned the page of his newspaper.

“Shame your boys got pumped the other day,” said Harper, sitting down opposite him. “I suppose it was the ref’s fault?”

“Where are you in the league now? Oh yeah, below us.”

“Touchy,” said Harper. “Can I have one of these,” he said, pointing at some biscuits sitting in a small bowl on the table.

“Help yourself.”

“Do you still fancy coming on a little holiday with me?”

“Almaty? I thought you weren’t keen.”

“I think if I go missing, not too many people would be interested. I’d prefer it if you were around to document my downfall.”

“You want me to come as an insurance policy?”

“Yeah, partly, but I reckon we can cover more ground together. You find facts yeah? That’s your job.”

“Last time I looked.”

“So you up for it?”

“What do I get out of it?”

“I think I know where our missing researcher is, or rather, who he is with.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

“I see.”

“And if you’re still not convinced, I’ve got a little story for you too.”

“Go on.”

“The FSB raided Andre Katusev’s house yesterday.”

“How do you know that?”

“I was there.”

“You really have got some brass balls you know that.”

“You’re very kind. Are you coming?”

“Of course I’m coming.”

A paper dragon hung in the window of the Beijing Paradise Chinese restaurant next to a faded menu. A motorbike courier and a well-heeled lawyer sat waiting for their orders on the plastic chairs in the small reception area. Cohen flashed his badge at the man behind the counter while Russell struggled to park the car in a small space across the road.

“I’m DS Cohen. I’m here to see Mr Lau.”

The man behind the counter examined the badge as the customers pretended not to listen. “Yes, Mr Lau, one second.” Russell came walking into the shop as the man behind the counter disappeared into the back.

“It’d be rude not to order something while we’re here,” said Russell.

“Here’s a menu. Knock yourself out.”

The man appeared from the back and beckoned them to come through. They ducked under the counter and walked back into the kitchen. Russell’s mouth watered as a delivery man packed up a freshly-made Peking Duck and disappeared out of the door.

“Mr Lau is in here,” said the man, motioning to a social area where several staff were sitting around chatting in Mandarin. All but one man stood up and left as Cohen and Russell walked into the room.

“Alfred Lau?” said Cohen.

“Yes, please sit down.”

“I’m DS Cohen and this is DC Russell. We’re sorry that you had to cut your holiday short, but it really was imperative that we speak with you.”

Lau shook his head a little. “Oh sure, sure, it’s okay, I am happy to help police.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. Now, we understand you made a delivery to this flat recently.” Cohen showed Lau a piece of paper with Cavendish’s address.

“Yes, I remember. A nice English man. Very polite. He gave me good tip.”

“Did anything seem unusual when the man answered the door?”

“No, no, just as normal. Normal delivery.”

“What did they have?” said Russell.

“I think just some special fried rice, sweet and sour pork Hong Kong style and satay chicken sticks.”

“You’ve got a good memory,” said Russell.

Lau laughed. “Yes, like a photo camera.”

“Was there anyone in the street maybe when you delivered the food?”

Lau sat back and thought. “There was a man. He was in a car, just not far from the place. I remember because he looked at me when I was unpacking order.”

Cohen leant forward. “Do you think you can describe the man?”

“Yeah sure. I remember, he looked like Albanian or something.”

“Excuse us, for a second Mr Lau.”

Russell followed Cohen back out into the kitchen. “We need to get a sketch artist down here. I don’t want to let him disappear off again if we can help it.”

“I know one that lives in St John’s Wood,” said Russell, pulling his mobile from his pocket. “Let me get on the blower.” Cohen sat back down with Lau as Russell made the call.

“Do you think that memory of yours works for faces too?”

“Sure, sure, I am good with faces, no problem.”