A. Zander: Moscow City

He walked into the lounge, flipped on the kettle and turned on the TV. He was sick of television after watching hour after hour of soul-destroying dross in the hope of dropping off to sleep. The news was leading with a story about three suspicious deaths somewhere in north London.

“ British businessman Simeon Cavendish was found dead in his home yesterday morning along with two colleagues, Glasgow-born Marcus Stewart and Swiss national, Luca Francini. Cavendish, a prominent scientist, was the main shareholder in hedge fund Woolaton Capital. He left behind a wife and three children…” Harper flicked onto a different news channel. “Renewed troubles in Northern Ireland brought Belfast to a standstill yesterday as a Loyalist splinter group planted three bombs in pubs around the city…”

He turned the TV off and threw the remote on the table. A flush of the toilet told him the girl from the previous night was still in the flat. She walked out, a little surprised to see him, clearly having hoped for a conversation-free exit. She looked a bit older than he remembered, but he could still see why he took her home.

“Oh hi,” she said, grabbing her coat from the rack.

“Morning, you don’t want to stay for coffee?” he said, amusing himself by watching her shuffle uncomfortably towards the door.

“Oh, it’s fine, I have to get to work, but…I had a really good time. I’ll see you around yeah.”

“I hope so.”

The switch on the kettle flicked off and she melted quickly from his memory. He walked over and made himself a coffee. There was no milk, so he put two spoons of sugar in and had it black. The therapist had advised him to stay off caffeine and cut back on the amount of alcohol he drank, but he was struggling on both fronts. He had bought a large box of decaffeinated coffee, but the plastic wrapper was still on the box. He sat back down on the sofa and picked up his laptop. He scrolled through a few emails before coming to one with an urgent tag. Meeting: 10am. Office of the Deputy Commissioner. Required Attendee: DC Harper. He looked up at the clock. It was 9.15am. He got showered and dressed as quickly as he could. He got as far as the street before he felt his chest tighten. His breathing was racing and he started to regret the coffee.

He waved down a cab and jumped in the back seat. He took the chance to close his eyes and clear his mind, just as the therapist had suggested. She had given him a choice of things to imagine when he felt tense. The one that seemed to work was the lake. He imagined the choppy water with waves crashing into each other and gradually brought it to a calm state until the water was perfectly still. He sat in the back of the cab with his eyes closed for 10 minutes and then opened them and just watched London flash past. His heart had stopped racing and the tightness in his chest had eased. He managed to keep his mind off the meeting until he arrived at New Scotland Yard. He slipped a mint into his mouth to counter the smell of alcohol on his breath. The meeting room he was heading for was on the top floor. He walked out the lift and turned left onto a long corridor lined with offices. Most of the doors were open and a few secretaries glanced up to look at him as he walked past. The plush meeting room was at the end and they were all waiting for him when he arrived. He recognised the Deputy Commissioner, who was sitting at the head of the table. There were three other officers there, but he couldn’t place any of the faces.

“Harper, thanks for coming, I’m Deputy Commissioner Bailey.”

“Good to meet you Ma’am.”

“This is DS Cohen and DC Russell. They are working on yesterday’s Cavendish killing. And this is Detective Chief Inspector Morton. He’s leading the investigation.”

Harper nodded and shook the outstretched hands. He sat down and poured himself a coffee from the pot in the middle of the table.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” said Bailey.

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Your undercover work for this force has been very impressive.”

Harper didn’t respond.

“The Commissioner is well aware of your achievements and he has requested we talk to you about a sensitive job.” Bailey pushed a file across the table. “Everything we know about the Cavendish killing is in this file.”

Harper opened the folder to a profile of Simeon Cavendish. Educated at Cambridge. Bachelors degree in Pure Mathematics. Several Masters degrees and a PHD in Finance. Formed his own hedge fund a few years back.

“More sensitive than usual?”

Morton pulled a file out of his briefcase. Harper’s name was on the top of the first sheet of paper with a picture taken during his time in basic training stapled onto the corner. It seemed a long time ago now.

“Says here you’ve helped put away Ukrainian arms traffickers, Lithuanian heroin suppliers, Armenian people smugglers, and it goes on and on. You speak native standard Russian and are fluent in several other languages from the region.”

Memories of the various operations flashed through Harper’s mind. The hours spent watching, listening, pretending to be someone else. The languages he spoke for fun with his grandparents became his pass into the fast lane. No pounding the streets chasing shoplifters for him. He was exempt. He was too useful.

“I’ve been with the unit for 15 years,” said Harper. “From the start.”

“Have you ever come across Simeon Cavendish?” continued Morton.

“Financial crime comes with the territory, but no, I’ve never heard of him.”

Bailey took the file from Morton and closed the folder. “Simeon Cavendish has been spending rather a lot of time in Russia over the past couple of years. He arrived back from there with the other two men the day before their bodies were found. We think whatever he was doing there got him killed.”

“And you’d like me to find out what that was?”

“Yes. But not, how shall we say…in an orthodox manner.”

“Ma’am?”

“This is all very sensitive Harper,” said Bailey, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the table. “Morton will be leading the official investigation from the UK, and we are sending a team, including Cohen and Russell, over to Moscow to liaise with the Russian police.”

“So why do you need me?”

“We don’t expect we will receive much official cooperation over there, so we need someone who can operate, let’s say, more freely.”

“You want me as a UC in Russia?”

“That’s right.”

A small wave of anxiety flashed across Harper’s body. He pushed the coffee away and clasped his hands together in front of him. He felt the excitement fighting with the apprehension as he mulled over the proposition.

“What would be the cover?”

“English teacher,” said Morton.

“Can’t I slip in at the embassy?”

“The embassy is off limits I’m afraid,” said Bailey. “Our brothers and sisters from the security services have taken a special interest in the case and they would prefer us not to rock the boat with the Russians. They control the embassy, so that’s not possible.”

Harper shifted in his seat. “So I presume they won’t know about me?”

“No one will know about you apart from the Commissioner and the people in this room. And we want to temporarily wipe your file.”

“Is that necessary?”

“We need complete deniability in case you get caught.”

“I see.”

“The Commissioner wants a result, but the spooks should think we’re onside.”

“And there is a reason we are putting you into this school,” said Morton. “Cavendish’s Russian partner is a man called Andre Vladimirovich Katusev. His daughter is a student there. If you can get to her, she could be extremely useful. Her name is Anastasia.”