A. Zander - Moscow City

Cohen sat tapping his pen on the desk as he waited for the prison guard to bring Ashansky to the interview room. Belmarsh was only for the A-list. They didn’t put you in this place unless you had earned it. There was a certain level of criminality you had to display before you got room and board in this part of south London. Running guns to breakaway Loyalists was certainly a crime that fell into that category. The door opened and the guard came back in alone. “I’m sorry Sergeant, but Leonid Ashansky has been transferred.”

“Transferred? Where to?”

“Nobody knows I’m afraid. I’ve asked around, but seems it’s been kept very firmly under wraps.”

“Is that normal procedure?”

“We’d usually have a sniff of what’s going on. But there was nothing. It’s all a bit strange to be honest.”

“Well, who took him away? Surely, your blokes must have helped with that?”

“All I know is that it was all done at short notice. I can’t help you further than that. The orders came down from a senior level.”

“A senior level?”

The guard started to look slightly edgy as Cohen waited for an answer. “Look, I just don’t know. I think you’ll need to go higher than me if you want more.”

“Course,” said Cohen. “Fair enough.” The guard escorted him back through several security doors and back to the prison reception. Cohen’s phone rang as he stepped back out of the imposing brick entrance and walked towards the road.

“DS Cohen.”

“Sarge, it’s Russell.”

“Did you find Gershov?”

“He’s skipped bail.”

Cohen stopped walking. “What? When?”

“They don’t know exactly. But he’s vanished.”

“We won’t find him if he doesn’t want to be found.”

“How much do you know about this guy Sarge?”

“He was the hatchet man for Ashansky’s gun running operation. He should have gone to jail with his boss, but the evidence was too flimsy, so they were lining him up for an assault charge instead. Weak, but it’s all they had.”

“Is he Russian?”

“Russian Israeli. Booted out of Mossad for selling rockets to the Palestinians.”

“How did you get on with Ashansky?”

“He’s vanished too and everyone here has selective memory loss.”

“Sarge, this case is starting to scramble my brain. First, the Russians kick us out early. Then Katusev gets slotted. And when we finally find a suspect, he disappears into thin air. It’s like we’re always two steps behind.”

“Let’s speak to Morton. We might be playing catch-up, but we’re not the only game in town.”

Harper pushed the hatch open and climbed out onto the roof opposite the apartment complex. He signaled to Garrett to crouch down as he followed him up into the open air. They knelt on the black felt and Harper pulled out a pair of binoculars.

“They’re still there,” he said, looking in the direction of the car park. “I’m going to stay here until both vehicles have gone after you.”

“What if they don’t buy it?”

“Then we have to think of something else. So what are you going to tell the parents?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Just make it good. They need to go with you.”

“Well, just make sure you come out with something worthwhile.”

“I will, don’t worry. Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good luck.”

Garrett shuffled back across the roof, making sure to stay crouched, and disappeared down the hatch. Harper waited patiently, regulating his breathing and pushing the nerves and excitement as far away as he could. He trained his binoculars onto the street below. Garrett appeared out of the front door and walked across the road. Harper watched the two surveillance vehicles as Garrett passed them and approached the front door. His heart started to pound a little faster as the reporter disappeared inside.

Harper looked at his watch and noted the time.

He kept the binoculars on the door, not daring to lower them in case he missed something. A few residents came in and out and a handful of children came up from the street and played on the nearby swings. There was no reaction from the surveillance vehicles. Harper’s arms started to ache from holding the binoculars. The aching was becoming uncomfortable when the door finally swung open and Garrett emerged, an elderly Kazakh couple trailing along behind him.

Harper punched the air in front of him and accidentally clipped his knuckle on a brick. He watched Garrett lead them across the car park, just yards from the watchers and down onto the road where they had parked the black Lada earlier that morning. They got inside and Garrett pulled off slowly and obviously. The maintenance van pulled straight out after them, but the black Range Rover stayed put. Harper clamped his teeth together as he waited for it to make a move. “Come on, follow them you bastards.”

Garrett and the van moved further down the road and were preparing to take a left when the Range Rover skidded out of its parking space and set off in pursuit. “Go on, fuck off you wankers,” Harper shouted, gathering up his things and running for the hatch. He jumped in the lift and after a few minutes he was across the road and opening the door Garrett had just come out of. He made his way to the top floor and found the flat as quickly as he could. He jammed a makeshift pick into the keyhole and after a few twists, pushed open the door.

He listened for company, but there was no sound.

The huge flat spanned across to the other side of the building. He crept in, making as little noise as possible. He looked into the bedrooms and found one seemingly decorated by a teenage boy. Sci-fi models hung from the ceilings and Hollywood film posters adorned the walls. Harper opened a few drawers and looked for anything connected to Vitsin’s studies. He got down on his knees and pulled some boxes out from under the bed, but all he found was a football and a few clothes. He started to panic as his search looked like drawing a blank. He leant against the wall as he felt his throat tighten and his vision start to blur around the edges. “Keep it together Harper, for fuck’s sake.”

He let himself breathe for a few minutes before walking back into the dining room. As he looked around, a neatly arranged set of family photographs caught his eye. He walked over. Vitsin stared out at him from several frames, his face intense and serious, emitting a searing stare towards the camera each time. He realised this was the first time he had seen the boy’s face. Harper scanned the collection and noticed a small frame at the end of the row. The picture showed Vitsin standing next to a scruffy, middle-aged man. Harper looked at it, trying to figure out why it looked different to the others. Then he noticed that the boy was smiling. Not just smiling for the camera, but a genuine happiness at being pictured with the man standing next to him. There was even less doubt in Harper’s mind now about where he would find him.

He ripped the back off the frame and took the photograph out. He held it up to the light to get a better look and saw an imprint from some writing on the back. He flipped it over. Seva at Professor Ruminenko’s home , Hong Kong. Harper threw the frame on the sofa and slipped the photo into his pocket. The anxiety bubbled back up and he held the mantelpiece to steady himself. He walked back out of the flat and headed towards the lift. As he descended, he looked again at the photo. Vitsin’s boyish face possessed a sharpness that somehow elevated him beyond his years. Harper rushed back towards the road, took out his phone and punched in Garrett’s number.