A. Zander: Moscow City

“You wanna cigarette?” the driver shouted.

“Sure,” said Harper, getting up and walking, hunched over, to the front of the minivan. He took the packet of Parliament cigarettes and the lighter from the driver’s hand and sat down.

“You feel okay now?”

“Yeah, fine, I’m not great in cars. Nevermind me though, you must be knackered,” said Harper, lighting up and taking a deep drag.

“Knackered, what is knackered?” asked the driver.

“Very tired,” said Harper.

The driver laughed. “I can’t afford to be tired. I have four children. Tired is for the rich man and the lazy Russian.”

“You aren’t Russian?” asked Harper, looking at the man’s face in the rearview mirror. The driver’s eyes flicked up to look at Harper.

“I am from Armenia,” he said, keeping his eyes on Harper’s, gauging his reaction.

“Armenia?” said Harper. “The birthplace of Christianity right?”

“Right!” said the driver, his face relaxing into a wide smile. “How do you know this?”

“Something my grandmother told me.”

“Your babushka was a very wise lady I think.”

“She was that, yeah. She was that.”

“She was Russian?” Harper checked himself at the question.

“Not that I know of,” he replied. “So those people we dropped off first didn’t seem too happy. Do you think they’ll stay?”

“Happens every time there is new group,” said the driver. “They come to teach English straight from university or nice holiday. Some they know what is Russia like. Others, it is big surprise for them. BIG surprise. I think they maybe stay a few months then leave. Russia is no good for pretty western girls.”

“What do you mean?” said Harper.

“I mean they are used to being prettiest girl, and here they are not prettiest girl. It makes them a little crazy.”

“Do people still call it the West?” said Harper.

“I am older,” said the driver. “For us, it will always be the West.” They turned a corner and pulled up outside into a small courtyard. The building seemed better quality than the previous places. It had the same rotting bench and scratched metal front door, but it was grander.

“So, you are the lucky one Ryan Evans,” said the driver, looking at his sheet. “You are living in this Stalinka. It is old building. Built well, with high ceilings. Two people live here now, English boy and Russian girl. You are the third.”

Harper took the key and the front door code from the driver, shook his hand and watched him pull off, cigarette smoke creeping out of his open window. He tapped the code into the front door keypad and a clunky tune beeped out of the speaker. He pulled his suitcase inside and walked up to the lift directly in front of him. The doors rattled open and he dragged his suitcase into the small space. He got out on the fourth floor and looked around. The corridor was old, but someone had gone to the effort of putting some potted plants on the stairwells. There was a plastic bottle that had been chopped in half and filled with water and various fly sprays huddled in a corner. Harper walked over to the door of his new flat and slid the key into the lock. It was still the middle of the night, so he turned it as slowly as he could, trying not to make a noise. It was dark inside and he squinted to look for a light switch on the wall, but couldn’t see one. He stood in the dark for a few seconds. His anxiety bubbled slowly somewhere deep in his gut. He took a deep breath and fended it off, relaxing his muscles as much as he could. Just as he went to feel for the switch a second time, he felt someone approaching him out of the dark.

“Hello,” he whispered, but it was too late. He felt a strong shove backwards and he crashed into the coat rack and sprawled onto the floor.

The founder of Lenin’s brutal secret police watched Walker and Varndon as they hurried along the path. The statue of Felix Dzerzhinksy sat in the middle of Muzeon Park; a menacing presence over the graveyard for Soviet statues. The two men pushed on through busts of politburo luminaries and military heroes towards a wooden pagoda draped with soft drink adverts. Varndon clapped his gloved hands a few times and rubbed them together to stave off the cold morning air. They both scanned the surroundings for anyone walking nearby, but they seemed to be alone.

“If the opposition do know we’re here, they must have thought better of turning out at this time in the morning,” said Walker.

“The simple things work to your advantage sometimes,” replied Varndon.

Both their heads snapped round as a man walked out from behind the café. His eyes twitched left and right as he approached them and took a seat on their bench.

“Enjoying the sights chaps?”

Varndon noticed his hands were shaking from more than the cold. The man saw him looking and slid them under the table out of sight.

“Nice office you’ve got here,” said Walker. “Good aircon.”

“Ah, well, yes, needs must I’m afraid. We don’t really want to draw any unnecessary attention to you pair and the embassy is somewhat under siege these days.”

“More than usual?” said Varndon.

“The Russians are keeping us on our toes,” said the man. “It’s got worse in the past few months and particularly since this Cavendish thing last week.”

“Worse how?”

“A couple of our junior embassy staff got guns shoved in their mouths in the middle of the night over the weekend. Someone fishing for something.”

Varndon took another scan around the park. Several stray dogs wandered into one of the entrances and gathered around a pile of litter. They all stopped talking as a young girl with a school bag shuffled along the nearby riverbank.

“We shouldn’t stay here too long,” said the man. “Walker, head back the way you came and make sure to walk past the big hammer and sickle on the way out. The intel files will jump straight onto your phone from a device nearby.” Walker looked over in the direction of the large metallic structure and the man nodded to confirm it was the right one.

“Righty ho,” said Walker, mimicking the man’s accent.

They waited until he had left the park and walked off in the opposite direction.

“I understand you’re the elder statesman,” the man said to Varndon.

“I’ve been onboard officially for about five years.”

“City man?”

“Private banking with a bit of work for Alpha when I could. When the city turned toxic, he asked me over, and I was happy to oblige.”

“Well, good for you. You’re certainly in a division on the up. An old Soviet expert like me is a bit of a relic these days.”

The two men exited the park and walked past a gaudy maritime monument. They crossed the road and walked alongside the frozen river. The pavement was slippy and Varndon took small steps to lessen the risk of a fall.

“How long has your man Walker been with the department?”

“Not too long, maybe a year.”

“Is he reliable?”

Varndon paused. “He’s very smart. We got him in on a bargain. He was facing a few years in jail after that Libor mess, but we offered him a better option. It’s the Vegas principle. The card counters end up in the rafters.”

“I suppose you can’t teach some things to an outsider.”

“It’s hard,” said Varndon. “It helps us if people know the culture from the inside. And they need to be plausible. Walker is definitely plausible.”

They stopped on the corner of the street next to a modern office building.

“So look,” said the man. “Everything we know about Cavendish and Woolaton Capital is on those files. I think it’s best if we leave it to you now.”