A. Zander - Moscow City

“It’s like we’ve just driven into a different city,” said Russell, as the cars pulled into a parking area at the foot of one of the towers.

“Different country more like,” replied Cohen.

“Let’s just hope our resident oligarch hasn’t decided to pop out.”

They walked across the complex to the far tower and took the lift to the top floor. The group crammed into Svaboda Capital’s plush boardroom and sat in frosty silence as one of Cohen’s junior officers set up the recording equipment.

“Only 10 minutes,” said one of the Russian detectives. “This is policy.”

“Policy?” said Russell. “Whose policy?”

“You want to go back to hotel?” said the detective.

Cohen placed his hand on Russell’s arm. “Ten minutes will be enough thank you officer. I’m sure what we have to ask won’t take very long.”

Several polished executives walked into the room and chatted quietly amongst themselves. Everyone except Russell stood when Andre Katusev strolled in with a female assistant, beaming widely and taking his place at the head of the table.

“Gentleman,” he said, addressing Cohen and Russell in practiced BBC English, “thanks for coming to my office.” His easy manner reduced the hostility. “I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. I understand we don’t have too much time, so please, I am happy to answer any of your questions.” He wore jeans and an expensive designer shirt with silver cufflinks; the casual dressed down wealth of the Mayfair set. An expensive metal watch was wrapped round his wrist, slightly offsetting the cultivated nonchalance of the rest of his wardrobe.

“Thanks for meeting with us Mr Katusev,” said Cohen, not wasting any time in case more restrictions were suddenly placed on the conversation. “As you know, we are investigating the death of Simeon Cavendish and his colleagues in London last week. I understand he was your business partner?”

“That’s right,” said Katusev. “Woolaton Capital and Svaboda had a joint venture…I mean…have a joint venture.”

“Have or had?” said Cohen.

“Have,” said Katusev. “Nothing has changed there yet.”

“Did you have a good relationship with Mr Cavendish?”

“Absolutely.”

“And could you please explain to us what your business relationship involved?”

Katusev placed his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together.

“It was a big shock for us all when we heard the news about Simeon, Marcus and Luca,” he said. “They were good people and deserved better than this horrible end.” Katusev pointed towards the coffee and his assistant handed him a cup. “Regarding our business together, we had a contract to cooperate on some ventures.”

“And what type of ventures were these?” said Cohen.

“It’s difficult for me to go into too much detail,” said Katusev. “These are things that our rivals would be very interested to hear about. I’m sure you understand. But I can tell you it was mainly a trading venture.”

“Do you mean trading as in televisions and stereos, or are we talking about something more complicated?”

“Financial markets,” said Katusev. “We were…” The line of questioning was interrupted by one of the gruff men from the back of the room. He said something in Russian to the detective, who suddenly grabbed the recording equipment and put it in his pocket.

“We are finished now,” said the detective, standing up.

“Hang on a minute,” said Russell. “What happened to ten minutes?”

“It’s enough,” said the detective. “You can submit the rest of your questions in writing and we will get you answers.”

“In writing?” said Russell. “Is that some kind of joke?”

“No joke, we will leave now please.”

The Russian uniforms ushered Katusev and his executives from the room. He shrugged lightly at Cohen as he left.

“Who are these people?” said Russell, pointing at the men from the third car. “Are they in charge or are you in charge?” The Russian detectives looked at the men at the back of the room and they indicated again it was time for everyone to leave. Cohen and Russell reluctantly headed for the door. Outside in the corridor, Katusev and his entourage had disappeared. They headed back down to the lobby in silence. Russell struggled to hide his frustration as they were marched back across the complex and into the cars.

“This is a complete farce,” he said as they pulled off back towards the hotel.

“Did you honestly expect anything else?” replied Cohen. “They’re just ticking the boxes.”

Russell folded his arms. “I didn’t expect it to be this much of a waste of time. There are plenty of things we could’ve been doing at home.”

“Look, just try to go with the flow. We’ve got some more people to see. Anything we can get might be useful.” The convoy pulled up outside the hotel and the detectives escorted them back to the lobby.

“So do we get our recording equipment back?” said Russell.

“At the airport,” said one of the detectives.

“But that’s not until next week,” said Cohen.

“You will get it back tomorrow,” said the detective. “That’s when you’re leaving.”

Walker and Varndon watched from a safe distance as the convoy pulled off down the road. They sat sipping coffee, Walker still smirking at the sight of Russell ranting and raving as he walked back to the car. The café was empty of customers. The waitress behind the counter sat reading a tabloid with a look of permanent disinterest on her face.

“Looks like the Met are a busted flush,” said Walker.

“Maybe,” replied Varndon. “Maybe not.”

“You ever met the guy?”

“Katusev? No.”

“Must have nerves of steel to be a businessman in this place.”

“I’ve met quite a few Russians over the years. They respect one thing above everything else. Strength.”

“Not money?”

“Money too. But just look at the companies that have come here flashing money in the past and left with their tails between their legs. Money is one thing. Looking someone in the eye and showing them you aren’t scared is quite another.”

“That’s very deep Will. I’ll make sure to practice my death stare.”

“You do that.”

Walker put some money down on the table and they slipped out of the café towards the road. Snow swirled around and had gathered in small drifts against the buildings. Varndon walked slightly ahead with his hands planted in the pockets of his jacket. “Katusev is a bit of different animal though from what I hear.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s a risk taker.”

“What kind of risks.”

“He knows the rules like they all do. Stick to business. Stay out of politics. But he likes to keep closer to the Kremlin than most. Push his influence here and there. It’s a dangerous game.”

“More dangerous than the one we play?”

“I prefer not to think of what we do as a game.”

They looked down the pavement to the spot where they had parked. There was nothing but a few battered Ladas and some trucks carrying cement.

“Where’s the car?” said Walker.

“I thought we left it there?”

“We did.”

“Well it’s not here now.”

A slight man with light hair and pockmarks on his face suddenly appeared between them. “Have you lost your car Mr Varndon?” A dark blue 4x4 pulled out of a nearby underground car park and came to a stop in front of them.

“I presume this is where you offer us a lift?” said Walker.

“Well I don’t want to leave you both standing here in the snow. The famous Russian hospitality is a virtue of the FSB too you know.”