Craig Russell - The Carnival Master

Buslenko wandered down between the naked chestnut trees to the War Memorial. Behind the obelisk stood a row of sculpted granite commemorative stones, each carved with the face of the officer whom it honoured. He had come here as a child and his father had explained that these were the men who had died saving Ukraine from the Germans. Fourteen thousand had lost their lives defending the city. The young Taras Buslenko had been hypnotised by the remarkably detailed faces, by the concept of being a defender of Ukraine, just like Cossack Mamay. He had been much older when his father had gone on to explain that many more had also died in Korostyshev in nineteen-nineteen, unsuccessfully defending Ukraine against the Bolsheviks. There were no memorials for them.

Buslenko sat on a bench and contemplated his pirog for a moment before taking a deep bite into childhood memories. He dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief.

‘You’re late,’ he said, as if talking to the graven likeness of the long-dead Red Army lieutenant facing him.

‘Impressive…’ The voice came from behind Buslenko.

‘Not really.’ Buslenko took another bite. The meat inside was hot and warmed him all the way down. ‘I could hear you coming across the snow from twenty metres away. You stick with your job pushing paper round and snooping on adulterous politicians and I’ll stick with mine.’

‘Killing people?’

‘Defending Ukraine,’ said Buslenko, his mouth full. He nodded to the memorial sculptures. ‘Like them. What did you get, Sasha?’

Sasha Andruzky, a thin young man in a heavy woollen coat and with a fur hat pulled over his ears, sat down next to Buslenko and hugged himself against the cold.

‘Not much. I think it’s genuine. From what you told me there will be absolutely no official sanction for what you’ve been asked to do. But unofficially I think that taking out Vitrenko is a government obsession.’

‘Malarek?’

‘As far as I can see, our friend the Deputy Interior Minister is clean. If he has another agenda, then it’s pretty well hidden. But, of course, that’s exactly what you’d expect if he were involved with Vitrenko. But I don’t follow your logic… Why would Malarek send you on a black mission to assassinate Vitrenko if he’s on Vitrenko’s payroll? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘It doesn’t make sense unless I’m being sent in all packaged up as a present for Vitrenko. Maybe I’m the target and Vitrenko’s the one with his finger on the trigger.’

‘Then don’t go.’ Sasha frowned. The cold had pinched his cheeks and nose red.

‘I have to. I don’t think it’s likely that it’s a set-up. But it’s possible. Anyway, I’m acting out of pure self-interest. There have only been three people who have got close to nailing Vitrenko. Me and two German police officers. We’re three loose ends that Vitrenko will eventually tie up. He’s nothing if not neat. But that’s also his one weakness. Despite all his efficiency, if it’s a target that’s important to him then Vitrenko likes to be close for the kill. Really close. He’s like a cat who plays with his prey before killing them. And that is the only time he’s exposed. Anyway, did you do a check on the three names I gave you?’

‘I did. But again I don’t get it. You hand-picked those three because you know them personally. If you trust them, why get me to check them out?’

‘Because I thought I knew Peotr Samolyuk.’ Buslenko referred to the commander of the assault team who’d been there when they’d missed Vitrenko in Kiev. ‘I would have trusted him. It would seem that every man has his price.’

‘Well, I did check them out.’

‘And no one knows you’ve been through their records?’

‘If you want to know who’s been accessing the Ministry’s records,’ Sasha shivered despite the layers of thick clothing, ‘I’m the one you come to. Don’t worry, I’ve hidden all my tracks. Anyway, all three are clean, as are the three I picked out. No one served with Vitrenko or under an officer who served with Vitrenko and I can find no hint of any other connection.’

‘And have you found me the other three?’

‘I have.’ The cold chilled the brief satisfied smile from Sasha’s face. ‘I’m rather proud of my contributions. All three meet your criteria exactly. I’ve included one woman. Someone you already know… Captain Olga Sarapenko of the Kiev City Militia’s Organised Crime Division.’

Buslenko was surprised at Sasha’s choice. He thought back to Ukrainian Beauty and how well she had handled herself in the Celestia operation. ‘You reckon she’s up to it?’

‘She understands Vitrenko, Molokov and their operations. She’s one of the best organised-crime specialists we’ve got. She’s clean and I believe you’ve seen how handy she can be in a tough situation. Like I say, it’s a good, solid team.’

‘The only thing that concerns me is that we’ve pulled them together from such a wide range of units,’ said Buslenko. ‘Wouldn’t have it been better to pick exclusively from Sokil?’ Buslenko himself was a member of the Sokil – Falcon – Spetsnaz unit. That made him, technically, more of a policeman than a soldier. The Falcons were an elite police Spetsnaz under the direct command of the Interior Ministry’s Organised Crime Directorate. The rest of his team were drawn from other Interior Ministry Spetsnaz units: Titan, Skorpion, Snow Leopard and even one Berkut, the Golden Eagles, in which Vitrenko himself had served. There were also two members from outside the Interior Ministry: they belonged to the SBU Secret Service’s Alpha Spetsnaz.

‘I wanted to put together the best team for the job. Each one of these people has special expertise. The thing that worries me is that maybe Vitrenko has a better team.’ Sasha stood up and stamped his feet on the compressed snow. He handed Buslenko a document folder that he had tucked inside his overcoat. ‘The details are there. Look after yourself, Taras.’

Buslenko watched as Sasha made his way back towards Chervona Plosha, his dark frame hunched as he walked.

‘You too,’ said Buslenko, when Sasha was too far away to hear.

Fabel’s mother was delighted to see her son. She embraced him warmly at the door and steered him into the parlour, taking his raincoat from him first. Fabel’s mother was British, a Scotswoman, and he smiled as he heard her richly accented German, influenced as much by local Frisian as by her native English. It was an odd combination, and Fabel had grown up continually aware of another dimension to his identity. She left him by the tiled Kamin to warm up while she went to make tea. Fabel had seldom drunk coffee while at home. East Frisians are the world’s heaviest consumers of tea, leaving the English and the Irish in their tannin-hued wake.

Fabel had spent so little time in this room during the last twenty-five years, but he could still close his eyes and picture everything exactly where it was: the sofa and chairs were new, but they were in exactly the same positions as their predecessors; the reproduction of The Nightwatch by Rembrandt; the bookcase that was too big for the room and was crammed with books and magazines; the small writing table that his mother still used for all her correspondence, having let the world of e-mails and electronic communication pass her by. As well as its contents, the very fabric of the house was still so familiar to Fabel. The thick walls and heavy wooden doors and window frames always seemed to embrace him. He had a strange relationship with Norddeich: he came back to it only to visit his mother, and he felt no real affinity with the place. Yet this was the only world he had known as a child. It had formed him. Defined him. He had left East Friesland in stages: first studying at the Carl von Ossietzky University in Oldenburg, then at the Universitat Hamburg.