Garry Abson - Motherland - A Gripping Crime Thriller Set in the Dark Heart of Putin's Russia

She tried to decipher Mikhail’s scrawls, and made out the name of the Astoria hotel in Admiralty District. ‘What is this?’

‘It means Rogov was right.’ He sat behind the desk and pulled out a packet of Sobranies then lit one. ‘Dostoynov doesn’t like me lighting up in his office.’ Mikhail gave her his finest wolfish grin. ‘The man’s turning me into quite a chain smoker.’

‘Maybe he’s not so bad then. Dostoynov, I mean, not Rogov – he’s a complete arsehole. So what is it?’ She dangled the torn page from the notepad for emphasis.

He took a deep lungful of smoke and blew smoke into the weave of Dostoynov’s chair. ‘It’s from my friend Viktor in FSB Immigration. Turn it over.’

She saw a name on the back: “Felix Axelsson”. ‘Who is he?’

‘I had to look him up on Yandex. Apparently, Axelsson is a freelance security advisor based in Stockholm. Advertises himself as ex-Säpo, which means he probably isn’t.’ He picked up a mug with the departmental crest and flicked cigarette ash into it; she guessed it belonged to Dostoynov.

‘Wait.’ He went to the printer and took a sheet from the out-tray. ‘I got this off his company site.’

It was a picture of Axelsson; he had a lean soldier’s face: broad and healthy. His short-cropped red hair added to the impression, along with the combat trousers and a black polo shirt with a military logo on the breast pocket. Maybe, as Mikhail said, he was trying to look the part; in that case it was a convincing act.

‘He looks like he’d be useful in a fight.’ She folded Axelsson’s picture and put it in her pocket then turned over the slip of paper.

Mikhail picked up Dostoynov’s cup and went over to the window; he opened it and peered out. ‘Press conference still going on. Christ knows what they can still find to talk about.’ He puffed on the Sobranie. ‘Viktor matched the flight manifest against FSB records to see who cleared immigration.’

She paused and turned the paper to study the address on the cover. The excitement was obvious in her tone. ‘Are you saying this Felix Axelsson got off Dahl’s jet before we arrived?’

‘I am.’ He stubbed the cigarette out in the mug. ‘According to Viktor, the Gulfstream continued to Arlanda with two pilots and a flight attendant.’ Mikhail held the mug out of the window then upended it.

She stared at him. ‘The plane returned to Sweden without Dahl or Axelsson?’

He nodded.

‘So he lied to us; Thorsten had a visa?’

‘Yep.’

‘So where are they?’

Mikhail shrugged as he placed the mug on Dostoynov’s side of the desk. ‘I don’t know. The Astoria is the registered address but the reservation was cancelled. Dahl and Axelsson are hiding out in Piter like a pair of squirrels at a fur farm.’

She watched Mikhail spit into Dostoynov’s mug then take a tissue from a box on the desk and wipe it clean. She left as he was returning it to the exact position he had found it.

After towel-drying her hair and putting on an opaque sports bra from her gym bag, she returned to the meeting room where Mikhail had routed the press conference response calls. Of the six conscripts who had been assigned to help, four had gone to lunch at midday. It was nearly two o’clock now and she suspected they were gone for good. One was somewhere in the building and the remaining conscript was writing details down on a pad while he spoke with a caller.

She watched the boy for a moment as he spoke with the phone wedged between his shoulder and cheek – the shaved hair; the jug ears; the olive green summer uniform. He hung up and looked at her.

‘Any good?’ she asked.

‘Yes’ – out of habit he glanced at her shoulder looking for rank insignia – ‘A man reporting his neighbour’s son, says he’s been putting graffiti tags on their building.’

‘Was the boy called Bezzubtsev?’

‘No,’ he checked what he’d written, ‘Ilya Ryazantsev. But the neighbour swore it was his picture on Channel One.’

‘If he calls again, threaten him with wasting police time.’

The five deserted desks were littered with Post-It notes and she started gathering them up. ‘The crazies go here.’ She wrote “Niet” on a Post-It and stuck it to the desk. ‘If they look promising, put them here.’ She scribbled, “Da” . ‘And if you can’t tell, add them to this pile.’ She drew a question mark. She flicked through the notes and sorted them. One of the young soldiers had such poor handwriting, all his notes went under the question mark – she hoped there wasn’t a genuine tip-off among them.

The phone on another desk started ringing and the conscript leant over to pick it up. ‘Hello, um… police investigation,’ he said, making her smile. She’d find out his name and put in a good word if he was interested in joining the force.

Her mobile vibrated and she saw Rogov’s pale, smiling face on the screen. She took the call. ‘Sergeant?’

There was a siren in the background which was cut off abruptly and she guessed he was breaking regulations by using it to cut through traffic. ‘I’m on my way back from Sestroretsk.’

‘Wait a moment.’ It was noisy outside, and she closed the door to the meeting room. She asked, ‘What did you find?’

‘I got the office manager’s number from the directory then made her open up the ZAGS and go through the system. She was a sixty-year-old virgin: all glasses and girly habits. If she’d been younger I might have offered to put her out of her misery.’

She felt herself bristle. ‘And?’

‘And Zena called a month or so ago. The old maid was the one who dealt with her, but she didn’t understand what she wanted.’

‘A waste of time then.’

‘No, Zena came back with a friend who was better at explaining things.’

‘Yulia Federova?’

‘Could be. The duty sergeant in Vasilyevsky said she had a good pair on her.’

She ignored the comment. ‘So Zena brought her to negotiate?’

‘Yeah, I reckon the Sven needed someone more worldly. Yulia was there to give the queen a gift.’

‘Surely not for a wedding, Zena was only nineteen?’

She watched the young conscript hang up the phone and add a note to her “Niet” pile.

‘No,’ began Rogov, ‘Zena wasn’t looking to get married.’

‘What was it then?’

‘She was looking for a death certificate.’

‘Whose?’

‘The queen didn’t remember, but she was sure it wasn’t for a Sven or that would have stuck in her mind. Told me she went into the storage room with them where they keep the microfiche. The Sestroretsk ZAGS went digital around fifteen years ago.’

‘Then she’s looking for her natural parents. I spoke to Yulia on Saturday.’

‘Yeah, you said she was stealing Zena’s clothes.’

‘We don’t know that for certain. What if Zena had given them to Yulia as a present for helping out, or they had an arrangement?’

‘We should bring her in.’

‘I asked her to come in today.’

‘You asked her?’

‘She’s not a suspect. If you’ve got a problem with that?’

‘No—’

‘Actually Rogov, I’ve got a better idea.’ She flicked through her notepad. ‘Find me at headquarters. Federova works on Nevsky Prospekt; a place called “Noughts and Kisses”, pick me up and we’ll bring her in.’

‘Yes, boss,’ he said, exhaling heavily.

‘Rogov, are you smoking in the car?’

‘No, boss,’ he said, too quickly.

Nevsky Prospekt was as quiet as it got. Rogov turned off the four lane highway, then parked the Nissan in the courtyard of an army surplus shop. She leant over to lock her Makarov in the glove compartment then they crossed over to the shade of the massive wheat-coloured monolith of the Gostiny Dvor shopping centre. This time she had brought a jacket, a light raincoat she kept in her locker, which had the effect of scaring off the rainclouds and drawing out a hot sun from nowhere.