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

Vasiliev patted his Teddy Boy quiff. ‘Thank you, Major… Sergeant, I wish to speak with the Captain alone.’

‘I don’t think you realise—’

‘That’s enough, Major Dostoynov.’

Vasiliev waited until the door was closed. ‘I apologise for all that unpleasantness… it’s not what I wanted.’ He stubbed his cigarette out in the foil ashtray. ‘Natalya, did you ever hear of an Aleksey Mikheyev?’

‘No, Colonel.’

‘It’s a true story.’ Vasiliev pulled his chair opposite hers. ‘Mikheyev was a traffic ment in Nizhny Novgorod who offered a girl a lift out of town. Soon she is reported missing. The local police discover Mikheyev was the last person to see her so they charge him with her rape and murder. He refuses to admit what he did with her body so they put a few volts through his brain to improve his memory. Mikheyev thinks they are going to kill him so he jumps out of a third floor window and breaks his back in the fall. Now he’s in a wheelchair for life. Two weeks later, the girl turns up unharmed – she’d been staying with friends.’

If the case was a jigsaw, it would go back to the shop minus its missing pieces. Colonel Vasiliev wasn’t helping either.

‘You’re saying the uniform won’t protect me.’

‘Well, it didn’t do a lot for Mikheyev. What is your objective?’

‘I want to find Zena – if she’s still alive – and get the bastard who killed Yulia Federova. It would be nice to stay alive too. The FSB want me to leave it alone.’

‘Dostoynov’s one of them of course.’

‘But not you?’

‘Listen.’ Vasiliev leaned forwards over the desk. ‘You ever seen this?’ He tapped the United Russia pin badge on the lapel of his jacket.

‘Yes, Colonel.’

United Russia was the political party created as a vehicle to keep President Putin in power. It was Vasiliev’s way of informing his subordinates that he was plugged in to the administration.

‘You breathe a word of this, Ivanova, and I’ll let the FSB do whatever they want with you – is that clear?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, Colonel.’

He opened his wallet and removed an ancient piece of card; he held it up for her to see. ‘Now, look closely.’

Some of the lettering had disintegrated but it was still readable. ‘You were in The People’s Freedom Party ?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘My father supported them too – weren’t they one of the early pro-democracy movements?’

Vasiliev returned the tattered card to his wallet with care. ‘That’s who I am; one of the original members too. I kept my head down when they were de-registered.’ He tapped the pin badge. ‘How could I join the party of crooks and thieves for God’s sake? I’m a policeman.’

‘So you’re helping me?’

‘Helping, but mostly arse-covering. If I let you walk out of here, the FSB will know I helped you and I could lose my pension… or worse. Dostoynov has raised a criminal case against you, but until he presents evidence to the prosecutor it’s just a number, nothing more.’

‘So I’m screwed.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Vasiliev smoothed the sides of his quiff. ‘I think there’s a way out for all of us. I want you to sign something.’

‘You’re still after my confession?’

‘Why would you say that?’ He removed a sheet of paper from a manila folder and passed it to her.

‘What is it?’

‘Take a look. It’s your resignation. I had it typed this morning when I heard Dostoynov was looking for evidence against you.’

She scanned it quickly, unable to believe what she was seeing. ‘I won’t sign it.’

‘Look at the top.’

Her eyes flicked upwards. ‘It’s backdated to last Saturday.’

‘The day you walked into Zena Dahl’s apartment.’

‘You’re forcing me out?’

‘No, disowning you, and I’ll only do it if the FSB catch or kill you. I’ll show the letter to Dostoynov too and tell him exactly the same. He won’t like it any more than you but the FSB will be off my back, and if you sign it’ – Vasiliev extended his hand towards the door – ‘you’ll be free to go.’

‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked, suspicious that Vasiliev could process her resignation the moment she walked out.

‘Because I think you’re right. Find Zena Dahl and get Yulia Federova’s killer.’

For the first time in several hours she smiled, then picked up Rogov’s discarded pen and signed the letter.

Vasiliev took it from her and placed it inside the manila folder. ‘And for God’s sake, Ivanova, keep away from the FSB.’

She counted the floors of the building, stopping at the fourth. The living room window had drawn blinds and heavy curtains to block the daylight entering Sergei’s bedroom while he slept off his nocturnal activities. Below his apartment, there were no lights. Not that she could see anything inside it from the coffee shop on the opposite side of the street.

If they hadn’t already, the FSB men would soon find her iPhone in its hiding place on the elektrichka . She lowered her line of sight to the pavement and watched a white van with “Vadim’s Art Collective” stencilled on the side and a woman with unkempt red hair in the driver’s seat. It was parked where the grey BMW X5 had been earlier and she wondered if it was there innocently or the FSB were taking a stealthier approach. She dismissed the idea; the woman looked more likely to be an agitator than an agent.

She ducked down as she approached her Volvo, five cars behind the van, not caring how conspicuous she looked to passers-by. Her door opened with a clunk that echoed down the street and she lifted her head momentarily to check for activity then removed her Makarov from the glove compartment. She fixed the holster to her belt, then, on impulse, lay down on the pavement and examined the underside of her car, running her hand against the dirt-crusted metal to check for a tracking device. There was nothing she could feel, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something there.

There were footsteps behind her and she turned abruptly, her thumb touching the top of her belt for the Makarov.

‘Captain?’

‘Jesus, Leo.’

Primakov, for once, was dressed to unimpress, his jeans were dirty and frayed at the bottoms, and he wore a T-shirt with a green, circular Starbucks logo beneath an open, flapping anorak with the hood pulled over his blond hair.

She wrapped her arms around him without thinking. ‘It’s good to see you.’

He patted her back stiffly. ‘You too, Captain.’

She let go and stepped back. ‘What’s with the clothes?’

‘Disguise. There are a lot of strange people around.’

‘You mean FSB?’

‘Yes,’ he fidgeted with his car keys, looking more anxious than she had ever seen him before, ‘one of them came to my apartment – a major from Moscow. She was asking questions about you. They scare me; she scared me.’ Primakov looked around. ‘The fact is, we should get away from here. Far away.’

They jogged to his Samara.

‘You had any offers?’ she pointed at a “For Sale” sign taped to his dashboard. Above it, dangling from the mirror, were a collection of air fresheners in the shape of pine trees.

‘We don’t need to talk about it.’

‘I’d prefer a little distraction.’

‘Oh, well, one man was interested.’

‘Until he took it for a test drive and complained it smelled like a toilet?’

‘Exactly that.’

‘You bought it in winter, try selling it then.’ She climbed in and immediately wound down the window.

He started driving. ‘Where are we going?’

‘To Zena’s place.’