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

‘Yuri was the kidnapper?’ Dahl asked, shaking himself from his stupor.

‘Yes,’ said Natalya, irritated with the Swede, ‘that’s how he answered the proof of life question; he simply asked Zena.’

Belikova addressed Dahl in English. ‘If you cooperate, you can go home.’

‘That’s not enough, I want Zena.’ He stabbed himself in the chest with his finger.

‘You can’t have her, she’s with her real father.’

‘I would give my life for her,’ Dahl slurred.

‘Pointless but sweet,’ said Nahodkin.

‘Actually,’ Natalya said, ‘Zena is an adult so it’s up to her if she wants to see you. There is one way I can help you though.’

‘What?’ Dahl asked.

‘I have contacts in the Punishment Fulfilment Service. I can get you moved to a prison near her.’

‘I’ve already told you, he’s not going anywhere,’ said Belikova.

‘Doesn’t anyone care that he stole a child and confessed to killing her mother?’

‘Hey, what happened to the mother?’ asked Nahodkin. ‘I thought you were in love with her. Did you get bored? I get like that sometimes.’

‘That’s why I need to see Zena. I need to explain myself to her.’

‘That’s one conversation I’d like to hear,’ said Belikova.

‘Come with me.’ Belikova led Natalya into Lyudmila’s kitchen. ‘I’ve got a job for you, Captain. It’s going to be more dangerous than a dip in Lake Karachay without a lead bathing suit, but if you do it right I’ll leave you and your stepson alone.’

‘What is it?’

‘I want you to find everything Dahl gave to Volkov and give them to me.’

‘Why not do it yourself?’

Belikova yawned. ‘Isn’t it obvious? If I screw up the President will hear and I’ll freeze my tits chasing bootleggers in Irkutsk.’

‘What about me?’ she asked, stepping back into the living room. ‘What choice do I have?’

Nahodkin slid the clip of her Makarov across the table to her, then lit another cigarette. ‘Basically, none.’

It was late now. The sun was at its lowest ebb, barely visible over the horizon and the lampposts were still grey and unlit. In her mirror, headlights followed at a discreet distance; she didn’t care enough to try to lose them. The analogue clock on the Volvo’s dashboard showed one a.m. but it was always slow and she hurried to catch the Palace Bridge before it was raised. She found a parking place on the road, then climbed out of her Volvo and slammed the door. As she crossed the street, the empty night carried the noise of another car door closing. A moment later, the huge bulk of Nahodkin stepped into the open to show himself before disappearing in the shadows.

She climbed the stairs wearily and at the third floor heard dance music that grew louder as she approached her apartment door.

She let herself in. ‘Misha?’ she called.

‘Here, Angel,’ he shouted.

Mikhail was sitting in his customary chair next to a fresh collection of Ochakovo bottles on the coffee table.

‘Hey, did you see the Sven on the news? Can you believe Zena’s alive… and Dahl?’ Mikhail shook his head. ‘What a bastard.’

She ignored him. ‘What’s with the shit music?’

‘The radio.’

‘Then why—’

Mikhail beckoned her over then pointed to his phone on the table. She leant over so he could cup a hand to her ear. ‘They can hear us even if it’s switched off,’ he said. ‘I’m making their ears bleed.’

Another time and she might have dismissed his comments as paranoia. Now, she went to the kitchen, returning with some silver foil. After tearing off a sheet, she wrapped Mikhail’s phone before doing the same to hers. She put both devices inside her microwave oven and closed the door.

She tapped the power button on his stereo to kill the music. ‘Misha, don’t make me listen to that shit again.’

‘What have you done?’

‘A Faraday cage kills the phone signals. It’s not perfect but it’ll do the job. Just don’t switch the microwave on.’

‘You were always the smart one.’

‘No, I read it on an American website.’ She looked around and saw how tidy it had become in her absence. ‘Misha, it’s late, why haven’t you gone to bed?’

She heard a toilet flush then taps running as someone washed their hands.

Her eyebrows came together. ‘Is someone else here?’

The toilet door opened and Rogov stepped out. He wafted his hand in the air. ‘Shit, I think something died in there, Misha.’

Mikhail coughed.

‘Natalya, what are you—’

An Ochakovo bottle arced in the air before bouncing off Rogov’s skull. He staggered and held an arm out to ward off more blows.

Another was in her hand before she knew it. Mikhail was tugging on her arm. ‘Tasha, No!’

‘That bastard set me up.’ She tried to jerk her hand clear from Mikhail’s grip but he was too strong and took the bottle from her.

‘I’m sorry, boss.’ Rogov’s hair began to glisten. He dabbed his head with the back of his sleeve then frowned at the red smear on his shirt.

‘You want me to stitch that for you? I’ve got some knitting needles here.’

‘Stepan was doing as he was told by Dostoynov.’

‘Rogov, you tried to put me away.’

Mikhail was speaking in a reassuring manner that made her even angrier. ‘Angel, they were going to sack him.’

She looked around for something new to throw. A glass ashtray looked solid enough. She tipped out the ash and cigarette butts onto the table then felt its reassuring weight.

‘Angel, don’t – you could kill him.’

‘That’s the idea.’

Mikhail placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her gently before enveloping her with his arms in an embrace or restraint; she wasn’t sure which but it still felt good. The heat from her anger was cooling, turning into guilt.

In Lyudmila’s apartment, Thorsten Dahl had asked if she had ever been in love and she had responded by calling it a psychosis. As he held her, Mikhail’s stomach filled the space between her breasts and lower ribs, fitting perfectly. She remembered how, in bed, he cradled her from behind and his outstretched fingers were the same length as hers; his chin touched the top of her head. Mikhail was an old cardigan that was snug in the right places. She felt nauseous, remembering that she loved the stupid, big-bellied ment .

‘I’m OK, Misha.’

His arms relaxed and she pulled free then twisted to pitch the glass ashtray Frisbee-style at Rogov. This time her aim was sure, it caught him in his gut and she had the satisfaction of seeing him double over, clutching the wall for support.

Her arms went up in surrender. ‘I’ve stopped now… promise.’

Mikhail seemed oblivious to his friend’s pain. ‘As I was saying, Angel. Stepan was trying to help.’

‘By making it look as if I was threatening Yulia Federova. Was it you who got her neighbour to lie?’

Rogov straightened. ‘Dostoynov spoke to him – it was nothing to do with me.’

‘Don’t get angry with Stepan, he’s keeping me informed. He’s on your side.’

‘Can I use this?’ Rogov had stepped into the toilet and retrieved a hand towel,

‘Sure,’ said Mikhail, and Rogov pressed the towel against his bleeding scalp.

‘Give me your phone.’ She held out her hand.

‘Shit, boss, this really hurts.’ He winced as he reached into a trouser pocket with his free hand and handed her his mobile. She placed it in the microwave oven with the other two.

Rogov sat down heavily in the chair next to Mikhail’s. He stretched over the table to pick up a near-empty Ochakovo.

‘I thought Muslims didn’t drink?’