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

‘Is this the crossing?’ Zena asked.

‘No.’ Rogov laughed. ‘It’s a checkpoint. In the army, I was stationed in one of these for six weeks.’ He pointed at the guard approaching them. ‘She’ll pass on our details to Torfyanovka so if we take too long or haven’t got the same number of passengers they’ll have a welcoming committee ready.’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ Natalya said. She held out her police ID card, then pointed to Dahl and Zena. ‘These two are getting separate transport across the border in that BMW – she nodded in the direction of Lagunov’s car – ‘Can you make sure they are not delayed at Torfyanovka ?’

‘Yes, Captain.’ The guard took their registration number and raised the barrier for them to continue.

They pulled up next to the BMW and got out of the Primera. Dahl gave his lawyer a bear hug. ‘Anatoly it’s good to see you. Thank you for coming.’

Lagunov looked discomfited by the embrace.

‘Is everybody ready?’ Natalya asked.

‘Yes, I think so,’ Dahl said; Zena nodded.

Rogov lit another cigarette and Natalya took one from him, then regretted it – she was already feeling like a human ashtray. ‘Zena, if you don’t mind, I have some questions before you disappear.’

She caught Zena raising her eyebrows and tilting her head in a sarcastic gesture that reminded her of Anton. She hoped Dinara wasn’t taking him away on holiday for too long.

Thorsten put a protective arm around Zena, and she leaned into him. ‘Don’t you think she’s been through enough, Captain?’

‘It won’t take long.’ She turned to Zena. ‘Why did you come to Russia?’

‘To study.’

‘Yes, but why St. Petersburg?’

‘I liked the course.’

‘Is that the whole truth, Zena,’ she said.

Lagunov checked his watch. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt but the security at Torfyanovka will be a nightmare if we take any longer and we need to catch the Naantali ferry tonight.’

‘Then you’ll have to wait,’ Natalya said bluntly. She sucked on the Winston then coughed. ‘So why did you come to Russia, Zena?’

‘Why does this matter? We’ve got her back,’ said Dahl.

‘Just answer the Captain,’ said Rogov, ‘then we can all go home.’

Zena fiddled with her hair, taking out a band and straightening it into a ponytail. She seemed unhappy with the result and repeated it. ‘I got this random email. I thought it was junk but it had my name and told me to find the orphanage I came from. I searched on the internet for hours but there wasn’t anything in Krasnoye Selo; not even closed ones.’

Dahl spoke quietly and calmly as if defusing a bomb. ‘But I’ve told you the truth now, Zena. We know there was no orphanage.’

Natalya stubbed out the cigarette on the tarmac. ‘Then what happened?’

‘I replied telling them there wasn’t one. A few days later I got an email; it said my natural father was alive. It had a scanned wedding photo attached. I could see myself in the bride’s face. Even the man had this thick, blond hair like mine, and the same nose. I just knew they were my parents.’

‘You never said anything to me,’ said Dahl.

‘They told me not to trust you.’

‘So you came to Russia to find your father?’

‘They said I should find an excuse to come. There was a course at the university I liked so it wasn’t difficult.’

Natalya turned to Dahl. ‘When did you decide to sell your companies?’

Lagunov paced. ‘We’ve got a twelve-hour journey ahead of us. Can we do this another time?’

‘Early last year,’ Dahl said, ‘around February. The exchange rates were making them unprofitable.’

‘And, Zena, when did you start receiving these emails?’

‘March last year.’

Dahl held out his hand to Zena. ‘Captain… Natalya, I won’t forget what you’ve done for us but we do have to go.’

‘It was my job,’ she nodded curtly then turned to the Primera.

She watched Zena and Thorsten climb into the back of the BMW then the car accelerated away as Lagunov tried to make up for lost time.

‘So that’s that.’ Rogov stubbed out his cigarette.

He turned the Primera in the parking area and she got in. Seconds later they stopped at the barrier to wait for the guard to let them leave. The Mercedes gelik with the tinted windows pulled up at the crossing. The region code was “99” on the number plate and she was sure it was the same one that had been following them earlier. Behind it, traffic was steadily building.

The guard waved them on.

‘Wait, Rogov.’

The electronic windows on the Mercedes SUV lowered for the guard. Natalya looked inside – there was an old Indian woman at the wheel and a girl of eleven or twelve sat next to her. Clearly, they were not FSB agents.

‘It doesn’t matter. Let’s go home.’

Rogov pressed a preset station on the radio and the car filled with static. He turned it off again.

‘Why did you ask me to wait?’

‘That Mercedes.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought it was following us. Being a ment makes you paranoid.’

Rogov thought for a moment. ‘Criminals too, paranoia makes them do stupid things. That’s how we catch them half the time.’

After ten minutes they passed the bridge where Thorsten had crashed the Zhiguli all those years ago, killing Zena’s mother and setting in motion a train of events that led to the loss of his companies and the deaths of six people.

She thought about the Mercedes again; it was hard to let go of the fact that she had been positive the gelik was following them. Criminals too, Rogov had said. Paranoia was the outward projection of internal stresses. It created delusions. The menti were overly suspicious and consequently, criminals panicked as if they were about to be discovered. One paranoia feeding another.

‘Stop the car!’ Natalya yelled. ‘We have to go back.’

‘Boss, can’t we go home?’

‘Rogov, turn the fucking car around now.’

She fixed the magnetic flasher to the roof, the blue light illuminating the cars queueing at the checkpoint. The guard with the ponytail raised the barrier and waved them through. The traffic heading north was busy and Rogov drove on the opposite side of the road, forcing his way back in when oncoming vehicles hurtled towards them.

‘Get out the way, moron!’ Rogov made a swiping motion with his hand at a caravan that had seen the emergency lights and braked to a halt in front of them, blocking the lane. The elderly driver raised his arms to show there was nowhere for him to go.

Rogov swore then took the Primera off the road and onto a muddy verge. The traffic built up behind the caravan and the Primera’s wheels span as it fishtailed in the dirt. After fifty metres he found a gap and rejoined the highway as it widened, then the road split to separate private from commercial traffic.

At the Torfyanovka crossing they faced a row of booths, each one with a barrier and several cars waiting. A border guard, who could have passed for Rogov with his belly and pasty face, hurried out and waved his arms at the waiting vehicles to let them cut through. His random gestures sent the cars in all directions, making the situation worse.

She got out and stood on the Primera’s sill for a better view. There were hundreds of cars at the crossing working through similar booths; none of them resembled Lagunov’s BMW.

‘They’ve gone through,’ she shouted above the siren. ‘We need to move.’

She climbed in as he reversed the Primera to take them around a car of blond-haired Nordics blocking their path. Rogov’s lost twin raised the barrier and they were through into the no man’s land a few kilometres before the actual border. Cars heading for Finland were queuing all the way and he sped past them on the opposite carriageway. A black car broke out of the line and accelerated away.