Mark Blair - Stroika

‘There’s talk of a pull-out,’ said Vdovin.

‘We’ve been here before.’

‘ Serious talk… it’s an unpopular war and the new general secretary wants an accord with the Americans. The arms race is beyond the country’s means, he says… not that it has ever bothered any other general secretary that I have known.’

‘And does he have the support to do it.’

‘At the moment… but there is increasing internal opposition… not just with his policy towards the imperialists .’

Imperialists, thought Konstantin, hadn’t the Soviet Union donned that epithet when it invaded Afghanistan? How long ago? Christmas Eve, 1979… at least, the Catholic Christmas Eve when the so-called imperialists were waiting for Santa. Brezhnev should have left well alone, but then again he would have missed a huge business opportunity. The drugs business was booming.

‘And will they continue to support Najibullah?’

The general shrugged.

‘I don’t know, perhaps, but I doubt it will be decisive. The Americans have created a monster in the mujahideen. They will tear the country apart.’

And the price of opium sky will rocket, he thought. If Vdovin was right, the general secretary would indeed prove to be a sore in his side. He would have to renegotiate his supply routes and make friends with a whole new circle of tribal leaders, who might not be quite so well disposed to a Russian.

Above, someone had turned up the music. Konstantin looked at his watch – eleven o’clock. He wondered whether the new girl Bazhukov had hired would be on the floor yet. She had been sitting at the bar when he had entered earlier that evening before the club had opened. For some reason he had found it hard to concentrate on Bazhukov’s daily update and had found himself staring at her across the room. Wearing a T-shirt and stretch jeans, she was tall with alabaster white skin, jet-black hair, and a wide, sensuous mouth. At first she had ignored him, intent on the men checking out the stage floor lighting. Perhaps she had thought him a punter. It was Bazhukov, sensing his distraction, who had finally waved her over.

‘Adriana… meet the boss.’

‘Where are you from?’ he’d asked.

‘Horlivka,’ she had replied in a deep, throaty voice. He didn’t know the place but recognised her Ukrainian accent. She was older than most of the girls at the club; he guessed late twenties, sexier, more mature-looking.

‘First time in Leningrad?’

‘She knows Cezanne’ said Bazhukov, interrupting. She was another Ukrainian, with a reputation for doing a lot of coke.

Half an hour later she had been ushered down to his office by one of the guards. Wordlessly, he had unbuttoned her blouse and slid his hands under her bra, cupping her breasts. She had stood motionless and looked unflinchingly into his eyes as he had caressed her nipples and then pinched them hard. Her eyes had only closed when he found the moist space between her legs and forced her back on the sofa, roughly pulling down on her jeans and taking her.

‘I need a meeting with the KGB chief,’ Konstantin said, snapping back to the present. ‘In fact, the defence minister and KGB.’

Vdovin looked surprised.

‘Isn’t it best to go through me?’ Vdovin said defensively.

‘Here in Leningrad or in Moscow, it doesn’t matter, just fix it up,’ he said, ignoring him. He needed a face-to-face meeting. Go-betweens could only accomplish so much. ‘And what about those photographs, thinking about the KGB?’

‘ Bah … much ado about nothing! They’re just a blur. You have to wonder why Revnik kept them at all. My KGB contact seemed satisfied, so you are… we are, off the hook.’

Konstantin felt relieved. It had been more problematic than it should have been but the KGB was off his back and Harkov taken care of.

‘They wanted Revnik dealt with,’ Vdovin added. Konstantin sat up. ‘I told them they were misguided; there was no advantage in it. He’s become too well connected; it would just stir up a hornet’s nest for no good reason. I think they’ve backed off. I told them you wouldn’t have anything to do with it.’

He certainly wasn’t in the mood for bumping off his girlfriend’s best friend – anyway, not before he had a foothold in his flourishing business interest. The rest he would pick up for free, or rather, after a few well-placed inducements.

Vdovin rose heavily from his chair. Stolin pushed a button under his desk. Two girls appeared in the doorway: Adriana, changed into a short black tube dress, and a skinny brunette with flushed cheeks and heavily made-up eyes. They stood there waiting his instructions.

‘Look after the general, make sure he has whatever he wants,’ Konstantin said, addressing the two of them. He was still procuring girls for him, he thought, years later.

‘I’ll be back to you shortly on the other matter… the meeting.’

Bazhukov entered the moment the general left.

‘We may have a problem, boss.’

‘Sit.’ Konstantin pointed at the chair the general had just vacated.

‘There’s a man, claims to be Viktoriya Nikolaevna’s father. One of our men overheard him bragging in a bar. He’s a drunk, hangs around there a lot, and doesn’t seem to work. Has a nice apartment, though, off Makarova, across on Vasilyevsky Island, by all accounts.’

‘And?’

‘Says he has the goods on a mafia boss.’

‘Have you seen him?’

‘No.’

Konstantin shook his head, wondering if indeed it was Viktoriya’s father and what it was he could have on him. What teenage misdemeanour that could be so terrible? He laughed dismissively. His recollection of her father was at best vague. But it was odd, if he was who he claimed to be, that Viktoriya had not mentioned him. He remembered the neatly stitched cut she had turned up with that morning at school. She had told the class that she had caught her face on an open cupboard door, but he had guessed there was an alternate explanation.

‘And he hasn’t said anything specific?’ Konstantin prompted.

‘No. He hangs out with the guy that used to work for you years ago – they are drinking partners. I fired him a year or two back.’

‘What was his name,’ Konstantin asked, suddenly alarmed.

‘Just trying to remember… Lev, that was his name… Lev.’

LENINGRAD

Viktoriya turned the key in the lock and tentatively gave the door a push. It swung inward into the small hallway. Apprehensive, she stood there steeling the courage to go in.

‘Father,’ she called. There was no response. Her father had telephoned her making one of his usual demands for more money and then not turned up at the café, their usual meeting place. At first she had put it down to his general unreliability; perhaps he had been lying drunk somewhere or had forgotten. But that was two days ago, and she had not heard from him. The woman at the café had not seen him either. If he was ill or in hospital she was sure he would have managed to make a call or had someone do it for him. It was unlike him to drop off the radar quite as he had.

From where she stood on the threshold of the tiny hallway, everything had the appearance of normality. She had only once visited her father’s apartment, and that was the day he moved in; for the most part she had succeeded in keeping her distance.

The door to the living room was closed. Instinctively she sniffed the air – musty, but no obvious smell of rotting food or worse. Bracing herself, fighting the desire to turn and run, she stepped into the hallway and closed the front door quietly behind her. Warily, she opened the living room door. Mayhem confronted her: table and chairs turned over, the sofa and armchair slashed, books strewn across the floor. In the bathroom the panel under the bath had been torn out and the drugs cupboard emptied into the bath. She walked into the bedroom. The bed had been shoved off its base and clothes from a small wooden chest of drawers thrown all about the room. There was no sign of her father. She looked out of the window, trying to gather her thoughts.