Mark Blair - Stroika

A man stepped in her way. He was a good four inches shorter than her. ‘When are you on?’ he said, raising his voice above the din. A wave of beer breath rolled over her.

‘In your dreams,’ she answered, stepping around him.

Viktoriya headed to the stairwell at the back of the room leading to the basement, brushed the bodyguard aside, and made for Konstantin’s office. Unsure what she was going to say to him, she knew he had to be confronted. He had killed her father… or had his men do it.

She wasn’t sure how she felt… confused… conflicted… guilty… she had told her mother she would handle her father and she hadn’t.

‘You can’t go in, Viktoriya Nikolaevna.’

‘Get out of my way, Boris,’ she said, and bowled past him, seizing the handle of the double door and pushing it wide open.

Konstantin was already standing up, adjusting his shirt. A tall dark-haired girl with crimson lipstick pulled down the hem of her skirt but made no move to raise herself from the sofa. To her surprise, Viktoriya felt no pang of jealousy or sudden rage.

‘Get out her out of here, Kostya,’ she ordered him. The girl stood up, readjusted her skirt and stared insolently at Viktoriya, who turned her back on her.

‘Leave us, Adriana,’ said Konstantin. There was a pause before she heard the door close.

Viktoriya reached into her handbag and threw the ID card on his desk.

‘Is this what you are looking for?’

Konstantin picked it up and opened the passport at the photo page. ‘He got what he deserved,’ he said. She was unsure whether he was referring to her assailant or her father.

‘Why didn’t you discuss it with me? I could have handled it.’

‘But you hadn’t.’

‘I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you,’ she said. ‘That was my mistake, but I didn’t want you taking things into your own hands, not like before, not with my father, as despicable as he was… I had it under control.’

‘He was blackmailing you… threatening to tell everyone… how could you trust him?’

She thought of the young girl in the room a few minutes before.

‘And what about me? Am I to be trusted? Am I a threat too?’

She realised, of course, that that was the reason he never shared anything with her, certainly not his business interests. The girl who had just exited the room was a fool if she thought she meant anything to Kostya. He would have no compunction in getting rid of her or anyone if they became a danger.

‘Look, Kostya, I’m no angel… I certainly don’t want to be judgemental, but I don’t want this either, living life in the shadows…’

‘…but it’s over… is that what you are saying? It’s that small-time hustler,’ Konstantin almost spat at her.

‘If it’s Misha you are referring to, it has nothing to do with him, nothing. I just don’t want to live like this.’

‘Well, it’s a rough world out there,’ he said coldly, ‘and your friend is not up to it.’

‘If killing all the opposition means up to it – no, I don’t think he is.’

Konstantin raised his fist and dropped it back to his side.

‘Boris!’ he barked. ‘See Viktoriya Nikolaevna off the premises.’

LENINGRAD

Across the cobbled square of the Leningrad Freight yard by Pulkovo airport, lorries and delivery vans pulled in and out of cargo bays as armed security guards paced the yard and manned exit and entry points. Viktoriya sheltered from the rain that was falling steadily. In the fifteen minutes she had been standing there, she had witnessed four diesel tankers exit the depot bound for Smolensk and Eastern Europe.

Yuri had not been long in giving his answer and for over six months now had been a joint shareholder of Leningrad 176, unofficially dubbed Russian United Industries. But something was up. Yuri had been summoned to Moscow. He had downplayed it and rarely discussed the military but this time she sensed it was different. She hoped it wasn’t curtains for Yuri or Smolensk.

Besides, she had a new problem. Leningrad Freight seemed to have reached a ceiling on requisitioning more fuel. Perhaps someone in Moscow had done their sums and calculated that it was impossible for Leningrad Freight to consume so much, or maybe her director’s contact was not lying and supply shortages were real.

A truck started to reverse into the bay she was standing in, forcing her to step down into the yard.

She looked at her watch as Misha, in a convoy of three cars, pulled into the depot. Ivan was first out and Misha last. How things had changed, she thought, from that time not so long ago when he drove around so proudly in his red Zhiguli. She wondered affectionately what had happened to it.

‘Vika,’ he said, grabbing her by the hands, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘Where is our comrade director?’

The comrade director appeared in the doorway to the main building and forced a nervous smile.

‘Maxim,’ Misha almost shouted. She saw him flinch as Misha gave him a hug. ‘Relax… we are going to work this out.’

They walked to his office and seated themselves around a table.

‘So what are we up to at the moment… diesel… deliveries?’ Misha asked.

‘Eight tankers per day, six days a week, thirty-two thousand litres per tanker,’ said Viktoriya reeling off familiar numbers.

‘A million and a half litres a week,’ threw in the director.

‘And no let-up in demand?’ said Viktoriya.

‘None. Ilaria could place three times that with Eastern European customers. We are only scratching the surface.’

Viktoriya thought about the millions of US dollars pouring into the company’s Swiss bank account. It was hard to get over how simple an operation it was. Buy at the domestic price and sell for four times as much on the international market.

‘So supply…?’ Misha continued.

‘Moscow can’t supply us any more fuel, more than we have at the moment, that is,’ replied the director. ‘They are having their own delivery problems. I offered him more money, as you suggested, but my contact says it is out of his hands. When I pressed him, he suggested I take it higher.’

‘Namely?’

‘The Ministry of Oil and Gas.’

‘Do you have any connections there?’

‘No… not my area – transport, yes,’ said Maxim.

‘Well, where there is a will, and a dollar to be made, there’s a way. Let’s all think on it. We need to get this right.’

MOSCOW

A tired-looking General Ghukov entered the general staff meeting room. Yuri snapped to attention and was bid to take a seat by the colonel general, who placed a wad of papers wearily on the table. Yuri had seen the colonel general six months before, when he had visited his command, but he seemed to have aged ten years in the intervening period. His normally round face looked gaunt, and there were dark bags under his eyes. Yuri speculated on the pressure he must be under.

That morning, Yuri had boarded the military flight to Moscow with some apprehension. His orders had not come via his own commanding officer but directly from the chief of staff, Colonel General Andrei Ghukov. He had summoned him to general staff headquarters on Znamenka Street in the Arbat district. There had been no hint of its significance, only a brief order to report.

Yuri had wracked his brain for possible explanations. Were the army suspicious of his connections with Misha Revnik? Did they judge his loyalties divided? Or was it his radical views on reorganising the Soviet Army into a smaller, better-equipped regular force?

The gulags may have disappeared, but there was always some forlorn military outpost as an alternative. It would be a disgrace, money or no money, if he were reassigned to some backwater.