Mark Blair - Stroika

‘Always the joker…’ Konstantin retorted nonplussed. ‘And how is Vika? She has moved into your offices on Morskaya.’

‘Well… makes more sense than her being stuck out by the airport.’

‘You impress me. I underestimated you… and Vika and your general friend, of course. You have not let the grass grow under your feet: fashion, freight, oil, and currency dealing… whatever next? Your success has far exceeded my initial expectations… Russian United Industries… R… U… I,’ he said slowly and deliberately.

There was silence for a moment. Misha took a sip of his coffee.

‘You wanted to meet,’ he said, wondering where this conversation was going.

‘ You are expanding and I am expanding. You move money; I need to move money… into offshore accounts. I understand you can do that.’

‘Getting nervous?’

‘Things might get a whole lot worse before they get better… or they might just get a whole lot worse.’

‘How much are we talking about?’

‘One hundred and twenty-five million dollars US to start…… Grand Cayman, BVI, Jersey, Cyprus.’

It didn’t appear that the drugs business was suffering.

‘One per cent,’ Misha said.

‘That’s outrageous !’ flared Konstantin.

‘I’m quoting you an old-school discount; ask around, if you find someone who can do it for less, be my guest. I’m sure you’ve done your homework.’ Misha thought of the commissions and backhanders that Moika would have to pay; Russia was not a cheap place to do business. ‘You can always set up your own bank.’

‘I’ve got enough on my plate,’ he said coolly.

Misha wrote down Grigory’s number on a napkin and handed it to him.

‘I’d also like to invest money here… in RUI.’

It was Misha’s turn to be surprised; having one of Russia’s largest mafia bosses as a shareholder was unlikely to improve his corporate credentials either in the Soviet Union or abroad.

‘A small percentage to start… through an offshore holding, so you are not embarrassed.’

‘And why would I want to do that, or my co-shareholders.’

‘Peace of mind, a good price. You know what it’s like out there – a jungle.’

‘And you’re “King of the Jungle”.’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’m sure you can guess my answer.’

‘Why don’t you think about it? I wouldn’t want you rushing into any sudden decision… but don’t delay too long. Life’s too short.’

Misha pushed back his chair and stood up to go. From his back pocket he peeled off a twenty dollar bill and threw it on the table. Konstantin remained seated and signalled the barista for another coffee.

‘It’s been good talking with you, Mikhail Dimitrivich.’

MOSCOW

Yuri didn’t go directly home after his staff meeting. He needed something to eat. Having dismissed his driver, Yuri flagged a lift from a passing motorist and gave him the route. As he sat there in the front seat, he contemplated his meeting with Lieutenant Biryukova the night before. She had taken a considerable risk in seeing him; he could have denounced her or even been part of the conspiracy himself – that is… if there were a conspiracy.

The question was what to do? He could hardly blurt out his suspicions to Ghukov. He had no evidence, only the suspicions of a young woman. Volkov would just laugh it off, tell him he was being paranoid; weren’t their constant rumours of dissatisfaction in the army, possible coups? And even if he didn’t mention his source, Volkov was smart enough to figure it out. He didn’t fancy her chances if that were the case. Yuri needed someone he could bounce his thoughts off. The car turned off Dmitrovka onto Nastasyinskiy; a thought percolated up from his subconscious.

‘Stop here, please,’ he said.

Yuri backtracked to Malaya Dmitrovka, took a left and walked up to the next main junction, before taking a right onto Degtyarny. He stopped outside an apartment building built seamlessly into a row of neoclassical nineteenth-century houses. Typed on a yellowing piece of card next to flat number five was the name Terentev. Yuri pressed the button. There was no response. Maybe Ilya was out. He turned up the collar of his coat against the sudden cold and peered into the small dimly lit lobby through a side window. The lift was directly ahead, three metres away, the floor indicator stuck on four. He looked at his watch: eight thirty; it was still relatively early. The indicator blinked.

A young woman exited the lift and opened the door onto the street. She was smartly dressed and wore a neat red beret over shoulder-length hair. Yuri stood to one side, reached up and held the door open for her. She looked at him briefly and from her expression decided he was clearly not a vagabond.

‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I have been trying to buzz a friend but there is no answer,’ he continued, trying to reassure her as she ducked under his arm.

‘It hasn’t been working for weeks,’ she replied, holding his eyes a little longer than necessary. If it had been another evening he might have even enquired her name or given her his card.

‘I’ll just go up,’ he said, and slipped past her as she turned onto the street.

Yuri took the lift to the second floor and walked along the corridor until he found the number he was looking for. From inside Terentev’s apartment Shostakovich drifted onto the landing. Yuri knocked on the door. There was a pause. The visible light on the magic eye on the door went dark and the door swung open. Ilya Terentev stood there in an apron, a cooking spoon in his hand.

‘Like something to eat?’ he said, as though he had expected him. ‘I’m about ready to serve.’

‘As long as I’m not eating your rations.’

The flat was small: a living room just large enough for a sofa, armchair and the dining room table. It was very different to his own apartment in the Arbat.

Ilya shook his head. ‘Help yourself to a beer from the fridge.’

‘Water will be fine.’ He needed to keep a straight head.

‘What brings you here?’ asked Ilya, coming straight to the point. ‘One of your girlfriends giving you grief?’

‘No, just passing.’

His friend looked at him. How long had he known Ilya? Ten years? More? They had met when they were both junior officers, and then again in Kabul. An easy friendship had developed, with serious conversation invariably gravitating towards women and ice hockey.

‘ Passing Degtyarny ?’ he said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Almost… anyway.’

Ilya didn’t push him further. He sat down and Ilya served him fish with potato and cabbage and black bread on the side.

‘Tuck in!’

Yuri was more ravenous than he thought.

‘This is good, Ilya. Where is Anna tonight?’

‘Out at a friend’s. I’ve been left to my own devices.’

Yuri looked at a photo of Ilya and his wife Anna on the dresser looking radiantly happy. He stared at it for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts, thinking how to approach the subject he wanted to discuss without endangering either his friend or informant.

It was Ilya who provided the cue.

‘How’s the reorganisation going?’ Ilya was used to him letting off steam over his frustrations with the district generals.

Yuri nodded and took a bite of black bread.

‘Volkov… he’s not a happy man. He’s against us pulling out of Eastern Europe, even discussing it with the Americans.’

‘There are plenty of people I’m sure would support him if it were common knowledge. The general secretary is taking a risk.’

Yuri nodded, wiping the bread around his plate, mopping up the fish broth.