Mark Blair - Stroika

Staying close to the building line, they walked the final hundred metres to the entrance of the storage lot. It was secured by a flimsy metal gate tied shut with a padlock and chain.

‘Pass me the wire cutters,’ said the taller of the two. He cut a vertical opening in the chain-link wire mesh fence, peeled it back, and, after one final look around, slipped through, his partner close behind. Making their way past building materials and construction equipment in varying states of disrepair, they arrived at a mountain of empty wooden pallets, stacked five metres high, close against the wall of the neighbouring Leningrad Freight warehouse and wooden rafters above.

‘Made for the job, I would say,’ said the taller man, looking up at the dry inner layers of timber.

They wandered around the yard collecting sacking, old paint and fuel cans – anything they thought might burn – and stuffed them roughly between the stack of pallets.

‘This’ll teach that general to watch his mouth.’

‘I hope they’ve got insurance,’ the smaller man joked as he stepped back a few feet. From the carrier bag he removed a large can of petrol. The taller man, the one had spoken to Yuri in the bar, extracted a lighter from his pocket and ran his thumb over the wheel. He adjusted the flame till it leapt several inches into the air.

‘Okay, we don’t want to waste this, so make sure you give the dry wood a good soak,’ instructed the taller man. Petrol fumes tainted the crisp winter air as his partner emptied the can, shaking it vigorously to extract every last drop.

‘That’ll do!’ said the man with the lighter. ‘Best move right back now, well away from this lot.’

The shorter man threw the now empty can into the pallet shelving and stepped back a good twenty feet, close to where his partner stood waiting.

‘Here goes then.’

He hit the flint again. The flame spurted upwards.

‘Enjoy the fireworks!’ he said, and took a step towards the tinderbox of pallets.

Blood and brain splattered the ground as a single rifle shot echoed off the buildings and walls. The lighter flame traced the arsonists fall to the ground, finally extinguishing itself in the snow.

In an upper window of the derelict building his companion caught the glint of a telescopic sight.

‘Don’t shoot!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t shoot!’ He threw his hands up into the air and fell onto his knees.

‘Stay where you are! Don’t move!’ shouted back the marksman. ‘Or you’ll be as dead as your friend.’

‘I’m not moving!’ the arsonist shouted back.

Kneeling in the snow, his face turned towards the pallets and wall, he heard the crunch of footsteps making their way towards him from the gate. He made to turn around, but a powerful kick to his back sent him sprawling, face forward, into the snow.

‘I thought my comrade told you not to move. Isn’t that right?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ he shouted, as a boot applied pressure to the knuckles of his right hand.

‘Put your other hand up where I can see it!’

From the corner of his eye, the prone man noticed another standing next to the man that kicked him, a man in a military coat. He caught the faint citrus scent of his aftershave.

‘You were right, General. You thought they might try something,’ said Ivan.

Ivan waved at the sniper in the upper window.

Yuri bent down and turned the dead man over. The bullet had exited through his nose, shattering most of his cheekbone and eye socket, but he was clearly recognisable as the man in the bar.

‘Get him up,’ said Yuri, indicating the man slowly freezing in the snow.

Ivan grabbed the would-be arsonist by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to his feet.

‘I won’t insult my intelligence or yours by asking who sent you. As you see, I’m not entirely surprised to see you.’

‘We all take orders, General, although this little bonfire was a bit of unplanned arson’

Yuri raised his pistol and shot him in the forehead. ‘There’s no doubting his boss will get the message now.’

LENINGRAD

‘Good evening, Viktoriya Nikolaevna,’ greeted the concierge as Viktoriya walked into the lobby of her apartment building.

The journey back from the airport had taken well over an hour, and she was looking forward to a glass of wine and running a hot bath. Standing in front of the lift door she absentmindedly watched the indicator light describe its downward journey.

‘Your electrician called in earlier.’

At first she thought the concierge was talking to someone else.

‘What electrician?’ Viktoriya said, jolted out of her thoughts.

‘He said you had some urgent electrical work needing doing,’ the concierge replied. He looked uncomfortable. ‘When I queried him, he showed me a typed order with your name and address on it.’

‘Shouldn’t you have checked the log? I hadn’t informed you of any such call,’ Viktoriya said angrily, doubly irritated by the concierge talking to her legs.

‘When he showed me the order I thought you had just forgotten. I’m sorry. He left a few hours ago.’

Viktoriya headed back out through the revolving door onto the street and waved at her security detail parked across the street. Two men jumped out and jogged over to where she was standing.

‘We’ll go up and check,’ said one of the men when she had explained what had happened.

‘Why don’t you wait down here in reception?’ said Vladimir, one of her more permanent bodyguards.

‘I’m coming with you,’ she said firmly.

‘Misha wouldn’t be very happy if he found out.’

‘Are you more frightened of Misha or me ?’

The two men looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Okay, but you stay behind us.’

The two extracted their automatics from under their black leather jackets.

‘I hope there isn’t going to be any shooting,’ said the concierge somewhat bravely when she reappeared in the lobby, this time with two armed men.

‘I hope so too,’ said Viktoriya.

Her apartment was on the fourth floor. Rather than take the lift, they climbed the staircase that wound its way around the lift shaft to her landing. She fished out the front door key from her bag and handed it to Vladimir while the other man checked for obvious signs of wires or booby-traps. He shook his head signalling the all-clear and released the safety catch of his gun, ready to cover his partner. Vladimir inserted the key, turned, and pushed the door wide.

Burglaries were becoming a common occurrence, and Viktoriya expected to find her apartment ransacked. To her surprise, everything looked in perfect order. The coffee table with photos of her and her parents, and one of her and Misha taken as teenage school friends, found recently, were undisturbed, as was an expensive wristwatch she had left there in full view that morning. Viktoriya wondered if the concierge had somehow got it wrong, mixed up her apartment with someone else’s. She looked at her two bodyguards and shrugged.

‘Let’s check the other rooms,’ she said, and explained the layout of the apartment.

Leaving Viktoriya in the living room, the two men moved down the corridor. There were two doors to the right – her bedroom and a spare room – and her bathroom and one for storage on the left.

The doors were all closed except the one to her bedroom, which was slightly ajar.

‘Do you remember how you left these?’ asked the bodyguard facing the first door on the right.

‘No,’ said Viktoriya. ‘The cleaner was in this morning.’

As the door was already slightly ajar, they decided on the bedroom first. Vladimir extracted a small torch from his jacket and, with his fingers, slowly and carefully began to explore the door frame for wires or triggers. He moved down the door and architrave, waving the torch beam back and forth for any filament reflection.