East of the Sun (15 page)

Again Patrick sighed heavily. ‘Maybe. I just don’t know. I feel like I’m pulled in all directions, but maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve changed.’

‘What makes you say that? Do you think you have?’

Patrick hesitated for a second before he replied. ‘Sometimes I think that what happened to Robert has changed me on a level I don’t fully recognise. I still feel guilty about that night.’

‘Why?’ Amelia asked, a sudden thrill of shock going down her spine.

‘I don’t know, maybe because Robert dropped me off that night. Perhaps I was meant to be in that car too or maybe the long detour Robert had to take might have caused what happened to him.’

Impulsively Amelia leaned forward and squeezed his hand. ‘I don’t think you should beat yourself up over it, Patrick. I have a feeling that nothing would have prevented what happened to Robert.’

‘You’re very kind to say that, given the loss you’ve suffered.’

Amelia sat back, waving his comment away, unwilling to reexamine the extent of her loss again. She’d done so much of that already. What she needed more of was action.

‘I have a question for you.’

Patrick sat back, looking equally relieved to let the difficult subject go. ‘Shoot.’

‘The Prism-Sibraz thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘You know that when Robert first got involved, Sibraz hired several people to represent them in the negotiations? Wasn’t there some sort of dealmaker involved? I’d really like to know who he was.’

Patrick’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes, but to his credit he didn’t object immediately or try to talk her out of it. Instead he was silent for several long moments.

‘Please, Patrick.’

‘Well,’ he said, clearly not happy about giving her the information, ‘several people were involved, as you already know, but the one who was most obviously on the Sibraz side was a guy by the name of Igor Popov.’

‘Any idea where I can find him?’

Patrick’s hesitation was even longer this time. ‘Last I heard he was running a small so-called strategy firm. It’s called something like Popov & another name . . . Popov & Sheshin, yes, I believe that’s it. I think they work out of one of the offices in the Lotte Plaza centre.’

‘Thank you,’ Amelia said quietly. ‘I appreciate this.’

Patrick nodded. His expression spoke of his unvoiced concerns.

Amelia smiled. ‘I know, be careful and all that.’

‘Don’t be flippant. Popov may have surrounded himself with the trappings of a legitimate strategy consulting firm, but there is no saying what he or his people are capable of. What’s more, rumour has it that he may have political aspirations. If it’s true, he’ll be even more cagey.’

‘Okay. If it makes you feel any better, I’m learning about misleading appearances and trappings very quickly. I know now to tread carefully and to trust no one.’ Amelia stood up.

Patrick didn’t reply immediately. ‘These people, Amelia . . . Popov made no secret of the fact that he scorned Prism and anyone who had any association with it.’

‘Got it,’ she said, moving to the door quickly. ‘And thank you again.’

Although the group of women who had gathered in the reception room had diminished considerably by now, a chance to speak to Cathy again never came, because Amelia continued to be surrounded by both well-wishers and the curious and after a while Cathy had to leave to pick up her children from school. They made promises to meet again and before long, Amelia also had to leave.

She’d agreed to meet up with Nick again to try and make sense of her conversation with Bruce Jennings and perhaps come up with ideas of where they could turn their attention next. Her thoughts returned to the meeting in the man’s sleek office. She was eager to go over it again. Somehow she knew that Jennings was involved.

Deep in thought she collected her coat and prepared to leave the embassy. She was the last of a small group of chattering women to exit and the cold air hit her in the face. She hung back for a few seconds, letting them move away, tired of the barrage of small talk.

She didn’t hear the call behind her immediately.

‘Meessis Preston!’ She turned around and saw Yuri, the security guard, rushing towards her.

‘Yuri,
Zdrastvuitye
. I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.’

‘
Nichevo
, Meessis Preston.’ He stopped in front of her, puffing as if he’d run more than the hundred metres from the embassy’s door.

‘What is it, Yuri?’ Amelia asked as she saw the concern on the old man’s face.

‘Meessis, Preston,’ he started, hesitated, looked behind him quickly and then back at her, ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘What is it, Yuri?’ Amelia asked, feeling alarm at Yuri’s unusual behaviour.

‘Not here, Meessis Preston. Let us walk around the corner quickly.’ He didn’t wait for her, but started hurrying away down the street. Amelia almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as she followed him as fast as she could.

She bumped into him as she rounded the corner where he stood waiting for her, panting with urgency. He beckoned for her to follow him into the slightly receded doorway of the corner building. She followed him and saw what he was trying to do. They were now half-hidden behind heavy pillars that stood on either side of the building’s covered entrance.

‘What is it, Yuri?’ Amelia asked again, her heart racing as she sensed his worry.

‘I heard something.’

‘What?’ Amelia almost shook the timid old man to get him to spill it out. He seemed paralysed with the magnitude of his message, but after a few gulps of air he managed to speak.

‘I have something to tell you. Someone told me that he maybe knows something about Meester Preston,’ he said, rubbing his hands together.

Amelia reeled. She couldn’t find the words to urge him to continue.

His eyes weren’t still for even a second, but darted to and fro, scanning the street behind Amelia continuously. ‘It is not safe, it is a bad man who tells me this, but . . .’

‘But what, Yuri?’ Amelia found her voice again.

He looked down and swallowed, his next words clearly requiring considerable effort from him. ‘He says he will meet you. Novodevichy cemetery, on Tuesday, he says, in the afternoon at four o’clock.’ Amelia stared at him, scarcely believing what she was hearing.

‘The man also says you must bring sixty thousand roubles,’ Yuri swallowed audibly and continued hurriedly. ‘But it is not safe, I think you must not go.’

‘Yuri, who was this man?’ Amelia peered into the ageing man’s face, but all she could see there now was fear and a perhaps a measure of relief that his message had been delivered. He’d probably been threatened himself.

‘I do not know,’ he said, clearly getting anxious to end the conversation. ‘A, how do you say? A
shestyorka
. A bad man, a messenger from gang, maybe from Mafia, I think.’

A gang? The existence and far-reaching influence of criminal gangs were common knowledge in Moscow, so Yuri’s suspicion that it was a gang member who had come to his apartment was reasonable. Had Kiriyenko been right all along? Had it all been about Mafia activity? Was someone about to make a demand?

‘Do you know this man, Yuri?’

‘No, he comes to
maya kvartira
, to my apartment. He says, he says he knows where I work. He only speaks for two minutes and then he goes quickly.’ Yuri was getting agitated. ‘It is not safe, I have to go now,’ he said as he started to walk away quickly.

‘But who is he, Yuri?’ Amelia called.

‘I do not know. He said his name is Mikhail. He will find you at the grave.’

‘Which grave?’

‘The grave of Molotov. You can buy map at cemetery to see where it is.’

Moscow – Mid-afternoon

When the call came through on the second mobile phone, he had to excuse himself from his meeting to take it in the adjacent room.

‘Are we still doing nothing?’

The caller sounded on the edge of distress today. It was imperative that he took time with his answer.

‘I’m working on something. Everything is under control.’ He kept his voice low, conciliatory.

‘Why is she still here then?’ There was anxiety in the voice, but also the desire to be reassured.

‘We have to ride this thing out. You especially. If you appear to panic, someone will sense it. Let her sniff around. She’ll find nothing.’

‘And if she does?’

‘She won’t.’

‘But if she does?’

‘I told you I’m working on something. We’ll handle it.’

‘Like the last time?’

‘No. Certainly not like the last time. I think you’ll agree that when people take things into their own hands and things get handled like the last time, without reason or mandate, this will never go away.

Silence.

‘I had no choice.’

‘That’s arguable. I’m going to repeat this, so we’re both clear: do nothing about her. If you do, there can be no guarantees. About anything.’

This time he was the one who clicked off without waiting for a reply. A bit of intimidation often worked wonders.

14

T
he name sign for Igor Popov’s office was so discreet that Amelia had to check a few times to make sure that she’d found the right place. The bottom floors of the towering building held an upscale shopping centre, several restaurants and a staggering number of smaller businesses that somehow managed to afford the steep monthly rent. Above that, the building’s twenty-odd floors housed the offices of those who, like Popov, were more cautious and infinitely more powerful.

This early in the day the silence in the shopping centre and first few floors was unnerving and made her feel far too noticeable. There were still too few people around to make it possible for her to blend in or enter inconspicuously. Worse, on almost every floor there were numerous black-suited guards standing around idly. She would have to get this right the first time. Given the level of security, second chances were unlikely.

What’s more, she had no idea why Popov’s office had been so obstructive. When she’d called to try and secure an appointment with him, her request had been denied unceremoniously. No matter how many different meeting times she’d suggested, the esteemed Mr Popov never seemed to be available and it didn’t sound as if his diary would free up anytime soon either. His fierce assistant had made that abundantly clear.

Sensing difficulty ahead, Amelia had dressed carefully, hoping to maximise the impact she made and therefore increase her chances of seeing him. In Moscow, appearances were everything and if she could flash a high-end label or two to those around him, she would stand a better chance of seeing Igor Popov. Going for a severe business look with a hint of femme fatale, she’d opted for a sharply tailored black suit and designer bag finished off with sleek high heels, slightly heavier make-up and the haughtiest expression she could summon.

A quick glance at the reception area of his suite of offices told her that Popov was a man of traditional Russian tastes. Judging by the gilded, ornate furniture and the selection of classical Russian landscapes on the wall, Popov’s consulting company, or the real business behind it, was doing nicely. The room was empty and so quiet that she could hear the gurgle of a hidden mineral water tank somewhere in a back room. The receptionist looked up when Amelia stepped through the door and watched without expression as she approached the reception desk.

‘Amelia Preston to see Mr Popov,’ she announced as coolly as possible.

The woman made no attempt to conceal the appraising up-down look she gave Amelia. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Yes.’

The woman looked at her computer, then opened a black book with golden edges and trailed a long, manicured nail down the entries.

‘I don’t see an appointment. When did you make it?’

Amelia dug deep for the actress in her and tried to show disdain and a hint of impatience. ‘Weeks ago.’ When she’d called to try and set up an appointment, she’d purposely used a false name, so the woman wouldn’t recognise her name or spot the lie now.

‘Take a seat,’ she commanded and left the room.

Several long minutes passed before she returned with a look of barely hidden triumph. Immediately Amelia knew that she’d failed.

‘I’m afraid you are mistaken. There is no appointment and Mr Popov is not available.’

‘This appointment was made several weeks ago and I’ve come all the way from England to see Mr Popov.

The receptionist didn’t reply, simply shook her head and looked Amelia in the eye, daring her to argue. Her cool denial was impressive.

‘Could you make sure he heard my name. Amelia Preston. I’m sure he will see me.’

‘He cannot. It will be impossible.’

‘This is important.’

‘The next time make sure you make the appointment properly. Mr Popov never sees anyone who has not followed the right procedures,’ the receptionist said and sat down, making it clear that the final word had been spoken.

‘This is outrageous!’ Amelia said, staring down at the woman who was ignoring her completely now. Sensing that it was futile to try and press the issue further, she turned and quickly scanned the office. On a side table she saw what she was looking for. Without another word, she walked past the table, picked up her last hope and left.

She had to see Popov and it had to be now. He would undoubtedly know she was here now and if his resistance to seeing her was this high already, she could only imagine what it would be like if she tried again another day.

She stepped into the lift and went through her options. The most obvious was in her hands. She opened the booklet she’d picked up from the side table in Popov’s office and flicked through it. No matter how much they valued their privacy, powerful people liked to boast about their achievements somewhere.

Her instincts paid off and she found what she was looking for quickly. A photo of a group of men, two of them shaking hands. She read the caption and as she’d hoped, Popov was one of the central figures, ostensibly sealing or celebrating some deal.

The photo gave her one slim advantage that she didn’t have before. Now she knew what he looked like. She also knew that he would have to leave his office at some point. It didn’t look like the building had any hidden, internal lifts, so her task might not be impossible after all.