Londongrad (22 page)
One night, when was it? Last year? On a cold fall night we had been walking by the river, me and Val. She was wearing a heavy green sweater and jeans, and she started singing in Russian. She had been learning, she said. She wanted to surprise Tolya. And she sang the old Russian songs, revolutionary anthems, other stuff, and we walked and I had been glad it was dark and she couldn’t see me crying.
“I think you wanted to meet Greg,” said Fiona whispering into my ear while the speeches finished and people began to leave the room.
Where?”
“I saw him go out towards the band,” she said, and took my hand and led me to a white tent where inside the band started up again and people took to the floor.
Scores of people started to dance, then more, all moving to the music. Russians, Brits.
Fiona gestured with her head, and I saw him, Greg, a tall guy in a tux and a mask with a girl in a milkmaid outfit, blonde hair to her waist. She wore a cat mask. Greg had Pushkin’s face on his own mask.
Anybody who grew up in Russia would know it, Pushkin, our national hero, the most admired man in Russia even though he died in 1837. We kids all knew Pushkin, the face, the poems, by heart. Maybe this guy, this Greg, figured himself for a hero.
I was sure he knew I was watching him. He knew who I was. Maybe Val had told him about me, her dad’s friend, her “Uncle Artie”. And then, for a split second I was distracted by the band which was going crazy on “Satisfaction”.
On the stage, Mick Jagger did his stuff, strutting, twirling, smirking. I’d figured it for a tribute band, a good one. It wasn’t. It was the Stones. It was the real thing.
“Jesus,” I said under my breath. I had lost sight of Greg.
“The big Russians hire bands privately,” said Fiona. “A perk of my job, Artie. My kid goes to a party, the parents fly in Britney Spears. I’ve seen McCartney, they pay anything, millions, sometimes two, three bands, once I saw the whole bloody Royal Ballet.” She followed my gaze, I was staring at the Pushkin mask. “You want to talk to him. You want me to insist?”
“What makes you so sure you can force him?”
“I’m pretty persuasive,” she said.
I didn’t wait for Fiona, I got myself close to Greg, close enough so he could hear me, close enough he could see me. In the seconds between numbers, as the band stopped playing, I called his name out.
He turned his face, the Pushkin mask, towards me. The hair was cut short, almost black, the mouth smiling—all I could see of his face was part of his mouth and the blue eyes through the eye holes in the mask.
For a second he was so close I could feel his breath, this pretend Pushkin, I could feel it, and I leaned into him, my mouth next to his ear. “You killed her, didn’t you?” I said. “You did it, isn’t that right? You killed Valentina and I’m coming for you,” I said. I was pretty drunk.
He didn’t say anything at all, just smiled slightly and then moved away and slipped into the crowd.
On the ground, over the lawns, pathways, skirting the Orangery, the gardens, the huge trees, the torches, I was running, looking for him, swerving between people watching the sky. My lungs hurt from running, my head was full of booze, but I ran, looking for him.
The Stones had finished. An orchestra was playing the l812, and now fireworks threw up huge gold flowers into the sky, red white and blue waterfalls, Russian flags, Union Jack, more flowers, and in the light of it, I thought I saw him again. He saw me. He raised the mask and showed his face. The handsome face stared at me, the intense blue eyes seemed to be smiling or laughing, and then I realized what the message was—it was a threat. He wasn’t scared of me. He was coming after me.
He replaced the mask, and again I lost him. He was too good at it; had he been trained? This was a guy who could have slipped in and out of New York and killed her.
“What’s the matter with you?” said Larry Sverdloff. It was ten, fifteen minutes after I’d seen Greg, and I was still looking, in the parking lot now, among the big cars, among the waiting drivers, and the drunken partygoers.
“I saw him.”
“I know,” said Larry Sverdloff, looking pissed off. “He told me.”
“Fucking told you what?”
“That you accused him of being involved in Val’s murder.”
“I said I wanted you to find him for me,” I said. “You didn’t make much effort.”
“I was going to get you together later, I thought you wanted to talk to him, not accuse him.”
“Yeah, well, it’s what I think. Unless you know different.”
“That’s crazy,” said Larry. “I loved her and I loved him, too, for chrissake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He was a good kid, they were the real thing,” said Larry. “My crazy cousin Tolya didn’t approve of him. Val told me she loved him. I thought you wanted his help. Jesus, Artie, what the fuck are you doing?” said Larry. “I’m going to take you to my place, and tomorrow I’m putting you on a plane. Let’s go.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Val stopped seeing him?”
“Yes.”
“What else?”
“They broke up, so what? She wouldn’t talk about it. Let’s go, I want you out of here and out of London,” said Larry. “You tell people you think they killed somebody, they don’t like it.” He looked at the crowds, some climbing into cars, others going back for more to eat and drink. “I hate it. I hate this. I hate what it did to my cousin and to Val.”
“Who? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“All of them, Russians,” he said. “Bastards.”
Fiona was standing close by. Unruffled, smoking, listening, she had been close by me most of the evening and she still was and I wondered what her business was, and how come Larry Sverdloff had told her about me. Was she his official contact, one of the officials he said he worked with? Something else?
I didn’t go with Larry Sverdloff, I left the party, and walked out of the park, along the avenue next to it, turned right, looking for a place I’d spotted earlier, figuring that on Queensway, a bar would still be open. Found myself near an all-night cafe, no booze, kept moving.
From behind me there were steps on the sidewalk again, the scuffle of feet, the raucous hoot of young men, a low mean whistle. The crummy street where I found myself was lined with shuttered shops. The sidewalk was crumbling. A few teenagers drinking out of paper bags wandered into a late-night game arcade. A shitty chicken takeout was empty except for the counter man asleep on a table. Some Arab-looking boys glared at me from the doorway of a kebab place.
I kept walking. I heard a car coming slowly along the dark road. It slowed to keep pace with me, and then I heard her voice.
“Artie, please, get in the car,” called Fiona. “I’ll give you a lift.”
“I want to walk,” I said.
“Then at least buy me a drink,” she said, and parked her Mini and got out. “Sverdloff’s club will still be open,” she added.
I need a drink, I thought.
“I’ll walk with you,” said Fiona.
“If you want.”
“You’ll come to Sverdloff’s club?”
“Maybe.”
Overhead, clouds scudded away, revealing a piece of white moon that cast a strange light over the empty streets where we walked.
Fiona had a big stride like an athlete and she talked very softly, had a way of projecting her voice just far enough so I could hear clearly but keeping it low. Nice voice. English, husky.
For a while we walked silently, Fiona smoking, and then I realized we were in Moscow Road.
“Something about this road strikes a chord?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
Then the shabby streets of cheap hotels and small shops gave way to tree-lined roads, pretty houses, foreign cars parked in front, trees thick and green.
Finally, I said, “What are you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What are you? What’s your job? How come you know all the Russians? How come you knew my name? Spell it out for me.”
“You didn’t know?”
“How the fuck would I know? I figured you were something official,” I said. “But what?”
“Didn’t Agent Pettus tell you?”
“Roy Pettus?”
“Yes. I’ve been waiting for you to ring for several days, Pettus told me you were coming across.”
“Jesus.”
“What did you think?”
“Tell me what you are.”
Lighting one smoke from another, she told me she was a special liaison, coordinated projects between Scotland Yard and MI5.
“Your FBI,” she said.
“Right.”
She went on talking, told me she had studied Russian at university along with Polish and Swedish, and had done graduate work in Warsaw. Her grandmother was Polish and a scientist, and Fiona had a background in physics and chemistry because of it.
“My grandmother raised me,” she said. “She thought girls should learn.” Colquhoun’s looks suggested an ice queen but she was open, warm, surprising. “She left me the house in Highgate where I live,” she added. “A lot of Russians there, the new, the last wave, we’ve got them all, white, red, dead, rich, oligarchs, we’ve even got Karl Marx. Did you know he’s buried in the cemetery at Highgate?”
“Yes.”
“Unusual for an American to know, but you aren’t entirely American, are you, Artie?”
“Yeah.”
How much did Fiona know about me? Why was she making small talk? I wondered, and then she said, “Will you let me help?”
I didn’t answer, not then. Maybe she was connected to both Pettus and to Larry Sverdloff, and it didn’t make me happy, but I needed Colquhoun’s help. In the street light her face was pale, the expression on her lips wry.
“I’m also a cop, Artie, if that makes you feel better,” she said.
Pravda22 was almost empty, but the bartender, Rolly, saw me and beckoned us in. A few people sat at tables in the back. He knew Fiona’s name.
“I’ve been here before,” she said by way of explanation. I asked for Scotch, Fiona for a small brandy. We sat at the bar.
“You’re a cop?”
“Yes, as I said. I moved in and out of the police, I went to higher education and back, took a graduate degree, worked for a while designing gender-related studies for the police college. I was a homicide detective, British style, you know, like Morse?” She smiled. “Then I shifted to one of the joint forces.”
She had done the business, I realized, though she looked younger, she was probably my age, even a couple years older.
“You speak Russian?”
She nodded.
“You work with Roy Pettus?”
“I work with a good number of people,” she said. “We’ve had to gear up quite quickly.”
“On the Russians?”
“Yes, and not long ago we had good relations with them. Just after the attacks on New York, and then on London, we had marvelous relationships, your people, even the bloody Russians.”
“But not now?”
“I wouldn’t say we’re exactly friends. The Litvinenko thing has triggered a little Cold War, we accuse them of killing him, they retaliate by persecuting Brits in Russia, the ambassador, anyone they can. Did you know there are as many Russian agents here as during the real Cold War?”
“So you work with them?”
“Not if I can help it. I prefer you Americans,” she said.
Perched beside me at the bar, Fiona had great legs, a witty curious face, beautiful when she smiled. Another time, place, I would have been interested, but not now. Now there was only Val.
“I believe you worked quite a big case here in London once,” said Fiona. It wasn’t a question.
“How did you know?”
“It’s a small country. I worked once with a detective who knew you.”
“Who’s that?”
“Chap called Jack Cotton.”
“Christ.”
“That’s pretty much how Jack thinks of himself now. He’s one of our top cops. He’s Sir Jack now.”
“No shit, so he’s a top dog?”
“One of the biggest, and when Sir Jack barks, all the little puppies sit up and beg,” said Fiona. “Shall I send your regards? He’ll give us some help on this if I ask, if I say you asked.”
“Not now.” I wanted to operate on my own for now, I didn’t want red tape.
“He said you were very good and rather unreliable,” said Fiona Colquhoun. “That you did what you liked, and people put up with it because you get results. Good taste in music, Artie had, he said. He says you had mixed feelings about this place, always called it bloody London.”
“You asked him if you could trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Because he’s one of yours?”
“Of course. And Sir Jack said you liked carrying a gun even in London. Is that right, Artie?”
“If I have to.”
“Please don’t do that,” she said. “I can’t help you if you do.”
“Listen, I’m here because of Valentina Sverdloff’s murder,” I said. “I’m guessing you knew that. I’ll do what I have to do,” I said, and tossed back the Scotch.
In the gilded mirror over the bar, I saw a familiar figure moving in behind me, coming at me, the woman who had cried like crazy at the party, long sad face, pointed nose. I ordered another drink.
“I understand, Artie, I’m still a cop in my bones, and I know how good your people, how good they were to me, when I worked in New York,” said Fiona, tapping me lightly on the arm.
“When?”
“Nine-eleven. There were Brits who died in the Towers, and a few of us volunteered to go over, our tragedy, too. Your people, police, firemen, were extraordinary. When I got back, I asked to move over to an anti-terrorism squad,” she said softly. “I would like to have stayed.”
“But?”
“I have a daughter, Gracie, she’s twelve.”
I was moved and pissed off. She meant what she said but she knew, like a great detective, if only instinctively, how to seduce. Telling me about her part after 9/11, how she had taken part in the now holy events, got to me.
“I met Valentina Sverdloff once,” said Fiona.
“Where?”
“At her uncle’s house. My daughter is friends with one of Larry’s girls.”
“Larry Sverdloff?”
Yes.”
“You get around.”
“He’s the father of my daughter’s friend, or do you think I use my daughter to spy on Russian oligarchs?”
“You tell me.”
“You think because I know Agent Roy Pettus and Larry Sverdloff, I’m working both sides? Did Larry give you my name, too, is that it?” She looked at me. “I see.”
