The Domino Game (16 page)

“You haven’t answered me, doctor.”

Borisov looked up, startled.

Nikolai ran a finger to his chest, bringing it to a stop on the wall beside the city gate. “There is a spare place here, you see?” The doctor’s eyes followed, drawn back to the image by a terrible, compelling fascination. Each skull was the symbol of a life taken. Nine in all. One last empty panel where Aven’s finger now rested. “Room for another death head, so who shall it be named for?”

It was a figurative question of course; he understood that. If Aven were to fail in his attempt to escape then in all probability Borisov would never see him again, but in the end he would pay the price, he had no doubt about that. Aven had planned it all with ruthless precision. A shank in the kidneys; a broken neck; a throat slit in the latrines with a sliver of rusted tin. Until the moment came Borisov would never know how it was to be done, or who was to do it, but it would happen; that was a certainty above all else. He had no idea who, but someone here would be waiting. Waiting for Aven’s message and if it failed to arrive then death would visit Borisov cruelly and savagely and a skull named for him would rise on someone else’s chest. That was their understanding.

Borisov swung away. “Do you think I am crazy?” He spat the words. Took the risk and stared defiantly into the other man’s dark eyes.

Nikolai studied him for a long moment then turned away, discarding the gray and white striped prison tunic, replacing it with the worn, rust-colored shirt from the bundle. His fingers worked quickly at the knot on the cord that held his trousers; they fell to his ankles and he stepped out of them, kicked the prison scuffs aside and pulled on the cheap gray work pants in which the shirt had been wrapped. Without speaking Borisov reached down to the lower shelf of the trolley, retrieved a pair of gray socks and a battered pair of black shoes and handed them across. Nikolai took them, propped on the low bench beside the coffin and pulled them on while the doctor scooped up the discarded clothing and carried it across to the incinerator. Nikolai’s eyes followed him as he opened the steel door. Saw the rush of flame and heard its momentary roar. He pushed himself away from the bench, scooped up the envelope and stuffed it into his shirt.

Borisov returned to the coffin, picked up a coarse gray blanket from the trolley and flung it over Florinskiy’s body. His left hand moved across the side of the box; above the dead man’s shoulders his fingers came to rest on a thick, dark knot in the timber.

“See here.” His twisted hand found the corresponding place inside the coffin wall and his fingers probed at the dark stain until it eased free. The knot fell into the cup of his left hand and he raised it for Nikolai to see. “If you get desperate for air then push this out. But don’t use it unless you are certain you are alone, you understand? He slotted the knot back into its hole and banged it home with the heel of his hand. “So.” He looked at Nikolai. “You are ready?” He tossed his head towards the coffin. “Then get in.”

Nikolai stared down at the frail, angular shape outlined beneath its gray shroud. He drew a breath and climbed up onto the bench, stepped across the threshold, and began lowering himself slowly backwards. The sharp edge of the old man’s pelvis grazed his thigh and he froze, a slick of cold sweat settling around his neck and shoulders. He took his time, edging back further, settling his body against the corpse below.

Borisov watched a moment, a grim smile twisting the edge of his mouth. Then he stepped away, crossing to the heavy plank lid propped against the wall, timber scraping against concrete as he dragged it back. Using the edge of the coffin as a fulcrum he heaved the lid upright and pushed it forward until only Nikolai’s head and shoulders remained exposed. He paused and leaned down, his heavy features exaggerated by the tug of gravity.

“You are lucky the old fool wasted away as he did. Even with your weight and his combined no one will notice, but you must remain perfectly still at all times, you understand? No sound or movement whatever until you are absolutely sure you are alone.” Borisov drew back. “The air will be bad, but there will be enough so you must not panic. There are gaps between the planks and, see here?” He stabbed a finger at the center of the lid. “I have made nail holes. Half a dozen. These will have to do until you are on the train. When you are sure the baggage car is clear, you can push out the knot I showed you.”

Nikolai nodded.

Borisov leaned in again. For some reason he was whispering now.

“So now it is time. I must seal you in. I should use screws, but you would never get out, so…” He lifted a sliver of black metal to the light above Nikolai’s head. “These are nails, with the heads grooved so that they will look like screws and, see here,” he whisked a thumb and forefinger along the shaft, “greased, so that when you push upwards they should surrender quite easily.” He set the nail down and picked up another, this one shorter. ‘I will use these at the top end, near your head. This should make it easier still to push open.” The doctor set the second nail aside and wrestled the coffin lid into place until only Nikolai’s face remained uncovered, like a child tucked beneath a heavy winter blanket. He paused then, staring down with a grimace, leaning close and speaking with an acid hiss.

“For this,” he raised his broken hand before Nikolai’s face, “for what you did to me, you know I pray that you will rot in hell, but not just yet. For now I want you to live so that you will keep your part of our bargain.” His eyes glimmered with hatred. “And then I want you to die. To die slowly and to suffer for all eternity.” His voice was a harsh whisper; the words forced between clenched teeth. “You understand me, Aven?”

Nikolai shifted his gaze away from the bare overhead bulb and brought it to rest on Borisov’s face.

“I think you are forgetting, doctor. I have always understood you.”

14

The hammer blows
rained down above him for what seemed like an eternity, then suddenly stopped, leaving behind a tight high-pitched ringing that resounded in every crevice of Nikolai’s brain. He strained his head upright and stared down the length of his body, through the thin filaments of light that drifted from the air holes above his chest.

The coffin was wide, thank God – probably three-quarters of a meter – and almost as deep, so that even with his own body balanced above Florinskiy’s, there remained room to spare: the standard prison design, uncompromisingly built to accommodate every extreme of size, height and weight.

He swiveled left and right, measuring space through the hazy gloom, the muscles of his neck quivering with the tension. The ringing in his head began to subside and another sound rose above it. Footfalls against concrete, one after the other, each growing more distant until the pale light around him turned to sudden blackness. Then the pine walls of the coffin shuddered as Borisov slammed the door of the mortuary and Nikolai felt a strange, deadened stillness settle around him like a veil of thick winter fog.

A flurry of resin-scented sawdust drifted in the air above him, its sharp fragrance a blessed relief from the rancid odor of chemicals and death. For an instant the scent of the pine took him back through time and he was a child again, in another life, running free through the thick forests that ran down to meet the Gulf of Finland. Then, as suddenly as it had formed, the image dissolved and he was alone with Florinskiy once more, wrapped in death’s embrace. Whether or not the plan worked, the old man’s slate was wiped clean now. Any debt he might have owed had been paid in full.

For the first time in nine years Nikolai could taste his own fear. Not the fear of being caught – what more could they do to him than they had done already? This was different. The horror of sharing the intimacy of another man’s death.

Perhaps only life could be worse than this.

He began edging his body aside then flinched and stopped as he felt the old man’s ribs flex beneath his weight. Would they break? Would they splinter and collapse beneath him? He swallowed hard and started moving cautiously again until his head came to rest alongside Florinskiy s, the dead man’s jaw nudging his shoulder beneath the blanket. Bracing himself against the wall of the coffin he pushed back against the corpse until finally the body beneath him surrendered and, like a reluctant bed partner, Florinskiy rolled aside.

Nikolai fell back, breathing heavily, staring up into the impenetrable darkness. The old man’s body was nestled next to him now, twisted onto its side, wedged tightly between Nikolai and the sheer pine wall. The air was hot with his exertion, the scent of pine dissipated, consumed by the putrid stench of his own sweat and the formaldehyde they had pumped into the old man’s veins. Nikolai breathed it sparingly, holding each mouthful in his lungs for as long as he was able, willing himself not to panic.

If there had been other options Borisov would not have been his choice of accomplice, but Nikolai had learned to live with fate and play the hands it dealt him. Now that he had the space to move he would soon know whether the doctor had kept his part of their bargain or whether Florinskiy s coffin was to become his own as well.

He struggled his arms across his chest, making fists of his hands, and pushing upwards from the elbows, straining against the plank above him. His jaw clenched and his body shook with the effort until finally a nail groaned and the lid began to give. The instant he sensed the movement he drew away, drenched in sweat, gasping with relief.

It would work. He would be able to do it. All that remained now was to survive the next few hours, until the right moment came. A few more hours in purgatory. What was that compared to nine years of living death?

Nine years. Could it be possible?

Nikolai closed his eyes and tried to imagine life before.

Somewhere, in the far distance, he could almost see the frail outline of the other reality he had once known. But the palisade he had built around it – the fortress he had contrived in his mind, to protect everything he treasured – turned him back now, as if he were the invader; as if contact with the thoughts of the person he had become would poison the memory of everything precious. Then, as it always did when he took this path, his brain raced forward to the last moments of his lost existence, a fractured series of images fused in an endless loop that played over and over in his head, as if they were all there had ever been.

Footfalls echoing on the stone lobby floor.

The clouded glass panel looming closer with every step.

The brass handle, absurdly new. Its metal cool to his touch.

The chill air from outside rushing into the foyer as he opened the door and the chaos and bedlam that followed. Dark figures coming closer; the sound of gunfire; the eruption of blood and splintered bone; Natalia’s voice – all he could remember of her, now – screaming in desperation as they dragged him away and the pale terror of Larisa’s tiny face staring down at him from above the sill and then… then the recognition and understanding. The black sedan hurtling towards him from the darkness and the cold, gray eyes of its passenger, glancing off his own, as it swept past into the night, tearing his life apart and leaving him with nothing but the certainty of his betrayal.

And after that?

After that he could remember everything. After that there was nothing he could forget.

He sat in the back of the Audi, flanked by the men who had seized him, watching in silent, confused panic as they drove away leaving the carnage and confusion behind them, passing a chorus of blue and white squad cars, dome lights flashing, streaming by in the opposite direction. Then they were out of the back streets and onto the boulevard, just another unremarkable vehicle cruising Moscow’s pre-dawn streets.

There was nothing to do now. Nothing to do but wait.

Nikolai’s mind kept returning to the man who had died on the sidewalk. The unknown MVD officer who had stepped into the path of the bullet he could only suppose had been meant for him. What was his name? Where did he come from? What age was he? Did he have a wife… children? Who would tell them how he had been killed, and why? And how should he feel, he wondered. Guilty? Grateful? Angry?

There were no feelings. Just numbness. Numbness, and then… when he saw the familiar building ahead and knew where they were taking him… fear.

The driver brought the car to a stop in a courtyard within the Interior Ministry compound. Curious. There had been no calls made as they drove but they were expecting him, just the same. The men from the car passed him over to a brace of armed and uniformed guards who took him from there, cuffing his hands behind his back, bustling him inside and through a maze of corridors to an elevator, depositing him finally in a holding cell somewhere deep within the bowels of the massive building. One of the men held him while the other cut the plastic ties from his wrists. While they worked, Nikolai’s eyes travelled across the room making an inventory. An iron cot, blanket and sheet neatly turned; a wooden desk and steel chair; a single lamp above them, fixed to the sky-blue concrete wall; a stainless steel hand basin and toilet open to view in one corner. His gaze fell to the foot of the bed where a white towel had been laid out with house-proud precision. On top of it rested a toothbrush and next to that, absurdly, what appeared at first impression as though it may have been a piece of wrapped confectionery. When he looked more closely he saw that it was soap, but, hardly less incongruous, with the elegant gold logo of the Hotel Ukraine emblazoned on the white foil wrapper. Was he dreaming this?

His hands fell free and he swung around to face the two men. However futile, he was determined to make at least some kind of a stand.

“Listen to me. My name is Nikolai Aven. I am an officer of the Federal Security Bureau, Directorate of Economic Crimes. I demand to know why I have been brought here. I demand to speak to whoever is in charge. I demand to see my superior officer.”

The guards exchanged glances, regarded him blankly for a moment then, without uttering a word, turned and left, sealing the heavy steel door behind them, leaving Nikolai alone in the compressed silence.

He knew the procedure, of course. They had taught it to him and he had followed it himself. Were they forgetting that, or didn’t they care?

The private cell with its amenities implied respect. A recognition of stature and the tacit acknowledgment that this was, most likely, all just an unfortunate misunderstanding that would soon be cleared up. But even that was part of the game. They would leave him here for a while. Give him time for the fear to settle and then, when they had his confidence, the questioning would begin.

And it did.

Hour after hour of courteous but relentless inquisition by two partners – a man and a woman – a courteous, intelligent, well-groomed and educated couple whose paramount skill was the ability to listen without hearing, and whose meticulously ordered questions moved inexorably forward towards the predetermined indictment.
What was the purpose of your meeting with the American agent, Hartman, at the Rossiya? What information did the American want from you? What price did he offer to pay you? What did you give
him?

Their sessions were taped so they had to be careful.

Just say, at some future point, the wrong person accidentally ended up reviewing the recordings. If it was apparent those handling the interrogation knew more than they should have then awkward questions might follow. Better to stick with what little they had and allow Nikolai to weave his own noose with the impossibility of his situation. After all, what excuse could there be for a senior FSB officer conducting a clandestine meeting with the CIA’s Moscow Station Chief? What possible explanation for the fact that, when intercepted just hours later, he and his family had been packed and ready to flee?

In the final analysis what could it amount to, if not treason?

At first his refusal to cooperate was met with tolerant smiles, but the longer he held out – the more he insisted there were matters of national security at stake, and that he would speak with no one other than his own superiors – the more impatient his interrogators became.

All this time they kept him isolated, forbidden visitors, forbidden contact with anyone, while between their sessions, when he was led back to his cell, he would always find the latest editions of
Pravda
and
Izvestia
waiting, laid out neatly on his small desk as if by an unseen maid, the absence in their columns of any mention of his arrest and detention a deliberate reminder of the complete irrelevance of his existence.

After three days his first inquisitors finally gave up and passed him on to more experienced hands. These were serious, hard-faced men. Prosecutor’s Office special investigators who showed Nikolai their credentials and promised him that he could confide in them with absolute trust. That if there were indeed matters of state security involved, all he had to do was tell them the truth, tell them everything and the whole matter would be quickly resolved. There was no need to fear for his family. They were safe, he could rely on that; under protection and waiting anxiously for his return.

They had played their parts so well that Nikolai had almost believed them. Almost. But by then he’d had enough time to think it all through. By then he understood what was happening and where it was going.

Perhaps somewhere in this building there were honest men – men who may have believed him – but if there were he would never be permitted to speak to them, he knew that now. He had been locked inside a conspiracy. A world within another. A place where powerful but invisible hands were manipulating his destiny to protect themselves. Not Marat Ivankov’s hands, since even he could not reach this far. This was a different sort of power. The power wielded by men like Viktor Patrushev and Aleksey Stephasin. Men who prospered from Ivankov’s existence and who would protect him to protect themselves.

But where did the American fit in? He was part of it, there could hardly be any doubt about that.

Why else the last minute change of the pick-up, brought forward to a time when the streets around Mira would be empty, a time when there would be fewer witnesses and thus fewer questions asked later, the MVD detail waiting outside at precisely the right moment? Surely all that was evidence enough of Hartman’s complicity but even more damning still was the charge on which they had arrested him.

Treason!

His meeting with Hartman at the Rossiya was its only possible basis, yet how could Ivankov’s people have even known about that meeting unless the American himself had told them? Had Ivankov reached him somehow, could that be it? Or had Nikolai stumbled into something bigger than even he had imagined? Some high stakes game between the American and Ivankov’s political patrons in which he had unwittingly become an expendable pawn?

In the end, what did it matter? He had been betrayed, that was enough, and that left only the question regarding the gunman in the park. Who had put him there and why?

It wasn’t beyond Stephasin to have sanctioned a hit, but since the MVD team had been caught completely off guard by the sniper, that seemed to rule out the establishment. After that, as far as Nikolai could calculate, there were just three other possibilities left.

Ivankov was the first. But if his associates could arrange for Nikolai to be disposed of so elegantly by way of arrest, why would he have taken the risk of placing a contract on Nikolai’s life? Double indemnity, perhaps, but it didn’t make sense. Without Nikolai alive – for now, at least – how could Ivankov be confident that he would ever retrieve the missing tapes? Okay, he had disposed of Gilmanov and probably countless others, but Gilmanov’s execution had been a different matter. As Vari had pointed out, there had been a purpose for that. Gilmanov was an insider gone rogue, dealt with in a manner intended to serve as a lesson, but the problem of Nikolai’s investigation was exactly the sort of fallout that Ivankov’s political safety net had been designed to catch.