The Domino Game (5 page)

“It seems he was running the heroin back through Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan then cashing it in with a
mafiya
ring based in Omsk. Sounds to have been a highly lucrative operation that ran right up to the time Ivankov quit the military in ‘88. So, now at least we know how he got his start.”

Vari shook his head in dismay and looked up at Nikolai. “This is dynamite.” He turned back to the screen. “This meeting. Do we know when it was held?”

Nikolai took another drink. “There’s nothing marked on the tape, but take a look at the first page of the transcript. The footer in small print.”

Vari scrabbled back through the pages until he found what he was looking for. He read it once to himself, then a second time, aloud.
“Ivankov/Stephasin Meeting: 18 April 1995.”
His brow furrowed as he did the calculation. “The investigation… when did we start?”

Nikolai met his gaze and nodded slowly. “The week before. I had to get clearance from above, remember?”

Vari stared at him. “Holy Mary, Niko!” He looked at the transcript again and shook his head. “How the hell did Gilmanov get hold of this? No wonder they gutted him. Shit!” He lifted a hand to his face and ran it back and forth across his jaw. “You know what this means?”

“We’re not finished yet,” Nikolai answered flatly. He raised the remote and pointed it at the screen, holding the fast-forward button until he came to the scene he wanted. Vitaly Kolbasov had risen from his chair and was leaning forward, pouring liquor from a crystal decanter into a row of glasses set at the center of the table. Nikolai lifted his finger from the button and the tape spooled forward. Kolbasov returned to his seat as Stephasin began to speak.

“You know, I miss the old days, Marat.” He took a sip – cognac by the shape of the glass – savored it and nodded an aside to Kolbasov. “Excellent, thank you, Vitaly.” His eyes came back to Ivankov. “As you know, these last five or six years I’ve been concentrating on the development of my career… as, of course, you have also, Marat.” He smiled. “But, you know, I wonder if it isn’t time now for us to renew our business association. We’ve both come a long way since those early days.” Stephasin tipped his head to the side. “A sort of parallel path, really. Anyway, now we are both quite well established in our spheres of influence, it occurs to me there may be ways we can assist one another again.”

Ivankov swirled his glass and studied the man seated opposite. “Do you have anything particular in mind, Aleksey?”

Stephasin tossed a hand aside. “Not really. Not yet, anyway.” He took another sip from his glass and regarded Ivankov with a demure expression. “But as a gesture of goodwill I thought I would share some possibly rather important information with you. I thought you might like to know, Marat, that our Office of Economic Counter-Intelligence has recently approved an investigation into your operations.”

Ivankov and Vitaly Kolbasov swapped glances.

“They caught some banker,” Stephasin continued, “some fellow from Germany who was washing money for one of the syndicates. Apparently he traded some information on your connection with his client in exchange for favorable treatment.”

Ivankov and his lieutenant exchanged another look.

“Did he, really?” Ivankov reflected. “And what sort of investigation does the FSB’s Office of Economic Counter-Intelligence have in mind to pursue?”

Stephasin shrugged. “Nothing specific, really, as I understand it. Just one of those
let’s see how things develop
exercises. They have some new young rising star by the name of Nikolai Aven who’s been making a name for himself recently with these sorts of things. He was responsible for arresting the banker and so now he wants to go after you.”

Vari managed to draw his eyes away from the screen just long enough to trade a sober glance with Nikolai.

“Really,” Ivankov nodded. “How interesting. And tell me, Aleksey, how did you find out about this… this
Aven
, is it? And his investigation.”

Stephasin smiled again. “I don’t think it would be appropriate for me to share that with you, Marat. Let’s just say that it was someone senior in this Aven’s department who knew something of our…” He cast around for the right expression. “Shall we say,
former relationship
, and who thought that, for old times’ sake, I may want to let you know.” He grimaced with what appeared to be a hint of frustration. “Unfortunately things are a little different these days, as you know. This new FSB thing is a bit of a worry, really. It’s not at all like the old KGB. I can’t help thinking some of our people may have seen too many of those awful moralistic American police movies… you know,
Serpico
and such. Some of these ideas actually seem to be spreading upwards to the extent that there are now quite a number of senior people who feel they shouldn’t get in the way of this sort of thing in case things turn bad for them.”

Ivankov rocked in his chair, considering Stephasin’s observation. “So, Aleksey,” he remarked finally, “with your experience in these matters, might I ask whether you have any particular advice as to how we should deal with this situation?”

Stephasin took another sip of cognac. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much, Marat. I know how you operate, so I doubt there will be any loose ends for this young fellow to grab hold of and start unravelling.”

Kolbasov leaned forward, looking between Stephasin and his boss, venturing his own contribution. “This man, Aven. Should we perhaps consider
investing
in him?”

Stephasin gave a tight smile followed by an equally tight shake of the head. “A nice expression, Vitaly, but since this young fellow is apparently one of our new
crusaders
I don’t think that would work at all. No, I think you should just sit it out and see what happens. The people in his department will need to humor him for a while, let him ferret around a bit. Then, when he comes up with nothing tangible, they’ll be able to justify moving him on to something else. Somewhere else.”

The three men exchanged glances.

“And of course,” Stephasin set his glass down and cast his hands apart. “If he does happen to stumble onto something, I’ll be able to let you know and then there’s always… What was that elegant expression the Germans used? That’s right,” he smiled. “The final solution.”

5

The two men
sat side by side, staring at the empty screen. Finally Vari reached across and took the remote from his partner’s hand.

He hit the stop button, rose to his feet and crossed to the window, throwing the partly open curtains aside and staring down into the street.

Nikolai remained seated behind him, speaking quietly, without emotion. “So,” he said, “what do you think?”

Vari swung around, his eyes alight with an intensity beyond rage.

“I think what you think. That we’ve been fucked grandly from above!”

His gaze shifted from Nikolai to the scattered transcripts. “We need to put this stuff somewhere safe. Not here in your apartment. Somewhere else, close by.”

Nikolai’s eyes darted as his mind played options. “Most of the apartments upstairs are vacant.”

“Good.” Vari nodded emphatically. “That will do.” He crossed to the video, ejected the second cassette and began gathering up the loose pages from the coffee table.

‘They’re probably all locked,” Nikolai added as an afterthought. Vari paused and looked at him with dismay. “You think that’s a problem?”

They picked the top floor and chose the flat on the southern end that had been empty for the best part of a year.

Nikolai stood sentry at the top of the stairs while his partner worked at the lock. Less than a minute and Vari was inside, two more and he was back out again. He eased the door closed behind him, tried the knob a final time, nodded to himself in satisfaction and began padding back across the deserted lobby. Nikolai watched him as he approached. Saw the hard resolve of his expression and measured confidence of his gait and realized that Vari had already absorbed the impact of their betrayal and was now navigating a familiar terrain of duplicity and deception wholly by instinct. It was a realization that shocked him. This wasn’t his world. It was a world of quicksand and mirrors and it occurred to Nikolai just how inadequately equipped he was to deal with it.

Vari stopped a pace away and spoke in a low whisper. ‘The kitchen, okay? There’s a space between the back of the stove and the wall.”

Nikolai answered with an uncertain nod. “So. What next?”

“Next, little brother, we go for a walk and we talk about options.” The older man clamped his hands on Nikolai’s shoulders and studied him intently, eye to eye. “And then, you have some very big decisions to make.”

Nikolai scrawled a note for Natalia telling her he would be back late afternoon. That she should not worry and that he was sorry – for everything – and he loved her. He read it again then slid it under a glass on the sink, grabbed his leather jacket and his cell phone from the bedroom, his keys from the table in the hall and followed his partner down the stairs and out to the street.

The narrow pavements were sprinkled with Saturday pedestrians determined to make the most of the shallow, spring sunshine, the curbs beside them packed to compression with vehicles of every make. Moscow hadn’t been designed for cars. Ten years ago they’d been almost a novelty, twenty a rarity, but now they seemed to be breeding like mice – an endless supply of hand-me-downs, rejects and insurance write-offs flooding in by the trainload from the affluent West. Not to mention, of course, those that were stolen to order, car-napped from the streets of Budapest or Prague or Warsaw, whisked into containers, shipped across borders and rolled back onto the streets of Moscow with a new identity inside twenty-four hours. But then given the necessary reward for risk ratio, nowadays these tended to be largely from the quality end of the market, destined for buyers who didn’t have to park on the street. Cars were just like everything else the long-suffering Russian people had been deprived of for so long. Like children let loose in a toy shop, they wanted them and wanted them now, whatever the cost. Whether having them was a good thing, a bad thing or even necessary was completely irrelevant.

Vari set off to the left, past a filthy, dented late model Saab with a thick scum of dried sleet and smog baked on its windshield, heading towards the gray dome of the Olympic stadium that hung like a tent above the building-jostled skyline. Nikolai fell in alongside him and turned to him to speak.

“Why couldn’t we talk upstairs?”

Vari threw him a forbearing glance. “Because, little brother, it is highly probable that Mr Ivankov would like to have his home movies back before they do him any real damage, and because it is probable also that by now he has concluded that you are the most likely person to be able to assist him with this.” He sidestepped a young woman pushing a stroller and picked up the conversation five meters on. “So, as long as he can see what you’re doing he’s likely to feel a degree more comfortable.”

It took Nikolai a moment for the meaning to sink in. “You think he’s watching us?”

Vari glanced sideways. “Ivankov himself?” He shook his head. “No. But others?” He looked ahead again. “Undoubtedly.”

Nikolai fell silent. Only yesterday he had been the hunter and Ivankov the quarry. If Vari’s conclusion was correct their roles had now been suddenly reversed. He looked up from the pavement, noticing for the first time the blue plastic bag that dangled from his partner’s thick left hand. His eyes moved from the bag to Vari and back again.

“What’s that you’re carrying?”

Vari stared straight ahead as he walked. “A plastic bag. I borrowed it from your pantry. You don’t mind, I hope?”

Nikolai glared with annoyance. “You know what I mean. What’s in it?”

Vari continued on, expressionless. “Two sections of yesterday’s newspaper and a half empty box of tissues.”

Nikolai stared at the bag again. Three paces and he had it worked out. “You want them to think we’ve got the tapes and the transcripts with us.”

The hint of a smile shaded his partner’s face. “Almost right, little brother. What I want them to think is that
I’ve
got them. With me.”

Nikolai thought about this, playing with the meaning. Vari glanced at him; decided he needed help.

“I think we can conclude, Niko, that the way Gilmanov and his wife were dealt with was intended to send you a message. Death itself is frightening, but abstract. When you humanize it with unspeakable horror the message itself becomes much more distinct. Extend that threat to family and loved ones and you achieve maximum impact.”

The realization hit Nikolai like a hammer striking an anvil. He stopped in his tracks. Vari pulled up a pace later and turned back to face him.

“Holy Christ!”
Nikolai breathed. He stared at his partner. “Natalia… Larisa!”

Vari held his gaze a moment then dipped his chin in reluctant acknowledgment. “They could be in serious danger, Niko, you must understand that. But for the moment Ivankov will be more interested in us than in them. That’s why we’re better out here, where they can see us.”

Nikolai felt dizzy. Was it his mind that was spinning, or was it the world around him? He shook his head to clear it and heard Vari’s voice start again.

“I know how they operate, Niko. Gilmanov worked for them so the way they see it they owned him. He broke their trust, so they had to smear him. Nothing personal. That’s just the way it is.”

Nothing personal. Nikolai felt a shudder run across his shoulders. “But you’re saying the way they dealt with him was a warning to me.”

Vari gave an off-handed nod. “Sure. This is how we’ll do it to you,” that’s what they’re saying. But it’s all mind games. They won’t hurt you unless they really have to. Doing Gilmanov is one thing, but doing an FSB officer, or his family, that’s another matter altogether.”

Nikolai shot him a dubious glance. “Is that so?”

Vari shrugged and started forward again, leaving Nikolai with no option but to follow. He caught up, staring at his partner’s set profile.

“What about Stephasin? What he said at the end of the tape about solutions? And why is it this conversation seems to be just revolving around me? If they’re watching us and they think
you
have the evidence, then by now they must assume you’re a problem too.”

Nikolai caught the edge of his partner’s smile.

“I didn’t hear Stephasin mention
me,
did you?” Vari shook his head. “No my friend, only you. What was it?…
The young crusader!”
He tossed his free hand in the air.” Me? I’m just wallpaper.” His smile faded. “You know why that is, Niko? Well I’ll tell you. It’s because I’m
old school
. They know that I know how to play the game. They assume that either I’ll shut up of my own accord or, at worst, that I might cost them a few months chickenshit salary.” He paused, weighed the plastic bag lightly in his hand, looked at Nikolai and winked. “And
that,
my friend, is why we want them to think that now
I’m
the one in control.”

They stopped for the traffic at a cross street. Nikolai turned aside and propped against the trunk of a battered gray Mercedes parked at the curb. He drew a breath and stared at his partner.

“You think that if we return the tapes and transcripts to Ivankov, then Larisa and Natalia are out of danger?”

Vari shrugged. “More than likely. You too, of course.”

Nikolai looked aside, then back again. His expression was grim with frustration. “And you’re saying that’s what we should do?”

Vari’s eyes met his and held them. “What I am saying is that it’s an option.”

Nikolai blinked. “And it’s the option you would take?”

“Probably.”

Nikolai’s eyes drifted down to the pavement but an unexpected postscript drew them back again.

“But it’s your decision, little brother, and I’m not you.”

The trace of a smile had crept back across Vari’s deeply etched face. Nikolai regarded his partner cautiously.

“So, what would
I
do?”

“I think what
you
would do, little brother,” Vari’s smile began to broaden, “is work out a way to fuck
them
before they fuck
you.
And if that’s what you decide to do, then I would be delighted to help.”

Nikolai surveyed his partner carefully.” You said you preferred the old ways?”

Vari thought about it. Picked his teeth a little with the edge of a nail and finally gave a shrug.

“Maybe it’s time for a change.”

“Think of it this way, Niko. It’s a stand-off.”

Vari was regarding him intently across the laminate table that separated them. Just on midday and they were seated in an upstairs booth of the huge, sparkling new McDonald’s on Ulitsa Durova, the street leading from Mira into the Olympic park. Freshly mopped tiled floors, colorful vinyl padded chairs, bright fluorescents. Black and white sports photographs and a lattice of abstract steel sculptures – tennis rackets, cycles, rowing oars – mounted around the walls for atmosphere. A chunk of America dropped into post-Perestroika Moscow like a spaceship from another world, all of it coated in a glaze of pop music that trickled from the overhead speakers. The older man thumbed the last of his French fries into his mouth and pinched salt from his lips with a thumb and forefinger.

“Let’s look at it. They know Gilmanov took the stuff. By sticking your card in the bag with his guts, they’re telling you they know he gave it to you and by now they’re assuming that you’ve got that message. But it’s Saturday, and they’re thinking that so far you won’t have had a chance to do anything with what you’ve got, so…” Vari shrugged. “… it’s a stand-off. The next move is yours.”

He waited until he saw Nikolai’s nod of understanding.

“If they were watching your place when I arrived – and we can assume they were – then they know I came empty-handed.” He hoisted the plastic bag onto the table between them. “Then they see us leave, with me carrying this, and they have to think this
might
be what they want. They see you as a crusader,” he shrugged “which you are, of course. But they’re hoping I am just an opportunist, and that right now I’m trying to convince you to give it up.”

Nikolai toyed with the rim of his polystyrene coffee cup. “Okay. So what happens now?”

Vari sucked his lips, regarded his partner, nodded.

“We review alternatives.” He propped an elbow on the table and began counting on his thick fingers. “First, you can give it up like they hope.” He paused. Waited for a reaction. Got none. “Okay, so second, we can take the stuff back to the department and turn it in and see what happens.”

Nikolai regarded him. “We’d have to take it straight to the top. To Tsekhanov.”

“Exactly,” Vari agreed. “And we’d have to pray to God that Tsekhanov is as straight as you think he is, that he’s got a direct line to someone above Stephasin who’s also straight, and that neither of them will be intimidated by the fact that we’ve accidentally nailed the Deputy Director of the FSB and the Deputy Minister of the Economy – not to mention Christ knows who else – in a major financial conspiracy. You want to take that chance, little brother?”

Redundant question. Nikolai’s expression acknowledged it. “Any other options?”

Vari rocked slowly in his seat. “There’s a third.”

Nikolai glanced up at him. “Then I guess you’d better tell me what the fuck it is.”

For the five long minutes Vari was away Nikolai waited alone, wedged into the corner of the booth, trying to comprehend how swiftly, violently and completely his life had been thrown off course. From where he sat he had a clear line of sight to the stairway, an unimpeded aspect of the couples, groups and individuals coming and going from the level below.

A clear line of sight but no longer a clear view.

A week ago – even a day ago – it would have been possible for him to sit here and watch distractedly, without the slightest second guess as to who these people really were. But now every stranger had somehow become a possible threat. Not just to himself but to Natalia, the woman he loved so much, and Larisa – the child they had once already come so close to losing, and now both lived for.

How, he wondered, could the world have altered so abruptly?

By the time Vari returned from making his call Nikolai’s empty coffee cup lay peeled like a polystyrene lemon on the table’s surface.