A Perfect Likeness (28 page)

The two men spoke, drank vodka and smoked. Edward Page had given up smoking in his thirties, but it felt right in this company and in these surroundings. The bar was underground and had only two low watt lights working, one at the entrance and the other lost in the smoke above the bar. The other lights were either not switched on or out of action. There were recesses along both side walls, some with thick felt curtains for concealment. There was only one way into the bar and the same way out. Except, that is, for the disguised half door above the bench seat on which Page was seated. A safety measure for mafia members. The bar took up two thirds of the end wall, the other third being the open kitchen and a single toilet right in the corner with only a curtain for privacy. Smoke and smells lingered, unable to penetrate the grease covering the vent above the vintage Russian cooker.

Top of the agenda were ways to expand business within Britain, and specifically southern England. Both agreed drug smuggling was becoming more risky, but the profits achieved were high. ‘People smuggling’ was much safer and working well between Africa and Europe. Most were going into the Canaries. The boats used were patched up and totally unsafe for such a journey. Heavy loss of life was regularly reported on the Spanish news but it was not an important issue as fees were paid in advance and demand was constant. Another possibility was the kidnapping of wealthy businessmen or politicians, to be released only on payment of a large ransom. Although Page disapproved of kidnapping, more risky than drugs smuggling, he was to consider these, and other options, and send his report via London.

During general conversation, Page learnt of the recent problem in Spain. An agent had died following a car accident when being chased by local police. It was the woman who had helped Sylvia Page during her recent trip to Galicia. He knew it would be hard to tell her, but it was not to be worried about at the moment.

At 1. 50am Page squeaked on to the black plastic rear seat of the Lada, he gave a one finger salute to the friend he knew he would not see again for at least six months, or ever if the assassination did not go as planned. The driver told him there was a package under the front passenger seat. He removed the contents, a pencil torch and two guns. He tested the torch and put it in an inside pocket. He lifted both guns, one in each hand. The dim interior light of the Lada was enough for him to check them over. An easy choice he thought. The Makarov was a useful little pistol, used by the Russian Secret Police. Ideal for stopping people in their tracks, but it didn’t always kill. Not what he wanted. This target was to die. It had to be the Beretta. Italian but made in several other countries and perfect for use with the silencer provided.

Page wrapped the Makarov and returned it to its place under the seat. He removed the silencer from the Beretta and put both into his coat pocket. He would refit the silencer once inside the apartment block.

Edward Page sat back in his seat. Calm and relaxed. No fear, no apprehension. The outcome was clear in his mind. The man who had killed his Olga was going to be eliminated within the next few minutes and it was going to make him feel so much better.

‘I expect you chose the Beretta?’ said the driver.

‘No other choice,’ confirmed Page.

At 2. 15am he got out of the car and walked the final hundred metres. He chose a brisk pace to allow as much time as possible with his target. He knew the girls would have done their job. They had, there was no guard. He climbed the four steps, unlocked the door and entered without hesitation. His target was the only person in the building and, with luck, he would be asleep. Page refitted the silencer as he went up the stairs to the third floor apartment of Anton Chernov. No light shone under the front door. He listened, turned the key and opened the door. Happy not to hear any squeaks, but happier still to hear a loud snoring to guide him to the bedroom. He switched on the light and Chernov, lying on his side facing away from Page, didn’t move. But the snoring had stopped. Page noticed a small hand-gun on the bedside table and in one swift movement leapt across the room and knocked it on to the floor. A fraction of a second before Chernov’s hand sprang out from under the bed-sheets and crashed down on to where he’d placed the gun before going to bed. The same place as he always put it as it enabled him to sleep with greater comfort.

Page pressed the Beretta’s silencer hard into Chernov’s temple. ‘Relax, Comrade Chernov, or I’ll pull the trigger now.’ Page took hold of the sheet and blanket and, as he stepped back, pulled them clear of the bed, exposing his target. Chernov had rolled over on to his back, arms down by his side and the palms of his hands flat against the sheet. An overweight man with round face and deeply sunken eyes. Eyes still getting used to the sudden light but already showing intense fear as a result of looking directly in to the barrel of the Beretta.

He was wearing a string vest, boxer shorts and socks. At that moment the Rolex on his left wrist was the only indication that he was an affluent Russian. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

‘I want to know why you didn’t stop after you had run over and killed Olga Andrekova thirty-four years ago?’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve never killed anyone,’ he shouted in defiance as he made a movement to get off the bed.

‘Get back as you were, Comrade Chernov, and don’t move again.’

He obeyed, his resistance defeated by the sight of the Beretta pointed at his head. ‘Who are you?’ he tried again, more reasonably. The police? The television, or the press?’

Page did not answer his questions. He asked again. ‘Chernov. Why did you not stop after killing Olga Andrekova? I know you killed her but I want you to admit it.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘My itchy finger will do what it is desperate to do, squeeze the trigger a fraction harder.’

‘You wouldn’t. It was such a long time ago and everyone has forgotten about it anyway.’

‘I have not forgotten, Comrade. And, believe me, as I have just told you, I’m longing to pull the trigger. To show you I mean business try this my friend.’

Chernov screamed and clutched at his smashed knee. ‘She was only an ordinary girl, not as though she would be missed for long and I was just getting recognised as a politician. Couldn’t ruin my chances, could I?’

Page fired again. The other knee.

‘Aaaagh,’ Chernov screamed again. ‘No more, no more. Please. Yes, It was me. I was wrong, but I was more worried about my career than a girl. That’s all she was.’ Pain and fear were engraved all over his face. ‘Please,’ he continued. ‘Who are you?’

Page dropped the gun to his side, turned and walked towards the door. The fear eased on Chernov’s face. He thought he might just get away with his life.

Page turned on reaching the door. ‘Comrade Chernov, we’d been married just three months when you killed my beloved Olga. I’ve waited thirty four years for this moment and now I am going to kill you for what you did to her.’ He raised the Beretta, aimed and fired in one continuous movement.

Chernov had no time to speak, but a fraction of a second to understand his life was about to end. Just what Page wanted. Chernov’s head crashed hard against the headboard, his body jerked twice as a trickle of blood oozed out of the entrance hole above his left eye.

Page took a photograph from his pocket and placed it on Chernov’s body. It was of Olga and him on their wedding day. He’d written a message across the bottom:
‘Sorry it took so long, my darling. The man who took you from me has now been punished.’

He checked his watch by the light of a street lamp as he walked to the bar. Twenty-four minutes.
Pretty close
, he thought.

*

Deckman couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until deciding to go downstairs. He did not wish to wake his wife. He could not believe he had allowed Edward Page to leave the country.
Maybe Fraser was right
, he thought,
not all of Moscow are mafia
. He licked his dry lips and thought a Scotch might help. He decided a coffee would be better and to hell with the caffeine. Deckman could not recall ever having such a hard time.

The alarm went off at six. Jenny Deckman was not over pleased at being woken. She always found early morning was a problem. Her right hand searched for her husband, but without success. She sat up and switched off the alarm. Jenny went to the landing and saw a glimmer of light under the living room door. She found her husband asleep on the settee, covered only by the throw-over and using one of Purrington’s many cushions as a pillow. The, almost full, cup of cold coffee was on the carpet.

She bent down and kissed his forehead. ‘Come on, Terry, it’s time to get up. You must be freezing.’

‘Another kiss and I might consider it.’

She obliged.

‘Sorry, Jens, I had a pig of a night. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I forgot the alarm.’

*

For Edward Page the following twenty-four hours went by slowly. He had breakfast at nine and visited the location where Olga had been killed. It didn’t resemble how it was all those years ago, but it was where she had died. He knew he was taking a risk. He didn’t care. He’d done what he had set out to do. Cautiously, he left a single red rose under the metal band holding a speed limit sign to a tree. He was pleased to see the stem of the one he’d left during his previous visit, almost five months earlier.

The news of Chernov’s assassination was first broadcast on national news at 11am. His driver had arrived to collect him at 9. 30am, as he always did. Chernov was always waiting. This time he wasn’t. The driver waited five minutes and, feeling concerned, he asked the Berkut guard to check.

The news reports simply stated he had been murdered during the early hours of the morning. No mention of how, of the photograph or how the assassin managed to avoid the guard.

Page used up an hour of the afternoon being driven around Moscow with five Japanese tourists in a bus that, at one point, stopped at the end of the road where Chernov had lived. It was still crowded with police and television crews. The bus driver, who appeared to have every fact available, went into the greatest of detail as to how this prominent politician had died. Page decided there must have been a second politician murdered last night. It certainly did not sound like the one he knew about.

From 5pm to 7. 30pm he was making further contacts at the Boat Show, gathering more brochures that would be discarded once he was back in Draycliffe. He dined alone in the hotel restaurant, not speaking to anyone. He listened to the one topic of conversation between the Russian speaking guests and hotel staff. If he killed the girl, he got what he deserved, was the general consensus. Page was happy. A Muscovite through and through. Despite all its problems and its particularly bad winter weather, he adored the city, the history and, above all, the people.

The following morning he picked up two national newspapers and read them in the taxi as he was driven to the airport. All featured the death of Anton Chernov and questions were now being asked. How could anyone get into the building? Where was the Berkut guard? Why was the photograph left on the body and where was the husband of Olga Andrekova?

Edward Page was unconcerned that one of the papers, Russia Today, had a large picture of him in the centre of the front page. Across the top in large print… ‘WHERE IS THIS MAN’. And below his picture was written,‘Yaroslav Andrekov, wanted for murder’. The photograph was taken during the time he was a serving member of the armed forces, not long before his transfer to the KGB. He’d changed a lot. Much more weight, much less hair and no moustache. And thirty years older.

Police and military presence at Sheremetyevo Airport had been stepped up. Page had noticed as he checked in. He placed both of the papers in the bin next to the check-in desk and purchased a copy of a day old Times from the gift and news stand.

‘Sorry, Sir. The new papers do not come until this afternoon,’ said the assistant in understandable English.

‘A very short stay, Mr Page,’ said the passport control officer. ‘Didn’t you like us?’ He smiled, believing his comment amusing.

Page went along with him. ‘Very much,’ he replied, laughing. ‘But this time I only came over for your boat show. It was excellent, very well organised. I was most impressed.’

‘Thank you, Sir, that is good of you to say so. I am happy we do something right. But next time I say you must stay longer in our beautiful city.’

‘I will.’ Page reached out to retrieve his passport, but it was snatched by an armed policeman.

He asked Page, in Russian, to hand over his luggage so it could be checked. Edward Page chose not to understand and looked towards the passport officer for help.

‘He just wants to check over your luggage, Sir,’ he said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry, but we had a major incident last night.’

Page placed both items on the table in front of the policeman and opened them. The sullen looking officer carelessly ran his hands around the inside the flight bag. His expression unchanging.
No doubt called in on his day off,
thought Page. And none too pleased about it by the look of him.

He zipped up the flight bag and moved on to the brief case and was more thorough and careful. Appearing satisfied he looked through the boating brochures and selected one showing a fifteen metre Russian built cruiser. He held it up in front of him. ‘This like mine,’ he said with the very faintest of cracks appearing each side of his mouth. He closed and locked the brief case and returned the passport.