“Has any reply been supplied to the BfV?”
“Not yet. The request was marked Routine.”
“Okay. Make sure we tell the Germans that we’ve got nothing on the men and don’t believe them to be suspicious.” He looked at Alistair and Patrick. “I could be wrong, but there are too many coincidences here. A four-man Russian group enters Europe so quickly after the Gdansk incident, most likely military backgrounds given their alleged employer, no obvious intention of doing business, no history to their identities. Plus they’re the right age to be experienced operators.”
Patrick said, “Possibly, but one of them needs his pills to stop him from going into a seizure. Doesn’t sound like an operative to me.”
Will shook his head. “The Clonazepam can be taken in higher doses to sedate. It’s possible the team’s brought it into Germany to drug Yevtushenko after they capture him. They must have a different route out of the country and they’re going to use that route to get Yevtushenko back into Russia while he’s unconscious.” He looked at Roger. “You, Laith, Mark, and Adam need to be all over those men.” He turned to face Patrick and Alistair. “If I’m right, the Russian men are SVR. They’ve been deployed to Germany under business cover to link up with and support the big Russian who survived the Gdansk fight. The Russians know considerably more about the paper and possibly where it’s gone than we do. If we stick to them, we’ll be close to the paper. Meanwhile, I need to work this from the other end of the spectrum, and that means understanding Yevtushenko’s role in the theft of the paper. Miss Belarus might be able to help me with that. If I can get her to talk, I might be on a path to establishing the identity of Yevtushenko’s master.” He smiled. “That gives us
two
starting points to this operation.”
W
ill stood at the end of the long residential street and analyzed everything on it. A few people were on foot, walking as quickly as they could through the thick snow, all of them dressed in thick overcoats and hats. Stationary vehicles, caked in ice and snow, lined the street. Adjacent to them were streetlamps that were starting to come on as dusk descended on the Belarusian capital of Minsk. The 1980s Soviet-designed buildings that straddled the road looked functional and drab, a combination of row houses and apartment blocks. One of them would contain the woman.
He waited, his hands deep inside the pockets of his stylish overcoat, his leather shoes offering little protection from the cold ground. The pedestrians kept moving, some coming toward him, others going in the opposite direction. None of them looked suspicious. They had the appearance and postures of people who just wanted to get to the shelter of their homes before nightfall. Turning his attention to the vehicles, he methodically moved his gaze from one to the next. Those nearest to him were certainly unoccupied and in darkness, but the street was over three hundred yards long and he couldn’t be certain that at least one of the cars farther down the road wasn’t occupied by a local security service or Russian SVR surveillance team.
He wished he could have dressed in attire that matched the few poorly paid workers who were heading home. That way he could have walked the full length of the street and made an assessment as to whether the woman’s house was being watched. But the suit he was wearing was necessary for what he needed to achieve. He needed her to know who he really was.
He glanced at the building opposite hers. It was in darkness. He wondered if the people who owned the place were still at work, were perhaps out for dinner, or whether the place was instead occupied by men and women with binoculars, military communications systems, and night-vision equipment. If he’d had Roger’s team and more time, he could have ensured that a full reconnaissance was made of the area around him. Having the luxury of neither, he was going to have to take a risk.
He moved forward, his hands in his pockets, his head still, his eyes flickering left and right to look for sudden movement. After seventy yards, he stopped at an apartment block, made no attempt to look around, and quickly pressed one of the buzzers adjacent to the door. A woman’s voice spoke in the intercom. Will said in Russian, the second language of Belarus, “I need to speak to Miss Alina Petrova.”
The woman hesitated before answering in the same tongue, “
Da,
that’s me.”
“Can you let me in? This is official business.”
The intercom was silent for ten seconds. Then, “What business?”
“Business that concerns you. Please, let me in.”
“Are you police?”
“No.”
“A government man?”
“No.”
“Then there is no
official
business to be conducted.”
Will stamped his feet and silently cursed. “This matter concerns someone you know. He’s done something stupid and is in trouble. You might be able to help him. But I can’t talk to you over the intercom.”
He didn’t know what else to say, couldn’t stay out here for more than a few seconds longer, and decided that if she didn’t let him in he’d have to come back in the morning and approach her as she was going to work.
But the door buzzed and its lock was released.
He entered the building, allowing the door to swing shut behind him and automatically relock. Ahead of him was a flight of stairs and adjacent to it a graffiti-covered, dilapidated elevator. Taking the stairs, he walked quickly up six flights to Alina’s apartment. He knocked on the door, heard a bolt being snapped open, and watched the entrance open a few inches until a security chain went taught. A young, dark-haired woman was partially visible in the crack between the door and its frame.
“Alina?”
She stared at him, her expression suspicious. “Who are you?”
“Someone who’s here to help.”
“You could be here to hurt me.”
Will shook his head. “If that were true, the door would be off its hinges by now.”
Her suspicion remained. “Can I see your ID?”
“I don’t have any that’s relevant to this meeting.”
Alina looked taken aback. “And yet you seriously expect me to let you in?”
“I’m here about Yevtushenko.”
“Who?”
“Oh, come on Miss. Petrova. You were his lover, maybe still are.”
“It’s not illegal to love someone.”
“Legalities don’t matter to me. I need to know if he’s been in touch with you during the last few days.”
From somewhere within the apartment, a baby started crying. Alina glanced over her shoulder, looked back at Will, and seemed uncertain what to do.
Will repeated, “I’m not here to hurt you.”
The baby’s crying grew louder.
“Nor am I here to give you any trouble. I just want to talk. Then I’ll go.”
Alina asked, “Who do you work for?”
“Myself.”
“Nationality?”
“British.”
Alina’s eyes narrowed. The baby’s cries were now echoing down the stairwell. Quickly, she released the chain, opened the door, turned, and hurried off toward the sound of the baby. Will entered the apartment, shut the door, and followed her into a small bedroom containing a cot. Alina lifted the baby, placed a hand underneath the swaddling and patted it against the girl’s diapers, then rocked the baby until her sobbing began to recede. “Men’s voices upset her. Probably she heard you.”
Will nodded and withdrew into a tiny living room containing a worn sofa, one dining chair, a side table, an old television set, and a carpet that was threadbare in places but immaculately clean. He sat on the chair and waited.
A few minutes later Alina reappeared alone. The baby was still crying. “I can only hope she sleeps soon.” She looked at him. “Would you like a hot drink?”
Will shook his head and said quietly, “That’s very kind, but I’m not staying long.”
Keeping her eyes on him, she moved to the sofa and sat. “What’s your interest in Lenka?”
“I’m a private investigator and have been instructed by a client to check on the welfare of Mr. Yevtushenko. My client’s concerned that he’s done something stupid and is in danger. He’s run away from his work and Russia.”
“Who’s your client?”
“I’m not allowed to say. It’s sensitive.”
“A British private investigator in Minsk, looking for a Russian diplomat, and with a client who can’t be named?” Alina smiled. “I’m not stupid.”
“I’m sure you’re not and will therefore realize that some things are best left unsaid.”
Alina shook her head. “Perhaps, but I have no reason to help you or the people you represent.”
Will studied her. Suzy was right. Alina certainly had above-average looks. She was tall for a woman and wore delicately applied makeup, beige cords, and an elegant V-neck sweater that looked nothing like the dowdy clothing he’d expected her to be in. “You and your child live here alone?”
“Just us.”
“Do you work?”
“I teach poetry, part time at one of the local universities. The campus has a nursery so it suits me.” She looked around, then locked her gaze on Will, her expression now hostile. “If you’re thinking of offering me British money, forget it. I might not live in the nicest place, but we manage just fine.”
“You’re sure about that?” Will held her gaze, then sighed. “I’m not here to offer you money. Honestly, I think Lenka might be out of his depth. I’m here to help him.”
“The British are here to help a Russian man? Are
you
sure about that?”
Will leaned forward. “Has anyone else been here to speak to you?”
Alina shrugged and looked away.
“Belarusians? Perhaps the Russians?” He lowered his voice. “Yes, I’m sure the Russians have been here, haven’t they?”
She returned her attention to him. “You’re not worried about my Yevtushenko. He’s done something or got something that you want.”
“Do you know what that might be?”
“He never spoke to me about his work.”
“Did the Russians tell you what it might be?”
“I didn’t say they were here.”
“Nor did you deny it.”
A clock chimed. Will looked at it—a small silver antique carriage clock with beautiful engravings. He frowned, then said, “We
are
looking for something. And if we can get that something, there is every hope that we can extract Lenka from men who he shouldn’t be mixing with.”
“And then what? Put him in a cell and beat him?”
“No. Bring him to you.”
Alina waved her hand dismissively before placing it against a necklace that matched her earrings. It had to be a replica, but could easily have been mistaken for a genuine diamond pendant.
“You don’t love him anymore?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why wouldn’t you want to see him again?”
“When did I say . . . ?” Her expression became hostile again. “I don’t know where he is, I haven’t heard from him, and I’ve no desire to help a British stranger.” She spat, “You haven’t even told me your name.”
“Even if I did, would it be of any value to you?”
“It would be a lie.”
“Exactly.”
She breathed deeply while staring at him, her hand falling to the tatty sofa arm. “You’ve wasted your time.”
Will looked at the clock again and saw that next to it were three books containing the works of the Russian poets Nikolay Gumilyov, Osip Mandelstam, and Ivan Krylov. Clad in leather binding, they looked as though they’d been professionally restored. They were wrapped with silk ties that had been knotted in bows. He smiled. “He bought you things, didn’t he?”
Alina frowned.
“Expensive things.”
She said nothing.
“Clothes, French makeup, real diamond jewelry, a timepiece, books, no doubt other things.” His smile vanished as he looked at her. “I wonder how he got the money to pay for them.”
Silence.
“Because I can’t imagine that his government salary was that good.” He nodded toward the little bedroom. “Is she his?”
Alina’s face flushed, her eyes looked venomous. “None of your damn business.”
“Or is
your
Yevtushenko but one of many lovers and she is the result?”
“How dare you!” Alina rose quickly. “Get out!”
But Will remained seated. “Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the gifts have come from many men.”
“I am
not
that type of woman!”
“Then what type of woman are you?”
Alina’s breathing was fast, her anger vivid.
“Sit down.”
She did not do so.
“Sit down!” Will kept his voice quiet though his tone was now stern. “I came here to help you and your man. I
know
the Russians have been here. It would have been one of the first things they did after Lenka’s disappearing act. Do you think they have your interests at heart? If they get their hands on him, they’ll throw him in prison. And the men he’s with now—once his value to them is over, they’ll do far worse. Almost certainly, they’ll butcher him.”
Alina’s eyes widened.
“There are three organizations who want what Yevtushenko’s got. None of us are friends.”
“Good! Then you’ll tear yourselves apart.”
Will nodded. “That’s a possibility.” He looked at one of the books, thought for a moment, and said:
Whene’er companions don’t agree,
They work without accord;
And naught but trouble doth result,
Although they all work hard.
One day a Swan, a Pike, a Crab,
Resolved a load to haul.
All three were harnessed to the cart,
And pulled together all.
But though they pulled with all their might,
That cart-load on the bank stuck tight.
The Swan pulled upward to the skies,
The Crab did backward crawl,
The Pike made for the water straight:
This proved no use at all.
Now, which of them was most to blame,
’Tis not for me to say,
But this I know—the load is there,
Unto this very day.
Alina stared at him, her expression different. Her baby’s crying grew softer. “Ivan Krylov’s ‘A Swan, a Pike, and a Crab.’ ” She turned toward the books and frowned. “I’m surprised you . . .” She smiled, though when she spoke there was not attempt to hide the sarcasm in her tone. “You think I’ll help you just because you can recite some poetry?”
“No. But you know that Yevtushenko’s the load. A
dead
load if nothing is done to help him. You choose: swan, pike, or crab?”
She stared at him, for the first time the tiniest hint of confusion on her face.
“
Please.
Do sit down Miss Petrova.”
She sat. “Which are you?”
“It’s irrelevant. We’re all stupid without cohesive direction.
Your
direction.”
“My direction?”
“Yes. I want you to choose to work with one of us and tell us what to do.” Will wondered how Alina was going to respond.
She said nothing for ten seconds. Then, “How can I trust you?”
“I can’t persuade you to trust me. Use your judgment. Judge me alongside the Russians you met, and the men who now have Lenka.”
“Who are those men?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do the Russians know?”
“I’m not sure, but I think they might.”
“Then the choice is clear. I should work with the Russians!”
“Perhaps you should. Providing you trust them.”
Alina’s eyes narrowed as she looked him up and down. She seemed to make some kind of decision. “Our child is called Maria. We named her after Lenka’s grandmother.” She leaned forward, her expression stern. “Lenka was delighted when I told him that I was bearing his child. I’ve
never
been with another man since I’ve known him.”
Will nodded, and for the briefest of moments wondered how it would feel to hear a woman declare that she was pregnant with his child. “Tell me about the Russians who came here.”