Bad Russian 05 Page 3

  Standing, leaning over the desk, I put the username and password into my own phone first and log on with them, then take out my laptop and open it to repeat the routine.

  My heart bangs when I hear the door open behind me. I turn too fast and nearly knock my laptop off the desk. I let out a sigh when I see it’s a gangly young man holding out a phone. He hardly looks more than an adolescent.

  His broad, starry-eyed smile confuses me until I realize that he misread my long sigh. I thank him briskly. I dismiss him, and he turns away, crestfallen. I ask his name.

  He brightens. “Pyotr.”

  “Thank you, Pyotr.”

  He’s breathing hard and almost squirming as he leaves. Whatever it means, I have what I need. I close my laptop.

  “Your induction…?” Vasilyevich raises his hands and his eyebrows go up with them as I turn to leave.

  “Email me what I need to know.”

  “What am I going to tell Mr. Hudsicker?”

  “You’d better tell him the truth,” I call back over my shoulder. “You know that I will.” I close the door behind me.

  Riding the Moscow metro is surreal. The stops are like art museums and the train cars gleam inside. On the ride back to the apartment, still shaking a little, I try not to think about Mischa. That doesn’t work.

  I know that he will come after me. Maybe not for long, but he will try, I’m certain. First, he’s bound to go to Vasilyevich. He’ll ask where I’m staying. Vasilyevich will tell him right away. I hate that I have to move. I like my apartment so much. And there’s the cost. I know I won’t get a refund, and the company won’t pay for two apartments.

  Chapter Five

  Him

  I RETURN TO THE office of Vasilyevich. He hasn’t had the window replaced. Naturally she’s gone. She’s going to make me chase her. Hunt her. Track her down. I like that, very much. She has a spirit of fire. Like me. We’re opposite in most other ways, and her kind of fire is very different from mine. Hers is like fuel that powers her along.

  Mine is passion. A storm that rages. Her fire is an inner strength. My fire is a weapon.

  Vasilyevich gives up her phone numbers, her email contacts, and the address where she is staying in Moscow without a fight. He tells me that she’s due to stay in Moscow for at least a month. I wish I had dropped the treacherous fucking piece of shit out of the window.

  I still could. It would be worth it to hear him whine all the way to the ground. I don’t want the aftermath, though. Killing people is always expensive and troublesome. I get what I need out of him. I have one more thing to do to finish my business at MoscowSecuriTek.

  Then I have work to do.

  Hunting Ms. Irina Bachunin will have to wait. Only a day. Two at the most. My chest swells and my muscles sing at the slightest thought of her. I will have her. She will be mine. Forever. If I have to capture her and lock her away, I won’t mind. I can put her somewhere no-one will ever find her.

  Chapter Six

  Her`

  BACK IN THE APARTMENT I take a pot of coffee, my laptop, tablet and the two phones, my own and the company phone. Russian coffee is a taste I’m quickly getting used to. When I look out over Moscow, the Volga river is like a huge silver snake. It slips under bridges and past the towers of the Kremlin. The gold onion domes behind must be the cathedral of Saint Basil.

  First, I send a message to the AppStay renter. I remember that they had a number of apartments, three or four of them in this building. I doubt they’ll let me switch, even if they have a vacancy, but I may as well ask.

  Next, I start to compose a message to Mr. Hudsicker. I’m not sure how I’m going to finesse this. Vasilyevich was completely in the wrong, and there’s no tolerance for sexual harassment like that in Olympus Logica. At least officially there isn’t. But still, what I’ve been sent to do is some junior liaison and handholding.

  The company is more likely to be more on my side after I get the job done, so I have to figure out a way to accomplish that without having to be physically around or near Vasilyevich. And I need to keep myself away from Mischa Bronski. An ache is starting up at the top of my thighs when my phone rings.

  The phone screen says, ‘Number withheld,’ but my stupid network does that with almost all numbers that are outside the US, unless they’re in my contact list. Apprehensive, I take the call.

  A Russian female voice, deep and assertive says, “Ms. Bakunin?”

  She tells me that she’s the renter. That there’s no provision for switching apartments. And she wants to know what’s wrong with the apartment I have?

  “Nothing. I liked it the best of the ones that I saw.”

  “Does it not meet your expectations?”

  “No. It’s perfect, really. I need… there’s another reason I want to move.”

  “Where are you? Now?” Her English is clipped but perfect. She speaks with an attractive accent. Almost masculine.

  “What? I’m on the balcony.”

  “You’re in the building? In the apartment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come upstairs. I make coffee.”

  “Where–”

  “Top floor.”

  “Which apart–” she hung up.

  I put the phones in my purse. I leave the laptop and tablet in the room safe, as the ‘welcome’ pack advised, and head for the elevator. At the top, there is only one door. It opens as I step out of the elevator.

  A tall, slim woman with long, straight blonde hair is in a tailored suit with narrow pants. She smiles and gestures with her head as she holds the door open for me.

  “Come. I show you my balcony. I’m Carla.” She offers a long, elegant hand. Her handshake is firm and cool.

  Inside, one huge room has areas for dining, sitting, a kitchen, and what looks like an office at the far end.

  The wide terrace has a waist-height glass and wraps halfway around the building. A table between two lounge chairs has a silver coffeepot and two cups.

  The woman indicates for me to sit. “How do you take your coffee, Ms. Bachunin?”

  “Black. Please.”

  She pours and hands me the cup on a saucer. “So. You like that apartment, you don’t like any others better, but you want to move.”

  “That’s right.” I nod. I taste the coffee. It’s fantastic. “Do you buy this coffee around here?”

  “I give you a pack. You have to have the water to the right temperature.” She looks at me under hooded eyelids. “You’re in Moscow less than one day, Ms. Bachunin, and already you are on the run. Are you a spy?”

  I don’t know whether she’s joking.

  “No.”

  “It’s a man, then.”

  I want to deny it but there seems no point.

  She goes on, “It could be something else, of course, but that seems the most likely. Someone at the place where you’re working?”

  “Are you psychic or something, or have you been following me?”

  “Your company paid and made the reservation. You went out this morning at a normal time but you’re back here early, wanting to move out of the apartment that you like. It’s not complicated.”

  Maybe, but she seems uncommonly interested. And, how does she know what time I left in the morning? She only has half the story, but I’m surprised all the same.

  She drawls, “The apartment immediately above yours is vacant. You are in 1403, you can move to 1503. The next booking in there is the day after tomorrow. I will swap the bookings.”

  I’m puzzled. “Thank you.”

  She sips her coffee. “We have to stick together.” She says it like it’s obvious.

  “Thank you.”

  She shrugs. “So. Wait while I get you a pack of coffee.”

  I immediately move my things into the new apartment. I’ve hardly unpacked except for my dopp kit in the bathroom. Maybe because Carla asked if I was a spy, I feel like I’m doing something sneaky and underhand, moving out of one nice apartment and into another.

 
I’m relieved to find that apartment 1503 is identical to 1403. Especially the tiled, walk-in shower room, which I loved. The super-quick douse that I took this morning was lovely, but I was sad to think I wasn’t going to have the chance for another. I settle my things around the bedroom and the bathroom, drop my devices in by the desk in the lounge and put the pack of coffee in the kitchen.

  I’m anxious to finish my message to Mr. Hudsicker. He needs to know what’s happened and what I’m doing, but I want to present him with a confident picture of how I’m going to make this work. Then I realize–I’m eleven hours ahead. I do need to send him a message, but there’s no rush. He’s not going to be in the office for another five hours at least.

  I save the note to him as far as I’ve written it and keep it as a draft.

  Then I make a list of the people I need to contact in MoscowSecuriTek and what I need to tell them. Last, I begin a list of instructions for Vasilyevich. I’ll make sure he gets the access and cooperation that he needs, but he will have to do it my way. Given how he reacted when I told him I could call my ‘friend’ back, and with the possibility of me bringing a complaint against him, I think I’m going be able to get him to behave himself.

  I can see this all working out nicely. As long as I can keep Mr. Hudsicker happy and he doesn’t mind too much about me working outside the office.

  I catch myself wondering how often Mischa Bronski visits the MoscowSecuriTek offices. Not that I want to go back there. And not that I want to see Mr. Bronski again. Although, it would be nice to thank him.

  I could call him. But I won’t. Of course not. Why would I?

  Chapter Seven

  Him

  I HAVE THINGS TO do. They keep me from pursuing my princess, the woman who will be my queen, and every moment makes me mad. Impatient. Intolerant. I know that I must wait.

  I know that she will make me chase her. Hunt her. I know how to value a prize that’s hard to win.

  Always, there is an order to things. Always, waiting is hard. That’s what it is to be a man. I learned that much from my father. However much I despised his methods, I learned from his discipline and his determination. I never wanted his mantle, his legacy, or his businesses.

  When he allowed himself to be lured by some beautiful Ukrainian girls onto a boat on Lake Baikal and, naturally, his enemies had lined the hull of the boat with explosives. I had no wish to take his dirty businesses over, but if I hadn’t, all the people who worked for him—and their families—would have been picked off by those same enemies.

  I didn’t care about the business, but I cared about those men and women. So, I volunteered as a raw recruit in a war, and began as the commander-in-chief. Fortunately for everybody, I proved to be ruthless, shrewd, bold, and lethally effective. I understood at once that winning the battle would never be enough.

  An enemy is an enemy for life. Until he is defeated so comprehensively that he has no wish to ever cross you again, he remains a threat. But I defeated them all. Now there are only the new enemies. They are, mostly, easier to deal with because they lack experience and resources.

  My aim for the last two years has been to consolidate, to fortify all of my business enterprises. I have more than enough money. I began investing in art and giving to charity when I first started. Those things are more interesting to me now.

  Finding the well-placed man who can be bribed or blackmailed, calculating the exact amount of force he will need, that is no longer an exciting game. Any more than I find thrills in finding the point of greatest weakness in a corporation or working out the quickest ways to plunder its assets. Running the networks of clubs, casinos, street gangs, limousine companies and shady accountants, the whole thing means little to me now.

  My only care now is to make the business secure for the loyal group, the people who have been with me, who were prepared to do anything, to risk anything for me, for our ‘collective’ for these two decades of power and rule. The operations will run and take care of those who are employed, but I won’t be recruiting.

  My family owns and operates a third of the underground business in Russia. The people who were with me building that, they are not in a position to take over and run it, but I don’t want to expand the operation or look for new enterprises.

  The business I have to do is unpleasant, but it’s urgent. The Russian company where I found my Irina is collaborating with a new and aggressive group of competitors. Oleg Abramov in particular. He carries a grudge from when he was trying to muscle onto our territory, and I took a piece of his ear as a memento.

  He is using that outwardly legitimate company to collect and distribute contraband of the worst kinds, masquerading as innocent cargo.

  I have devised a trap for him. One that will damage his business severely. Hurt him enough to make him think twice about attacking the routes and markets that he knows are mine. Ours.

  Chapter Eight

  Her

  OUT IN THE BRIGHT, crisp, afternoon air, it looks like I could easily walk to the riverbanks from here. I don’t want to be adventurous now, but I file the idea away. The neat, manicured green space around the angular glass buildings feels clean and safe. Tall, shiny buildings in clusters here contrast with dull, gray rectangular blocks nearby, and behind them, even older buildings, shabby in faded reds, greens and blues.

  Work will settle my mind. Give me some space and distance. That’s what I decide. I can pick myself up something to eat from the little store nearby. Draft the notes to the Moscow team, catch up with some admin and reading. I need to familiarize myself with MoscowSecuriTek’s freight and logistics business, and the day-to-day operations. Then take an early night.

  I’m mapping out ways to keep busy until I can put today behind me. Get a decent night’s sleep and make a fresh start in the morning.

  I wade through user guides for accessing our company database. If I were in the office, my plan was to gather the people who needed to use the system and show them how. It would take an hour at most. The system was intuitive and simple. Explaining it in PMs and emails, though—I could already tell that was going to be tough.

  Strictly speaking, our database has been open to MoscowSecuriTek’s users through their own intranet for a few weeks. Connection was tested in Seattle, and I’d seen it in use. I look to check how many of the MoscowSecuriTek staff have used it already. If they have, and any of them have found their way around the system, my job could be easier. One of them could help me show the others around.

  When I look at the access and activity logs, my heart drops. Only one user has been logged on through MoscowSecuriTek’s network. It’s Genardy Vasilyevich. I am about to give up on that idea and shutdown the laptop, but something catches my eye in his activity logs.

  The routes and dockets he pulled from the database all centered on one shipping partner. Their activity is regular shipments from Medellin, Cartagena, Kabul, and Karachi.

  I never noticed any of those routes on the system in Seattle, and they seem like odd sources. There must be an innocent explanation. I looked at the outbound destinations. I saw dockets to Amsterdam, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Miami, New York, London, Berlin, Tel Aviv, Cape Town and Ibiza. Coincidence?