The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art

THE

BRODSKY AFFAIR

Murder is a Dying Art…

KEN FRY
 

THE BRODSKY AFFAIR

Copyright 2016 by KEN FRY

All Rights Reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

www.kenfryauthor.co.uk

Edited by Eeva Lancaster

Cover Design and Book Interior by
The Book Khaleesi

First Edition
 

Special thanks to PJ Webb, Eeva Lancaster, and Gus Pegel, for their inspiration and help in making this possible… and to all those who kicked me about finishing this, especially Linda Tolmie.

Prologue

The Village of Prokhorovka, near Kursk, Russia, 1916

A
slicing wind from the East swept low across the plains, attempting to cut through Ivan’s thick furs. He heard the sound of howling wolves carried by the wind. He found himself, as he had often of late, thinking about his life, both censuring and acquitting himself. Ivan Brodsky had once been indigent, unable to read, and surrounded by vodka-drunk peasants, with their filth, brutality, laziness and boredom. Recollections of his swift furies at injustices and cruelties crossed his mind. He remembered once beating and breaking a man’s arm. The man had been thrashing a donkey that had collapsed from exhaustion. In that memory, he also forgave himself. He had thrown the assailant a handful of coins, took the beast away, and cared for it for many more years until it had died.

Even from his early days of childhood, he had been aware of the two sides of his personality – one often quick to anger, and the other awed by the beauty of nature and of life. He remembered watching the nearby rolling hills and being enveloped in a mirage of shimmering colour, revealing shades and shapes more beautiful than he had ever realised. That memory forever whispered to him. The magic never left, and it had changed his life. He had worked hard and became successful. He looked at his son, and knew the time had arrived to engineer his deepest desire.

He turned and whispered into his young son’s ear, “Mikhail, I need to show you something.”

Mikhail held his arm as they walked briskly along, mist rising from their breath as they passed by the frozen mud ruts. A mangy dog gnawing at a bone behind a ditch growled as they passed by. They crossed in silence through the village of chimneyless hovels, water butts full of frozen pond water, and the dirt-encrusted
skhod,
the small hall where the community held its meetings. Ivan headed towards his
khata
at the far end of the village compound. He’d built this himself from trees he’d felled from the nearby forest. Known as a
kulak,
he stood apart from other peasants. He had money, and hired labour for both his land and his carpentry work. He didn’t care what the other villagers thought of him.

Climbing swiftly up the steps, he pushed the door open and slammed it tight behind his son. Kerosene lamps, exuding black smoke that entwined with the sour reek of home-cured tobacco, lighted the room. From a large brown pot suspended across the fire, arose the steam of meat and potatoes boiling. His wife, Maria, sat in a large wooden chair by the fire, wrapped in a thick tapestry shawl.

He bent towards her and kissed her forehead. “I’m taking Mikhail to my work room. There are some things I need to show him. We will not be long.”

Maria looked astonished. The family had never been allowed access before. “Holy Mother of God, Mikhail, what have you done to deserve this?” Her tone was incredulous.

Mikhail said nothing, but bit his bottom lip. The family had been forbidden from going up to the attic. To do so would mean punishment.

His younger brother, Lev, and his sister, Sofia, jumped excitedly to their feet.

“Can we come?” they asked in unison. “Please, let us come.”

Ivan’s stern voice made it clear that was out of the question.

“No, you are not allowed and you know what will happen if you try. Now, get out of our way please.”

Lev and Sofia scattered away from him.

He pointed to the ladder leading up to his attic, and noticed the nervous look on Mikhail’s nine-year-old face. “This way Mikhail, don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” stuttered his son.

Holding out a huge hand, he pulled his son along behind him, and with care, began climbing the fourteen rungs leading up to the attic.

A heavy brass bolt that Ivan snapped back, made a sharp crack onto the rear plate that secured the large black portal. He spoke little of his work in the attic, but his family knew of his love of painting, from the paint-stained clothes and aprons he would often emerge wearing. Standing on the top rung, and placing his hands on the shiny black surface, he pushed hard, and the door swung open with ease, dousing both of them with pale moonlight penetrating from a large roof-mounted window.

He turned around to Mikhail. “It’s safe, follow me.” He hauled himself in, offered his hand and pulled up his son. He knew he’d made the right decision, and bestowed on him a reassuring smile.

“Don’t move.” He signalled with his fingers, and with methodical care, lit three wall lamps that filled the space with a warm glow. He closed the portal.

In a lazy swirl, the dust particles danced in a gesture of welcome. What Mikhail saw was breath-taking. Paintings and drawings were everywhere. They had a magic that caused him to gasp. He’d heard of art robbers but how could you steal art? Miracles could never be stolen.

Mikhail looked up at his father and saw in him a strength he hadn’t noticed before. He saw that his hair was dark, streaked with a grey that shone like pearls, and his beard was cut straight. He was austere, his face leathery and his shoulders broad. He had authority, and his voice was deep and direct. Between close-knit eyebrows, two dark eyes flashed.

The air was pungent with the seductive aromas of paints, turpentine, inks, and the suggestion of chalks. The smells assaulted his nostrils. He gasped from joy.    This was more than anything he could have imagined.

The room held a surprising spaciousness. His gaze took in everything, including two easels standing together and facing the window’s light. The warmth of his father’s arm settled around his shoulder.

“Well, Mikhail, what do you think?”

Mikhail’s gaze swivelled upward to his father. He felt his voice hesitate, but couldn’t disguise his sense of awe. “It’s wonderful.”

“Look around. Tell me more.”

Mikhail moved with care, looking at the many paintings leaning against walls, some in ornate frames, others not. Those exposed were pastoral scenes, and glowed with a detailed joy. There were others: portraits of his family, his mother feeding the geese, Mikhail sitting at his school desk. They had been kindly painted, and it was plain to see, even to the young Mikhail, that what his father lacked in everyday communication, he could express through his art. His love for his family shone through them. On a pair of easels, stood two unfinished paintings, which were in sharp contrast to the other works. One depicted skinny peasants toiling in cold, hard fields, and the other featured portly merchants eating fine foods from expensive porcelain plates placed on massive tables.

“These are a pair,” his father said. “I’m calling them
Russia Today.
”
He pointed to the traders stuffing their mouths. “I sense that soon, these fat pigs will be swept away, thank God!”

What he meant by that remark, Mikhail was uncertain. But what his father did when he escaped to his attic was now no longer a mystery. A thrill cascaded through him. He suspected his Papa wanted him to become an artist too. Else, why was he showing him all this?
I couldn’t ever be as good as this.

“My grandfather,” said his father, “once gave me a box of pencils, some brushes, paints, and an artist’s pad. I had no idea what to do, but I liked them, although I never had any proper lessons. Instead, I became a carpenter and still am. But, painting has always been my secret joy. Are you wondering why I’m showing you all this?”

“Yes, Papa, why are you?”

“Because I know from watching you that you can become an excellent artist.”

“But, Papa…”

His father held a finger to his lips. “I have seen how you can draw, and the way you observe things around you. You have a rare talent. If you are willing, I’ll do all I can to encourage you, and send you to an art academy or university.”

Mikhail understood his father’s intent.

“I’ve always liked drawing and painting, Papa, but I’m not any good at it.” He stared down at the floor, uncertain of what his Papa’s response would be. He added, “I would be laughed at.”

“You are far better at it than I ever was at your age and most others I’ve seen, believe me. When you are old enough in a few years, I’ll send you to the art college and then we will really see. I know now you are good enough. In the meantime, when I come up here, you shall come with me and practice, agreed?”

Mikhail’s heart began to sing. This was a rare honour from his father, and he wanted to please him as much as he was able. It was as if his father had read his mind, and had seen his lurking desire to paint and draw, and was attempting to lure him into its enchanted world.

He looked out of the window. It had begun to snow.

Chapter One

Saint Petersburg, February this year

J
osef Lavrentry Berezin was alone in his fifth floor office, lit by the harsh glare of wall-mounted halogen lamps. He sat behind his massive, leather-topped cedar desk with both his arms outstretched, resembling an Orthodox priest in homage before an altar. He cracked his knuckles, a lifelong habit. The bottle of Beluga was drained.

He pushed himself upwards, turned his head to gaze out of the window across the rippling waters of the Neva, and watched the snow flurries drop onto the city. His office provided a view of the grandness of the magnificent Palace Embankment, the former Winter Palace. Designed by Bartolomeo Rastreli, it was once the former residence of the Tsars, and now the vast State Hermitage Museum.

Not far away, he lived in one of his many-bedroomed apartments, situated on the Fontanka Embankment close to the Anichkov Bridge, with a view of the river. He lived alone, employed a maid and a cook, and surrounded himself with luxury and the latest hi-tech innovations. From the ceilings hung cut-glass crystal chandeliers bought from the finest Parisian dealers, and oriental carpets decorated the floors, surveyed by expensive paintings in gilded frames. His paintings were mounted at an exact distance from each other. At strategic points, mirrors had been fixed to the walls, creating a cultured spaciousness.

His frequent dinner and overnight guests often included the Deputy Prime Minister, Vladislav Surkov, and important government officials. Many of whom brought their girlfriends and not their wives. Others were entrepreneurs, foreign businessmen, bankers, and well-known figures from the world of fine arts, acting and music. As a key contributor to
Severstal,
the art based charity with links to the Tretyakov State Gallery, he ensured that they were always included on his guest lists. They were his most important visitors.

The Beluga had kicked in, allowing him to relax. To take stock of life and drift back to the days of the early eighties, when, as a lookout for a boss of the ballooning Russian Mafia, modish and in his early twenties, he’d sat inside the shiny chrome and plastic comfort of a rare American Chevrolet, looking cool in dark glasses and smoking Turkish cigarettes.

How many of today’s idiots can say they’ve done that?

Those days had passed… but he had learnt a lot.  He knew how to keep an almost invisible profile, use others to get things done, and above all, to be discreet. He had learned how to profit from individuals and companies by any means possible. Some legally, but most by extortion, racketeering, drugs, and money laundering. He had always known with certainty that he would be rich. As a front, he invested in legitimate enterprises, such as gold, copper, oil, and waste disposal.

Now, at fifty-four years old, his face was as it had always been. Pale, sun-starved, but with no major wrinkles. Dark-dyed, slicked-back hair, matched perfectly his dull brown eyes, shielded by horn-rimmed glasses. He wore a blue Merino wool suit, cashmere roll necked sweater, plus an enormous gold ring on his finger, adorned with a majestic eagle motif. Unseen to others, he had a small cat tattooed on his back, the symbol of a solitary thief.