The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (39 page)

He unclipped the lozenge shaped metal clasp, and slid his hand inside to locate a hidden button mounted into a lower side panel. He pressed it sharply three times and stepped back. The entire back wall moved silently open to reveal a spacious lift.

He unlocked the metal clips securing the castors on the easels, and propelled
The Concert
into the rear of the lift. This, he followed up with the Rembrandt. He shuffled in before activating a solitary red button that set the lift into a slow descent, closing up the wall above. One minute later, it glided to a stop, and the door reopened to reveal a well-lit structure resembling an extensive concrete bunker. Lit by soft lights, the temperature was kept at a constant fifteen degrees centigrade to protect the racks of paintings that surrounded the walls, up to a height of three metres. At the far end stood a bank of computer screens, which he crossed over to. Tapping in an encrypted code, and then a password, he accessed one of his many accounts. From this, he then performed the sequence on another screen and transferred $5,000,000. He broke it down into small amounts, passing through several companies, and into a little known shell company, BraCub SA - amidst the offshore banking system of the Cayman Islands. He waited a moment and received the confirmation. It included the statement, the bogus invoices, and bills of sale which confirmed that the entire manoeuvre had been completed without complications.

Using a key attached to a heavy gold chain that clipped onto his belt, he opened a small metal drawer built into the desk. He reached into the back and removed a brown manila envelope. Untying the braided cord that had been wound around a secure clip, he opened it, turned it upside down and shook out six passports: Columbian, Argentinean, Dutch, German, Mexican and Chilean. He opened up each one, studied them for a while, and then made his selection. He returned the other five and retained the Dutch passport, under the name of Piet Van Rooy. He connected to the Internet, accessed the KLM site, took off his glasses, and leant back in the computer chair. He was aware of the myriad of possibilities – none perfect, but it was either that or face the consequences of a top level Interpol investigation.

Holy Mother, Queen of Heaven,
he repeated in his head,
for the love of Jesus, sort this out!

He depressed an array of keys, and then booked an open-ended, first class flight ticket to Jose Marti International Airport in Havana, Cuba.
At least in Cuba, no extradition treaty exists with
Russia or The Netherlands
.

~ * ~

Kolosov gave his watch a quick glance. “This is taking too long. Eltsin, push this thing a bit harder, will you?”

“I’m doing the best I can, and the trucks can’t keep up with us.”
Shit!
He jerked the wheel hard to the right to avoid a large lorry, its glaring lights bearing down on them.

“Fuck the trucks. They can catch us when we get there,” said Kolosov, not noticing the lorry. He reached for the grab rail as Eltsin floored the pedal, and the car lurched forward, leaving the gun team behind. Kolosov leant forward and switched on the siren to maximum blast. “How much longer?” he had to shout over the noise.

“A few minutes,” came the agitated reply.

“There’s going to be blood and shit all over the floor if we don’t do better than this!’

Chapter Fifty

N
ovikov’s distraction was the moment Golub needed. He dived flat behind a large vaulting horse, grabbing at his ankle holster for his backup weapon. Petrovitch hit the floor at the same time, stretching out a skinny hand and snatching the Beretta on the floor in front of him.

Novikov changed direction with a blur of movement, and began to spray bullets in straight rows, like a pneumatic drill hitting concrete. The sound was deafening. Wood chips and plaster shards spattered through the air.

Pointing his gun in Novikov’s direction, Golub squeezed the trigger. His shot filled the hall with a roar as it blasted into the piano, missing its target, and sending out a discordant clash of notes. Petrovitch had reached the Beretta, but there was nobody to be seen. Novikov had disappeared from view.

Manton bent low, unnoticed, managing to rip off Tamsin’s restraints. He lowered her to the ground before pushing her down behind a pile of exercise beams close by. He could see Novikov hiding behind a large crate of props, as he fired another shot in the direction of Petrovitch. The shot hit the Beretta, sending it in a crazy spin across the floor.

The second shot came immediately after.

The bullet smashed through Petrovitch’s outstretched arm, splitting part of his wrist and sending flesh and bone into the air. His scream resounded around the hall. His writhing helped accentuate the dark red stain spreading from beneath him onto the polished parquet floor. The next shot hit his right shoulder, and exited into the doorframe behind him.

Lifting up his head, Manton could see the man behind the vaulting horse fire off another shot in Novikov’s direction, and this time with success. Novikov took a chest shot, tumbled backwards, missed his footing, and staggered off the stage. He hit the floor hard, landing on his back.

“
Da
!” the man shouted.
Yes!
He crouched low, holding his gun outstretched in his hand as he headed for the flight bag containing the money.

Manton continued to press down and cover Tamsin with his body. He saw Novikov move, roll fast to one side, raise his automatic, and blast off a succession of ear shattering shots. Golub had not got halfway to the bag and was hit by two body shots. Three others followed which split his head open in a spray of blood, bone, and brains. He dropped and never made a sound.

For a brief moment, the hall went quiet, broken only by a low moaning sound coming from the wounded Petrovitch. Manton could see him sprawled on the floor, out of action, lying on an ever-broadening red stain. Novikov was also struggling to stand and looked disorientated. His gun had fallen to the floor.

Manton was overtaken by a primeval instinct that couldn’t be defined. In that moment, he grasped the sabre’s hilt and rushed towards Novikov.

Chapter Fifty One

Saint Petersburg

Berezin’s evening involved hosting a major social event which several important people were scheduled to attend. He was obliged to host it, although he was aware there was a strong possibility it could be his last. Maintaining an acceptable face was essential, if he planned to continue his role as a leading donor to the world of fine art. He irritably tapped the end of his pencil on his table, before using it to scratch hard on his misshapen foot. A succession of phone calls fielded by his office had given him cause for disquiet.

Several of his principal guests, who were due to attend his private Gala Evening in aid of Distressed Artists of Russia the following evening, had pulled out. Amongst these were Andrey Busygin, Deputy Minister for Culture, and a delegation from Severstal, the art based charity. They cited unforeseen circumstances and a sudden influx of work. Without them, the evening would be a non-event. There was something not right, and it had an ominous tone to it. If that wasn’t enough, his informant had revealed Kolosov’s whereabouts in Lyon, and was acting on information supplied to him by an Anna Karolin, his former researcher. He hadn’t seen her since the Brodsky episode in his office. She had never returned back to work.

Anton Petrovitch had to be in trouble. He hadn’t answered his calls, nor had he received any texts or emails from him. It was untypical.

He stared out of the window and a damp patch of sweat soaked from his solitary cat tattoo. It only ever did that when danger appeared. He’d never been superstitious, but it was a signal he knew he had to act on.

~ * ~

A soft breeze rippled through the nearby English oaks and Siberian larch trees, hanging elegantly around the area of the Winter Palace, as an early sunset spread across the Neva.

Berezin knew he might never see this again.

Without looking back, he proceeded to his airline connection.

Chapter Fifty Two

N
ikolai Eltsin collided with two vehicles on the way to the Academy, and Kolosov ordered him not to stop.

“Do not stop! If you stop you put more people’s lives in danger. I’m in charge here. Just do as I say. Drive! How much longer?”

“Almost there!”

Kolosov could just make out Eltsin’s reply. The engine roared as he pressed the pedal further, barrelling the Citroën across an intersection, and ignoring a set of red lights. The backend of the car lurched as the tyres struggled for traction, violently protesting as they avoided a cyclist crossing in the opposite direction.

“There, look!” Eltsin pointed to a set of large, black wrought-iron gates at the entrance of the Academy.

“Go for it!” Kolosov yelled.

“Mother of God.” Eltsin’s face screwed into a horrified grimace as he slowed the car into a tight turn, dropped the speed to sixty, and careened headlong into the gates.

They offered little resistance, swinging open with a metallic clang that vibrated throughout the car. Kolosov saw the front-end buckle up and the bonnet concertina
upwards like a roller coaster. Glass and metal exploded skywards.

Eltsin kept going and finally skidded to a stop in front of the steps leading into the school.

“Out, out!” Kolosov shoved a shell-shocked looking Eltsin from the door that had burst open on the driver’s side. They both sprinted up the steps, unclipping their weapons as they went. “It must be this way.” Kolosov pointed in the direction of the sports hall.

Chapter Fifty Three

M
anton held the fencing sabre straight out in front of him. The number of strides were just as he had calculated. Six!

He could see the look of surprise on Novikov’s face, and couldn’t understand how he had survived the bullet. He charged at Novikov, thrusting the sabre point hard into the centre of his chest.

The blade bent into a large arc.

He pulled back in surprise. With a quick pronation of his wrist, one foot forward and the other stretched behind him, he leaned, made another forward lunge, and with maximum force, struck the same area. Again, the blade bent. He stepped back.

Manton, the sabre hanging from his hand, found himself staring into the eyes of the man who wanted to kill him.

He met his stare. As he did, he sensed Novikov’s life. And in that moment of understanding, he knew his own life could be near its end.

“How…?”

“You surprise me, Manton. Class-Two Kazak has its uses. You call it Kevlar, I believe.” With his free hand, he pulled up his sweater to reveal the dark blue shape of body armour. “Essential in my line of work.”

Manton’s mind raced, looking for a way out of this, a means to save Tamsin.

He still held the sword and remained in striking length, but could he strike Novikov where he wasn’t protected, before he could fire the gun? He knew there was only one way to find out. His grip tightened on the sabre’s hilt, allowing his muscles to tense, ready to spring. The approaching and unmistakeable sound of police sirens racing in their direction didn’t distract him as he kept his sights on Novikov. He could see that he heard them too.

“Back off, Manton, or I’ll fire.” He aimed his gun at Tamsin who half stood beside the exercise beams. “One bad move and she’ll be gone from you forever. Get over here – now!” He shouted at her without looking.

From the sound of the police cars, Manton knew they must now be at the gates. His stare did not waver, and he knew something was about to give.

“Do as he says, Tamsin,” From the corner of his eye, he saw her hesitate.

She began moving in his direction.

“Faster.”

More police sirens.

Petrovitch moaned on the floor.

Novikov grabbed Tamsin’s hair and pulled her towards him. She made no sound, but her look was all Manton needed.

Manton lunged forward, his arm bent back, striking at full length while he ducked under Novikov’s gun, and drove the point through the under part of his groin and struck bone. He pulled it out, its blade smeared with blood.

Novikov howled in anguish, and bared his teeth. The gun wavered. Manton braced his body for the bullet.

One shot fired directly into the floor, but Novikov still held the gun pressed hard on Tamsin’s head.

Nothing.

“Manton, I’ve killed enough people. You two are worthy opponents, and you shouldn’t have to die. The police are here, and I’ve no wish to be here when they come through that door. I’m taking her with me. Security…” His voice broke with a grimace of pain.

Manton saw the sweat running from his forehead.

“I compliment you on your skill, Manton. You’ll have to show me how when we next meet. For my own reasons, I need you both alive.” He lowered the gun a fraction and fired a shot into the emergency door. It flung wide open, activating the security klaxons, and switching on a series of revolving flashing lights around the building.

Manton panted heavily. He forced himself to nod and remain motionless, stunned with a sense of uselessness as he watched him drag Tamsin to a police truck parked near the gates, its occupants heading into the main entrance.

Chapter Fifty Four

T
he door to the gymnasium burst open with a violent slap against the wall. Kolosov dived through it, arms outstretched, gun extended, as he landed squarely behind the corpse of Golub. He pointed his pistol towards the gaping emergency exit. Eltsin sprinted in behind him, crouched low, covering the other direction.

“Kolosov!” Manton bawled and pointed outwards. “He’s got Tamsin and he’s armed.”

From behind Kolosov appeared a team of armed agents, and Special Police armed with assault rifles, all wearing blue caps and the insignia of Interpol.

“Eltsin! Paramedics! Sort these two out.” He pointed at Golub and the semi-conscious form of Petrovitch.