The Domino Game (15 page)

Nikolai struggled against them as they propelled him across the field of broken glass that littered the lobby. They had him locked between them, one arm each, twisted up behind his back, forcing him down and pushing him forward like a crippled beggar, the man in the overcoat on his left, steering him, blood-covered fingers clamped on the front of his shirt. Nikolai’s brain grappled to find sense amidst the chaos.

What was it he had said in the instant before the second man’s head had exploded?

Treason. They were arresting him for treason.

He staggered forward, bucking and rolling against his captors, trying hopelessly to throw them aside. Ahead of him and to the right, the door to the supervisor’s flat edged open a sliver and he saw pale, nervous eyes following him, watching him pass.

They must have known about his meeting with the American. How? Who had told them? And where was Hartman? Why wasn’t he there? Why hadn’t he come as he had promised?

They broke through the doorway and onto the street and Nikolai heard the howl of sirens rising in the distance. Could it have been Hartman, or someone connected with him, who had fired? Was that it? Had they been watching and seen what was happening and tried to stop it, or was the gunman someone else entirely, the shot ordered by Ivankov and meant for him?

The dead man lay in front of them now, his body and shoulders intact, what was left of his head strangely compacted, the jaw and one side of the face clinging to what remained of the shattered half shell of skull. The man on Nikolai’s right kicked the body out of their path and Nikolai stared at it as he stumbled past, the shock setting in as he suddenly realized that this could have been him. Then from somewhere behind a piercing cry sliced the night and a terrible shiver twisted through him as he recognized Natalia’s voice.

Summoning all his strength he brought his captors to a stop and swung back across his shoulder, searching for her. Above them a random pattern of light now punctuated the sheer dark façade of their building, silhouetting the woven patterns of lace curtains and the cautious figures that hung back behind them trying to discern what was happening in the street. He scanned upwards to the top row of lights and found her in the living room where he had left her. She had flung the curtains apart and wrenched the sash open and she was poised there at the center of the window, leaning into the night, screaming his name over and over, in a terrible, anguished wail, clutching Larisa desperately to her side, the little girl’s terrified face just visible above the sill.

Nikolai stared back at them, unable to speak, helpless and beyond help. The tortured look he had seen in Natalia’s eyes just minutes before came back to him. Had that been a premonition of this moment, or had she seen even more? Did that explain the wrenching desperation of her cries? Never in his life had he felt such total desolation and despair.

I love you, Natalia. Always.
He locked his gaze on her and silently mouthed the words there had been no time to say, and whether she was able to read his lips or his mind he had no idea but her voice fell suddenly and eerily silent. Then they were forcing him forward again and the invisible thread that linked them stretched thinner and thinner until finally it snapped. He let go then. Stopped resisting since there was no longer any point. Let them force his head around and shuffle him into the street towards their car, and it was then that he saw the other vehicle headed towards them.

It was the sound of the engine that drew his attention first. Its note was tight and highly strung, a thoroughbred, with bright halogen headlights that flared as it leapt forward towards the narrow avenue separating the line of parked vehicles. Nikolai dipped his head, blinded by the glare of the headlamps.

The car was wide and low with glass as black and as gleaming as the paintwork, but as it came closer the front passenger side window began running down, opening a hollow void in the seamless black shell. The man in the overcoat saw the window move, recognized the threat and reacted instantly. He let go of Nikolai’s arm, stepped back and plunged his hand inside his coat, but the Mercedes was already sweeping through the narrow passage in front of them, so close that its wing mirror grazed the front of Nikolai’s jacket. In the momentary confusion Nikolai might almost have been able to break free if he had tried but instead he remained where he stood, staring after the disappearing vehicle, his eyes blinking against the afterburn of the halogen. Beside him, the man in the overcoat let go a tense breath and slid his gun back into its holster. Nikolai felt him take his arm again but he was hardly aware of what was happening. Instead he stood riveted to the spot, the muscles of his face twisted in a complex frown as he watched the brake lights flare at the corner and heard the tires scream as the big sedan arced to the right, heading back towards Mira.

There had been no chance he had been mistaken. The black Mercedes had passed just inches away, its side window lowered, giving Nikolai a clear view into the cabin. The light was bad and their glances had touched for just a fraction of a second but there was no doubt. The man in the passenger seat was Hartman.

Somewhere within that freeze-framed moment of recognition their gaze had connected and Nikolai had seen a look he couldn’t place cross the American’s face. Then, whatever it was, it was gone, submerged beneath the fathomless river gray eyes as they turned deliberately aside and the black sedan swept past him into the night.

PART TWO

13

NOVOKUZNETSK, South Central Russia

Nine Years Later

“Peaceful, isn’t
he?”

The prison orderly peered down through grubby spectacles into the deep, pine box, twisting his head until it was in alignment with the corpse. He sniffled, ran a grimy cuff across his nose and paused a moment to inspect the result.

“Damn chemicals.” He tossed his head towards the draining tray next to the stained enamel sink where a massive steel syringe lay wrapped in a coil of rubber hose. His narrow features pinched in distaste. “All the crap I had to pump into him to stop him going rotten.” He turned his gaze back to the frail, white smocked figure, inspecting the alabaster face with a kind of professional curiosity.

“You know,” a peculiar proud smile settled across his features, “twenty years Florinskiy’s been here and I tell you this is the best he’s ever looked, and you know why? It’s because he’s finally had all the shit sucked out of him.”

He gave a wheezing laugh then fell abruptly silent, as if realizing he had overstepped the bounds of propriety. He sniffled again and took a step to the side, away from the two men who had been standing behind him.

Like the orderly they were dressed in prison clothes – twill shirts buttoned to the neck, soft cotton trousers, felt scuffs on otherwise bare feet. But there were differences. Over his uniform the superintendent wore a shabby, white laboratory coat, while the second man’s shirt was striped with the wide gray bands that were the mark of the EDR – a dangerous repeat offender. Borisov, the man in the coat, took a step forward, raised his right arm and brought it to rest on the edge of the coffin, inspecting the corpse. As he did the orderly’s eyes fell to Borisov’s ruined wrist and fingers and his features twisted in an involuntary grimace. Behind him the other man remained still and silent. After a time, Borisov turned towards him.

At first glance the man in the striped shirt was an ordinary figure, his height and build average, his features unremarkable. Like most of the prisoners his head was normally shaven against the lice, but over the last two weeks – since Florinskiy had been admitted to the infirmary in the last crippling phase of his tuberculosis – he had allowed his hair to grow so that now his skull was covered in a fine crop of brown hair, needled with gray that glistened in the light of the naked overhead bulb. Otherwise, save for the day’s stubbled growth, his face was smooth, his pale skin drawn taut across its angular bones. His eyes were deep brown. Intelligent. Almost ascetic. On first impression they seemed vulnerable, but that was one of the deceptions, Borisov knew now; beneath their surface lay a shield of pure granite.

Borisov knew all about the deception of first impressions, since his initial misreading of this man had proven to be an almost fatal mistake. It had been the second great misjudgment of his life. The first had been twenty years before when he was in his early thirties, already a renowned Moscow surgeon, on his way to what was destined to be an illustrious career. It wasn’t so much his preference for men over women that had brought him to ruin, but rather the peripheral imprudence in its pursuit. More precisely, his seduction of a fourteen year old youth who happened to be the son of a senior member of the Politburo at the time. From the moment the boy’s father had discovered them together in his lakeside
dacha
the system had turned on Borisov with merciless, scalpel-like precision.

Arrest. Detention. A swift, unpublicized trial. A unanimous verdict of guilty on the charge of deviate behavior and an unappealable sentence of twenty-five years in prison, the severity of the punishment a reflection of the fury of the young man’s father and a cogent reminder of the power wielded by the political administration over the courts. Following which Borisov had been deposited here at the Penitentiary of Novokuznetsk, three and a half thousand kilometers from Moscow.

In less than a month all that he had been and could have been lay in ruins.

That had been two decades ago and now finally he could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel: an appropriate analogy, since that was how it felt. As though he had been trapped for twenty years inside a foul, dark tunnel, misplaced with the vermin and scum whose lot it had always been to inhabit this world, until suddenly an unbelievable opportunity had fallen right into his lap. It had its risks of course, but he had considered them carefully and reached the conclusion that they were manageable and balanced evenly by the offered reward. If everything now proceeded according to plan, not only would there be money for his retirement, but before winter he would be out of this godforsaken sewer for good.

It had been a long time. A terrible waste. But things might have been worse.

After only a year at Novokuznetsk he had been made superintendent of the infirmary, a position that had provided him with the opportunity to pursue both his interest in medicine and his personal proclivities with a degree of comfort and discretion. In fact, life had been moderately tolerable until the day, three years ago, when the newcomer had arrived.

The guards had led him here for his examination as they did all the new arrivals, leaving him with a wink and a grin while they went off about their business. There had been no records as there usually were, just a card with a name, a date of birth and date of first imprisonment. Strange but not extraordinary. Borisov had seen it before.

His first inspection of the new prisoner had been cursory but even then he hadn’t been able to help but notice the eyes: strangely human, it had occurred to him, for someone who had already spent so many years in a Russian prison. He set the card aside, tossed the newcomer a cotton smock, indicated a screen in the corner and instructed him to change. Then when he emerged Borisov had begun his examination. Throat, ears, eyes, weight, height, heart, lungs, blood pressure… studiously scribbling notes on his clipboard as he went.

Through it all the newcomer had remained silent and passive, following every instruction to the letter, taking his place, finally, on the examination table, lying still and staring up at the naked lights, while the doctor did his work.

Compliant. That was exactly the way Borisov liked them. But he had sensed something different about this one. Special qualities that had interested him even more than usual.

The next procedure was one he had carried out a thousand times before. From a medical perspective it was of course just routine, but for Borisov it had always been an exhilarating adventure, since these next moments would tell him how far he might be able to go and how willing his subject was to let him. It wasn’t something he did with all of them: only those he found appealing, and the newcomer was certainly that. On their journey to date his hands had already travelled across the taut muscles of his back and chest and felt the coiled tension in his shoulders. He had seen the tattoo emblazoned on the man’s chest of course, but apart from noticing its unusual intricacy he hadn’t paid it a great deal of attention since prison tattoos were the norm rather than a novelty. As a professional and a man of culture, such self-inflicted disfigurement was not a practice he endorsed, however even he had to admit that a well-crafted and executed design could sometimes be quite arousing in a peculiar way. In retrospect he realized it should have been warning enough, but by now Borisov had made the mistake of allowing his excitement at this new body to take over. And the eyes. How vulnerable they seemed. How compelling.

He watched them, gazing down at the impassive face as his hand slid up beneath the hem of the cotton gown and his fingers did their professional work. Five seconds. Ten. Pause. Make some notes. Unless he had discovered something of concern, in a normal examination that would have been the end of it, but for Borisov this was where the game really began.

He looked at his notes and let his expression become pensive – as if he needed his own second opinion. Then, the decision made, he stripped the latex glove and returned his hand again, his breath quickening as his fingers touched his subject now in an unmistakably different way.

His eyes must have closed. Otherwise he would have seen the viper strike that almost destroyed what was left of his life.

A clamp of tensioned steel locked around his fingers, dragging them away, twisting them, grinding them together until he heard the bones snapping, one after another, like twigs in his palm. By the time the pain registered the second hand had snared his throat, the thumb driving sideways relentlessly into his windpipe, his scream of terror choked back in the sudden, desperate struggle for breath. Even now he could remember it, every last agonizing moment. His mind was blinded by pain, his vision blurred by his own tears, but even now he could still remember exactly what he had seen.

The newcomer had swung to his feet and stood above him now, his face utterly devoid of emotion. The hand at his throat forced Borisov to his knees while the other gripped his broken fingers above him, squeezing them, grinding them, torturing them even more. By then he was sobbing, begging for mercy. Whimpering and groveling like a wounded dog until the pressure on his hand eased and the grasp moved lower, leaving the ruined fingers splayed from his palm like a cluster of dead flowers. Then the pressure at his throat eased, and Borisov could remember how he had gasped in relief, believing that it was over, but it wasn’t.

Now both hands seized his wrist, one below – holding it in a vice – while the one above clasped the heel of his hand, bracing it, bending the wrist back further and further until finally the joint snapped like a stick of dead birch.

At the time his scream had seemed to go on forever and perhaps it would, since even now it still echoed in his mind. His tormentor must have let go then, since Borisov could remember slumping into a heap on the bare concrete floor, sobbing blindly, trying to nurse his ruined hand, staring at it, while the sudden sounds of confusion erupted around him. Deep voices, calling out; running feet in heavy boots; keys working locks and the slamming of doors. He tried to fight aside the relentless pain, compelled to see and understand its cause, blinking up at the impassive creature above him as the uniformed figures tried to wrestle him away. There were four of them at least, tugging and wrenching, but somehow the newcomer had managed to hold his ground. Long enough, at least, to look down and speak the words Borisov would always remember.

“So, doctor, we understand one another now.”

The second man’s eyes travelled an unhurried path from the coffin to Borisov’s face, dwelling there a moment.

“Take me through it again.”

Borisov shivered. It was the same calm, even voice. Even now he still had difficulty meeting the other man’s eyes. He turned to the orderly and tossed his head in dismissal, waiting until the small, sinewy man had left the room before responding.

“The priest came yesterday, as you said he would. After all this time it seems Florinskiy, the Jew, has converted.” Borisov’s lips twisted in a cynical smile. “The arrangements have been made for the body to be returned to the family in Tula. The train leaves tonight at eight. He is due to be collected from here at six.” He glanced up to the clock set high above on the unadorned wall of the prison mortuary. “An hour from now. That should be time enough for you to settle in to your new accommodation.”

Nikolai Aven lowered his gaze deliberately to Borisov’s twisted fingers and the doctor’s smile vanished. He swept his hand from the edge of the coffin and thrust it deep into the pocket of his coat and for a second his eyes met Nikolai’s with a flash of defiance.

“You have the rest of the money?”

Nikolai slipped a hand inside his prison shirt and drew out a package wrapped in newspaper and bound with twine. Borisov regarded it warily for a moment then snatched it away, inspecting it with an expression of distrust. Nikolai watched.

“You needn’t worry, doctor. You will find the amount is as we agreed. Our
understanding
.”

Borisov’s eyes flicked up at the word. He glanced at the package again then thrust it into the deep pocket of his coat and turned aside. The plank lid of the coffin was propped against the wall. Next to it stood a crude wooden trolley with hammer and nails, a cloth bundle, a grubby envelope laid out on its surface with neat, surgical precision.

“Then we should begin.” Borisov’s tone carried a strained lightness. He lifted the bundle and passed it backwards, speaking across his shoulder.

“Clothes.”

Nikolai took the rolled garments.

“Papers.” Borisov passed him the envelope. Nikolai took it. Extracted the contents. Studied them for a moment, then drew a thin sheaf of grubby banknotes from the side pocket of his trousers and folded them with the papers back into the envelope and set it aside on the low timber platform where the coffin rested.

Borisov continued to regard the trolley. “And now you must…”

His words were checked by the grip on his shoulder. He froze. Swallowed and waited for the voice. Nikolai stepped closer, until his lips almost touched the older man’s ear.

“Look at me, doctor.”

Borisov turned slowly, flinching at the soft, dark glimmer of the other man’s eyes. Nikolai took his time, regarding him with composed detachment.

“I want you to reassure me.” Borisov felt the warm scent of the other man’s breath grazing his face. “I want you to tell me that you would not even think of betraying me.” While he spoke he unfolded the bundle of clothes, found the shirt and shook it free, raised a hand to his neck and unhooked the top button of his prison uniform, his gaze all the while locked on the doctor’s nervous eyes. His fingers travelled downwards snapping the buttons, the edges of the striped shirt falling open. “Tell me again, doctor, that you understand the consequences of deceit.”

Borisov’s eyes fell downwards, mesmerized by the terrible intricate beauty of the mediaeval landscape engraved across Aven’s chest, the detail as fine as pen and ink on parchment. Graceful fields. A mighty, rushing river. A bridge spanning it, reaching across to a magnificent walled city and, rising behind the walls, the masterpiece… the cathedral, a work in progress. Seven towers arranged in a strange and dreadful balance of symmetry and proportion, capped by steep tent roofs and twisting onion-domes and below them, adorning the panels of the city walls, a row of intricately defined human skulls. If Borisov had noticed them on that first day, never in a million years would he have considered doing what he had done.