The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (9 page)

I’m finished.

He heard another move up behind him.

“
Sei stil! Halt den mund!
”

Mikhail did as he was told. He kept still and his mouth shut. A rifle butt smashed into the back of his neck. He couldn’t prevent himself from collapsing as pain reached into every nerve of his breath-starved body.

Chapter Nine

Perth, Australia, the present

F
lying in from Moscow, the Finnair flight had been faultless and was in its final descent. Novikov shut his eyes tight. Logic told him it was ridiculous to be nervous of flying. He felt this more so when landing. He forced himself to open his eyes and look out the window. Trees and roads below were visible, and rushing closer at an alarming speed, causing his heartbeat to accelerate into an unnatural gallop.

He had good reason to be afraid.

The memory never left him. And since then, he’d been unable to relax or sleep when flying. It all started when he was six-years-old, and the plane he’d been travelling on crashed in Moscow’s Khimki forest, killing both his parents. He’d been one of three survivors.

It had begun spinning… going down fast towards a forest of trees, snow covered, rushing rapidly upwards. Above him, a twirling blue, but spinning sky – next to him sat his mother and father, eyes shut tight, heads bent low in the crash position. His mother had stretched out her arm, attempting to cover him with her body. But the seat belts had been too tight to make that happen.

“Vlad! Vlad!” she had wailed. His father was muttering rapid prayers, his hands held up rigidly on his face.
Our Father… Hail Mary,
over and over. His prayers were drowned by the screams and hysteria of passengers who knew their time on earth was about to end.

“We love you! We love you!” They were the last words he heard her speak. The plane had lurched upwards, and then flipped backwards before diving steeply in an uncontrollable sideways pitch. Its engines screeched in a violent frenzy of scorching flames and plumes of acrid black smoke billowing into the cabins and fuselage.

There was no escape.

After an agonizing eternity, the world around him exploded in a flash of orange fire and billowing black smoke. He glanced in horror at where his parents had been sitting… they had vanished.

“Mama! Papa!” His screams went unanswered. Where they had sat, a large hole had opened its jaws in the fuselage.

Hurtling upwards.

He began tumbling.

Pain.

Agony.

And then, he was being dragged back down into snow-covered trees. Whiteness assaulted him, engulfed him as he was thrust through treetops and branches. There was nothing more he remembered.

He’d spent two months in a hospital. The doctors had marvelled at his amazing lack of serious injuries. All he had to show for his nightmare was scorched skin, a broken leg and arm, plus three shattered ribs and a snapped collar bone. The doctors told him that at his young age, recovery would not take long. He’d heard them whispering that it was the possible mental trauma that concerned them more. He hadn’t known what that meant, but guessed they were talking about his feelings. From then on, his life had changed with chilling consequences.

The Finnair flight landed safely and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. Not long after, he smoothed back his long blond hair, adjusted his sunglasses, presented a British passport and passed through immigration and security without a problem. He made his way to the luggage carousel, picking up two large black suitcases. Ten minutes later, he emerged from the entrance of Perth’s airport, the warmth of the sun causing him to realise how tired he was.

He strode to a waiting taxi and in perfect English, asked for the Intercontinental Hotel, a fifteen-minute drive from the airport. He took little notice of the traffic or the unfamiliar ambiance. Once inside his hotel, he registered under the name of Toby Walker, producing a UK passport as proof of his ID.

Novikov reflected on the ease with which he had always been able to bypass elaborate checks and security arrangements. He attributed that to the fourteen years he worked for the SVR, and four of those with an offshoot of a clandestine civil wing attached to
Spetsnaz –
The Special Forces Division
operating
under the umbrella of the GRU – The Main Intelligence Directorate, which never officially admitted to the unit’s existence. It specialised in murders, assassinations, the use of guns, garrottes, poisons, and binary weapons, and had endowed him with deadly skills. He’d been told by his controller that his selection was not only based on his technical and weaponry aptitude, but included his unflinching abilities in disposing of the unwanted, the scum and detritus of social and political life. Gorbachev’s ‘New Thinking’ and Yeltsin’s attempts to turn Russia into a free economy had never foreseen what chaos the breakup of the Soviet Union would bring, and the oligarch’s stampede for wealth. Novikov’s skills had been much sought after and a number of significant ‘disposals’ had been attributed to him.

Times continued to alter and Novikov reached an age where he was considered too old, so he was pensioned off. His reward was a modest pension, and the Order of Lenin. But inactivity had been something he couldn’t get used to. He knew there had to be a market for his expertise. He ran an advert through all major newspapers in Russia.

Transactions of all descriptions undertaken by highly experienced operative. All appropriations and disposals considered up to the highest levels. Utmost privacy and confidentiality.

Replies were few, but those he received came from the
Novyi Russkly, Oligarchs
and
Blingsheviks –
the latest wheelers and dealers shaping a radically corrupt, new style Russia.

Berezin had impressed him, although he didn’t trust him. He was a no-nonsense, cultured man who knew what he wanted, paid handsomely, and asked no questions. He let you do what you had to do, to get the right result. Berezin had found him and much to Novikov’s pleasure, had begun to make use of his aptitude. He told himself it was like swimming – once learnt, never forgotten.

With his suitcases on the bed, he unpacked. His prime concern was to check his equipment and reassemble his carbon and ceramic PSS pistol, undetectable by metal detectors. It had not been damaged or discovered. It slid with slippery ease into its leather shoulder holster before he laid it with care next to the bed pillows.

After stripping, he folded and placed his discarded clothes on a nearby chair, before performing his daily one hundred push-ups. He followed this with fifteen minutes of strenuous power yoga. Coupled with a Qigong yogic breathing exercises. Once finished, sheens of sweat, glistening like a field of dew covered his entire body. Taking a long slow breath, he stood still, breathing deeply to look at himself in the full-length mirror. He had, even as a young boy admired the aesthetic muscular tone of fit male bodies, and had always regarded his own as fitting into that category.

It was time for a hot shower. Novikov indulged in dreams of being with a fine young man.

Fifteen minutes later, his lust extinguished, he lay back on the bed, emitting a long yawning sigh, allowing a warm quilt of sleep to envelop him.

~ * ~

Zimmerman’s Auction Rooms

Peter Hartley had good cause to be pleased with himself. The week had gone well, not quite a record, but almost. More sales like the last one, a $100,000 take. His commissions would ensure Zimmerman’s bright and healthy future.

Unlocking the doors, disconnecting the security system and checking the CCTV system, he wandered into the reception area. Only Myra Kelly, the receptionist, was due in, and he always enjoyed her arrival. The saleroom looked empty, except for a clutch of new consignments ready for next week’s sale. What he wanted were more lots like the European paintings Mr. Manton had bid for. Prices like that were more than welcome. It wasn’t often he had visitors from overseas in his salerooms.

A rattling sound at the door and Myra Kelly walked in, looking bright-eyed and alert.

“G’day, Peter,” she said, her voice light and breezy.

“G’day, Myra. How’s it going?”

“Pretty good. Bring on a few more sales like the last and I might be even better.”

“You can say that again. Did you sort the shipping arrangements?”

“Yep. DHL arrived yesterday evening and everything that has to be couriered, flown or shipped has gone.”

“That pair of paintings?”

“Yep. They’ve gone too, and hey…”

“What?”

“That Mr. Manton… mmm.” She grinned. “A right spunky pom, and spending all that money on a pair of weird looking paintings.”

Hartley grunted but gave no response. He’d always had an eye for Myra.

Outside, glistening through the windows, he noticed the first hints of autumn turning green leaves into the beginnings of a yellow hue.

~ * ~

Shuffling up towards the Goodwood Parade, his down-at-heel shoes scuffing along the tarmac, hobbled a Catholic priest. His black cassock, frayed around the bottom edges, flapped around his feet. Beneath steel-framed glasses, his sunken face had the imprint of a zealot who had lost his belief, a caricature of a religious man who had spent too long on his knees. A small wart quivered like a walnut on the corner of his top lip.

As if in pain, he tottered when he walked across the road towards the Parade, oblivious of the oncoming traffic and the angry honks of several cars. He bent his head low, his face obscured from view. Every so often he paused, leant on a nearby wall, placed his hand on his chest and gasped like an exhausted dog before moving hesitantly onwards. He found himself outside Zimmerman’s auction rooms. Again, he leant against the wall and began looking at photographs of items recently sold and others about to be sold. Giving a rasping cough, he pushed open the double door and moved into the reception.

At first, he thought it was deserted, but then he spotted a woman sitting at a computer wading through a pile of paperwork. His cough caused her to look up.

“G’day, Father. How can I help you?”

“G’day. My name is Father Cornelius. Is it possible to speak to your auctioneer please?”

“I’ll see if he’s available.” Disappearing for a few minutes, she returned and Father Cornelius sat, with a look of weariness in a nearby chair. He held a large white handkerchief to his mouth. “If you follow me Father, I’ll take you to him.”

Standing with a noticeable tremor, he nodded with a grave air and followed her through the door.

“Mr Hartley, this is Father Cornelius.” Myra moved to one side.

“What can I do for you, Father?”

“I suspect I’m a little late, but I was interested in a pair of European oil paintings, lot 275.”

For a moment, Peter Hartley paused. “I’m afraid, Father, we sold them two days ago at auction.”

“That’s a shame. We rather liked them back at the seminary.”

Hartley raised an eyebrow.

Cornelius shook his head. “Can you tell me where they came from and who bought them?”

“They came from a deceased’s estate. There weren’t any others. But I’m not allowed to tell you who bought them. That is confidential.”

Cornelius had a slight coughing spasm before he spluttered, “Are you certain about that?”

“Quite certain.”

“Oh dear.” He moved his crucifix through his fingers and turned as if to leave.

Hartley spoke. “Look, can we make a small contribution to your seminary funds?”

“That won’t be necessary, thank you.” He spun around.

Hartley and Myra’s smiles disintegrated when they saw themselves staring at the barrel of a menacing black pistol that had appeared from inside his cassock.

“This is not a time to be confidential. Move over there next to him.” The pistol waved at Myra, whose bottom lip began to tremble.

Peter Hartley felt his face drain. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I told you what I wanted. Now tell me who bought them.”

The pistol pointed straight to Myra’s head.

“No! No!” she yelled.

Cornelius stared into Hartley’s ashen face. “Give me the address or you may regret what will happen.” He lifted the gun barrel and fired a shot that whined and impacted into the wood panelling behind them.

“Don’t, please.” Hartley’s plea was accompanied by two hands raised, palms outward towards the priest. “I’ll give you what you want.”

An unexpected burst of sunlight from the overhead windows shone down, revealing Cornelius’s full face, disclosing a shock of blond hair protruding from beneath the side of his large hat. Hartley saw it plainly, and noticed that the priest realized his mistake. Hartley began rummaging through a wad of invoices and paper work, locating the details for lot 275.

“Here, it’s here.” He thrust the paper towards him.

Father Cornelius snatched it away, glanced at it, before placing it in a pocket beneath his cassock.

“Turn around now and do exactly what I tell you. Make one mistake and I promise it will be your last.” He gestured to Hartley. “And you stay exactly where you are.” Myra didn’t move. He pressed the gun up hard into Hartley’s temple. “You,” he spoke to her, “get me all the keys to this place and make certain all the doors are locked.”

Myra, unable to stop shaking, moved over to a wooden key rack, removed two bunches of keys, and then moved to the front doors and locked them before she walked falteringly towards him and handed them over.

“Now, get your packaging tape.” He pointed to a nearby table where two large brown rolls were stacked. She did as he ordered.

“Now get down on your knees and both of you, hands behind your backs.” Within minutes he had secured their wrists, arms and legs, and placed wide tape strips across their mouths. They were unable to move. “I’m leaving now and I’m sure someone will find you soon.” He spoke to Myra. “You are lucky. Today, I’m feeling merciful. God must be sending you his blessings.
Khristos Vas Kryy.
”

He made the sign of the cross over them. His one shot sent Peter Hartley into the next world.