8
Unsurprisingly, Ozdoyev did not offer a lift, and after collecting our coats, shuddered out into the saturated air. As darkness fell, it seemed to be colder than ever, and Amber linked her arm in mine and moved closer to me so that we could share our little body warmth.
There were even fewer cars than usual to mow one down and not another pedestrian in sight, let alone a policeman.
"Did I do the right thing?" Amber asked in due course.
"Of course, you did," I answer. "The Russian's want that hard drive as much as you want to know the whereabouts of your ex-husband's money."
The Majestic Hotel lay in the distance down the hill, with its canopy stretching out over the street. I turned up my coat collar, wondering why most of the centre of the top was an intentional hole rectangular hole, like a skylight without glass, open to every drop of rain or snow which care to fall. As a shelter for people arriving and departing, the canopy was a non-starter. Of as much practical uses as a bath with no plug.
A mind floating along in neutral is in terrible shape for battle. A black car rolled quietly down the road beside us and came to a halt ten paces ahead. The driver climbed out of the vehicle, and the front passenger door opened. The front passenger stood up onto the pavement, and as we approached, they sprang at us.
The surprise was absolute as his hand snaked out towards my spectacles, and I hit it violently aside as one would a wasp.
He crowded after me across the pavement to pin me against the unyielding stone of the flanking building.
His friend hustled after Amber, who screamed as he grabbed for her handbag.
There was a fierce brutal strength in their manner, and there was no doubt that Amber had hidden their target in her handbag. I wouldn't choose to fight to wear a thick overcoat but to fight, however, seemed imperative.
I kicked the storming passenger very viciously on the knee, and when his head came forward, I grabbed hold of the woolly balaclava he wore and swung him around so that his head hit the wall.
The driver arrived like a whirlwind, and his hand aiming at my glasses. I feinted one way, pushed his arm up out of the way, and then slammed the heel of my palm into the brachial nerve on the side of his neck.
Both men were now incapacitated and lay where they fell.
I looked over at Amber, who looked shocked at just what had happened.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, her voice shaking with a mixture of fear and excitement.
I took hold of her arm. "Come on, let's get back to the hotel."
We walked as quickly and discreetly as we could and were near the Majestic when we heard one of the car doors slam and listened to the car coming behind us.
There was life and waiting taxis and people outside the Majestic. There were also the watchers, earning their keep. I wondered fleetingly if watchers ever went to the help of tourists walking away at speed from FSB agents in black cars and supposed not.
I didn't bother to call for help, and we just walked as fast as we could and made it. Just.
The men in the car must have decided it was too near the Majestic for them to make another attack, especially as we are walking so fast and not strolling along with whole thoughts.
After it had passed us, the car didn't stop but accelerated away past the hotel, and turned right at the end of the street, and went out of sight.
We slowed to a medium-paced walk, my heart thumping madly and chest heaving to take in a vast lungful of cold, wet air. I was nothing like as fit, I thought grimly, as I was twenty years ago, but then I was sixty-three.
We covered the last few yards at an average walking pace and attracted no more eyes than usual when we went through the big double air lock-type glass entrance. However, the warmth inside seemed suddenly cloying, stoking up the sweat of exertion.
I peeled off my coat and collected my room key after Amber had collected hers. We kissed before parting outside the lift on the eighth floor.
9My room looked calm and sane to reassure me that tourists were safe to roam the city's main streets.It could happen in London, I thought. It could happen in New York and Paris, and Rome. What was so different about Moscow?I threw my coat and room key onto the bed, poured a large reviver from the duty-free whisky, and sank onto the sofa to drink it.The attack had been, perhaps, an abduction attempt. Without glasses, I could have been a pushover. They could have got us in the car. And the drive? To what destination?Did Amber expect me to stick to the task until I was dead? Probably not, I thought, but then I don't think Amber underestimated the whole situation.More than anything, I could be lucky again. But, failing that, I had better be careful. My heart gradually steadied, breath quietened to normal.I drank the whisky and felt better.After a while, I put down my glass and picked up the box containing a pay-as-you-go mo
10A limousine collected us about seven o'clock that evening, and we sped down the Komsomolsky Prospect, and I looked two or more three-times out of the window. A black car followed us faithfully, but we were on the main road where that would happen anyway.We arrived outside a restaurant ten minutes late because more snow falling clogged the public transport and taxis almost to a standstill. There was a short queue outside shivering, but the chauffeur led us past the row and opened the firmly shut door.The place was packed, and somewhere there was some music. Led to the one empty table, a bottle of vodka materialised within five seconds."Of the two decent restaurants in Moscow," a voice said behind us, "I like this the better."We turned to find Ozdoyev, standing there accompanied by a tall, slim, and beautiful young woman, wearing a deep-blue velvet jumpsuit and high-heels which made her taller than me, and I am over six-foot."This is m
11The flight home was met at Gatwick at three in the afternoon by Blanche, who, after dropping Amber off to re-join her children, whisked me off to another crime scene."What's happened?" I asked as we headed towards Ascot."Igor Akinfeev died this morning," she replies, her eyes fixed on the road ahead."Don't tell me, suicide," I say, without feeling."Police have been quick to announce that there is nothing suspicious about the death," she says."Who found him?""Avron Cohen, his bodyguard, returned from running errands early this morning. When he knocked on the bathroom door, there was no reply. The missed calls on the oligarch's mobile, which he rarely left unattended, was another reason for concern. So finally, Cohen, an ex-Mossad agent who had guarded Akinfeev for six years, kicked down the door. Inside, Akinfeev was lying on the bathroom floor on his back. A length of a scarf tied tightly around his throat. Overhead, another
12Elena Koshka did not believe that her ex-husband Igor Akinfeev committed suicide. However, when Akinfeev and his wife Elena divorced five years ago, he was ordered to pay her up to £200 million, making it the costliest marriage split in British legal history.She lives in Kensington, west London, in a penthouse overlooking Hyde Park on the first floor of a Georgian row that has probably featured in every BBC period drama since television began. I half expect to see horse-drawn carriages outside, and women are parading in hats.Elena isn't wearing a hat. Instead, her short blonde hair is off in her face with a headband and clad in black spandex shorts, a white sports bra, and a light blue T-shirt with a looping neckline.A gym membership card dangles from a bulky set of keys that must help burn calories simply by being lugged around."Excuse me, Miss Koshka. Do you have a moment?""Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying.""It
13My answering machine is flashing. There are two messages.The first is from Blanche Bradbury:Hi Quintus, it's Blanche. I'm at the mortuary. Can you meet me there? Clunk!Detective Inspector Brooks.Mr Noone, I need to speak to you. Would you mind giving me a call?Just after eight, I dress in casual clothes and make my way to the mortuary. Someone followed me.I didn't know by who, but I just sensed it. Unrecognisable faces in everyday places.Blanche Bradbury wore a dark-blue jumpsuit beneath a surgical gown and a bright yellow face mask covering her mouth and nose. Without any apparent awareness of how lovely she looked, she moved nimbly around the table, taking measurements, her white tennis shoes protected by green plastic covers.She crosses to the whiteboard to scribble up the initial statistics, talking all the time above the squeak of her felt pen. "Alexi Zelenyy weighs one-hundred-f
14Blanche is driving her Mercedes.The suspension is soft; it's like a waterbed on wheels."What do we know about Kayla Zelenyy?" Blanche asks."Kayla Zelenyy is a Georgian businesswoman and philanthropist and now the widow of Alexi Zelenyy. Last year the Sunday Times estimated her wealth at £650m, making her the 196th wealthiest person in the UK. She is the founder and President of the Zelenyy Foundation that supports education initiatives in Georgia. She has two daughters, Marina and Sasha. The death of her husband will spark one of the biggest estate battles ever. Kayla has extensive business and property interests in Georgia and across the rest of the world."She raises her forefinger from the steering wheel. "This is the place."We pull up outside a twelve-foot-high gate attached to a couple of pillars. A perimeter wall stretched around the estate on either side, topped with broken bottles that sprout from the concrete.Th
15We emerge out of the drive and swing right, taking the back road. The Mercedes floats over the dips."Did you see Daler Kuzyaev's face? I thought he was going to have a heart attack.""He's frightened.""No shit, Sherlock? World War III?"Blanche begins listing the security measures, the cameras, motion sensors and alarms. Barklay could have come straight out of the SAS."Blanche, let me explain," I said after she had been talking non-stop for about ten minutes."I wish you would," she said sharply."Daler Kuzyaev is a financier who made his fortune in Moscow. He has been receiving death threats since lifting the lid on a $230 million tax fraud by corrupt Russian government officials last year."Heading back towards North London, I can't get a single question in my head:Who is next?"I need to go back and see Amber Chase," I say, "and I need to have another look around Robbie Chase's apartment again. I'
16Blanche drives me home and offers to cook me something."That's probably not a great idea," I reply, but she's already opened the fridge. I'm embarrassed by the contents. Six bottles of Peroni, grated mature cheddar, parmesan, orange juice, sundried tomatoes and half a dozen eggs."She opens another cupboard and finds a lone onion and some sad-looking potatoes that are starting to sprout."This is going to be a challenge," she laughs."I could get a takeaway," I suggest.Blanche gathers up the meagre supplies and pauses to pull back her hair and loop a band around a ponytail.I open two beers and watch her cooking, and we make small talk about our likes and dislikes, involving politics, food, theatre, cinema, sport, and past relationships. The conversation becomes a little strained."I'm not very good at this," I say. "I've been on my own for a long while.""Me too," she replies, raising her bottle of beer and clinkin