Delicate Indecencies Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Suzanna

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My thanks to: Bob, Fiona, Anke, and Simon for the introduction to the life of the Libertines. Mario and his Cyberspace Station — www.mprofaca.cro.net/mainmenu.html — a must for any spy! My editor, Nicola, at HarperCollins whose technique with the lash is first rate. John and Nicol for the company and music. Katya in Minsk for the journey to Kimzha. Paul Stepanek for the Czech phrases and spelling. And special thanks to the woman who started it all — Jane Bury — for the school photo of Jane and Teschmaker.

  EPIGRAPH

  I seek the love that is more cruel than pain.

  Isadora Duncan

  Love hurts.

  Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  Prelude

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Two

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Three

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  End Note

  About the Author

  Also by Sandy McCutcheon

  Copyright

  PRELUDE

  He had always known that it would end with the funeral. Having come so far and risked so much he had expected to feel a sense of elation, but instead he was restless and irritable. The feeling was exacerbated by his own act of betrayal. He had made the decision not to return home and yet here he was carrying out one final task for his former masters. Of course the weather hadn’t helped. He had not reckoned on there being so much fresh snow at this time of the year. Following the cars from the church to the cemetery he had started to worry that there might be some sign of his labours the previous evening. But when the priest had led the mourners to the grave site it had been through a pristine white landscape unmarred by even a single set of footprints.

  He had enjoyed the church service, not because he was interested in the family’s sad recollections of their daughter’s short life, or because he was religious, but rather that it was leading to the moment when the coffin would be covered with the dense wet soil and he could start his new life. And yet when he stood beside the grave and watched the coffin being lowered, he wondered if the girl was at peace. It struck him as an odd thing to have crossed his mind. He didn’t know the girl; had not even known her name until he saw the report of her death in the paper: a young prostitute, stabbed to death by a drunken client. It had taken him only a couple of hours to locate the family and they were exactly what he needed: impoverished working-class folk who, in their moment of grief, were welcoming of the stranger who appeared at their door. They took the proffered card but looked to his face for understanding. Patiently he explained that his charity provided all the burial expenses for those in need and soon he was sipping a cup of tea beside a small gas heater in their rather shabby living room.

  The burial service came to an end and again he murmured his condolences to the family and watched as the car he had paid for set out on the journey back to their home. But he remained, hugging his arms around him against the cold. He stood and watched until the council gravediggers filled in the grave and patted the last of the soggy dirt down with the backs of their shovels. And still he stood, appearing to all the world like a man frozen in grief at the sad life that had come to an end so young. He watched as the stone slab was lowered onto the earth and only as the workers hurried away into the approaching twilight did he move.

  He walked to the side of the grave and, after removing the bunch of flowers, lifted up the small vase, his fingers probing the small cavity until he located the wire. Gently he pulled at it until he had just enough exposed to extend out of the cavity, over the edge of the grave and into the dirt beneath. Having satisfied himself that it couldn’t be seen, he returned the family’s flowers to the vase and replaced it in the cavity. Now he was done. He stood up and looked around, but he was alone amongst the gravestones and concrete angels. It began to snow again; large goose-feather flakes from a leaden sky. On the walk back along the path towards the entrance of the cemetery he wondered how long the demon he had buried would lie sleeping — how long it would be before someone returned to raise the dead.

  When he reached the gates he was annoyed to find that the old man wasn’t there. There was only one car in the car park and it wasn’t his. He glanced at his watch. It was well past the time he had arranged to be picked up. Fortunately there was a telephone over at the kiosk by the car park. He set out towards it, then stopped as he saw a man step out of the lone car. To his astonishment the man greeted him in Russian.

  ‘Comrade!’

  ‘Yes?’ he replied cautiously. There had been no indication in his instructions about anyone else knowing where he was. Christ, had they learned of his decision to jump ship? Had the old man betrayed him?

  The stranger saw the apprehension on his face. ‘Relax, Comrade. I’m Krasikov. I bring greetings from the Centre. I am to ask you if you’ve completed your work.’ He raised an enquiring eyebrow.

  The man relaxed and allowed himself a smile. ‘Yes, Comrade Krasikov, you can tell those in Moscow Centre that the lily is well and truly planted.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Krasikov beamed broadly, then added conspiratorially, ‘I hear rumours that there may well be an Order of the Red Star in the offing.’

  The deflated feeling the man had been experiencing deepened. He had always dreamed of the rewards that might one day come his way. But there was a bitter irony in them being offered at the very time when he had made the decision never to return home. He tried to disguise his feelings. ‘I was simply doing my duty.’

  ‘Talking of which . . .’ Krasikov began and fumbled in his pocket. ‘I was asked to also give you this.’ He pulled the pistol from his pocket.

  For a second the man looked at the weapon as though he didn’t comprehend. He gaped at the silencer, then up at Krasikov. ‘But you said the Order of the Red Star . . .’

  ‘Posthumously.’ Krasikov shrugged and pulled the trigger. It always amused him that a dull pop could throw a man backwards in such a manner; it seemed far too inconsequential. He looked down at the man clawing at the snow as though he were attempting to climb a wall. Then he leaned over and fired a second shot into the back of the man’s head.

  Later he took the body into the city and, after placing a bag containing a small quantity of cocaine in the dead man’s coat pocket, dropped the body at the rear of one of the city’s sleazier hotels. And, just as he had anticipated, the media and the police treated the murder as yet another gangland slaying.

  Krasikov enjoyed his work. He had no idea what the man had done to deserve the sentence he had carried out on behalf of the state, but if the organs decreed him guilty then it was so. Krasikov went straight to the airport for the long flight home where, if there was a Red Star to be had, it certainly should be his.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Moscow, December 2000

  It seemed, the man thought bitterly, that his entire life had been reduced to a series of boxes.

  It had been almost a decade since he had announced his retirement as KGB chief with the Mosco
w Military District. On 11 October 1991 the KGB was abolished and it seemed to Konstantin Ivanovich Laverov that it was a suitable time to get out. The world he knew was already disintegrating around him and, given the unusual speed with which his resignation was accepted, he knew that he had made the right decision. There was, it appeared, to be no place for the old guard in the new pecking order so, suddenly weary of life, he cleaned out his office and packed his personal files and possessions into boxes. He had been taking the last load home to his apartment on Ulitsa Novyy Arbat when he was confronted by two men who flashed badges at him and insisted that he accompany them. It had been a miserable moment. He climbed into the car with the pessimistic thought that nothing had really changed. Retirement, it seemed, was not an option. It surprised him that he didn’t feel scared; he just hoped that they would get it over with quickly. His work had always been all consuming, but especially so since his wife had left him over a decade previously. He had worked diligently, putting in the long hours and then trudging home to the empty box that was his apartment where his only comfort was his nightly ration of vodka. It hadn’t been much of an existence. He had no real retirement plan other than a vague notion of learning to fly fish, or maybe getting a cat. Nothing really.

  But the car journey had not been to prison or ended with a bullet in the back of the head. Instead he found himself being taken to the Parliament and ushered courteously into a small back office. If the destination had come as a surprise, it was nothing to what he felt when he was introduced to the man who wanted to talk to him. Academician Yevgeni Maksimovich Primakov had been one of Gorbachev’s leading foreign policy advisors but had now taken over as head of the new foreign intelligence service, the Sluzhba Vneshnei Razvedki or SVR.

  Primakov had taken a moment to size him up, his face impassive. Laverov looked older and a little more ragged around the edges than he had expected. Maybe he was ill? There had been no health assessment on his file. The suit was worn and shiny, the old tie tightly knotted around the man’s creased neck. The hair, a mousy salt and pepper, had been brushed back a little too severely and Laverov’s glasses looked like standard military issue from years before. It was an image that reassured Primakov. The man standing to attention in front of him was certainly not on the take. Those who had accepted some of the more dubious benefits of the new era didn’t dress like this.

  ‘I want an older and wiser head, Konstantin Ivanovich,’ Primakov explained amiably. ‘An advisor. Not an official position.’

  He paused, watching Laverov for a reaction. None was forthcoming so Primakov smiled and continued. ‘Your pension will be generously increased and we’ll probably need to call you in from time to time.’

  Still there was no reaction, other than a curt nod of the head. It didn’t surprise Primakov. He had selected Laverov because of his stoical nature and the comment in the file that described him as a man who could be relied on not to rock the boat. Still, he wondered that the man hadn’t been more grateful.

  It seemed so simple at the time, but what it had translated into for Laverov was another ten years of work. Much of the time it was analysis of old archives, sometimes just sitting in on debriefings and, when asked, offering an opinion. Cleaning up other people’s Cold War shit was how he would have described it if anyone had cared to ask. Nobody did. Laverov never saw Primakov again, except on television or in the newspapers. By 1996 he had risen to be Boris Yeltsin’s Foreign Minister and two years later Prime Minister. Now he was gone and Laverov had no idea who he was really answerable to any more. Everything had to go through Boris Kozlovsky, but it had taken Laverov about thirty seconds during their first meeting to realise he was merely a channel. He restrained himself from asking which department Kozlovsky was working for, but it stood to reason the man had inherited him from someone in the SVR. Just another chattel handed down from person to person. Still, there was an upside. Primakov had been right about the generous adjustment to his pension and Laverov was soon able to afford a better suit and even a second-hand car. He had decided long ago not to question his good fortune. Life had certainly become more comfortable. At least until this latest assignment.

  Laverov looked at the pile of boxes. The instructions for this job had been couched in such secrecy that he wondered if somebody up the chain of command wasn’t suffering from a resurgence of Stalinist paranoia — locked rooms and an armed guard outside the door at all times. It was just a pile of old boxes.

  Laverov waited until Kozlovsky had locked the door behind him before opening the first box. It took him a while to realise what he was looking at, but when he did he knew he was stepping into very dangerous territory.

  Moscow, April 2001

  Teschmaker arrived in Moscow on the early flight from Vienna, flying into a day that was bleak and drizzly. Out of habit he treated himself to a coffee at Café Margarita and, giving in to his sweet tooth, allowed himself two small vatrushki. The sweet cheese-filled tarts were rich and filling and, apart from one Russian restaurant in his home town, nobody made them better than the chef at the Margarita. He acknowledged it was an indulgence and knew he really should be getting on with the job at hand, but he also knew that what lay ahead of him would probably be damp, cold and unpleasant. He helped himself to a newspaper from the rack and ordered a second coffee and a shot of Cristall.

  The front page of the Komsomolskaya pravda showed a smug George W Bush announcing plans for a new nuclear defence system. The newspaper noted that it seemed clear the Americans were preparing to walk away from the 1972 Anti-Ballistic Missile Treaty. The remainder of the page was devoted to a lengthy interview with Russian Foreign Minister Igor Ivanov and his comments about Bush’s policy. It appeared Ivanov welcomed Bush’s offer to consult with the allies and with Russia and reiterated Moscow’s readiness to agree to major cuts in strategic weapons. Ivanov also said that it was impossible to view the ABM Treaty in isolation from other strategic arms control issues and underlined that Russia remained committed to retention of the ABM accord. The cartoon on page two showed George W Bush building a huge missile defence system while under his nose a nuclear bomb was being towed up the Potomac on a barge crewed by Chinese sailors. Teschmaker turned to the editorial section and smiled at the lingering debate about Putin’s revival of the old Communist national anthem and the red flag. It all sounded very back-to-Brezhnev. It seemed that somebody had forgotten to mention to the newspaper’s editors that the Cold War was over.

  He put the paper down and for a while just sat and enjoyed the feeling of the vodka settling into his stomach, but then, deciding that he could procrastinate no longer, he paid his bill and headed regretfully out onto the street. He would have liked nothing better than to stay in the cosy old café but he knew that if the rain set in it would make his job even harder. Fortunately the weather appeared to be improving; a pale sun struggled to cast shadows and the biting wind that had greeted him on arrival had departed the city.

  Teschmaker walked quickly up Tverskoy, heading towards the Chekovskaya Metro. He knew the central area of Moscow extremely well, but his destination out in Volkhonka was unknown territory and he had been forced to consult a map to locate it. As far as he could tell it was several miles south of the city centre and, according to his map, he would have to take the Serukhovskaya Line out to the Sevastopolskaya Metro and from there walk to Ulitsa Kahkovka.

  He found the place without any trouble. It was easy to spot because even now, some seventy-two hours later, there was still smoke coming from the rubble. Teschmaker could feel some residual warmth in the bricks. He was about to make his way into the building when a young policeman emerged from inside and officiously directed him to report to the local police chief who was lounging in a police car parked across the street.

  The windows were fogged on the inside but as Teschmaker approached one of them was rolled down, allowing an acrid cloud of cigarette smoke to escape. The older, overweight man seated inside made no attempt to get out and greet him, just issued a surly
demand for his papers. Teschmaker, having been through this ritual so many times before, stoically fished them from his jacket pocket and handed them over. As he did he caught a glimpse of an expensive gold watch. So the police chief accepted the largesse of the local players. It was the same the world over, he thought gloomily. Probably hasn’t had his salary paid in months and is unhappy at being out in the rain. Unhappy to have his career sunk in the suburbs. There was no point in trying to be civil so he stood back and watched as the policeman took his time lighting a fresh cigarette.

  ‘Just an accident,’ the man finally proclaimed, glancing in the direction of the ruined warehouse. He had already done his walk-through and realised that there was nothing worth salvaging so had returned to his car while a couple of his men moved through the shell of the building. Going through the motions. He made no attempt to hide his resentment at Teschmaker’s intrusion onto his patch, peering at his documentation as though it was written in Swahili.

  ‘You won’t find anything,’ he said dismissively. ‘My office is next to the Metro. You can pick up your papers from there when you’re finished.’

  Teschmaker shrugged and went off to look around. He had to acknowledge that the results were impressive. All that remained of the rows of washing machines and refrigerators were twisted shells. Pallets of what might once have been food mixers or toasters were now fused pools of glass and blackened plastic. But he also found that the arsonist had been careless. And it was certainly arson. General Insurance International had been dubious about the claim — a hefty sum on a policy only recently taken out, and with a stipulation that any payout would be in American dollars. Well, that made sense, Teschmaker thought; it certainly wasn’t worth burning a warehouse full of electrical goods if you were going to be paid in roubles.