Private Moscow (Private 15)

I pushed my way through the chattering crowd, and even though I couldn’t understand a word they said, their meaning was clear. Something terrible had happened. Feo, the big bear of a man, was comforting Dinara, whose eyes were red raw. She broke into fresh tears when she saw me.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Leonid,” she said between sobs. “He’s dead. Veles killed him.”

I went to her and she fell against me, weeping. Stunned, I looked at Anna, who nodded somber confirmation.

“How?” Feo asked, and I sensed the mood of the crowd change.

The residents were all former cops, and shock and dismay were being replaced by anger at the death of one of their own. For some, Leonid had been a friend, for others, a benefactor, but he was a former Moscow police officer to them all.

Anna replied to Feo’s question in Russian, and I felt Dinara sag with each word, doubtless an account of the horror. I looked down and saw she was teetering on the edge of consciousness.

“Let’s go,” I said, and, supporting her, I ushered her through the crowd.

No one paid us much mind. They were all listening to Anna. I was desperate to know exactly what had happened, but I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, and Dinara’s welfare was my priority.

Soon we’d broken free of the crowd and I took Dinara through the building. She seemed delirious and was muttering in Russian. I half carried, half steered her to our accommodation block, and as we started down the corridor, I found my eyes drawn to the very end. The door to Leonid’s room. It would never open for him again.

I took Dinara into her room and laid her on the bed. I removed her coat and discovered her trousers were soaked through and freezing cold from her thighs to her ankles.

“Dinara,” I said, stroking her arm.

I touched her forehead to check for a fever. She felt a little warm, but not enough to worry me.

“Dinara,” I tried again. “I need you to focus.”

I was about to go and get help, when she suddenly turned to look at me.

“Jack, I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t …” She trailed off.

“It’s OK,” I said. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

She was haunted by the ugly memories, and her eyes reflected the horror they’d witnessed.

“He’s gone,” she said simply.

Her eyes filled with fresh tears.

“He’s gone.”

CHAPTER 79

THE DINING HALL was full. More than eighty residents sat at the long tables, drinking and talking in somber tones. I couldn’t understand a word, but I didn’t need to. It was a wake, and like all such occasions it was rich in reflection, memory and sorrow. I sat alone near the windows, looking outside to see the clouds were finally shedding their loads. Large flakes floated down in the bright pools cast by the exterior lights, settling on the frozen ground like the souls of so many dead. Beyond the lights, there was nothing but black night, so impenetrable the rest of the world might have ceased to exist.

I nursed a small glass of vodka, which I’d been given for one of the many toasts that had been raised for Leonid Boykov, but I had no interest in drinking. My mood was already bleak, and alcohol would have tipped me into misery. A good man had lost his life investigating the murder of a fraud and a liar—an investigation I had brought Leonid into.

I was at the very end of one of the long dining tables, surrounded by empty chairs. A few of the ex-cops had gathered at the other end, and there were more spread across the neighboring tables. They didn’t pay me much mind as they sank their drinks and talked quietly. None of them knew the details of the investigation into Karl Parker so I doubted they blamed me as much I blamed myself.

Anna Bolshova was with Dinara, who had stayed in her room. She too blamed herself and kept saying she could have saved him. I hadn’t been able to get through to her, but perhaps Anna could.

Feo was nowhere to be seen. He and another resident had left the building shortly after I’d come into the dining hall.

I was snapped out of my miserable reflection by my ringing phone, and was relieved to see Justine’s name flash on screen.

“Jack,” she said, when I answered. “I got your message. I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“Veles, the man who killed …” I hesitated. What should I call my former friend? I opted for simplicity, even though it perpetuated a lie. “The man who killed Karl Parker. He murdered Leonid. Dinara witnessed the whole thing.”