Private Moscow (Private 15)

“I had a call from an old police contact. He wants us to meet his client first thing this morning.”

“Who’s his client?” Dinara asked.

“You’re not playing the game,” Leonid remarked dryly.

Dinara rolled her eyes. “I’m surprised none of your old partners killed you. How many of them did you drive mad with this kind of nonsense?”

“Six,” Leonid replied seriously. “You’d make it seven, but of course we’re not partners.”

“Who are we going to see, Leonid?” Dinara asked testily.

“Maxim Yenen,” he replied.

Dinara whistled. “You’re kidding me,” she said as they drove past the accident.

Maxim Yenen was one of the most powerful men in Moscow. An oligarch with a wide range of business interests, and high-ranking friends at the Kremlin.

“Do I look like the kind of man who jokes about such things?” Leonid asked as the car picked up speed again. “A commission from a Kremlin insider would suggest our standing with the authorities has changed.”

“Perhaps,” Dinara replied, looking in the wing mirror. “That might explain why we have two FSB agents on our tail.”

Leonid glanced in the rear-view.

“Three cars back. I recognize the technique from my own training,” Dinara said.

“Well,” Leonid replied, shifting gears, “let’s see if this tired old Moscow policeman can give our highly trained intelligence agents a run for their money.”

CHAPTER 14

LEONID STEPPED ON the accelerator and the Lada shot forward. Ostensibly a sensible family car, the former cop had opted for the top-of-the-range model, which he’d had modified at a police garage. The improved performance didn’t turn it into a Porsche, but it did give the car sufficient muscle to push Dinara into her seat as it accelerated. Leonid threaded his way past slower-moving vehicles, and when she checked the wing mirror, Dinara saw their tail was trying to keep up. Not very subtle, she thought.

They were heading clockwise around the Garden Ring and were near the Kalashnikov Monument.

“What’s your plan, detective?” Dinara asked.

“I’m no planner,” Leonid replied. “I prefer living in the moment.” He swung the wheel as he passed a truck, and the Lada jerked left and veered in front of the larger vehicle. The truck driver gave a prolonged blast of his horn and his brakes screeched as he stepped on them hard. The Lada SUV shot forward, narrowly missing a car in the other lane, and crossed the median, which was nothing more than a pair of painted white lines. Leonid pulled the wheel left again, and the car lurched onto the counterclockwise side of the busy highway. He swerved to avoid the westbound traffic, and earned more horn blasts and tire screeches from startled drivers. As they passed the Kalashnikov Monument and the sprawling gothic skyscraper that loomed behind it, suddenly all was calm. The Lada’s rear end gave a final little waggle as Leonid settled into the middle lane, and when Dinara looked back, she saw the pursuing vehicle had pulled into the median and stopped. The two men got out and looked in her direction. Both seemed frustrated and one was talking on a phone.

“Nicely done,” Dinara said.

“Thanks,” Leonid replied, without taking his eyes off the road.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, of course.”

“Well, you can’t have everything,” he said flatly. “I used to do mini-moto when I was younger.”

Dinara gave him a blank look.

“Racing with small motorbikes. Before I got too old and fat.”

“You’re not fat,” Dinara told him truthfully. He was a lean, muscular man who kept himself fighting fit.

“But I am old,” he said. “Divorced, old and washed up.”

“I wish you’d told me all this in your job interview,” Dinara joked. “Where are we going?”

“Kolomenskoye Park,” Leonid replied.

“Take the long way. Go west.”