‘You don’t seriously believe Konstantin makes his money through some small black market operation?’ he said, more of a statement than a question. ‘He’s thick with the military here in Leningrad, ever since he got back from Afghanistan.’
‘Moneylending, debt collecting…’
‘And the rest… prostitution, drugs. No, I’d rather make it on my own… start small.’
Viktoriya looked at her old friend and narrowed her eyes exaggeratedly.
‘I’ll just have to work harder, faster.’
He would have to, no doubt, she thought. But Misha was not entirely wrong. She had stopped asking Konstantin how he made his money. He would tell her nightclubs, debt collecting, unofficial pawnshops around the city. The reality was that she didn’t want to know. While Misha ran around on public transport and borrowed the odd vehicle, Kostya ran a fleet of Volgas, had his own large apartment close to Nevsky Prospect and a coterie of bodyguards. By comparison, she had only once ever visited Misha and Ivan’s depressing flat share and vowed long ago not to repeat the experience.
‘And how are you and Kostya getting along?’
‘Good,’ she answered ambiguously.
Viktoriya had never told Misha what had happened that night four years ago. Antyuhin washed up in the spring thaw as Kostya had predicted. The newspapers reported a random mugging. Kostya had never demanded anything in return, not put her under pressure; he had been attentive, considerate. It had been a good six months before she slept with him. He had just been assigned to an army intelligence unit and was about to fly out to Afghanistan. She had no idea when she would see him again or even if she would. They had gone to a party together, and while everyone else brought beer and vodka, Konstantin brought cocaine. She had snorted back a line and had sex with him in the cramped apartment bathroom, while people banged impatiently on the door.
‘When do you think you can get me those items?’ Misha interrupted her thoughts, pointing at the piece of paper flapping in her hand.
She looked down the list: one hundred pairs of jeans, fifty winter coats, three refrigerators, a single and three double mattresses. The list went on.
‘A week… maybe two.’
She had her uses too, of course, she thought. Both Misha and Konstantin had recognised an opportunity when she had been appointed as a logistics manager to the main freight haulage business out of Leningrad. It provided Misha access to a whole new network of suppliers, and Kostya the perfect delivery mechanism for his regular shipments from Afghanistan. She was good at her job too. Bit by bit, her director, Maxim, had relinquished day-to-day control to Viktoriya, content with extracting his cut, assured that his private customers received a better procurement and delivery service than the state could provide its own citizens.
Viktoriya felt a nudge in her back. At first she thought the waiter had bumped into her, until she saw the bear-like figure of Ivan waving an envelope at her and Misha.
‘The papers…’ said Misha, a broad smile on his face.
Viktoriya suddenly remembered the small cylinder in her pocket and padded her jacket to check it was still there. It was a relief to be actually returning it after so many years. For nearly ten years it had lain buried under her mother’s floorboards in a plastic bag, almost forgotten. Misha had never asked where she had concealed it, only if it were safe. She wondered why he wanted it now and what had prompted him to bring it out of hiding.
‘I have to be going,’ said Viktoriya, standing up.
She gave him a hug and slipped the palm-sized object surreptitiously into his hand before turning to Ivan and kissing him farewell on both cheeks.
‘When are you off?’ asked Viktoriya.
‘As soon as I buy the tickets and confirm a time with Venti… I’ll need a small van when we arrive back at Pulkova.’
Viktoriya rolled her eyes. ‘Let me know your flight details. I’ll have someone meet you.’
Misha lent forward and gave her kiss on the cheek. ‘I knew I could count on you, Vika.’
‘So does everyone.’
Chapter 9
MILAN
From his window seat, Misha traced the Neva east to the Gulf of Finland as pasture gave way to conifer and the city disappeared from view. Looking around the inside of the Ilyushin, he hoped its critical parts were in better shape than its visible internal workings. He tried again to fasten his seat belt and gave up. Ivan sat across the aisle in a seat that failed to recline, reading a copy of Soviet Sport. Still, he thought, its comfort compared favourably with the last time the two of them were in a plane together somewhere over Afghanistan, not long after their column had been decimated by a mujahideen ambush in some godforsaken valley. He wasn’t so sure, though, that it was any less dangerous.
In leather jacket and jeans, Misha considered what an incongruous pair they made in a sea of dark suits. He checked for his shoulder bag tucked under the seat in front. Just about all he had in the world was zipped into the inside pocket.
A tall air hostess with long red hair stretched effortlessly across two empty seats and served him stewed tea from a heavy-looking ornate metal pot. Ivan winked at him. Misha was glad he had brought him. He could not remember a time when Ivan had not been around: fishing expeditions with Ivan’s father on a Sunday morning, school, and Afghanistan where his own talent for trading had come to the fore. It was always Ivan who watched his back and kept an eye out for unwanted elements – Russians as well as Afghani.
Malpensa was packed, the lack of Cyrillic confusing. In the baggage collection hall, men in close-fitting impeccably tailored suits, deconstructed tweed check jackets and beautifully cut jeans, milled around conveyors. Women modelled stylish haircuts, trouser suits, short, close-fitting leather jackets, high heels and denim. The contrast with the Leningrad flight could not have been more startling. Russians in poorly fitting, uniform, black wool suits and heavy shoes dragged worn-out suitcases, reinforced with leather and canvas belts, onto airport trolleys. Misha cast a look at Ivan, who he could see was contemplating the same scene.
Luigi had told them to take the shuttle. Three came and went before they were able to get on.
‘Well at least they have air conditioning,’ commented Ivan once they had found their seats. The June heat was searing. As the shuttle made its way in heavy traffic along the Milano–Varese highway, Misha counted Mercedes, BMWs, top-down Porsches, Fiats and a dozen other makes tailgating bumper to bumper, cars he had never seen before. It was a far cry from back home: antiquated Ladas, punctuated with the occasional ZiL limousine or Chaika parade car.
After forty minutes, the shuttle began to weave its way through Milan’s suburbs. Hoardings and billboards boasted breakfast cereals, coffee, electrical goods, and beautiful women with big smiles, hair products and perfume. Ivan pointed at a grocery store with fresh produce on display under a brightly coloured awning. They passed a supermarket and shoppers pushing trolleys laden with food and household shopping.
‘Maybe we should stay here,’ Ivan said across the aisle.
They had entered a fantastic world, a cornucopia, one which his countrymen were simply unaware existed. And yet, staggeringly, it was only a three and a half hour flight from Leningrad and Moscow. It was as if they had landed on an alien planet.
Ten minutes later, the shuttle pulled up at Stazione Centrale. The driver directed them to a bus stop. They caught the number forty-six, missed the stop, and walked the last two hundred metres to the two-star hotel recommended by Luigi.