The Death of a Torpedo

Mikhail put his arms around the old lady and gave her a tight hug as she cried.

“Wh-what was that?” she asked between sobs.

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I just hope Vova gets to Kolya before it’s too late.”

The old lady returned his tight hug with an even tighter embrace of her own.

Vova tried his best to run on the snow and ice without slipping. He was so caught up in his urgent mission, that he didn’t feel the biting chill of the harsh winter, that turned each of his breaths into an ethereal apparition. The only cold was the icy grip of fear that had taken hold of him. Every heartbeat resonated like the ticking of a clock.

The young man sprinted through the frozen labyrinth that were the rough and narrow alleyways of Moscow. Each step he took was a gamble, a fifty/fifty chance he would either be able to stay on his feet, or that he would lose his footing and end up landing on his ass.

His heartbeat thumped at breakneck speed. He zigged and zagged between the tight alleyways and hopped the odd fence.

He arrived at a tall, high-rise apartment building, one of many in this part of the city that housed hundreds of souls within it. The snow covered the tops of the grey apartment blocks like icing on a cake.

Vova took a few breaths, inhaling the cold air, before going in through the large steel door. The interior of the building was as drab as the outside, and the aroma of stale cigarettes and pickled food filled the young man’s lungs.

He got in the lift; as the metallic doors of the lift parted for him, he pressed the button for the sixth floor.

This was the last stretch of his journey.

Nikolai woke up from his slumber to the sound of a constant, hard banging on his door. A panicked voice shouted from the corridor of the apartment.

Shadows cloaked the bedroom. The only light in the room had made its way through the Venetian blinds. A spectral glow, which snuck in through them and illuminated the mess inside the room. Clothes lay discarded on the floor in a small mound of fabric in front of a wooden wardrobe that age had chipped and cracked. An old bed with a rusted metal frame sagged under the weight of threadbare blankets.

“Kolya, wake up!” The nervous voice shouted. The banging on the door continued. “You have to get out of here!”

Nikolai thought, "Please, just let me sleep," but his wish would not be granted, so he flung the bedsheets aside. He sat on the edge of his bed in only his underwear, rubbing his face and then running his fingers through his short crew cut hair that was turning grey, as the vestiges of time took their toll on him.

The pounding on the door continued.

“Give me a minute!” Kolya said, loud enough for the person behind the door to listen. He got to his feet and stumbled towards the apartment door.

He was a beast of a man, heavyset and muscular, but with a large, round gut that made him look like a barrel with muscles. Tattoos decorated his body, a tapestry of ink that told the story of who he was and the experiences he had been through. Whereas most people kept a journal, he had his life story inked onto his skin with needles.

“Jesus, do you have to be so loud?” Nikolai barked at the young man behind the door. He opened it, still half asleep and yawning. The bright yellow light of the apartment hall invaded his apartment and bathed it in a golden hue.

“Someone’s coming to kill you,” Vova said.

Kolya nodded his head; it didn’t even register a single raise of an eyebrow.

“Okay, thank you for telling me,” Nikolai said. His voice showed no emotion; he might as well have been reading the phonebook.

“I don’t think you understand,” the younger man implored. “You need to get your clothes on and get out of here.”

“I don’t think you understand,” the older man said, using the authority that came with age to cut Vova off. “I’m tired of running and I’m tired of hiding. Please, just let me be.”

“Are you sure?” Vova asked.

“I’m sure. I just want to get back to sleep,” Nikolai said, before closing the door on the young man’s face.

Vova stood in the apartment corridor. He thought about knocking on the door again. But he knew from the way Kolya had spoken and reacted to the news that it wouldn’t matter; he had the look of a man who had accepted his fate. He was a man standing on the ledge of a building and refusing to be talked out of it; instead, he would be diving headfirst to the ground from the highest floor possible.

The young man buried his hands in his pockets and left. He knew he had played his part in the story of tonight. He had given the best performance possible and read his lines with all the emotional weight that they carried, but he knew now that his role in the story was over.

All he could hope for was that the script had a happy ending.

It didn’t.

Chapter 3: Two Guns

Nikolai stood alone in the dark. An otherworldly glow shone through the wooden slits in the Venetian blinds. They cast shadowy prison bars across the room. He thought for a second about how he would spend his last hour, minutes, or even seconds, since he did not know how much time he had left.

The light cast a serene glow across the surfaces that it touched, including the old wooden wardrobe that stood in the left of the room. He stumbled towards it, under the watchful eyes of the photos that hung on the wall. They tracked his movements, including an entire platoon of young men in Red Army uniforms holding rifles in their hands.

A young Nikolai smiled at the camera, with one arm around one of the soldiers in that photo and his Dragunov rifle slung across his body. Many of those young men never made it back from Afghanistan. Nikolai was one of the lucky, yet unlucky young men to make it back and witness what life had become in Moscow. A dark curtain had been drawn over the country, as if the sun had stopped shining.

He opened the old wardrobe with a forceful tug on the handle. The hinges yelped in agony; the years having taken their toll not just on Nikolai, but even the furniture in this cramped apartment he called home.

In the wardrobe he found the one object he was looking for, the one thing he cherished the most, the one item he wanted to die holding: his Dragunov rifle. It was both sinister and alluring to him, a cold reminder of forgotten tales and ruined lives. The rifle's sleek lines boasted the precision of its crafters, as if the devil's minions had forged it in hell's fires. The wood stock, dark and polished, glimmered. Nikolai grabbed the rifle with the tender care that he would hold a lover.

He unloaded the rifle with a flick of his wrist. The led rounds landed on the wooden floor before rolling away from where Nikolai stood with both of his hands on the rifle. He stood with his eyes fixated on the door. He gripped the rifle in his hands.

Nikolai looked at the clock on his wall. The ominous ticking and tocking of the clock sounded louder than it ever had before.

He could hear footsteps outside his apartment door. They were faint, but they grew louder as whoever was outside got closer to the door. The gap between the bottom of the door and the floor had been bright; a strip of golden coloured light that was then eclipsed by the dark silhouette of a pair of shoes. Whoever it was had come to an abrupt stop.

This is it, Nikolai thought.

There was clicking of the lock. The door was being unlocked from the outside. The door opened, revealing the person behind it. The assassin held a pistol in each hand. Nikolai said nothing; with two guns pointed at him, he smiled as if he were being visited by an old friend, as opposed to being visited by a man whose sole intention for tonight was to snatch Nikolai’s life from him.

“Well, you’re here now,” Nikolai said. “You might as well get on with it.”

The man at the door didn’t wait any longer and was more than happy to oblige. He pulled the triggers of both guns and fired a volley of bullets at Nikolai’s chest. With every shot fired, there was a loud, monstrous roar as the man fired both guns again.

The pungent scent of gun smoke filled the tiny room. Nikolai’s rifle landed on the ground with a loud thump, yet he had stayed on his two feet. He staggered backwards holding his punctured chest. Blood leaked and trickled down his body from the bullet holes.

Nikolai smiled at his assassin, a crazed, wide-eyed grin that revealed a full set of teeth that had gone red with blood. He spat a thick crimson glob at the ground. The blood and spit landed just in front of his feet with a sickening splat.

“Is that all you got?” Nikolai said before closing his eyes. He knew what was going to come next, and this time, he knew he couldn’t withstand the second wave of bullets.

The guns spoke once more. They did not have to speak again, as Nikolai landed backwards on his bed with the screech of bedsprings. Puddles of blood formed around the bullet wounds in his chest before leaking down onto the plain white bedsheets of the cramped single bed he had been sleeping on. Nikolai’s eyes may have been looking up at the ceiling, but they were no longer seeing anything.

The man in black holstered his guns. He took one last look at the mess of a man that was lying in a starfish like pose on the bed and bolted from the scene.

The snow continued to fall, further burying the city and its people beneath it. The soft, pure, and relentless snow could hide the sins of the night, drawing a veil over its secrets and the inevitable truths that will rise and haunt the living like phantoms in the cold, cruel light of dawn.

Chapter 4: The Case

Thousands of souls trod the pavements of Arbat Street, their feet churned the snow into a soiled, black mire that clung to footwear.

Just off the bustling and snow-covered street of Arbat, there was a small, dimly lit street that led to an office block. A grey building that had seen better days and was someway off from the other blocks on the main part of Arbat, that was geared towards tourists and anyone looking for a warm tea to offset the bone chilling cold. It was an unassuming office block, with a weathered sign on one of the windows that read: Vladimir Chaika, Private Investigator.

The office itself was basking in the warm glow of the light that hung from the ceiling. Beneath the lights on one side of the room, there was an old wooden table. Polished yet scarred from years of use, the table had become jaded by the stories and scenarios it had witnessed throughout the years.

There was a wooden bookshelf which was overflowing with yellow case file folders; some had even turned a light brown colour because of their age.

On the right-hand side of the table sat a vintage typewriter; the letters on the keys were almost worn out from use. Despite its vintage status, it wasn’t aging like fine wine, but more like a carton of milk on a scorching hot day. On the left-hand side was an ashtray filled with cigarette butts and ash. In the middle of the table, there was a stuffed yellow envelope.

On each opposite side of the table were two chairs. The person sitting behind the office desk wore a tidy grey suit with thin white stripes and was Vladimir Chaika, but everyone called him Volodiya. He even had it printed on his business cards.

He was a tall figure with a strong jawline and high cheekbones that gave him a rugged demeanour, especially with the stubble as opposed to the clean-shaven look other men may have favoured. He had a broad forehead and jet-black hair that was slicked back and tidy; there wasn’t a single hair out of place. He had a pair of deep-set light blue eyes that glistened under the amber light of the room, yet despite their brightness they seemed to act as a disguise for a darkness within him.

On the other side of the table, on a cushioned wooden chair, sat a real schlub of a man, Ivan Petrov. A doughy short man whose remaining hair was on the sides of his head, a hairstyle that resembled a horseshoe. He wore a blue suit, but it looked wrinkled and worn out, like he had kept it for too long. On the man’s shirt there were a few light brown stains, and he wore a tie in a very loose and messy knot.

Volodiya got the sense that this was the type of man who birds would shit on in the morning, and then the rest of the day, life would shit on him.

Volodiya picked up the envelope that rested on the table and stretched his arm out towards Ivan. Before handing him the envelope, he retracted his hand just as Ivan was about to grab hold of it.

“I warn you; you’re going to see some things that are going to make it hard for you to smile for quite some time,” Volodiya said.

Ivan nodded as the private investigator stretched his arm out, offering the envelope to him. Ivan took the envelope, his hands trembled as he held the envelope and he chewed on his lower lip.

Volodiya decided it was a good time to open his table side drawer, which contained a few bottles and shot glasses. For a moment, his hand hovered over the bottle of Armenian cognac. He decided that was too good to waste on Ivan, so he opted for the vodka. He filled a small glass with it before placing it in front of Ivan, who tore open the envelope.

Just in case, Volodiya thought.

Ivan now held the photos that were in the envelope. He scanned them one by one.

Picture 1: An image of his wife and a man meeting in front of the entrance to a cheap hotel. They are all smiles. Smitten teenagers who should know better than to be caught out in the open by a hidden photographer.

Picture 2: The man and the woman are now kissing as they hold each other in a tight embrace.

This is when Ivan’s tears flowed, like cheap booze at a bar.

Picture 3: They enter the hotel together, his arm around her waist.

The sobbing and sniffing got louder.

Picture 4: In a hotel room, the man and woman are now kissing. Her hands unfastened the man's belt.

The sobbing continued, as well as the occasional “no” Ivan blurted out.

Picture 5: In the same hotel room, the woman lies on her back, her legs wrapped around his back as they kiss.

Picture 6: Her face in close-up, lips curling, and eyes closed in an image of bliss, as the other figure in the still image has his mouth on her neck.

“I’ll kill her, I swear I’ll kill her!” the man bellowed in between sobs with tears streaking down his cheeks.

Volodiya rolled his eyes as Ivan continued to cry. He had heard it all before and knew how to respond to such promises, especially when they always lacked the conviction to pursue them. He knew the type, too scared to burst a grape, let alone kill another person.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he said, as the man continued to weep.

Volodiya couldn’t stand criers, especially when they were men.

Ivan tore the pictures and slammed his head onto the table.

“Don’t cause a flood in here, Ivan. I’ve just had the floor cleaned,” Volodiya said. He got to his feet and stood beside Ivan, who now had his head buried in his hands. He slid the glass of vodka closer to him. “Have some of this. It’ll help clear your mind.”

Ivan gulped the drink down like a thirsty dog lapping up water from a puddle. Volodiya gave him a pat on the shoulder.

“You’ve just got to accept that what happened has happened. Your head is a mess right now. You’re angry and upset. Just take some time to think things over and then decide what you do next — marriage counselling or divorce.”

The private investigator didn’t expect to be playing the role of a motivational coach, but for the money he was being paid, he didn’t mind.

“You’re right, Volodiya. I need to get my head screwed on right.”

“Of course I am, you know it makes sense,” Volodiya said, faking a smile as good as any actor on a daytime soap opera. “I mean, aside from this, you’ve got a good career and you’re making good money, right? Which firm do you work for, again?”

Ivan wiped away his tears.

“Moskva Capital Advisors.”

“Good.”

“We’ve just been hired for the Monarch account.”

“Even better, now come on, get on your feet. You can’t be here keeping that seat warm all day. I’ve got another client coming in soon,” he lied.

Ivan got to his feet whilst slamming the empty glass onto the desk, and then he grabbed Volodiya in a bear hug. He was now in a vice like grip (Volodiya was sure no woman in his life had held him with such vigour).

“Thanks, Volodiya,” Ivan said. “Thanks for everything.”

“You only have to thank me once.”

“Sorry, I can never thank you enough for this.

“I’m pretty sure you just have.”

“I mean…if you…you know… ever need anything, let me know.”

Ivan then put on his coat and stumbled out of the office, much to the private investigator’s relief.

He went back to his desk and checked his schedule. From six in the evening onwards, he was free. There were no more appointments. He would not have to act as a private investigator or a motivational coach for the rest of the evening.

He thought about what he would do with his free evening, until the phone in his office shrieked and disrupted all thoughts of time spent curled up with a book and a glass of brandy. Volodiya picked up the phone. The voice of the receptionist for the office block, Yulia, greeted him.

“You’ve got an appointment,” she said.

“No, I don’t.”

He checked his schedule. It was empty, just like the last time he had checked it a few moments ago.

“You do now,” she informed him.

“With whom? I have no more appointments today.”

“A Miss Valeriya Volkova.”

The private investigator thought for a second and relented. If this woman thought she could just get an appointment by turning up, it meant only one thing: she had a sense of entitlement, which also meant she was rich.

“Okay, send her in,” he said. Volodiya straightened his tie and jacket, which Ivan’s bear hug had ruffled.

The door to the office creaked open. He stood up right, like a soldier greeting his drill sergeant. With the corridor light shining behind her, she was a beautifully shaped silhouette, and when she sashayed into the office, she glowed like an actress under a spotlight.

Light illuminated her face, revealing her lipstick's light tone and her icy blue eyes that glistened. The face was a delicate canvas, with high cheekbones and a soft glow of porcelain skin. Her brown hair shone like a crown in the office's warm amber hues; it cascaded over her shoulders in silky waves. A slender waist accentuated the rounded curves of an hourglass figure. She moved with a natural grace, every step poised and effortless.

“Good evening, Mr Chaika,” she said, in a husky voice that was both harsh yet sensual to hear.

“Good evening, Miss Volkova,” he said, armed with a smile and the most charming voice he could muster up. “Please take a seat.”

Volodiya circled his desk, the worn leather of the office chair sighing as he settled into it. When sitting opposite her, he noticed there was an icy quality in her blue eyes. They resembled frozen lakes in winter. The dark, black, strapless dress she was wearing contrasted with her eyes. The silk material of the dress stressed her body and revealed her figure, whilst leaving the rest to the imagination of any man she caught the attention of.

Volodiya deduced from the way she strutted, and with every step she took, she was aware of her beauty and the impact it could have on any warm-blooded man. But there was a vulnerability in her. He noticed it in the way her eyes flickered with a tremor of uncertainty.

“Alright, Miss Volkova,” he said as he grabbed a pen and a notepad. He clicked the button at the top of his pen. “You’re here. You’re in my office. What can I help you with?”

“I’d like to apologise for the state I’m in,” she said as she wiped her eyes.

“No apology needed.”

“You see, I’m a daughter in mourning.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

She held her emotions in better than Ivan did. Volodiya respected her more for it and respected Ivan even less.

“So, is this an issue to do with his will? Some sort of fraud related to the family inheritance?” He said, reeling off any reasons anyone would need a private investigator after the death of their father.

She shook her head.

“Well, what is it?”

“I need help to investigate a murder,” she said in a flat tone. “My father’s murder.”

Her right hand clenched into a tight fist.

“Murder? That is outside my remit. I’m a private investigator, not a homicide detective. I’ve often worked on jobs that involve adultery, blackmail, fraud, and extortion. You should go to the police with such a request.”

Her right hand relaxed.

“I think you know, like everyone else here, the police are about as useful as lipstick on a pig,” she said.

“Some pigs look good without lipstick,” he quipped.

“Spare me your wisecracks.”

“If I do, I won’t have much more to offer here.” Volodiya shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not a homicide detective.”

“I don’t need a homicide detective; I need a private investigator for this.”

“Why should I take a job that is as far out of my remit as Vladivostok is to Moscow?”

“I have money, lots of it,” she stated in a way that was like someone announcing that the sky was blue, winter is cold, and hell is hot. “Is that enough, or should I pack you some fuck to go?”

“You speak the universal language of cash; no translation is needed.”

“Please, stop being so glib; it’s about my father.”

“The murdered man.”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” He repeated with a quizzical eyebrow raised. “He’s either been murdered, or he hasn’t. There is no half murdered or half alive. Death is final.”

“When he was killed, he had a gun with him, a rifle he kept from his years in Afghanistan. He had it in his hand, but he chose not to use it. He just let himself get shot down without firing a single shot back. He just let it happen. He stood there and took it.”

Volodiya took it all in like a fresh glass of water. He scribbled some details down in his notepad in a rough handwriting that would be an enigmatic cypher to most.

“Any reason?”

“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll find out.”

“Do you know anyone who might have any particular grievances against him?”

“Too many to name.”

“What did he do to become so popular?”

“I’m hiring you to find out.”

“Did you love your father?”

“I tolerated him.”

Volodiya scanned his notes. A case was a jigsaw, with every bit of information being a piece that would slot into others to form a clear image, but he didn’t have many to work with.

“What did your father do for work?”

“He never told me, even when I asked.”

Volodiya considered this answer a clue to who the murdered man might be, or at least the line of work he could have had.

“What did he tell you when you asked?”

“That he loved me. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. That I was always grateful for, no matter that he did.”

“Did you feel this involved illegal activity? Nalieva?”

Nalieva was a slang term in Russia for working outside the law.

“I can guarantee you it was, but I don’t know the details. Sometimes, I would hear other men he’d meet call him chainik. But he would never speak about work in front of us.”

Chainik. It was a nickname that had often been used to describe a bully among those doomed to serve and then survive Afghanistan—Volodiya knew this from experience. It could also describe a man with a temper shorter than the legs of a leprechaun. The type of man who would resort to violence before anything else.

“You never answered the question about whether you loved your father.”

“I told you. I tolerated him up to a certain point.”

“What was that certain point?”

“The more I got the feeling he had gone nalieva, the more I came to resent him. Don’t get me wrong, I held my nose and took money from him. I knew the money was tainted, but I still took it, and he kept my mother safe. I loved him and I hated him.”

Volodiya put his pen down and closed his notepad. He placed both hands on his table as he stared at the woman who sat in front of him. He studied her and admired her beauty at the same time. It was like he was sitting in an art gallery looking at a masterpiece that he was trying to interpret the true meaning of. There was the coolness of her character, but there was also a hidden sense of vulnerability.