The Death of a Torpedo

Valeriya averted her gaze. An unspoken apology for roping Volodiya into this affair. The detective stared into his eyes. A deep stare. He wasn’t just looking into his eyes. He was trying to get to the core of Volodiya’s inner being.

“The lady has indeed.”

“Well, Mr Chaika, I’d like you to tell me why your client’s car and driver has been used as target practice.”

Volodiya had a few ideas racing through his mind. He stared at Valeriya’s face. Although it wasn’t obvious to everyone around them, there was something in her eyes. Maybe it is the way they seemed to water. The tears forming in her eyes made them look like the bottom of a well. He expected her to break down and release the full waterworks. The tears were there, but she held them at bay, like a dam holding back a flood.

“No, I cannot,” Volodiya said.

The detective squinted his eyes, looking further into what he could see beyond the surface of Volodiya’s face.

“Curious,” the detective said. “You don’t seem to know much about your client or the case you’re investigating. Very curious, I would say. An unidentified vehicle pulls up next to her car and lets rip with a Kalashnikov. Rat-tat-tat. Very curious.”

The detective mimed the firing of a gun with his fingers, just in case Volodiya didn’t get the message. He then turned to the officer.

“How many shots were fired?”

“Thirteen shots, sir.”

“Thirteen shots!” the detective repeated. “Women scream. People duck for cover wherever they can find it. Then a body hits the ground and paints the snow red. The lady who hired you is riding around in the back of that car, and lucky for her, the reaper isn’t here to collect her soul. But her poor driver…”

The detective removed the cigarette from between his lips and pointed at the body parked on the ground. Spread eagle on its back. Eyes forever open and staring up at the sky. Snowflakes landed on the body and created the impression of polka dots on the body.

“He gets hit about…how many times did the driver get hit?”

“Six times, sir,” the officer said.

“Six times! The bullets damn near cut him in two. So, what we have is an unknown gunman firing at a car, killing the driver, and your client is sitting in the back seat of said car. What does that sound like to you?”

“Sounds like another day in Moscow.”

The detective took a drag on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke towards Volodiya’s face. A direct hit.

“You’re funny, Chaika, real funny. You should be working the bars with that routine, you know that? Something about this doesn’t add up,” the detective announced. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Both of you.” The detective walked away for a few steps before he turned around to deliver a parting shot. “Oh, and Chaika. If you obstruct this investigation, or any investigation into your pretty client over there…well, you’ll find out. I’ll be seeing you around.”

Volodiya turned to face Valeriya. She stood there in the cold. The fur coat wrapped around her body. Her brown and dishevelled hair fluttered as the wind blew. Despite the frigid cold, she didn’t shiver. Despite what had just happened, she showed little fear. There was something about her that set her apart from most women he had met. To him, she was a sparkling diamond in a city full of shadows that were mundane and ordinary.

“Thank you,” she said. Valeriya's lips parted to say something else, but Volodiya cut her off.

“Don’t thank me, talk. Tell me everything that happened from start to end,” he ordered in a harsher tone of voice. “When did you call me?”

“Straight after it happened.”

“You didn’t think to call the police?”

“In this city, there are about as useful as flies without wings. I thought you would be better.”

“Oh, yeah?” Volodiya asked as he put a cigarette between his lips. “How could you tell?”

“From the moment I saw you. There’s something about you. There’s something inside you. There’s something in your eyes that tells me there’s more to you. Something beyond your sarcasm and wisecracks.”

“I’m flattered you think highly of me. I don’t think any woman has since my mother. Tell me what you saw,” Volodiya said before he took a long drag on his cigarette. He blew out smoke that resembled a miniature cloud, which floated into the dark sky like a spirit leaving the world of the living. “Tell me everything.”

“I was sitting in the back of the car. Everything seemed so normal until…until…”

“Until it wasn’t,” Volodiya said, finishing the sentence for her.

She nodded her head.

“Nothing stood out to me. It was just another day in Moscow. The snow was falling thick and fast. Kids were playing in the snow. One old lady whom I often see on the street, trying to sell whatever she could, was out holding flowers and onions. Just another day. Then, from nowhere, I heard an engine revving. Then I heard the shots. The glass of the car window shattered and cracked into pieces. The shooting continued. My driver jumped out of his seat. That’s when whoever was shooting cut him down.”

Volodiya snuck another glance at the body. Two paramedics stooped over it. They carried a large plastic bag to send the body to the mortuary, express delivery. Valeriya also stared at the dead man. She didn’t blink. Eyes transfixed on the lifeless husk. She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.

“Those bullets were meant for me,” she said. She was now shaking like the last gold coloured leaf hanging on a naked branch in autumn. Her resolve had melted as she mentioned the life that was now lost. A body was being hoisted off the street in front of them. She spoke once more. Her voice had lost its husky tone. “I know it.”

The paramedics were heaving the body into the large, oversized zip up bag. He turned his attention back to Valeriya.

“Better him than you.”

A tear rolled down Valeriya’s cheek. She put her arms around Volodiya and held him tight and close.

“Don’t squeeze too tightly; the coat has just been washed,” Volodiya said.

She said nothing.

“Is this the area where you live?”

“Yes.”

“You should lie low somewhere. Maybe like in a hotel or motel.”

“A hotel? Where?”

“I know a few spots under the radar; they might not be to your liking, but if it keeps you hidden from the sight of a loaded gun, then I wouldn’t complain.”

The snow fell out of the sky like thick wisps of cotton dropping from the sky above them. The two figures stood in a tight embrace. Not noticing or caring about it.

Chapter 8: A Resume Written in Flesh

Volodiya sat behind his desk, ruffling through the next day’s newspapers. He puffed away on a cigarette. The office was thick with the aroma of tobacco and carcinogenic tar. Light was creeping in through gaps in the venetian blinds. They cast dark parallel lines across the office space that made it look like a prison.

He scanned the newspapers for any mention of the case he had taken. A spate of shootings should make the news. The editors seemed to disagree. The economy took precedence. More stories of hyperinflation, Chechnya, and the super wealthy businessmen throwing their money and weight around as they pledged to back the President against the Communists.

Nothing of interest to Volodiya.

He slammed the paper he was reading to the side and started scanning the pages of Izvestia. Again, the stories repeated themselves. An inescapable loop of economic woe and conflict. He skimmed through the pages and articles and was met with adverts for McDonald’s Big Macs, BMWs, Coca-Cola and Sony electrical goods.

I could use a new television, Volodiya thought.

He allowed himself that moment of distraction before he continued skimming through the newspaper at breakneck speed. The rustling of papers echoed throughout the office as he flicked through the pages. Volodiya was about to turn the page again until he noticed something that leapt out at him, like a flame dancing in the wind.

MAN GUNNED DOWN IN LATEST MOB SLAYING

The headline caught his attention. Now he read every word of the article. A shooting. No witnesses. Authorities suspected the victim of having mob ties. The assassin didn’t go for a quick kill. He took his time and unloaded multiple rounds into the victim, Andrei Rezhnikov. If he was anybody in the streets like Nikolai was, he’d have a record just like Nikolai did. Volodiya knew who to call. He also knew to keep some money apart for the man he was calling. Information didn’t come cheap, especially when it came from Sergei.

Volodiya picked up his office phone. He punched Sergie’s number into the keypad. He snuffed out his cigarette on the overflowing ashtray.

“Hello,” Sergei answered the phone. He sounded bored.

“A bad time to call?” Volodiya asked.

“Depends,” Sergei said, now sounding a bit more enthusiastic. “I never miss a good business opportunity. What can I do for you, Volodiya?”

“I have a man who might be of interest to me. A dead man, to be more precise. One Andrei Rezhnikov.”

There was silence on the phone. He could hear Sergei ruffling around on the line through papers.

“That body is still fresh. It’s in the morgue. Nobody has stepped forward to claim it.”

“Do you reckon you can set up a meeting between me and Mr Rezhnikov?”

Sergei hummed and hawed. He was pantomime acting a non-existing hesitation. Volodiya spoke his language and knew what the humming and hawing was code for.

“I take it you don’t provide this service for free,” Volodiya said. He knew full well who he was dealing with. “I take it you need a gift to set up the meeting.”

“It’s more of a donation. One that will make someone very happy. You see, my kid wants a Sega Genesis. I’ve got to put money away for that. A donation would help.”

“You don’t even have a kid.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” he said, struggling to contain his laughter. “But a donation would still be appreciated.”

“For a Sega?”

“For my pension. If things keep going the way they have the past few years, it will be worth a grand total of twenty dollars. With your donation, I can hit the giddy heights of one hundred dollars.”

“How quickly can you organise the meeting?”

“Can you be at the morgue in about an hour’s time?”

Volodiya agreed to the conditions and timing of the meeting. He rose from his chair and threw on his coat. He gazed out of the window and down at Arbat Street. On seeing the constant snowfall on the busy street, he zipped his coat up tight.

The snow had gone from a beautiful white colour to being a mixture of grey and black sludge. A dirty mess that only got dirtier with every trudge of the foot from the many denizens of the city. Their faces had turned pink and red from the extreme cold. Volodiya rushed towards the metro station. The stiff wind slashed at his face like sharp razors slicing through flesh. His boots crunched the mixture of grit, dirt, and snow under his feet.

As he moved, he thought about the journey he was on. Volodiya pondered where all this would lead. Shootings. Murders. The further he went into the case, the more he was wading through mud mixed with blood. Everywhere he went, death was lurking around the corner, hiding among the shadows. Volodiya could only hope that death wasn’t coming for him. He had a case to crack and a lot of money to make from it. It wouldn’t be fun to die before he could cash that cheque.

*

The fluorescent light cast flickering shadows across the walls and the floor of the morgue. Trembling silhouettes that shook across the sterile grey walls. The morgue chilled Volodiya to the bone even more than the wintry weather he had ambled through. It was something about so many dead bodies being stored there that created a frigid atmosphere.

Metal drawers lined the room, guarding the terrible secrets they kept inside. Rows and rows of tiny, square shaped doors. The metallic handles gleamed in the gloom of the space they occupied. Each one concealing a body within it. Someone’s mother, father, son, daughter, brother or sister.

The air was thick with disinfectant and formaldehyde. The aroma revealed everything about what lay inside those small, square doors. Darkness, decay, and death. A hint of lives that once were. Those lives were no more. Extinguished like the flame of a candle that the wind had snuffed out.

The dead body of Andrei Rezhnikov lay prostate on the steel table. A dirty white cloth covered the body.

“Ready?” Sergei asked as he smiled.

Volodiya nodded. Sergei pulled down the dirty white cloth to reveal what lay beneath.

“TA-DA! Here’s the prize,” Sergei said in the voice of a game-show host.

The dead man resembled a sleeping giant from a fairy tale. He had a large slab of a head. His eyes were closed. He looked at peace despite the bullet holes around his chest and gut. The man was broad shouldered with an even broader belly.

“Volodiya, meet Andrei. Andrei, meet Volodiya,” Sergei said. He even held up the dead man’s hand. “What? No handshake?” He cackled, and it sounded like a sharp pick chipping away at ice cubes.

“What do you know about him?” Volodiya asked.

“His name was Andrei Rezhnikov, forty-eight years old. He had a criminal record. Armed robbery in the eighties. He got four years for it.”

Volodiya studied the bullet wounds that had punctured the flesh. They were now black holes that decorated his chest and stomach area. The shooter wasn’t just content with shooting the man once or twice.

“Whoever did it wanted to make sure he was dead. The shooter killed him at least three times,” Volodiya said. “Just like Nikolai.”

“He was shot down in an alleyway,” said Sergey, as he surveyed the written report. “Broad daylight. No witnesses.”

Tattoos covered the flesh on the dead man’s body. He had seen these tattoos before in pictures of the other murdered men. He had also seen it on Nikolai’s body. These men didn’t get inked up for aesthetic reasons. They were resumes carved into their flesh.

Volodiya traipsed around the table. He wanted to scan and note every tattoo inked onto Andrei’s skin. A red star on both his knees. He had inked the onion domes of a cathedral on his wide and bloated belly. A tattoo of a spider and its web was on the left side of his chest. On the right side was a large tattoo of a torpedo.

“There we go,” Volodiya said.

“The torpedo tattoo.”

“This man was a contract killer. Nikolai also had it, and he suffered the same fate. Although Nikolai's killers at least allowed him the dignity of being gunned down in the comfort of his own home, not in some random alleyway.”

“What’s that the English like to say, about every cloud having a silver lining?” Sergei asked. He had a smile that was like that of a young kid who had discovered swearing for the first time.

“You know what this means?” Volodiya asked.

“You tell me.”

“Someone is killing off hitmen in Moscow. Nikolai. This gentleman. Not to mention all the others. What might be happening is that someone high in the underworld is ordering these deaths. He’s using the same killer. He uses two guns and fires multiple shots. Then he disappears into the shadows.”

“But why would someone want to have all these hitmen killed? Revenge?”

“Revenge? No, this is something different.”

“Well, what is it?” Sergei asked, eager to hear something that would open his eyes to what was happening.

Volodiya folded his arms and then scratched his chin.

“I’m not sure.”

He would call Valeriya and talk her through what he found out as he put his hypothesis together.

Volodiya thanked Sergei and then left the morgue. He was relieved to leave the room full of refrigerated bodies. It was less cold in the streets of Moscow, and upon leaving, Volodiya didn’t even put on his gloves. As he paced through snow-filled roads, he had his thoughts to chew on.

In Moscow, clarity was a rare coin. It had to be pursued through the thick haze of mystery, one bleak thought at a time.

Nikolai’s body was just one of many that had fallen in the streets of Moscow. The same went for Andrei. Someone wanted these men dead. Not to mention all the others. Someone in a position of power, where past affiliations could be a threat to their life.

Chapter 9: Sins of the Father

The café was dimly lit; shadows pooled in every corner, like secrets waiting to be revealed. Dust motes floated in the weak sunlight filtering through the grimy windows, casting flickering patterns on battered wooden tables. The aromatic haze of spilled whiskey lingered and mixed with roasted beans, a reminder of late nights and broken promises.

Near the door, a middle-aged man loomed like a monument carved from granite. Broad shoulders filled out a dark suit that seemed to swallow him whole. He clenched his jaw tight, and cold, watchful eyes hinted at lurking menace. Every movement he made was deliberate, alert for any sign of trouble. His eyes would dart from Volodiya and Valeriya sat at their table to the windows and door of the café.

“He’s a big man,” Volodiya said.

She chuckled. A sweet chuckle.

“I’m not keeping him around to discuss the finer points of classic Russian literature, Mr Chaika.”

“If you must know, he knew my father.”

“Do you stay in contact with men who knew your father?”

“Some. They got in contact with me after he…got killed. After my car got hit, a few more got in contact in case I needed help. Now, you’ve invited me here, so please, tell me, what have you found out.”

The bodyguard looked out of place there. He looked more like the type of man that would be an enforcer of the local racquets. A man more at home punching someone in the face rather than hanging around a café waiting on hand to drive someone around.

Volodiya turned his attention towards Valeriya. She sat back in the chair opposite him. Her long legs were crossed. Shadows clung to the inside of her thighs. He focused his attention on her face. His eyes glanced at her lips; they were plush and crimson and beckoned with a sultry promised that lingered, like a forbidden secret that Volodiya wanted to know.

“I’m going to tell you things that will change the way you think of your father,” he said.

She shifted in her seat. He caught her attention, but he deliberated about what to say. It was his job as a private investigator to tell the client everything they wanted to know. But not everyone liked what he had to say.

“You have my attention, Mr Chaika. The question is…what will you do with it?”

She smiled as she spoke. Her luminous lips looked like the last ember of a dying fire.

Volodiya had no way to polish what he was about to say. There was no way to sand off the edges and present the news he was about to break in a softer way. He had to give her the truth.

It’s what she’s paying for, he thought.

“Do you remember when you first came to my office, you told me you knew your father was mixed up in something?”

“That’s right,” she said. She popped open the top of her tiny bag and pulled out a slim silver case of cigarettes. “I knew he wasn’t a saint.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he said, as she was about to place a cigarette between her lips. She froze with it dangling from her fingers.

“Say it, Mr Chaika. Whatever you have to say, say it. I’m not paying you to be silent.”

The words he was about to say weighed a ton. In the shadowy light of the café, he looked every bit like a man who was about to break some bad news, as his lip quivered before he got the words out.

“Your father was a torpedo,” he said. Blunt and to the point, like a hammer smashing against a nail.

“This means…” she started the sentence but couldn’t bring herself to end it.

“People paid him money; people got killed.”

Valeriya put her hand over her mouth. Her eyes watered. He had seen many people cry, sometimes in his office, particularly when he was hired to expose affairs. Hell, Ivan had almost flooded his office with tears when Volodiya exposed his wife’s secret romance. But she held herself together. He admired that about her. Despite the news, she didn’t break down into a wreck. There were tears in her eyes, but she held them back like a dam.

Volodiya found himself captivated not only by her radiant beauty but also by the strength in her resolve and the delicate vulnerability that lay beneath.

“I always knew he was mixed in with something. But I never imagined my father could be a killer. I mean, he was in Afghanistan, but he wasn’t…you know, right?”

“I know,” Volodiya said, nodding his head. “I was there too.” His fists tightened as he said those words.

Years after, the shadow of the Soviet Afghan War continued to enshroud life in this country. There were always new ways it came home. The men who never returned left behind widows and grieving mothers. The men who came back were broken and resorted to begging on the streets in winter. Or like Volodiya, there were the men who had nightmares, visions of sand covered roads strewn with blood, bodies and blown off limbs. Then there were the many drawn to crime and easy money, like gamblers to a casino. The real winners in that war were the undertakers and the gangsters of Russia.

Volodiya reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He held it out to her. She turned it down as she raised her hand. A flat palm. He nodded and put it away. She lit her cigarette.

“Shocked?” Volodiya asked.

“Yes and no,” she said. Her answer said so much, yet also said very little. It was hard to decipher what she was telling him and what she was hiding. Volodiya kept his eye out for any action that revealed more than any words could. “You see; we had money at a time when for the average person it was scarce. My dad wasn’t a businessman. You’d have to be blind or stupid not to know that the money wasn’t coming from somewhere nice.”

“And to know that he killed people?” Volodiya asked. His eyes were fixed on her.

“For money. For his family,” she said as she took a short drag on her cigarette. “He was the roof we lived under. He was the man who kept us safe at a time when many others felt unsafe.”

“Did you ever receive money from your father?”

“Not for quite a while.”

“Define not for quite a while.”

“Not for half a year. From what I heard, he had been blowing whatever he had earned at his local drinking spot, Nikitskaya.”