why did you send it to Moscow?’
‘I didn’t know it was yours. God, you must believe me,’ Guk pleaded. ‘It looked like something no one would miss. I have a cousin in Moscow who is getting married soon. I sent it to him as a wedding present. You know, a housewarming gift.’
‘How did your cousin get it if Customs in Moscow says it didn’t arrive?’
‘He works cargo at Sheremetyevo.’
Voronin saw all the pieces fit together. He’d been a little too clever in packaging Orlov’s stolen property, making it so innocuous that this termite Guk stole it without a second thought.
‘What is your cousin’s name?’
‘Konrad. Konrad Guk,’ the man blubbered.
Voronin pulled a phone from his coat pocket and selected a number from its memory.
‘ Dóbraya útra ,’ Voronin said into the phone. ‘I have the information Orlov requested. The package arrived in Moscow but was stolen by a cargo worker named Konrad Guk. I have his cousin here who tells me that he’s the one who altered the plane’s manifest and made Orlov’s property disappear. The furniture was to be a wedding gift.’
Voronin paused for several minutes, listening to the other person on the line.
‘ Da ,’ he replied, ‘I’ll take care of it.’
Voronin slipped the tiny phone back into his pocket and looked down at Guk.
‘Walter, I’m so glad we had this talk, but I must go now. Don’t worry, I’m leaving you in very good hands.’
Voronin stepped back. A man appeared on the other side; he smiled and then swung a hinged lid over the top of the box. Guk was again plunged into darkness, and quickly the box reverberated with the sound of a hammer driving a nail.
‘Oleg,’ Voronin said as Artuzov set the last nail, ‘once again, thank you for your assistance.’
‘No bother at all, Pyotr Yefimovich. I’m just happy to be of service.’
With that, Artuzov rolled the trolley bearing the wooden box up to the door of the cremating furnace. The wooden box shuddered as Guk thrashed inside, screaming for his life. When the trolley was properly aligned, Artuzov walked over to the console and started the cremation. Slowly, the wooden box glided down the stainless-steel rollers into the furnace. Already the temperature inside the box was over two hundred degrees. The superheated air seared Guk’s throat and lungs, each frantic, labored breath more difficult than the last. The thrashing inside the box stopped as Guk lost consciousness.
This isn’t the first time Artuzov has incinerated a living person for me , Pyotr Voronin thought with a smile. No doubt, it won’t be the last.
As Voronin walked out of Artuzov’s funeral parlor, he thought about Guk’s cousin in Moscow and the visit he would soon receive from Dmitri Leskov.
‘Fool,’ he said incredulously, ‘you stole from the wrong man.’
JUNE 30
Sverdlovsk 23, Russia
Lara Avvakum sat back in her chair, her legs propped up on a cushion that lay across the top of an open desk drawer. With a pad of paper on her lap, she stared out her window at the Siberian forest in the distance and the rhythmic swaying of the branches in the wind. The movement was both orderly and complex. In her mind’s eye, she could see the ebb and flow of energy within the organic system outside her window, the fluid beauty of nature framed before her like a painting by van Gogh.
Sverdlovsk 23 was the name government planners had given this secret research facility, and Avvakum had spent the past decade of her life here. It was a remote collection of buildings nestled in the foothills of the Ural Mountains, and its existence was still considered a state secret.
A sharp knock at the door brought her reverie to an abrupt end.
‘ Da ,’ she said, recovering from her meditation.
The door opened slightly, and the graying head of Boris Zhirov emerged through the crack.
‘Lara, you have a visitor,’ Zhirov said, his voice carrying equal measures of concern and excitement. ‘Georgi just called from
‘I didn’t know it was yours. God, you must believe me,’ Guk pleaded. ‘It looked like something no one would miss. I have a cousin in Moscow who is getting married soon. I sent it to him as a wedding present. You know, a housewarming gift.’
‘How did your cousin get it if Customs in Moscow says it didn’t arrive?’
‘He works cargo at Sheremetyevo.’
Voronin saw all the pieces fit together. He’d been a little too clever in packaging Orlov’s stolen property, making it so innocuous that this termite Guk stole it without a second thought.
‘What is your cousin’s name?’
‘Konrad. Konrad Guk,’ the man blubbered.
Voronin pulled a phone from his coat pocket and selected a number from its memory.
‘ Dóbraya útra ,’ Voronin said into the phone. ‘I have the information Orlov requested. The package arrived in Moscow but was stolen by a cargo worker named Konrad Guk. I have his cousin here who tells me that he’s the one who altered the plane’s manifest and made Orlov’s property disappear. The furniture was to be a wedding gift.’
Voronin paused for several minutes, listening to the other person on the line.
‘ Da ,’ he replied, ‘I’ll take care of it.’
Voronin slipped the tiny phone back into his pocket and looked down at Guk.
‘Walter, I’m so glad we had this talk, but I must go now. Don’t worry, I’m leaving you in very good hands.’
Voronin stepped back. A man appeared on the other side; he smiled and then swung a hinged lid over the top of the box. Guk was again plunged into darkness, and quickly the box reverberated with the sound of a hammer driving a nail.
‘Oleg,’ Voronin said as Artuzov set the last nail, ‘once again, thank you for your assistance.’
‘No bother at all, Pyotr Yefimovich. I’m just happy to be of service.’
With that, Artuzov rolled the trolley bearing the wooden box up to the door of the cremating furnace. The wooden box shuddered as Guk thrashed inside, screaming for his life. When the trolley was properly aligned, Artuzov walked over to the console and started the cremation. Slowly, the wooden box glided down the stainless-steel rollers into the furnace. Already the temperature inside the box was over two hundred degrees. The superheated air seared Guk’s throat and lungs, each frantic, labored breath more difficult than the last. The thrashing inside the box stopped as Guk lost consciousness.
This isn’t the first time Artuzov has incinerated a living person for me , Pyotr Voronin thought with a smile. No doubt, it won’t be the last.
As Voronin walked out of Artuzov’s funeral parlor, he thought about Guk’s cousin in Moscow and the visit he would soon receive from Dmitri Leskov.
‘Fool,’ he said incredulously, ‘you stole from the wrong man.’
JUNE 30
Sverdlovsk 23, Russia
Lara Avvakum sat back in her chair, her legs propped up on a cushion that lay across the top of an open desk drawer. With a pad of paper on her lap, she stared out her window at the Siberian forest in the distance and the rhythmic swaying of the branches in the wind. The movement was both orderly and complex. In her mind’s eye, she could see the ebb and flow of energy within the organic system outside her window, the fluid beauty of nature framed before her like a painting by van Gogh.
Sverdlovsk 23 was the name government planners had given this secret research facility, and Avvakum had spent the past decade of her life here. It was a remote collection of buildings nestled in the foothills of the Ural Mountains, and its existence was still considered a state secret.
A sharp knock at the door brought her reverie to an abrupt end.
‘ Da ,’ she said, recovering from her meditation.
The door opened slightly, and the graying head of Boris Zhirov emerged through the crack.
‘Lara, you have a visitor,’ Zhirov said, his voice carrying equal measures of concern and excitement. ‘Georgi just called from
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