A Matter of Principle

By Michael James

Copyright 2013 Michael James

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)without the prior written agreement of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The Author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Chapter One

Rashid could almost chew on the dank fume laden cold grey air that hung from the sky so thickly he felt he had to push his way through it. Pedestrians, rugged up and heads bent against the bitter cold wind, stumbled along, eyes watching the slippery uneven surface, occasionally glancing up to allow a brief reconnoitre of their position before getting back to the business of watching their feet.

Another crash as a lethal ten kilogram spear of icicle crashed to the footpath some ten meters away. Rashid looked up into the grey murk where, six storeys above, he could see a gap in a row of two meter long projectiles that hung from the sagging gutters until, too heavy, they broke off and plunged to the ground. Muscovites learn from an early age to keep to the kerb-side of the foot paths during winter to avoid these deadly missiles. Some forget.

He turned into Tverskaya Ulitsa and the sudden bedlam of six lanes of bumper-to-bumper filthy cars, crowded buses (lost faces peering through misted windows) and aging trucks belching out a lethal stink as they all powered through the brown sludge that lay thick on the road. Some vehicles strayed too close to the footpath and sprayed impervious pedestrians with wet filth as they trudged the kerbside strip to avoid the danger of falling icicles. In some more dangerous parts, half the footpath nearest the buildings was cordoned off to stop unsuspecting pedestrians straying into the icy line of fire.

Rashid felt distinctly uncomfortable as he made his way toward the Marco Polo Palace Hotel. Mostly he was bloody cold. His best coat and scarf he was wearing over his only suit was little protection against the ice-cold wind that forced its way through the feeble material. No matter how far he dug his gloved hands into his pockets and hugged the coat around him, he could not stop shivering. His toes had lost their feeling some time ago, but at least his shoes would remain clean and dry inside his over boots.

There was a hollow feeling in his stomach. He always felt hungry when he was nervous. The phone call that purported to be a friendly enquiry as to his health, that of his family and his recently started security business, quickly changed to something more sinister. Rashid knew too well that Nagaev was either far too busy, or more likely far too selfish, to worry about Rashid Ibragimov or his family, his business however could be of more interest to someone like Nagaev.

The same old inexplicable feeling of uneasiness, a hangover from the old KGB days, niggled at him. He couldn’t help it after fifteen years in the service. He quickly rationalised that there was no longer a reason to have such fears. Things were different today. Still, Nagaev had been a powerful man in the KGB and had become even more powerful in the new Russian political scene, looking after the personal security of the Russian President himself. Yes, he had reason to be nervous, but Nagaev did say that there was a job that needed doing, and had intimated that Rashid’s impeccable fifteen years of service in the KGB and his experience since, made him an ideal candidate for the work.

What would Nagaev know about his experience since leaving the service? His thoughts were interrupted as he stumbled into a queue of people waiting patiently to get their daily release from drudgery and hopelessness from a cheap bottle found at one of the numerous stalls set up on the sidewalks throughout the city. Muttering apologies and without even looking up he stomped on through a mound of dirty snow left in the gutter by the ploughs and found his way back onto the path. It is nearly ten years since perestroika, and six since they knocked down the wall and, after the initial euphoria, Ibragimov could think of nothing good that had happened, not for him anyway. He still lived in a shit box. There were some nice shops and fancy hotels, but only the few really rich could use them; the rest just looked through the windows, the fancy goods and luxury living the other side of the glass as out of reach as ever. Sure there were more cars; if you could afford them. The crappy Lada was being built by the million and selling as fast as they could be made; they’re cheap and they’re rubbish. Before only officials were allowed to queue for a Travant that took years to supply and now they travelled in a shiny Mercedes or BMW supplied within weeks of ordering, more often than not a re-birth from Western Europe via Poland. And travel, well you could go anywhere, but unless you had access to American dollars, the rouble being worthless, you couldn’t afford the trip to a travel agent, let alone the tickets they sell.

He wondered absently if Stalin all those years ago could ever have envisaged the chaos and mess in the famous eating and shopping avenue that he had once ordered to be widened and lined with stores and apartments and re-named Utilitsa Gorkovo after the writer Maxim Gorky. Many of the apartments, then built along the Avenue for Soviet workers, were now nothing more than slums. It was now back to its original name Tverskaya and was very much the place to shop and eat for those few who could afford it. Certainly those that lived in the mostly squalid apartments above the restaurants, shops and clubs could not. A meal in one of the fashionable restaurants frequented by the nouveau riche was an experience most Muscovites could only dream about.

Rashid longed for the arrival of the short hot humid summer when the avenue would once again at least resemble something like a premier shopping and business area. The office girls and shop assistants would once again rush around in their flimsy summer clothes, giving tantalising glimpses of the modern young Muscovite woman with her slim body and creamy white complexion. Locals, many out of work, or the elderly, will sit and idly watch others play or take their packed lunch in the numerous parks along the length of the avenue. During this time of year however and for probably seven or eight months of the year, the parks were more like grey uninviting waste lands, the skeletal trees and shrubs spreading their spindly twigs and branches dark against the leaden sky and snow.

Ahead he could just make out the lights of the Palace Hotel piercing the grey mist. It was only around three pm, but darkness was already on the way, further deepening the murkiness, the cold and the damp. The decrepit boring building facades that made up the once fashionable one hundred and fifty meter wide canyon of the Trverskaya apartments suddenly gave way to a bright clean marble and glass façade that took up an entire corner block through to Brestkaya Utilitsa. It was a complex of western style shops, a restaurant and the Marco Polo Palace Hotel.

At street level a cloister like marble path was lit from the brightness of the foyer, lounge and hotel bar. Under foot the arcade was spotless and some fifty meters further on around the corner, the hotel entrance was marked with a red carpet and uniformed doormen. Security guards eyed everyone, constantly holding their walkie talkies to their ears like some sort of fashion accessory; Rashid guessed they had seen too many pictures of American body guards hanging around their rich and famous clients. They were even wearing cheap reflective dark glasses that looked ridiculous in the gloom and cold.

In this new world of light and cleanliness these guards looked at him with suspicion as he made his way through the huge polished brass and glass doors to the reception desk, leaving the cold, the damp and the misery a world away behind him.

I have an appointment with a Mr Nagaev. He recognised the subservience and nervousness in his voice and countered by staring straight into the young receptionist’s eyes and raising his voice. He told me to announce myself at reception.

First can I just have your name please sir?

Ibragimov, err, do you think I could leave my coat and boots somewhere?

Of course sir, Thomas here, she nodded toward one of several uniformed young lads standing at ease just to his left of the reception desk, he will take your things to the cloakroom, meanwhile I will see if I can find Mr Nagaev for you.

One of the smart bell boys stepped up and waited patiently while Ibragimov shrugged out of his wet coat and draped it and his scarf over an outstretched arm. He then removed his over boots leaving the young lad to pick them up and disappear with his burden to the cloakroom while Rashid, leaving a spreading puddle in front of reception, headed off in the direction of the lifts where one of two doors under the illuminated ‘Toilets’ sign was marked with what appeared to be a male form.

Looking into the huge mirrored wall above the half dozen marble wash basins he studied his reflection. A quick comb through his thick short hair parted in the middle was all that was required. His face was not that of a typical Russian. Deep set blue eyes straddled a rather high bridge under a broad high forehead. His skin, naturally pale, was clean-shaven and clear. A happy mouth surrounded by a strong jaw line made him appear pleasing and kind rather than handsome. His dark grey suit fitted rather well even though it was not tailored; he had the sort of physique that allowed suits ‘off the peg’ to fit well across his broad shoulders, slim waist and long legs, a sort of athletic figure. A quick straighten of the tie and Rashid felt ready to meet this awesome character from his recent past.

Back at the reception the young lady handed him a cloakroom ticket.

Mr Nagaev suggested that you may like to make yourself comfortable at the bar. He said that you should order yourself whatever you would like to drink, he won’t keep you long.

Her English was perfect for a Russian, just a hint of an American accent and although the clothes and makeup were expensive and western, her features were clearly that of a local Russian girl. He thought it funny how assertive and confident they became once inside this cocoon of western culture, this English speaking haven where his own fluency in the English language made him start feeling a little more at ease.

He made his way to the bar and ordered a beer then sat down at a window table where he watched the world, by Moscow standards, go by. It was an entirely different place separated by a mere plate of glass. This side was warm, a musician played soft background music at a black shiny grand piano. It was full of European, mostly English, and American executives earnestly discussing the business of the day as they tapped away at their laptop computers, pencilled notes on various bits of paper and talked across tables covered in drinks and nibbles, or chatted earnestly on mobile phones to where ever in the world. ‘I’ll have to get one of those’ he thought as he sank into a deep leather lounge and the waiter bought his beer and the obligatory bowl of nuts to the chrome and glass table in front of him.

The other side of the glass, beyond the light thrown by the bar and foyer area, it was murky and desperate in the deep winter of late January. People, bent against the cold and damp, shuffled about carrying plastic bags. In the dim yellow lit interior of shops he could just see through the misted windows, customers fussing over meagre cuts of meat or tired vegetables, trying to make their worthless roubles stretch just a bit further. ‘Just one meal in this place would feed a family for six months.’ Rashid thought to himself. It was as though even he had suddenly changed by stepping across the red carpeted barrier.

A hooker stood on the corner. Standing there on her own so well dressed she could only be a hooker. ‘She’s probably waiting for the chance to pick up a punter staying at the hotel,’ thought Rashid.

Good afternoon Ibragimov. His voice, slow, heavy and guttural, broke into Rashid’s daydream.

Mr Nagaev, how are you? Again Rashid tried to hide the nervousness from his voice as he leapt up and took the podgy offered hand.

The handshake was not a mutual greeting type, but more of a quick grasp and sudden release instigated by Nagaev imposing his authority already. He had not changed at all, still the powerful looking stereotypical middle-aged Russian male. Broad, round, overweight and heavy featured with a yellowy blotchy grey face. His hair was thin and wispy, what was left seemed to have a tenuous grip on his massive head. He didn’t answer Rashid’s courteous enquiry but instead demanded,

Before we go any further I need your assurance that whatever we discuss here will be kept completely confidential. I know you are trustworthy and I know you are loyal, but I must ask for your word.

Rashid realised they were talking in Russian. It was weird because everyone else in the bar was using English or German.

Well?

It took Rashid a split second to consider the gravity of a positive commitment to this sort of demand. Once in his grip there would be no going back, no chance to reconsider, no compromise. But there could be some decent money involved, an opportunity to get on top of things

Of course you have my word.

The answer was greeted by a wide triumphant smile from Nagaev.

Excellent, another drink? he asked.

Without waiting for an answer he spun around, and once he had gained the attention of the bar tender, ordered another beer for Rashid and a Black Label for himself. He fumbled around in his baggy jacket pockets until, amongst keys, loose change and other clutter he found a crumpled packet of Marlborough and a lighter. Rashid was contemplating what sort of bother he might be letting himself in for.

Nagaev jammed a bent cigarette between his lips, lit it with a flourish from his old fashioned flip top flint lighter and took a very deep drag. During the time it took for Nagaev to consider his next words the drinks arrived on a tray. The waiter placed Rashid’s beer in front of him on a fresh coaster before turning to Nagaev offering a choice of water from a silver jug, or ice from a plastic insulated container with a Johnny Walker motif on its side. Nagaev ignored the water and took a pair of delicate silver tongs in his clumsy fingers and dropped a single ice cube into his whisky. Once the waiter had taken his leave Nagaev became more conspiratorial. Rashid could smell his musty boozy tobacco breath as he exhaled heavily across brown stained teeth and discoloured gums, the resulting cloud of smoke drifting toward him across the table.

As you know there is an election due. He paused; a little nod from Rashid prompted him to continue.

You know that our President is keen to clear the scourge of corruption out of Russian politics and public service for ever, another pause. Rashid nodded his head again; graft and corruption were an everyday fact of life in Russia whether it was in business or in politics. Old people had to sell their shoes to get a loaf of bread as the rouble grew more and more worthless. Health and welfare, as well as social services in Russia, continued to decline, while politicians and business leaders grew fabulously richer by the day on US dollars.

You ever heard of Ryabtsey, Andrey Ryabtsey? he asked as another cloud of acrid smoke poured from his mouth and drifted toward Rashid.

Indeed Rashid had, and the look of trepidation would have given his feelings away. Ryabtsey was a ruthless bastard. His connections in the old days had allowed him to take advantage during perestroika. He had bought up huge failing state conglomerates, sometimes just taking them over, persuading western companies to invest in them and bagging millions at the expense of the Russian public. Nagaev broke into Rashid’s thoughts by continuing, Ryabtsey wants to try his luck in the Kremlin. He has a lot of powerful backers and will appeal to the young and the new rich alike. Right now he is busy cleaning up all traces of his dirty dealings over the years. He has money and he has friends, and is very dangerous. We must do everything we can to stop him getting into power. Even if he doesn’t win this time he could be dangerous for the future. It is not good for the future of Russia that he has any credence what so ever.

Rashid was now looking confused and feeling worried. He didn’t like where this conversation was leading.

Look, I am not a public relations person Mr Nagaev. These days I’m more into frightening pimps that stray onto someone’s patch, or pulling people for nicking company stationery. How can I possibly be of any help to you?

A condescending grin passed across Nagaev’s face. He stubbed out his cigarette and immediately fished out a fresh bent one from the packet he had left on the table. Another flourish with the lighter and snapping the lid shut, he screwed his eyes as he peered through the smoke exhaled through puckered lips.

Rashid glanced up momentarily through the plate glass window into that other world and for a second met the gaze of the hooker who quickly turned away as she strode past.

Nagaev continued with his explanation. There are so many areas of corruption in which Ryabstey has been involved we felt he could not possibly cover all his tracks. In fact we have some information that could be well worth following up. Another drag followed by yet another cloud of second hand tobacco smoke. Rashid stifled a cough. Some years ago there was a large civic project that needed the importation of a huge number of personal computers, desktop and lap top, as well as other hardware items like printers etc. They were ordered by the government through a company called Tsar, which is owned by Ryabtsey. The computers never made it into Russia. We believe they were paid for by the Russian people and then distributed throughout Europe and the proceeds pocketed by Ryabtsey and his co-conspirators. We want you to document the details and get the proof we need to make it stick. I think with your experience, and the low profile of your little business, you are an ideal candidate to do this job.

Nagaev took another long deep drag as Rashid started to feel nervous. Nagaev was waiting for a response but Rashid knew this could be dangerous stuff. He was caught between a rock and a hard place. It could dangerous not to accept the job, he already knew too much, by association the damage may have already been done, no matter what his decision. Then again it could be a way to build up his reputation and his business, to say nothing of the financial reward. He could get a more appropriate office instead of using his flat, even employ someone to field phone calls and get his coffee, and get a mobile phone.

What sort of money are we talking about here? he asked.

$5000 up front and a Diners Card for reasonable expenses plus $500 per day and a $10000 bonus on presentation of documented proof of Ryabstey’s involvement in corruption or corrupt activities.

For that sort of money you must be expecting some trouble Rashid ventured, playing for time while he tried to get his head around the figures.

We cannot be sure that Ryabstey’s people don’t know what we are doing or won’t find out. They are ruthless, but you have a reputation for being able to look after yourself. Nagaev countered.

Rashid thought for a minute. The bar was filling up, the tables all taken. He noticed the hooker had picked up a punter and was settling at a bar stall. Without her coat he noticed how tall and slim she was. How neat and firm her bum was as it moulded into the stool. It looked good. The punter did not look West European though, more like a local mafia figure with his over the top, slightly too big Armani suit and bits of gold everywhere, topped by an ugly boxer’s style face.

He pulled his mind back to the task at hand. It might not be as tricky as he first thought. Presumably it would involve low profile investigative work mostly local, but there could be some international travel. Certainly it would be more interesting than the normal rubbish he had to deal with. He had the feeling that there was a bit more money in this than Nagaev was offering. For the first time since the meeting started, Rashid began to feel a bit more in control. He stared straight into Nagaev’s watery eyes and stroking his chin as if in deep thought he said.

This job could take some time. Some of my regular clients might take their business elsewhere, and as you say, it could be very dangerous.

Nagaev stubbed out his smoke. Okay Ibragimov, I get the message, let’s make it $10000 up front. That’s as far as you can push it.

Rashid was starting to warm to this new situation of control.

$20000 on completion and the daily rate and expenses start tomorrow, then you’ve got a deal.

Nagaev didn’t say anything, instead he looked over toward the reception area and as if by magic, one of the little dolly birds that worked in reception came over.

Can I help you sir?

Yes, I would like the limo for an hour. Perhaps you could get Mr Ibragimov’s coat for him and have the car wait outside for me. To Rashid he said, "Just wait in the car for me. I have to sort a few things out. I will join you in a few minutes or so.

After the meeting with Nagaev Rashid was afforded a little more respect from everyone. His coat, scarf and boots were quickly retrieved for him, a doorman even held the door open for him. The security guards gave just a little nod as he walked past them to the limo outside, the engine exhausting plumes of steam into the cold night air as it waited for him.

It was snowing again. The doorman placed Rashid's over boots, his coat and his scarf into the trunk then opened the rear door to allow Rashid to settle into the plush leather rear seats. Even at full stretch his legs could not reach the back of the front passenger’s seat. It was warm inside the car and the windows began misting up despite the climate control working flat out. He thought he noticed the hooker leaving without her punter and fancied she might even have glanced toward him through the car window. It was a fleeting impression, but perhaps she wasn’t a hooker at all. Just the way she walked, too confident and too classy.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted as a cold rush of air and a snow flurry preceded the voluminous Nagaev causing the suspension to sag as the seat took up his bulk.

Let’s go driver, he shouted even before the chauffeur had closed his door.

But for Nagaev’s rasping breath, it was deathly silent in the car as it sloshed its way smoothly down Tverskaya towards Red Square. They drove past the aging dingy Intourist Hotel. Rows of the flotsam of economic change, mostly pensioners, stood on the pavement for hours trying to sell anything they owned to passers-by just to find enough money to buy basic food items. With the bright lights of Red Square ahead, the floodlit onion shaped domes of St. Basil’s just visible through the veil of falling snow; the car took a sharp left into Teatranyy Avenue, gliding across Lubyanka Square, past the Polytech Museum and on to Maroseyka.

The traffic was heavy. Every other vehicle seemed to be an ancient bus packed with pale faces peering out through the misty windows. Half were diesel powered chugging out plumes of black soot; the others were rickety old trolley buses, sparks flying from the contact with overhead power lines.

There weren’t many people walking the poorly lit streets. Those that were had congregated about the local bus stops that attracted strategically placed stalls where the masses that utilised the public transport system could purchase their meagre needs for the night on the short trip between the bus stop and their flat. Most stalls sold discount liquor, generally contraband or cheap stuff made God knows where but carrying prestigious labels.

As they drove on, it didn’t take long for the traffic to clear. The quieter thoroughfares were lit by dim yellow light from hundreds of small windows in six or seven storey apartment blocks that were separated from the main road by slip roads each side. These were littered with aging Ladas and Travants in amongst mounds of snow and piles of rubbish.

They took a left off Pokrvka, negotiated the parallel slip road and eventually stopped outside another anonymous block.

Nagaev handed over a black plastic document case. Rashid could feel the bulge of documentation and what felt like wads of bank notes.

You will find your instructions and contact details in there.

Nothing else was said as Rashid stepped into the miserable cold dampness, there was no need. As the driver recovered Rashid’s over boots and stuff from the trunk it didn’t occur to Rashid that he had not needed to give directions to his home. They knew exactly where to take him, and after the chauffer had helped Rashid into his coat, they left him clutching the document case in one hand, boots in the other and scarf hanging around his neck. A metallic grey Mercedes slowly slid by as he turned and made his way across the cleared patch of path and up the steps to the foyer of his apartment block. An old woman, hunched and wearing a scarf and coat despite the clingy damp warmth of the state heating system, was busy with her mop and bucket. Ignoring the lift, for it seldom worked, Rashid started up the creaking broad winding stairway covered in red, threadbare carpet. By the time he reached the fourth floor he was breathing heavily in the musty air. The smell of damp carpet and old wood was all pervasive as he walked along the dimly lit hallway to number 43. Three deadlocks later and the solid heavy door allowed Rashid to pass into his lonely quiet and sparse private world.

Chapter Two

In third gear the 2.6 litre V6 purred up the twisting Barrenjoey Road. To his left the deep green, palm covered slopes in the shadow of the afternoon sun took his eye to the timber-clad multi-coloured homes perched precariously on stilts high above, their balconies overlooking the sparkling blue Pacific. Glancing down to his right he marvelled at the deep azure blue sea terminating in a gentle shore break across the fine yellow sands of Newport Beach, still bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight. The unrelenting swelter of February heat and humidity was just a memory as the first days of autumn brought the gentle south easterlies off the ocean to keep the beach suburbs cool in the afternoons, but it was still hot further inland where the sprawling