The Hunted Angel: Rutter Books, #7

THE HUNTED ANGEL

The Seventh Rutter Book

By

David Waine

Turnspit Dog Publishing

© David Waine 2021

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This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictional. Any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this narrative may be reproduced without the written consent of the copyright holder. David Waine has asserted his moral rights. All rights reserved.

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www.davidwaineauthor.com

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First published 2021

This edition published 2022

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Dedication

To my wife, Helen, and our sons, Michael and Paul

CONTENTS

THE HUNTED ANGEL

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

USURPER

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Major Characters (for background information)

JULIE RUTTER (All books) The protagonist. Formerly a Metropolitan Police Officer, now senior partner of the Secret Angels Private Investigation Agency.

ALEX LAWSON (Rutter’s Reunion onwards) Rutter’s partner, a consultant psychiatrist at the Lambeth Hospital.

TRUDI HAMMOND (Rutter’s Revolt onwards) Daughter of an earl, but semi-estranged from her father. She is an artist who becomes Rutter’s close ally and a founder member of the Secret Angels.

ANNA TORRANCE (The Secret Angels onwards) Birth name, Natalia Nicolayevna Ivanova. The daughter of a Russian diplomat and a Cuban woman. Once part of the most powerful hacker partnership on earth. Now a founding member of the Secret Angels.

MARIE BURNETT(All books) Rutter’s oldest friend, now a successful children’s author.

JOE BURNETT (All books) Marie’s husband.

MARCUS LOGAN (All books) An elderly Irish hypnotherapist. A close friend and counsellor of all of the above.

SALLY FERGUSON (Chained in Time – Rutter’s Revolt) A TV news presenter and personality. Now deceased. Close friend of the above.

MANFRED ERZINGER (Rutter’s Revolt onwards) A senior Austrian police officer. Rutter’s contact in Central Europe.

LORD HAMMOND (Rutter’s Revolt onwards) Trudi’s father, Earl of Ancroft. Also a very senior officer in the Royal; Navy and MI6.

JULIAN RADCLIFFE (Rutter’s Revolt, The Secret Angels) A notorious serial killer and neo-Nazi whom Rutter hunts.

ANATOLII TERESCHENKO (The Secret Angels) A Ukrainian computing genius and Anna’s soulmate. Now deceased. She takes her English name to honour his memory.

RON ABBERLINE (Chained in Time, sporadic appearances thereafter) Rutter’s former senior officer, now an old friend.

JIM CORNISH (All books) Rutter’s former sergeant, now a friend.

MALCOLM RENWICK (Rutter’s Revolt onwards) Rutter’s former lover and senior officer while on the Force.

MIKE TAVERNER (Rutter’s Reunion onwards) Commander of Bow Road Police Station.

RUPERT PENFOLD (sporadic appearances) Police pathologist.

CHAPTER 1

Moscow, Russian Federation

Friday, April 30th, 1999, 11.45 AM (Eastern European Time)

THIS DACHA BORE no resemblance whatsoever to the vast majority of dachas. It was no wooden cottage with an attached vegetable plot. Dating from the early Eighteenth Century, it was a palace in everything but size, and even that was considerable. Built of granite and marble as a baroque hunting lodge for Peter the Great, it had been subsequently modernised to incorporate contemporary plumbing, wiring, lighting, heating and communications. After the Revolution, it was taken over by the State as a country retreat where senior party apparatchiks could wine, dine and bed their mistresses. Then, it held the title of Gosdacha, or Official State Dacha. Following the fall of Communism, it lost its nationalised status and returned to private hands. It was a dacha again, albeit one that would have dwarfed and outshone most mansions.

The brownish-grey pall from Moscow’s many factory chimneys and dirty exhaust pipes blanketed the eastern horizon above the trees, a permanent reminder of the toxic pall that hung over the city, the heart of which remained beautiful despite all the industry. The prevailing wind, however, was from the west, which kept the smell of burning fossil fuels at bay and ensured that the air in these woods was as sweet and clean as could be hoped for.

The wrought-iron gates, still crowned by the gilded Double-Headed Imperial Eagle, swung open to admit a gleaming black Mercedes S-Class. Not for its occupant the ostentatious, but ugly, unreliable, mechanically crude and uncomfortable ZiLs that government ministers still had to endure. No thank you. She would use a real car from a country with a reputation for building them properly, unlike the Russians.

The sleek vehicle rolled to a crunching halt on the gravel drive before the main entrance, where staff members had hurriedly gathered to greet their velikaya ledi, their great lady.

The chauffeur switched off the purring engine and moved smartly round to the rear passenger door, holding it open for her.

The shoes were by Gucci, the power suit and coat were by Dior. The jewellery and perfume were exclusively Fabergé. Although long-established as an international brand, based these days in England, she never forgot that its roots were Russian. Large houses changed hands for less than she had paid for her necklace and rings.

Yekaterina Fyodorevna Kurakina, matriarkh of the biggest post-Soviet organised crime syndicate in Russia, surveyed her country retreat. Yekaterina is the Russian equivalent of Katherine, but she chose to use its traditional diminutive, Katya, because it sounded prettier. That was a mark of her vanity, for she was anything but pretty, and never had been. Nevertheless, she cut a truly regal figure with her statuesque deportment and grace of movement.

At sixty-two years of age, she was taller than average — her height accentuated by her heels — and thin to the point of gauntness. Her Slavic cheekbones stood out against her sunken cheeks like planks, giving her face a slightly skull-like appearance. Her hair, silver-grey but plentiful, was coiled in a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes, sharp, merciless and black, missed nothing. The price of her makeup alone would have kept a factory worker’s family in food for a week. Her lips, a thin line of compressed scarlet, were clamped together in permanent disapproval. She moved with the grace of a gazelle, her footfall signalling the onset of dread in those in those who heard it.

She stood to one side as a huge dog alighted from the vehicle. It was a borzoi, the Romanov Czars’ hound of choice — a heavily inflated greyhound, with a long, silky coat. To describe it thus, although accurate, would be to demean it. Dimitri the Borzoi was nothing, if not an aristocrat among dogs, and he knew it.

The first to greet her was her butler, Konstantin, immaculate in his suit, eyes downcast, fearful of looking directly at she who pulled his strings.

Moya ledi, dobro pozhalovat, he bowed. His voice seemed unnaturally high-pitched and deferential. Nerves. She always considered him a eunuch, even though he wasn’t. He carried out his duties, organising the running of her household efficiently enough, and that was all she required of him. He would never have dared address her with anything less respectful than, My lady, welcome.

Handing him the diamond-encrusted dog leash, she ignored him otherwise and swept straight past into the building, where a further menial waited with that morning’s edition of Komsomolskaya Pravda, freshly ironed and still warm. He held it out to her on a silver tray. She took the newspaper without looking or acknowledging him and glided on into her study. Konstantin watched her go, consciously suppressing the trembling that invaded his legs whenever she appeared. As the door closed behind her, he sighed with relief and led the dog round the side of the building to its kennel.

The bitterness with which she had shrouded herself since long before he began to work for her, had deepened, if anything, over the years. It had become so ingrained in her psyche that it pervaded her every thought and action. She had but one mood maintained under ruthless control and never varying. She could elevate a chosen one to riches or condemn him to a hideous fate with the same superior cast of her eye. Katya Kurakina was never angry, nor was she ever pleased. Affection was an alien concept that afflicted lesser people, as was happiness. Long past childbearing age, she had no children to love, and she would not have loved them if she had.

All of this dated from her early failure to achieve her life’s ambition. Many would have shrugged, accepted it, walked away and made do with whatever else came their way instead. Not so Katya. She never made do with anything. Her life since her expulsion from the Bolshoi could not be described, even remotely, as making do. She didn’t compromise. She conquered. She still walked like a ballerina, but she had not been allowed to dance like one since an unexpected growth spurt placed her beyond the height limit of 165cm — five feet five inches — at the age of fourteen.

The study had been built for a czar and still looked the part. Baroque hunting scenes covered every wall and the ceiling, where outthrust hands and feet of cherubs emerged in moulded plaster from the surfaces, clutching at air while their flat, painted remainders looked on in wonder. A chandelier, electrified since the days of the Bolsheviks, shimmered in the centre, surrounded by yet more gambolling cherubs with protruding, three-dimensional extremities. The rugs were ancient and deep; the upholstery was crushed crimson velvet and the woodwork inlaid with gold leaf.

Approaching her vast desk ― burr walnut, inlaid with crimson leather ― she sat, surrounded by Fabergé eggs and Ormolu clocks, ornate, gilded mouldings and a telephone that looked more sculpted than moulded. It would not have looked out of place when the building was new, had they existed then. This would remain her nerve centre, even after she achieved her full ascendancy as the new Czarina, and took her rightful place in the Kremlin.

Opening the paper, she examined that morning’s news with an analytical eye. Her thin mouth twisted into the grimace that she habitually used to replicate a smirk. That was as far she would permit herself to go. She never smiled. Smiles made friends, and she had no room in her life for them. Other human beings existed purely to satisfy her requirements.

The word, Pravda meant Truth. The ultimate irony. There was no way that this venerable organ of the Russian Communist Party could be ever relied on to deliver that, especially when writing about the Rodina, the Motherland. When reporting incidents in the Fascist West, however, its writing sometimes produced more useful information, an alternative viewpoint, and much could be learned by reading between its lines judiciously.

That morning’s edition led with the sensational foiling of an attempted Nazi coup that had occurred in Austria a few days before. Little was known yet, but her international network of informers had unearthed some telling supplementary information with which to compare this news. She sought specific details only indirectly related to the events that the paper reported. She had been seeking them for two years, ever since her husband’s untimely passing, but hitherto with little success and much frustration. She could not have cared less about the Nazis or what they might have done had their plot not been foiled. Her interest was entirely personal. It was the spite that had guided her every move since the end of her dancing career. She wanted vengeance.

It was not so much what the paper stated as what it failed to state explicitly that caught her attention. Already, after less than two paragraphs, she could discern a subtle variance in tone in this morning’s lead article.

Her mind turned, logically, to her guest, awaiting her pleasure in the basement. He had resisted her minions’ attempts at persuasion with a resilience unexpected in one so meek. He had begged and pleaded for them to desist and let him go, but had so far insisted that he knew nothing. Now that all — or at least most of it — was to be revealed publicly, might this be the time to unveil herself to him so that he would open up to her and make known that which would never be public knowledge?

Folding the paper, she set it to one side and reached for a small silver bell at the corner of her desk. Konstantin appeared within seconds.

She left her office with an imperious finger raised for him to follow.

Crossing the airy atrium, they made their way down a broad flight of marble steps to a large, polished wooden door, beyond which lay another door, this one thick, solid steel and heavily damped with soundproofing on its far side. It led to the cellar. She did not need him to accompany her beyond the first door. She would not require him to do anything other than wait for her outside and escort her back up again afterwards. She had directed it purely to underline, yet again, who was in charge.

In severe contrast to the sumptuous upper floors, the basement was unrelieved plain stone, elegantly laid but deliberately flat, cold and uninviting. The large, dim, and almost empty chamber was lit by a single, low-powered, naked electric bulb hanging from a wire in the centre of the ceiling. A dip in the floor led to a drain, and a hosepipe was coiled against one wall. Similar torture cells in the bowels of the Lubyanka were permanently stained with the sweat, blood and other bodily emissions of those who had perished there. She would never allow that on her property. Smelly, dirty, barbaric places. Her artistic sensibilities were too easily offended by such crass crudity. Any acts of physical persuasion handed out on her behalf in this room were followed by an immediate hosing down and thorough disinfect to restore it to its previous pristine ― even sterile ― condition. She could see that another scrub and disinfect would be needed very soon. Her nose twitched and her lip curled. The pervading smell was not so much of blood or urine, however — although both were present. It was of bleach.

Immediately beneath the light bulb, the swollen, split, bruised and bloodied face of a young man took its fourth heavy blow from a bunched fist in a minute. His head shot back at the impact and then fell forward onto his chest, where he dribbled a narrow stream of blood and spat out a broken tooth. Running tears made clean, crooked trails down both cheeks, standing out against the sweat and blood coating his skin and matted in his stubble.

As the Matriarkh glided in, her muscle-bound chief torturer stepped back from readying his next assault on the man’s nose. Several other men stood about in silence, all wearing cheap suits with suspicious bulges beneath their left armpits.

She approached the shrunken figure, bound tightly to an old dining chair, his face and body leaking from a dozen wounds, particularly around his smashed nose. She stood before him, eyeing him silently for several seconds before his battered senses roused themselves sufficiently to register her presence.

At least it wasn’t the brute who had beaten him to a pulp that faced him now. Instead, a woman stood there, bejewelled and gowned, elegant to her fingertips, but cold as a glacier. This woman looked like a queen, an empress, old but unbowed. His ears registered the respectful hush that had fallen on the room as she entered. His torturer retired a step further, abashed. The others stood straighter in her presence.

Stooping before him, she asked him his name.

Saliva, mingled with blood, bubbled from a mouth swollen with brutality as he tried to wheeze a response. Ich verstehe nicht… spreche keine Russische…

A cruel grimace spread across the woman’s face as she leaned closer and stared intently into his eyes. Her words came out in a cold, smooth hiss.

Sprechen Sie Englisch?

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. Ja, he babbled before he could stop himself. Sie sprechen Deutsch? He was confounded. Why had they subjected him to that barbarian when she could have understood him all along? Then the truth hit him, and he hung his head again. They had not subjected him to this. She had.

She leaned closer still and purred in heavily accented English. I do speak German. Her voice was as frozen as her smirk, Quite well as it happens, but that is your language, so we will not speak it today. You do not speak Russian, but we both speak English, so we will use that instead. A foreign language to the pair of us. What could be fairer? She smirked coldly again. What is your name?

Her black eyes were piercing. Every pore in his body felt like it was leaking sweat and blood. Tears welled in his eyes. Every bone ached, some felt as if they had snapped. His mind swam. Rolf Dettmann, he told her.

She straightened, nodding in satisfaction at her gathered henchmen. Rolf Dettmann. That wasn’t so difficult, was it, Rolf? She turned to her head torturer and dismissed him with a toss of her head. The man bowed and left, rubbing his bruised knuckles.

Turning back to her prisoner, she smirked a third time. I have sent him away. He will not hurt you again. He is an ape, but he has his uses. He is not very intelligent, and did not know that you speak no Russian. She shrugged mockingly. Even if he did, he does not understand that beating you half-dead will not make you speak it any better. An ominous snigger ran around the onlookers, quelled at once with a glare from her eye. I, however, am much cleverer than he is.

The man found himself transfixed by her hypnotic stare.

She unrolled the newspaper and held it before him. He stared at it. Familiarity dawned in his eyes. He had assumed that this was the reason why he had found himself in this accursed place, although the questioning barked by his torturer had done nothing to explain that because he could not understand a word the man had snarled.

She could see that he recognised the photograph of the Schloss Blitzenfels, and reasoned that he might be able to decipher the Russian word for Austria: Avсtpiya.

You cannot read it, of course, because it is in Russian. I will summarise it for you. It tells the story of how a castle in Austria was attacked by special forces, and a lot of plotting Nazis were arrested and handed over to the local police a few days ago. Her eyes probed deeper. It seems that they had an idea to establish a new Fourth Reich, only their plans were subverted, and they will be spending many years in prison instead. She examined his face closely. I can see that you already knew about this. I can also confirm to you that the person who was financing your silence will not be making any more payments. Ever. He met a very grisly end at the hands of his former girlfriend on the border with Slovenia. Right at the top of a mountain pass. How poetic. She put five bullets in him, but it was only the last one that killed him — and it would have taken fully fifteen minutes before he bled to death in unspeakable agony. All of his money has been seized — every last coin — and it will soon be on its way back to its original owners. That being the case, there is nothing left in the kitty to pay his hired hands. Therefore, there seems to be little point in holding your tongue any longer, wouldn’t you agree?

 Scales dropped from his eyes. Wirklich? He hung his head. I mean truly?

She nodded. Oh, yes. Trust me, Rolf, I would not lie to you on this matter. She straightened, the cold softness that she had allowed into her tone being sacrificed in favour of a flinty directness. Now, Herr Dettmann, you worked at the Schloss Blitzenfels, didn’t you?

He knew that nothing would be achieved by resisting further. He nodded resignedly. Yes.

It is in the Carinthia province, yes? The man nodded weakly. I went to Carinthia once with the ballet, she reminisced dreamily. "A most beautiful place set between the lakes and the mountains. We danced Giselle in Klagenfurt. It was wonderful. She neglected to mention that it had been a second-tier venture with a troupe of Bolshoi trainees, several of whom subsequently failed to graduate, some through outgrowing the height limit — like herself — and some by failing to develop sufficiently. She was the only one of the failures who had turned to organised crime. The others settled for working in factories and shops. Turning her eyes back on him, her voice dropped a tone. What was your job there?"

He gulped. I worked on the computer. I was a technician…

Her upraised finger stopped his words abruptly. Her eyes bored deeper. I have told you the truth, Herr Dettmann. You must also tell me the truth. That is only polite. It was much more than just a computer, was it not? It was the most powerful server in Europe.

His eyes grew wider with fear. Against his better judgement, he nodded.

And you were more than a mere technician.

At her raised eyebrow, several nearby hulking slabs of meat began to flex their knuckles and move in.

All right! cried Dettmann, squirming in his panic. They did use me to do technician’s work sometimes when it needed fixing, but I was employed as Bein’s assistant.

Helmut Bein, the hacker? Her voice took on an almost cooing tone. Nussknacker?"

Dettmann nodded worriedly.

Her eyes bored closer. So, you were a hacker too?

He nodded again, his eyes darting about warily. He was the best, though. I only helped.

The best hacker in the world? He saw the raised eyebrow and hung his head again.

One of them.

Katya Kurakina straightened again and began to circle him, gliding, more than stepping, over the cold stone flags. And yet, despite that, he failed.

Dettmann’s head remained on his chest. At first, he did not answer. But then his fear overcame him again. Yes.

How could that happen?

He made no reply. She stopped circling and crouched so that her face was inches from his. "How did that happen?" she repeated in a still lower tone.

I… I do not know… he whimpered pathetically.

Yes, you do. You were hacked. Her words cut through him like ice.

He looked up fearfully. It was impossible. The server was designed to resist all…

"… and yet you were hacked! So it was not impossible."

No, he conceded in a shuddering whisper.

She stood again. You were not among the Nazis they rounded up.

I’m not a Nazi. I know computers. They just paid me to do a tech. job.

How did you get out?

He took a couple of deep gulps before answering. He had long since given up all hope of surviving, but a faint hope lingered in his breast that the beatings might be over, that she would order it finished quickly and cleanly, if only he answered her questions. When the server crashed and Radcliffe turned on Bein, I ran. When I got outside, I heard them coming: the… er…

Helicopters?

Helicopters, yes. I jumped over the wall and landed in a tree. I climbed down and ran away through the woods.

Clever boy, she smiled coldly, patting his bloody cheek. A menial promptly handed her a moisturising tissue to cleanse her hand. And then you ran into my people who brought you here. Who hacked you?

I did not stay to find out… he pleaded.

But you know. Her eyes bored into him again.

He could not meet her gaze and looked away. Yes, he confessed.

Who?

He turned back to her desperately. Bein said she had retired. Or died. There had been no trace for months. She doesn’t leave a trace, of course, unless she wants to. But he was wrong. I knew he was wrong, but he wouldn’t listen. There is only one who could have done it. If you know who Bein was, you know who she is!

No further words were exchanged. Katya Kurakina rose slowly to her full height and turned on her heel, nodding once to one of her henchmen. Another began to uncoil the hosepipe as she left. The first man waited until the soundproofed door closed behind her before pulling the trigger.

Maintaining her stately, gliding progress unaltered, she made her way back to her study, closed the door behind her and settled once again at her desk.

Reaching for the carved telephone, she dialled a number known only to a select few.

Moya Ledi? came the familiar voice after just two rings.

Yevgeny, she snapped, going on to ask him whether he had read that morning’s edition.

He replied in the affirmative, knowing that her next utterance would consist of just two words. He, too, was adept at reading between the lines, but his skills included reading between her lines.

Lebed. Avstriya.

CHAPTER 2

Salzburg, Austria

Thursday, May 6th, 1999

MANFRED ERZINGER WAS not in a good mood. His role in bringing the Radcliffe affair and the associated Nazi coup attempt to successful conclusions had earned him a promotion to the rank of Hauptmann, the equivalent of a British superintendent, or an American captain, but it also meant a change of workplace. The increase in salary and responsibility pleased him, but the relocation did not. He was now based in the Headquarters building in Salzburg instead of his local police station in Zell am See.

Being a country boy at heart, he did not feel comfortable in the city — even one as beautiful as this. Not that the Polizeiinspektion building could ever be described as beautiful. The glorious baroque Altstadt, scene of Mozart’s birth, overlooked by the great medieval castle on its crag, had earned the city its World Heritage Site status, but was built on the left bank of the River Salzach. The modern quarter, where he worked, was on the right. His office was in an undistinguished, geometric concrete and glass block in a corner of the mundanely contemporary Südtirolerplatz, where the only building of distinction was the Nineteenth Century railway station. At least the square was an open space with some trees, he conceded, but it was surrounded by the sort of geometric cuboids that could be found in any modern city where the architects had neither the funding nor the imagination to design something worth looking at. Even worse, although Salzburg stood at the edge of the Alps, one of the most dramatically situated cities on earth, his window faced north, away from the mountains.

At least it was close enough for him to return to his rural nest most evenings.

Even so, his working day was spent prowling unfamiliar corridors and interacting with relative strangers instead of his old friends and colleagues. The price of success, he told himself. He would get used to it, and them, in time, but for the present, it was an irritation. He pursued cases through streets that were not exactly alien to him because he was no stranger, but he did not feel as if he belonged there either. His home in Zell am See was only an hour’s drive away. Salzburg’s world-renowned Strassen and Gassen were not the streets and alleys he loved. Instead of the overhanging eaves and narrow cobbled ways, he operated in what he saw as a jarring intermarriage of memorable Mozart and mundane modernity. This was not the Salzburg that the tourists came to see. They rarely crossed the river from the Altstadt, unless it was to visit the Mirabell Gardens or take the Sound of Music tour.

On this particular day, he was irritated afresh because, although Salzburg was a city of low crime, when compared with many, even it had its share of murders and robberies. Not on this day, though. For the first time since taking up his new situation, he had absolutely nothing to do. His mind was dwelling on that thought when a disturbance from beyond his door attracted his attention. Opening it, he beheld two uniformed officers struggling with a thickset man in a cheap suit, who was shouting something unintelligible.

Was is los? he demanded sternly, his tone of voice stilling the disturbance.

The uniformed officers let go of the man and saluted, addressing him as Herr Hauptmann. One of them proceeded to tell him that this fellow had intimidated the proprietors of several local lodging houses by waving a picture around and barking gibberish loudly. The gibberish would be an unfamiliar foreign language — so not English, French or Italian. They would have recognised them as most could speak the first, and frequently one of the others as well.

Erzinger held out his hand for the picture and the man handed it over grudgingly. The Austrian glanced at it before returning his stern stare to the man. Only then did a new thought occur to him. Looking at the picture again, he inclined his head to instruct the uniforms to take him into his office.

Now the individual in question sat before him across his desk. He was an unprepossessing sight in his cheap grey suit, small, piggish eyes and thick folds of flesh gathered at the back of his neck. He was of no more than average height, but he looked heavy, not physically fit so much as heavily built and naturally strong. His close-cropped hair stood up on end and was already showing signs of turning grey. Erzinger thought it made him look older than he probably was. He sat there, ill at ease, casting from right to left and occasionally behind him where the two uniformed officers stood impassively with their hands behind their backs.

Erzinger took all this in, finally nodding his thanks to the two uniforms, who turned and left the room. Once they were alone, he asked the man his name.

Wie heissen Sie?

The man jumped as if scalded and babbled something incomprehensible.

Erzinger leaned forward, his head cocked to one side. Was?

Ya ne govoryu po-Nemetskiy. The man waited for a second, then repeated the words louder and more forcibly, as if that would make them more comprehensible to the policeman.

The Austrian leaned back, slowly, examining the worried scowl that clouded the man’s face. His cheekbones were prominent, and the slant of his eyes hinted at Eastern European origins, but that did not indicate anything conclusive. The Czech Republic, Slovakia, Hungary and Slovenia all bordered on Austria, so Slavic blood was not exactly unknown in his nation’s ethnic makeup. An inability to understand German, however, was.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

The man looked alarmed, babbled those words again and shrugged. Perhaps he did not understand after all. Erzinger then tried a guess, based solely on the man’s appearance. Russki?

This produced a result. The man’s face brightened, and he nodded like a donkey. Da, da…Russki, he replied.

So the man was Russian, and could not speak or understand any German.

Apparently.

Erzinger resolved to discover what he did understand. He had no Russian, barring the few words that everyone knew, and no intention of finding an interpreter for such a trivial matter. There were other avenues he could explore, though.

Do you speak English? he asked slowly, enunciating each word carefully.

Matters improved from that moment on. The man nodded, grinning stupidly, hugely relieved at being able to make himself understood.

Yes… a little, he confirmed. "I sorry, I do not know Nemetskiy… er… German."

Erzinger nodded with a small, understanding smile. Okay. I am Hauptmann Erzinger. What is your name?

Leonid Ilyich Luzhkov. The man pronounced the words slowly and with exaggerated emphasis.

Erzinger noted this down and held his hand out. Passport, please?

The man fished in his pocket and handed over the crimson booklet, which Erzinger noted the Russian authorities had printed, considerately, in both Russian and English. The typed details inside, however, were resolutely Cyrillic. Fortunately, the Eastern European alphabet shared enough characters with the Roman to make it evident that he had been told the name printed there. Whether that was the man’s real name was an entirely different question. He verified that the visa was legal, closed the booklet and handed it back.

Where do you live, Leonid?

Klintsy.

Erzinger frowned involuntarily. He had never heard of Klintsy. Is that a place in Russia?

Luzhkov nodded. Little town. Near Belarus. And Ukraine, he added after a moment’s pause.

Near the borders with Belarus and Ukraine?

The man nodded. Da.

Erzinger noted that down as well, resolving to look it up on a map when he could. Why have you come to Austria? Are you on holiday?

The man shook his head earnestly. No. Work. I look for girl.

The Hauptmann held up the picture. This girl?

The man nodded. Da.

Erzinger examined it closely, careful not to let his expression be apparent to his visitor. It was not a photograph of a person, but an artist’s impression. It showed a teenage girl with moderately dark skin and gaunt, pinched cheeks. Her hair looked as if clumps of it had fallen out. The artist had caught a hunted look in her eyes. It was that which had originally attracted his attention. The more he looked at it, the more troubled Erzinger felt. The girl had suffered grievously. Every cut and blow of whatever had been done to her was mirrored in that haunted look. Worse than that, there was something familiar about her.

She looks ill, he observed.

Picture old, answered Luzhkov. She probably better now.

Erzinger nodded slowly and carefully. Or dead, he thought. Who is she?

She called Renata Fyodorova.

Fortunately for Erzinger, he was staring at the picture in his hand, rather than the man opposite him when he heard the name. He knew that name. He knew it very well, and now that it had been mentioned to him, he recognised her. Just. It was not a good likeness, but an artist’s impression based on a description was rarely that. He had met her briefly only a few weeks before, but under sensational circumstances, and he knew that she had a very good reason to hide from Russians. For one thing, her real name was not Renata Fyodorova.

Having composed his expression, he looked up again. Russian?

The man nodded.

He took another look at the picture and held it up. Are there many black people in Russia?

The man shrugged. Her mother from Cuba.

Erzinger nodded slowly again. That tallied with what he knew. Do you know her?

Luzhkov shook his head. No. Work. Is what I do. I find people. I not know her.

Who sent you?

Boss. Big boss in company.

Erzinger leaned forward, restraining himself because he realised that big boss might not mean exactly the same to a Russian with limited English as it would to a westerner with a good command of the language. Big boss?

Director.

Erzinger sat back again. What is his name?

Luzhkov shrugged. I not know. Big company. He in Moscow, I in Klintsy. Manager there hire me for him.

The company’s name?

S.I.L.D.

Erzinger had heard of that one. S.I.L.D. was a major company with branches all over Europe, although he believed it to be based in St. Petersburg rather than Moscow. Whether a lowly hired hand like Luzhkov would know that was open to debate.

Why did he hire you?

Is my work.

Erzinger regarded him coolly. You are a private detective? The man simply stared back at him uncomprehendingly. Why does he want you to find her?

He think she his family.

Erzinger blinked in disbelief. Really?

The man nodded. Is true.

Erzinger took this in thoughtfully. Why do you think she might be in Salzburg?

The man leant forward himself this time, his air was conspiratorial. She here three weeks ago, he confided. Big boss send me to Austria because he think she here still. Hotel lady tell me she stay at her hotel. He wrote the name and address down, slowly and carefully because the Roman alphabet was as alien to him as the German language. Erzinger glanced at it. It was a small guesthouse on Schumacherstrasse, near to the British safe house where he had encountered the lady in question. He would send a uniform to verify that.

She recognised her from this picture? Erzinger considered that very unlikely, given the poor likeness.

Luzhkov shook his head. No, picture not so good. She say black Russian lady stay. She show me register. Renata Fyodorova.

Erzinger sat back again. She told you that, even though you do not speak German?

She speak English.

Erzinger held up the picture again. May I make a copy of this?

The man smiled ingratiatingly. You keep. I have more.

There was little else that Erzinger could do. The man was not breaking any laws and the only complaints against him concerned his manner. He thanked him for coming in and shook his hand, dismissing him with an exhortation to be polite with the people he spoke to.

After he had departed, he called the uniforms back in and sent them off to the guesthouse on Schumacherstrasse to check the story, not that he expected them to find anything contradictory. Why lie about that?

Alone