The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art by Ken Fry Page B

sleet splattered across the windscreen.
    Ninety minutes later, a sign appeared: Tver 5 km. He’d decided to spend the night at a local hotel in Tver about 160 kilometres from Moscow. The thought of that brought memories of warmth, good food, vodka, and a willing male partner for the night. But that had been two years ago. If he was lucky, he might still be working there. He couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty then. He hadn’t even known his name and at the time it seemed unimportant. They’d undressed like kids tearing off paper from birthday presents.
    The approach to the Dacha consisted of a specially constructed driveway wide enough to accommodate three vehicles. Two Russian flags fluttered from tall white poles standing alongside the entrance that consisted of a massive wooden gateway patrolled by two armed guards. The driveway led up for three hundred metres through a wooded area, before reaching a small hill overlooking a stretch of water on which a large jetty had been built. The dacha stood at the top of the hill.
    It was built in a mock-peasant style, with white walls and curved windows surmounted by wooden beams that ascended to a sloping green-tiled roof. This led to a small clock tower with a black dial inlaid with large brass numerals.
    Beneath his dacha, Berezin, dressed in a grey mohair suit with a short camel coat, sat behind a kidney-shaped desk at the far end of a stark and windowless room. Behind him, with folded arms, stood a young man with a lean physique and an expression like a clenched fist. He wore a black, military-style jacket and carried a side-arm pistol. On the other side stood Anton Petrovitch.
    The area had been constructed and concealed deep beneath the underground car park, which was accessed by a hefty steel door at the far end. Entry could be obtained only if you had the correct code, which was frequently changed. The internal structure resembled a warehouse. Around every wall were mounted racks of sliding metal shelving, from which protruded a substantial array of picture frames, some of which revealed a glimpse of colour that could only hint at the art it contained. One light was on and it glowed feebly from a red shade attached to the ceiling.
    Berezin cracked his knuckles and fidgeted in his seat. Waiting for Novikov was akin to waiting for a time bomb to explode. There was a trait in Novikov’s character that unnerved him. He possessed a hidden power. What that was he couldn’t determine. It seemed to culminate in a brooding mix of suppressed violence, measured aggression, and an underlying understanding of what people’s fears were. He sensed that the man saw through himself more than anybody could or had. It was at moments like this he wondered if he had made a wise choice.
    His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the distinct double-click of the entry system opening the door. Berezin raised his head to look at the CCTV screen. A glance at his watch confirmed that his visitor was right on time. With a soft creak the door opened further. Armed men moved down the small flight of metal steps, and walking between them was Vladimir Novikov. He moved like a stalking cat, looking neither left or right. His eyes fixed firmly on the back of the guard’s neck.
    Berezin remained seated and buried his fears beneath a show of false friendliness.
    “Novikov, you are on time. I trust your journey was trouble-free. You must be tired. Please, take a seat.” He gestured expansively to the vacant chair opposite himself. “Beluga?” He held up a full-sized, unopened bottle and clinked two glasses against it.
    “Not when discussing business.” Novikov’s flat, sour voice caused Berezin to frown. He continued. “Your line of business is full of ostentatious frivolities that have no place in my plain, hard practical world. I have ways of solving awkward problems. You can put your vodka away.”
    Berezin felt affronted, as if being dismissed by a superior. Many years had