Read Online The Silent Oligarch: A Novel by Christopher Morgan Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Christopher Morgan Jones
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around it. So my question is: where is it? Where’s the crime?”
Lock felt his shoulders relax, and felt the urge to stretch. This was heartening. The crimes were deep in Russia, buried under layers of permafrost. If he didn’t know about them—and he really didn’t, not in any detail—then even the Americans would struggle to get close. How often had Moscow fallen to invading powers? Never, he was fairly sure. Not since the Mongols anyway. Russia was impregnable. The Ministry of Internal Affairs would never cooperate with the FBI, and no private investigation would get close. No crime was ever discovered in Russia unless someone more powerful than you wanted to hurt you, and Malin would have to fall badly out of favor to begin to be vulnerable.
“I don’t know,” he said, smiling at Kesler for the first time that week. “I think Tourna’s got his work cut out. He really has.”
F OR TWO HOURS on Saturday morning Lock was released to watch his daughter dance. He arrived early and waited outside in the cool morning light, ill at ease in the only casual clothes he had brought with him on this trip: tan corduroys, a pale-blue work shirt, heavy brown shoes. The church hall was some way north of Marina’s apartment in an area less refined, less pristine: it was a box of stained yellow brick set among older houses, its uniform walls segmented with long, narrow windows of frosted glass. Lock watched the mothers and fathers arriving with their children and wondered how many lived alone.
“Daddy!” Vika’s voice cut through the noise of traffic passing and he turned to see her running to him from the corner. As she reached him, he crouched a little to receive her hug and in one movement picked her up, his back stiff and weak. She was so much heavier than he expected, and the plumpness he remembered had given way to ribs and muscle. She was strong.
“Hello, rabbit.” He put her down and smiled at Marina as she walked toward them. “Morning.”
“Morning. How are you?”
“Daddy, are you going to stay and watch?”
“Of course. If I’m allowed.”
Vika pushed him playfully, as if he must be joking.
“Mummy, he can, can’t he?”
“I didn’t mean . . .” said Lock.
“It’s fine,” said Marina, smiling. “I know. We’ll watch from upstairs.”
Vika took Lock’s hand and led him into the hall. “Come on, Daddy.” Inside, parents were saying good-bye to their children or taking stairs up to a gallery that ran the length of the building. The walls were bare brick, the floor a scuffed parquet.
“Don’t you have to get changed?” said Lock.
“Into what?” said Vika.
“I don’t know. Dancing clothes.”
“These are my dancing clothes.” She was wearing sneakers, gray leggings and a grass-green T-shirt with a stylized oak tree on the front, its roots reaching down to the word “growth” printed in bold white letters.
“Come on,” said Marina, and with her hand on his arm guided Lock toward the stairs. “Have fun, darling.”
Vika ran into the hall, turning halfway to wave. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and Lock thought how much older she looked, how like her mother—her nose straight, her neck slight but strong. She was less like him now.
He and Marina sat on a bench in the gallery. He rested his forearms on the railing in front of him and looked down at Vika, who was in a cluster of children talking excitedly about their holidays and practicing moves: squatting on their haunches, striking poses. She was on the edge of the group, listening to the others interrupt each other in their need to get their stories out and waiting for her moment.
Marina put her hand on his forearm. “Thank you for coming. It’s nice to see you.”
“I should have been before.”
Marina didn’t reply; she was watching Vika below. After a moment she said, “She’s so pleased to see you.”
“I know. It’s a relief.”
“I’ve been careful not to blame you.”
Lock wanted to
Lock felt his shoulders relax, and felt the urge to stretch. This was heartening. The crimes were deep in Russia, buried under layers of permafrost. If he didn’t know about them—and he really didn’t, not in any detail—then even the Americans would struggle to get close. How often had Moscow fallen to invading powers? Never, he was fairly sure. Not since the Mongols anyway. Russia was impregnable. The Ministry of Internal Affairs would never cooperate with the FBI, and no private investigation would get close. No crime was ever discovered in Russia unless someone more powerful than you wanted to hurt you, and Malin would have to fall badly out of favor to begin to be vulnerable.
“I don’t know,” he said, smiling at Kesler for the first time that week. “I think Tourna’s got his work cut out. He really has.”
F OR TWO HOURS on Saturday morning Lock was released to watch his daughter dance. He arrived early and waited outside in the cool morning light, ill at ease in the only casual clothes he had brought with him on this trip: tan corduroys, a pale-blue work shirt, heavy brown shoes. The church hall was some way north of Marina’s apartment in an area less refined, less pristine: it was a box of stained yellow brick set among older houses, its uniform walls segmented with long, narrow windows of frosted glass. Lock watched the mothers and fathers arriving with their children and wondered how many lived alone.
“Daddy!” Vika’s voice cut through the noise of traffic passing and he turned to see her running to him from the corner. As she reached him, he crouched a little to receive her hug and in one movement picked her up, his back stiff and weak. She was so much heavier than he expected, and the plumpness he remembered had given way to ribs and muscle. She was strong.
“Hello, rabbit.” He put her down and smiled at Marina as she walked toward them. “Morning.”
“Morning. How are you?”
“Daddy, are you going to stay and watch?”
“Of course. If I’m allowed.”
Vika pushed him playfully, as if he must be joking.
“Mummy, he can, can’t he?”
“I didn’t mean . . .” said Lock.
“It’s fine,” said Marina, smiling. “I know. We’ll watch from upstairs.”
Vika took Lock’s hand and led him into the hall. “Come on, Daddy.” Inside, parents were saying good-bye to their children or taking stairs up to a gallery that ran the length of the building. The walls were bare brick, the floor a scuffed parquet.
“Don’t you have to get changed?” said Lock.
“Into what?” said Vika.
“I don’t know. Dancing clothes.”
“These are my dancing clothes.” She was wearing sneakers, gray leggings and a grass-green T-shirt with a stylized oak tree on the front, its roots reaching down to the word “growth” printed in bold white letters.
“Come on,” said Marina, and with her hand on his arm guided Lock toward the stairs. “Have fun, darling.”
Vika ran into the hall, turning halfway to wave. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and Lock thought how much older she looked, how like her mother—her nose straight, her neck slight but strong. She was less like him now.
He and Marina sat on a bench in the gallery. He rested his forearms on the railing in front of him and looked down at Vika, who was in a cluster of children talking excitedly about their holidays and practicing moves: squatting on their haunches, striking poses. She was on the edge of the group, listening to the others interrupt each other in their need to get their stories out and waiting for her moment.
Marina put her hand on his forearm. “Thank you for coming. It’s nice to see you.”
“I should have been before.”
Marina didn’t reply; she was watching Vika below. After a moment she said, “She’s so pleased to see you.”
“I know. It’s a relief.”
“I’ve been careful not to blame you.”
Lock wanted to
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