The Cossack

By KJ Lawrence

Winter 2014. In London, Daniel Brooking is a successful fine art photographer on the eve of his latest exhibition. In Ukraine, the Euromaidan protests are in full swing. The sudden disappearance of Daniel’s Ukrainian assistant upends his comfortable existence and pitches him into a world of competing international interests, where the life of one photographer is considered a small price to pay to maintain a secret that has lain hidden for over two hundred years.

London, North America and Kiev provide the backdrop to a contemporary thriller that has at its heart on old but not quite forgotten legend from the ancient Cossack lands of Ukraine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: KJ Lawrence
• Release date: Sep 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781999782719

Book preview

ONE

To Mikhail, the behaviour of the young man in the closing minutes of his life was both familiar and predictable. He had witnessed this transition, from presence to absence, many times before and always forced himself to share the moment with them. Often he imagined their thoughts. Sometimes he heard their confessions. But always, in the end, he watched them die.

Stage one: denial. When the knife first punctured his victim’s body, Mikhail knew the man would have felt little more than a distinct, sharp punch. So ferocious had been the struggle, it was only when his opponent’s legs buckled and he fell that he would even have realised he’d been injured. Mikhail had watched him go down, had seen the expression of surprise when he’d noticed the blood, an ink-like blot spreading slowly from the tear in the shirt, across his torso and towards the floor. Nothing too serious: that was invariably their first response. The brain would get busy with reassuring explanations. He must have stumbled and lost his footing, that was all. The stab was just a surface wound; he’d be fine. The young man tried to get up, and it was then that the damaged nerves within and around the wound made the fact of their trauma known. Mikhail stood astride his victim, knife still in hand, panting from the exertion of the fight. He bent and pushed the shoulders of his adversary back onto the bleached-oak laminate. The man couldn’t have resisted Mikhail’s strength even if he’d wanted, but there was to be no resistance. Instead, like an obedient gun dog, he lay back down. Mikhail felt inside the man’s jacket. He soon found what he was after and sliced at the lining to reveal a folded set of papers. As he did so, a puff of the man’s exhaled breath found its way into Mikhail’s nostrils and he noticed it bore the sweet scent of marshmallows. Mikhail stood upright and walked a few paces to a nearby chair where he proceeded to sit, arms on the armrests and the papers in his lap. His victim followed Mikhail with his eyes. They regarded one another for a few moments before pain seemingly drew the man’s attention back into his body.

Stage two: anger. The man gazed at the ceiling and remonstrated with himself.

‘Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! You stupid, arrogant, fucking idiot!’ Mikhail sat quietly, letting him vent. Now the voice was louder. ‘You’re twenty-eight. Twenty-eight! What made you think you could get the better of them?’ He began to laugh quietly, but when he spoke again his tone was contemptuous. ‘Wanted to be the big hero, didn’t you? Wanted all the glory, didn’t you? Serves you bloody right.’ He tried again to get up. This time the pain appeared more severe and he writhed on the floor in frustration. ‘Fuck!’ Mikhail could see how the pain fuelled the anger, gave the young man more energy, but still he couldn’t raise himself from the floor. Forced by the pain to lie back down, only his chest now moved as he gulped for air. Sweat beaded on his forehead and dampened his hair. Still Mikhail watched.

Stage three: bargaining. The effort to get up had made the bleeding worse and the wound now bled freely, both into the body cavity and out onto the floor where it mingled with the existing blotches and smears. Mikhail observed how the blood now pulsed over the shirt in tiny red waves, the cotton thread through which at first it had only seeped having become saturated. Upon striking the floor it formed a pool. From there it began to spread via a delta of slow moving rivulets. They tracked the seams in the floor, inching their way around objects that had been knocked to the ground during the fight. Mikhail sensed an awareness of the reality of his situation dawn in the young man’s mind. A cold hose of panic had doused the anger and the voice that now pleaded with Mikhail bore no trace of defiance.

‘Help me! Please help me! Get me to a hospital and I’ll tell you what I know. I have more information. About other papers.’ Mikhail tilted his head sideways and considered the wound before his eyes returned to his victim’s face.

‘Too late. I’m sorry. Lie still and it won’t hurt so much.’

Stage four: despair. The man’s gaze returned to the ceiling. There was no further conversation. Sometimes they would talk to him about now, but not this one. Maybe he would be thinking he’d been a coward? That he’d offered to sell out to save his own skin? That his short life had not yet amounted to very much? Mikhail had done his research, had read the files. Would the family grieve for him? Mikhail wasn’t sure. The young man had been estranged from his parents for years. His death would allow them to draw a veil across the life of a son they had disowned. Their type was not uncommon in the post-Soviet era. Don’t stand out from the crowd. Say and do what’s expected. Fit in with your neighbours. The fear-driven habits of the old order died hard it seemed, a truth not lost on the power-hungry zealots of the Orthodox Church who’d wasted no time filling the vacuum in ideology created by the passing of the Soviet Union. He did have a sister. Maybe she would mourn him?

Stage five: acceptance. The cold and numbness would be spreading. It would have started in his extremities, but by now he would be feeling a heavy chill in the very centre of his chest. Mikhail watched as, with what seemed an enormous effort, the boy, for he now seemed no more than a boy to Mikhail, drew his arms up from his sides and placed both hands under his head to form a makeshift pillow. He appeared to be staring, fascinated, at the blood on the floor. Perhaps he was having an out-of-body experience. Or was that just for his blood? Mikhail wondered how it felt about the change of scene. The boy’s head would be getting fuzzy now, his eyes starting to lose their ability to focus. Would he see pictures and patterns on the floor? A crimson octopus curving a tentacle around an upturned coffee cup perhaps? Or maybe a scarlet caterpillar heading towards the pot of basil that was lying on its side on the floor, soil half-spilled. Mikhail stared at the carmine beasts as they went about their business in the shadow of the now inert body.

He’d check for signs of life in a moment. For now though, he just sat. As the floodwaters of adrenalin subsided, the familiar sense of wretchedness was once again exposed. His pain had carved a neat parabola through time. At first he had recognised only a sense of disquiet after every job. As the months and years passed, so disquiet had steepened into self-loathing and despair. But the levels of anguish he experienced weren’t sustainable, and as his subconscious took control and began to shut down his ability to feel, so the curve had flattened out and begun its descent. Soon he feared he would become nothing more than numb, dumb flesh and bone, the unfeeling, unquestioning, efficient killer he had been recruited to be so long ago when he was too young and too stupid to know any better. His superiors interpreted his behaviour as no more than the professional detachment the job necessitated. It was not as if he’d ever been a jolly person; the role didn’t attract the jolly type. The habitual security checks revealed nothing that prompted mistrust or merited further investigation. Yes, he kept himself to himself. No, he’d not exhibited the political acumen necessary to rise above a certain level. But he was clever, far cleverer than first impressions might indicate, and had always proven dependable and solid. So they’d left him to his own devices and on what, over the years, had become an increasingly long leash. They called him Mikhail Petrov, the plodding assassin. He received the odd promotion when no one else objected, and ultimately became only semi-visible, just part of the furniture of a small unit within the SVR. Officially the unit did not exist. Unofficially, its existence was denied even to the heads of the other five SVR directorates. Secrecy and paranoia also died hard in the post-Soviet era.

Though he was not sure how, throughout the worst periods of self-hatred and disgust, some part of Mikhail had managed to cling to the idea that it was not too late for him. He was still capable of living a better life, of making amends. It was this faintest wisp of a voice, a voice that spoke to him when his head was bowed, his jaw clenched and his hands clasped tight around the butt of his gun, that kept him from shutting down completely, kept him feeling something, even if that something was pain, and stopped him putting the pistol in his mouth and leaving others to fill his shoes, others who might take rather too much pleasure in their work. It was not, however, possible simply to retire. In his near thirty years with the unit, he knew of only a handful that had made a successful transition into another career. They had been well connected and so able to wriggle their way into politics. It was preferable not to dwell on the fate of the rest. Time was running out for him though and he knew it. It was now three years since he’d resolved to find a means of escape, but it had been three years of false hopes and blind alleys. Every assignment had brought fresh opportunity. Every assignment had been a disappointment. He’d been given this latest job a few weeks ago. Travel to England and find this man. Recover some papers from him and return with them to Moscow. Not his normal bag, a milk-run really, but he hadn’t been to England for a while, so all things considered, he’d been content with his orders. Speaking of which, it was time he got back to them. He reviewed the papers that lay in his lap. They were photocopies of what appeared to be an old document, a handwritten ledger of some sort. Mikhail’s English was very good, but the writing style – dense but with extravagant loops obscuring many of the words – when coupled with the old-fashioned language and spelling, frustrated his translation skills. He could make out a date, 1782, and some of the heading, the Union Bank of New London and New England, but it would take time and patience to examine the document properly, as well as a magnifying glass. Mikhail considered the problem for a few minutes before deciding he would dispose of the body and then report to Moscow that he was still on the hunt. They understood these things could take a while. Having made his plan, Mikhail pocketed the papers and pushed himself up out of the chair. He didn’t know who owned the flat. Probably it belonged to a friend as the young man had had a key, and as that meant the owner could return at any time he’d have to clean up as best he could with what was available. A quick search revealed a sports bag large enough to hold a body so long as it was tightly trussed. He found cling film in the kitchen, and, after searching the man’s clothes and removing the wallet, phone and a miscellany of detritus from the pockets, he wrapped the cling film around the torso to cover the wound – not that there was now much blood escaping. The bag was of the type sold in sailing and mountaineering shops and had a rubberised internal coating to keep the water out or, in this case, the blood in, but for good measure Mikhail wrapped the body in a sheet from the airing cupboard before binding it with some blue string he found under the kitchen sink and stuffing the resultant parcel into the bag. He zipped the bag closed, heaved it to the door and returned to the kitchen to clean up. He worked quickly and efficiently, years of practice making this part of the job routine. Blood had never really bothered him, even at the very beginning. Twenty minutes later, the flat looked, to the layman’s eyes at least, as it had before the fight. Mikhail assessed his work and gave a nod. Far from perfect, but it would have to do. So it was that about an hour after he’d entered the flat, Mikhail left, carrying a black bin liner in one hand and lugging a large sports bag behind him.

TWO

Despite the last minute stresses, Daniel reckoned Paul had excelled himself. The gallery was full enough to create a good buzz but with sufficient space for people to get a proper look at the photographs and decide whether to buy. The Bellinis were flowing and the canapés circulating: ice cold Bellinis made with freshly pulped peach juice, and canapés you actually wanted to eat. He was standing in the kitchen at the rear of the gallery trying to delay the moment when he would have to enter the fray. Drink in hand, he snacked on mini Yorkshire puddings from a nearby tray; each had a slice of roast beef and smudge of horseradish nestled in its central hollow. Daniel wasn’t the type to let his work weigh him down or to take himself too seriously. There were moments of pressure when deadlines loomed, but generally speaking he saw himself as a simple bloke who took photographs and created pictures. He had been lucky, he knew that, and over the years his audience had grown and comprised a core of loyal followers and collectors. This laid-back attitude did not, however, extend to exhibition openings. In common with most artists, he viewed them with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, but predominantly the former. He let out a sigh. Well, it was another judgement day, entirely of his own making, so time to take a deep breath and go face the critics, literally. He drained his glass and pushed through the kitchen door into the gallery. Paul was approaching the kitchen just as he emerged.

‘Daniel, there you are!’ he exclaimed in his usual stentorian tone. Paul, Daniel’s agent and owner of the gallery, was one of life’s joyously loud people. Daniel smiled and nodded in acknowledgement at the several people who had turned at the announcement, before leaning in to discourage a repeat performance. ‘Where’ve you been?’ Paul hissed, endeavouring, not all that successfully, to restrain his voice to a whisper.

‘In the kitchen, helping with the washing up. I know what a tight bastard you are when it comes to the hired help.’

‘Oh you’re completely hilarious.’ Daniel grinned at his friend.

‘Anyway, everything looks great. You’ve done it again.’

‘Yes, I’m a genius; I know it. It’s a heavy burden. Oh, just a minute.’ Paul stopped a young man who was passing and issued some quick instructions before turning back to Daniel. ‘Delightful soul but brains of a rocking horse I’m afraid. Now, where was I?’

‘Telling me how clever you are.’

‘Ah, yes. But you know that already. Now come with me. I’ve some potential buyers who want to talk to you. You can employ that piercing wit of yours on the De Wildes.’ With that Paul took Daniel by the elbow and propelled him across the room.

As the evening progressed, Daniel found himself, he would say trapped, Paul would say engaged, in a series of conversations about the exhibition and individual photographs. Actually he didn’t mind, it was all part of the job, but he enjoyed torturing Paul with a feigned reluctance regarding all things marketing. In fact, it was shaping up to be a good evening, which was a profound relief, but you never really knew the score until the critics went into print. Paul had been working the room like the true pro he was. Right now he was holding court in the centre of a group of suits. They surrounded him, and, as he barely exceeded five feet, a paucity of stature for which he compensated by means of girth, his presence was detectable only by reason of a pair of patent-leather shoes that gleamed out from among the gaggle of Oxford brogues, and by his booming voice, which travelled through the bodies of his audience and across the room like whale song through the ocean. Paul was one of the most camp men Daniel knew. Paul’s wife, Melanie, thought so too. She matched him in both height and heft and they called themselves the Weebles. The two were well suited in temperament too. Melanie had been struck by lightning on Hampstead Heath five years before, and having survived the trauma this already exuberant woman now lived her life in a state of perpetual cheerfulness.

Notable in his absence that evening was Ivan. Daniel wanted to know where the hell Ivan thought it more important to be than at his boss’s exhibition opening. The lad was in for a blue-riband bollocking for this little no-show. In fact, Daniel was now hoping Ivan wouldn’t turn up at all, as he might have trouble masking his annoyance, and this was neither the time nor place for a display of irritation. As he stood at the edge of the room, Daniel noticed a young man in a dark blue suit peering at one of the photographs. He was standing too close to get the sense of the picture, which was large and best viewed from several paces away. Now he thought about it, he recalled seeing the man looking at the same image earlier. Good. Maybe he was planning to purchase. The man took a pace back, turned and scanned the room. He saw Daniel and walked straight over.

‘You’re Daniel Brooking, yes?’

‘Well, let’s see, the evening seems to be going OK, so yes I’ll admit to that.’

‘Good to meet you Mr Brooking, could I ask you about that photograph over there?’ He pointed to the photo he’d been inspecting moments before.

‘Of course, yes, what would you like to know?’

‘When and where was it taken?’ Daniel was a little surprised by the question.

‘Well, it’s a montage, so there is no single date or place.’

‘Hmm, broadly then?’ The young man smiled again and regarded Daniel expectantly. Puzzled and a little curious, Daniel walked with him over to the photograph. ‘It’s the figures I’m interested in. Are they friends or hired models?’

‘Neither actually. Just people I saw when I was out and about taking pictures. In fact I photographed quite of few of them just last week. Can I ask why you’re interested?’

‘Oh, I just thought I recognised someone, and if it was someone you knew, I could have checked.’

‘I see. Which figure was it?’

‘That one there.’ He pointed at a man standing facing the camera.

‘Ah him. Yes, he was one from last week. Caught my eye because he was still for so long. Why? Do you recognise him?’

‘Maybe. I’m not sure. That’s why I asked. Anyway, it’s not that important, especially as you don’t actually know him. I just thought I’d enquire, on the off chance as it were. Right, well, I’d better get out of your hair and let you mingle. It was good to meet you, to put a face to the name Ivan talks about.’

‘Ivan? You know Ivan?’

‘Oh, yes, didn’t I say? Sorry, I’m Anthony. Ivan and I met a couple of months ago.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes, Ivan’s mentioned your name. Do you know where the hell he is then?’ Anthony looked surprised.

‘Did he not contact you? I called him yesterday to check what time he’d be here tonight but I only got his voicemail. He texted me later saying he was feeling ill, was going to bed, and he’d call when he was feeling better.’

‘Ah, no, he didn’t call. Well, that explains it. Maybe he was feeling so bad he forgot.’ Daniel immediately felt a twinge of guilt for the mental dressing down he’d already meted out to Ivan. ‘Now you say, I suppose he was looking a bit grey earlier in the week. I thought it was the pressure of the show. I’ll try him tomorrow morning.’ There was a short pause before Anthony smiled and held out his hand for Daniel to shake.

‘As I said, good to meet you, Mr Brooking.’

‘Please, it’s Daniel, and good to meet you too. And if you speak to Ivan, tell him not to worry about coming in for a few days if he’s feeling rough. Nothing much happening now anyway.’

‘Will do.’ Anthony smiled and nodded before turning and making for the door. Daniel watched him go. A bit conventional for Ivan, but he seemed pleasant enough.

……

Daniel had been slightly drunk when he’d finally got home the previous evening. The cause: overindulgence in some excellent rum Paul had produced once the last of the visitors had left the gallery. The old friends had sat in Paul’s office, talking happy nonsense and toasting the success of the evening and everyone connected with it, until eventually they’d lapsed into a congenial silence and Daniel had decided it was time to find a cab and then his bed. He awoke late the next morning, thankful he’d forced water into his system before falling into bed and had thus avoided the worst of a hangover. Not that he planned to do much today. He would call his sister, Alex, later and arrange to go and see her and the family this weekend if they weren’t busy. Alex was his junior by four years. She was a research geneticist at Oxford University and lived there with her husband, Colum, a bespoke furniture maker, and their two children, Jacob and Izzy. Jacob was the elder child, but his sister was fiercely bright and ran rings round her often calmly bemused brother, much as Alex had done to him. Anyway, a visit was overdue. He thought he could even cope with the habitual lecture from Dr Alex Brooking about how he should try dating again. Colum would roll his eyes and smile sympathetically as Alex would berate Daniel, as only a little sister could, for giving up. ‘Just because you got married when you were about ten, and when that was over made some, shall we say, novel decisions about the women you thought might be right for you, doesn’t mean you now get to sit back and not try anymore, Daniel!’ She only called him Daniel when she was cross with him, or giving him the benefit of her worldly wisdom. The rest of the time he was Donny, as this was how she’d first managed to say his name. Daniel could hear Alex’s voice as clearly as if she were sitting with him there at his kitchen table. He smiled to himself. Yes, it would be good to see them all and be out of London for the weekend.

He stood barefoot in his kitchen, dressed only in bed-shorts and a T-shirt and drank more water while gazing absent-mindedly at the floor. It was looking particularly clean in the morning sunshine. He sighed and turned to the coffee machine, pressing the button to awaken it, trusting the caffeine would do the same for him. The sound of a slap from the hallway signalled the porter delivering the post. Daniel padded into the hall to retrieve it. There were a few bills and a large brown envelope. He returned to the kitchen and was about to open the envelope when he saw it wasn’t in fact addressed to him, but to Ivan, care of Daniel’s address. He rubbed his forehead as he stared at the envelope. The address was handwritten in what he was fairly sure was Ivan’s own handwriting, so he ambled to his study and sat down at the desk to phone Ivan’s mobile. A woman’s voice told him that this number was unavailable and that he should try again later.

‘Oh, of course, you idiot,’ he muttered to himself. Oh well, he’d have to ask Ivan about it when he was up and around again. In the meantime he put the envelope in a drawer of his desk and switched on his computer. He’d check his emails then go over to the gallery and see if Paul was free for a late lunch.

THREE

Kiev – some months earlier

Yana, Peter and Peter’s younger brother, Viktor, emerged from the exit of the metro at Independence Square in the centre of Kiev. Formerly called the Maidan, it had been given its new name when the Soviet Union fell apart.

‘Jesus Christ, look at this!’ exclaimed Viktor as he stood at the top of the stairs, his face lathered in excitement. ‘Just look! Fantastic or what!’ He turned to his friends as if seeking a response, but before one came, started skipping and spinning, dervish like, head thrown back, arms outstretched, singing one of the many the derogatory songs about the President that was going round.

‘OK Viktor, OK, come on,’ laughed his brother, grabbing at one of the hands as it whipped past, inches from his face. ‘Let’s go see if we can find the others. Though from the looks of things, I don’t rate our chances.’ He grabbed the collar of his younger brother’s jacket as one would an unruly toddler and propelled him forwards. ‘Come on, Yana, wakey, wakey.’

Yana’s response to the scene that greeted them had been as quiet as Viktor’s had been loud. While Viktor pranced, Yana remained still, absorbing the spectacle. The people in the Square had become the sea. The small flags and T-shirts they held aloft were the yellow and blue horses of the breaking waves. A scattering of tall masts rising proud of the surf from which billowed giant blue and yellow mainsails marked the galleons. The Armada had assembled. It was a shame her brother was in London. Ivan would love this.

Peter’s command roused Yana from her reverie and she trotted the few paces necessary to catch up with her friends. Together with tens of thousands of others, the three friends had come to the Square to voice their anger. The trigger for the protest had been the President’s volte-face on closer links with the European Union. This was the catalyst, but a pervasive disenchantment with the government – and the eye-watering levels of corruption that were its hallmark – was equally responsible for drawing Kievites onto the streets to give air to their grievances and frustrations. Despite the serious matters that had spawned the protest, the atmosphere this early Sunday afternoon was more one of carnival than political demonstration. As the friends made their way through the crowds, they saw children, their faces daubed with stripes of blue and yellow face paint, perched atop their parents’ shoulders. Grandmothers had commandeered the benches and sat gossiping with their friends, their charges’ prams and pushchairs circled around in a faint suggestion of the barricades yet to come. The bulk of the crowd nevertheless comprised what seemed to be the entire student body of Kiev, together with the young and not so young professionals who’d graduated in years gone by. They were the ones who began the chants and fuelled the singing. They were the ones who mobbed the representatives of the world’s media to tell of their disillusion with a government that had betrayed its people for personal profit. It was they who stood toe to toe in rowdy but good-natured defiance of the thin line of nervous-looking young policemen garbed in hastily provided and ill-fitting riot gear. Early days.

A large group had congregated by one of the fountains and within it Peter spotted some of the friends they’d agreed to meet. Someone had brought a guitar and was singing songs, encouraging those around him to join in the chorus. Others were busy handing out leaflets. Viktor made a beeline for the singing, his ensuing contribution more enthusiastic than tuneful. Yana and Peter worked their way through the crowd towards Peter’s friends. Introductions over, they were soon deep in conversation about politics. Views were expressed in the earnest fashion of the born-again political idealist, even if some of those views were not entirely accurate.

‘You go there and they give you a brand new house, a car, money and a job. Just like that,’ said one.

‘If someone told me I