Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (9 page)

“You were charm personified,” said I to Ollie.

“You weren’t too bad yourself,” she praised.

After awhile Ollie and I agreed to split up. I soon became rather disenchanted with making small talk to fellow guests and so I moved away from the main throng to one of the galleries. I’m rarely averse to a bit of self deprecation but what I know about art is hardly worth knowing. I like Titian, Gainsborough, some of the Dutch masters amongst others. The gallery rooms only contained the occasional guest whom like me decided, miraculously enough in an art gallery, to admire the art. I was looking at the paintings for several minutes in a rather disinterested fashion, when over my shoulder I heard a voice ask, “Mr Willoughby?”

I turned around and saw Anastasia Olonova all alone and smiling.

“Ms Olonova,” I gushed surprised.

“Hello. What do you think of this piece?”

She was referring to the picture I had just been looking at. It was a Cubist painting, consisting of coloured shaped blocks in the middle of which were some contorted semi human faces. It was by all accounts a grotesque looking piece, but no more so than your average Cubist painting.

“It’s an extremely interesting example of the Cubist school. I find the way the colours are juxtaposed with each other symbolic of what the painter is trying to communicate,” I began, looking at the picture and gesturing with my hand to emphasis my words, “I
’m particularly enamoured of the heads looking in different directions in the centre and the disparity that they represent. The facial features are acute and no doubt have a significance that the painter is trying to impart to the viewer.”

I finished there – thinking that that was enough waffle made up on the spot to be going on with. I turned away from the picture to look at her at my side. Her face was lit up seemingly impressed at my answer.

“You really know your art,” she said barely able to conceal her delight.

“I know nothing really,” I said truthfully, shrugging my shoulders and smiling.

She laughed, “You are so modest. It’s what I love about you English. Russian men are so proud, serious and never laugh. I find you very refreshing Mr Willoughby.”

“Oh please call me Damian,” I said feeling very self conscious, as is my wont when speaking to a pretty girl and it was an effort not to keep smiling like a fool. The fact that she seemed so impressed with my answer, which I had made up on the spot, did not to my mind say much about her knowledge of art.

“How did you and Mr Zhukov meet?” I asked, deciding that I had had enough of art talk and recalling my reason for being here.

Her face changed expression, to one of mild surprise and then after pondering for a second she replied, “We met about three years ago at a party.”

“He seems like a very interesting man,” I suggested, “and very rich?”

She smiled embarrassed, “Yes, but I did not know he was rich until later.”

“You must be very fond of him?”

“I am fond of many things Damian,” she purred mysteriously.

“Is that possible?” I queried. Her eyes gave me a piercing look.

“I believe it is Damian. Vasily has given me great opportunities that I would not otherwise have enjoyed. I hope you do not judge me harshly,” she implored.

“Not at all,” I assured her, “He must offer you many comforts?”

She looked as if she had taken umbrage at my question and then as if she thought better of it said, “A rich man can offer many comforts to a girl. I am sure that if you had Vasily’s wealth you could offer me much.”

“Yes I dare say.”

“For example this opportunity with this gallery would simply have been impossible without Vasily’s money,” she explained candidly.

“Your frankness is admirable. Forgive me if my questions show any impropriety.”

“No it is O.K,” she assured me.

We stopped in front of the next picture and I tilted my head just slightly both left and right as I attempted to “appreciate” it. This was what I would call a minimalist painting, which apart from some blobs and squiggly lines was largely a blank canvas. I was desperate not to be engaged in another discussion of art - there was a limit to how much nonsense I could concoct on the spot.

“What does Vasily do?” I asked, to which she gave me a queer look so I promptly added, “I only ask because he and I could do business.”

“I’m afraid I may not be much help. I do not take interest in his business,” she explained.

This answer whilst not very revealing seemed to suggest that she was ignorant and thus innocent of any knowledge of his criminal activity.

“Does Zhukov do much travelling?” I asked.

“All the time,” she giggled bemused by my question.

“What about Azakistan?”

She thought for a moment, “Yes he has been there a couple of times recently. We will go together later this week.”

She had confirmed Guy’s intelligence. If Zhukov was going to Azakistan something significant must be happening.

“I hear it’s dangerous. What business does Vasily do there?” I enquired.

“I think he is selling something to the Persians.”

Just then a couple of guests entered the room.

“Should you not be returning to your guests?” I enquired considerately.

She looked at her watch. “I will return in a few minutes. Many of them know nothing about art and are only here to be seen,” she explained.

“In that case shall we go and see your office?” I suggested.

Her office was large, bright and tastefully decorated in a modern style. In addition to a desk and chairs there was a large black leather sofa on which I sat. She locked the door and poured vodka into two glasses with ice, which jangled against the glass seductively as she came and sat next to me. “Anastasia,” I said using her first name without being invited to do so, in the hope that it might create greater confidence between us, “It’s important that you tell me everything you can about Vasily’s business in Azakistan.”

She was about to comply, when she suddenly assumed a defensive manner, “Why you ask this? Are you a spy?” she accused.

“No I am not a spy Anastasia,” I protested fervently, putting down my glass, “My friend is dead – murdered; that’s why I’m here in Moscow.”

“And you think Vasily killed him?” she enquired perceptively looking me in the eyes.

Her glance made me feel awkward and I looked away for an instant and then met her gaze again, “Yes,” I said stoutly, and a trifle too robustly I fear, for her face assumed a pained expression. Her eyes stared at the floor and I looked at her face; it was as if a realisation was dawning on her - an epiphany no less. She nursed her vodka and then gulped it down in one.

“Are you alright?” I asked genuinely concerned as I put a hand on her upper arm.

She looked at me and nodded. She was clearly upset and it was all my doing.

“I always felt that there was a dark side to Vasily - a bad side,” she began almost trembling at first, “but I did not ask questions. I felt that his business was how you say
....his business. I once asked a question and he not like it, he had anger, he made me frightened. After that I never ask again,” I listened sympathetically, “He surrounds himself with people I know were not good people. Sometimes he talk on phone and it made me suspicious.........”

I shall spare you the tedium; suffice it to say that the poor girl made a clean breast of it, explaining what life was like with Zhukov. She was an innocent who avoided asking questions, preferring to believe in the good in him. With my revelation that I suspected him of murdering Andrew, she could no longer deny what she had long secretly suspected. I was convinced that she no longer loved Zhukov, assuming of course that she ever did. I got her to tell me everything she could about Zhukov’s business interests, particularly in Azakistan and his dealings with the Persians. What she did know was based on snippets of conversations and half of a sentence here and there. Someone who had made a point of not knowing could hardly be expected to know much. However she did disclose that their visit to Azakistan in a few days time was important. But by this time she had started to cry as the pain of her disclosures had exacted their toll. I got the distinct impression that she had stored up all these fears for a long time; and had found no one in whom to confide – until now.

After she had divested herself of her confidences, she seemed almost cleansed, as if she had gone through an absolution. I placed my arm around her to show my sympathy and decided that I should now take my leave.

“It was never my intention to cause you any upset; that was the last thing I wanted to do. I am very sorry,” I whispered.

“It is not your fault,” she said obligingly, “I am glad I have told you all this.”

“I must go now,” I said removing my arm from around her as I made to stand up.

“Please do not go,” she begged. She looked embarrassed as she took hold of my arm.

I forced a smile to hide my impatience and placed my arm around her once more as a last parting act of empathy. Having got her to make her disclosures, getting what I wanted and upsetting her in the process, I was now leaving her. I felt a pang of guilt about this but decided that I couldn’t afford to be sentimental.

“Perhaps you should get someone to comfort you,” I said endeavouring to sound as considerate as I could, as I attempted to leave once more.

“You comfort me!” she demanded. The vodka had emboldened her and brought an outpouring of melancholy.

As if to reinforce her words she placed her arms around my neck and brought her face up to mine as her body leaned against me; causing her pert breasts to rest heavily on my chest thus impeding any attempt to stand and sending a quiver of latent desire through my entire being. Suffice it to say that I don’t need to be asked twice, but this was the woman whose boyfriend I had vowed to kill, Ollie would be waiting for me and I was here on business. As these thoughts ran through my mind, her beautiful and imploring eyes, quivering but luscious lips and heaving cleavage all came into view. I would readily confess that I’m a weak and feeble man; and I could feel my defences collapsing on her first advance. Our eyes met and I knew then, that my primeval instincts would prevail. She brought her lips up to mine and leaned her young sensual body even more heavily against me. She had now got me into such a state of excitement that it would have required a herculean effort on my part to have resisted - I am alas a mere mortal. My head leaned forward and our lips met – we kissed passionately and I surrendered entirely to her. My hands explored her firm curvaceous body liberally as they sought to undress her. Once we were naked I rampantly plundered her body for my pleasure. She placed me inside her at which point I began copulating vigorously, much to her delight; her breasts wobbled around admirably with each of my exertions. The things I do for England.....

I had no notion that an Art Gallery could be so pleasurable! Anastasia was herself a work of art. We both must have lost track of time, so ardent was our lovemaking, for there was a knock at the door. I looked at my watch, a Breitling Airwolf Raven Chronograph SuperQuartz – amongst its features was backlighting enabling it to be read in the dark. Ninety minutes had gone by since we had met in one of the galleries. I grabbed my clothes and ran naked and hid by a book shelf. Only when I was concealed and Anastasia had herself dressed, did she unlock the door. A big man walked in and the two of them exchanged a few words. The man was too big to be Zhukov. As he turned to leave, out of the corner of my eye I saw a scar on the left side of his face. My heart missed a beat - for it was Yuri Gromyko.

CHAPTER 12 – INTO THEATRE.

The following afternoon as the aircraft descended, the clouds parted and I got my first look at Azakistan. It revealed the mountainously desolate, hostile and rugged landscape, over which paradoxically so many had fought for centuries. The thought “out of the frying pan and in to the fire” rather leapt to my mind as my flight touched down in the capital Kushanbay. After Guy had told me that Zhukov was coming here, there seemed not much point in staying in Moscow. I had cursed Guy several times to myself since we had parted in his office. I couldn’t help but feel that he had contrived it, so that I could not very well decline to come to Azakistan. By way of assuaging my concerns he assured me that I would receive support, I reflected bitterly that he could hardly have done otherwise. Just before leaving Moscow, Guy had informed me that the Germans had also sent someone to Azakistan to thwart Persian plans to place and operate nuclear weapons and that we ought to cooperate. It would seem that the Germans had a half decent intelligent network themselves. It was less than a hundred years ago that they were plotting and scheming their way through Central Asia in order to prise India from Britain. After two world wars we were now chums.

The airport itself was a ramshackle affair. I was travelling under the false passport that Edward had sent me from London.

“Mr Will....ough.....by?” the immigration officer asked me suspiciously, struggling with the pronunciation.