Black Cat Weekly #52

Chapter 7

“Peter Pashin,” said the man, rising and offering his hand. “From Palo Alto. Near San Francisco.”

“I’m aware of the location. Nice to meet you both,” replied Dudnyk, shaking his hand, and giving the woman a formal nod. “You’ll excuse us. Ms. Safronova and I have a matter to attend in the basement. We will chat later.”

“Of course.”

On their way out, Dudnyk’s attentive ears caught mutterings behind.

“Not very friendly,” whispered the woman.

“He speaks English well,” replied her husband indifferently.

“The less we communicate with police the better. I don’t like them here.”

“There’s only one.”

“One’s enough in Russia.”

Dudnyk and Ninel descended a narrow backroom staircase into the brick tunnels that ran beneath the entire estate. Designed to allow access to various locations without the necessity of going outside in the harsh Siberian winter, they functioned now as safe burrows beneath the mosquito apocalypse above. The sections at the stairs’ base formed a perfect four-way intersection. To the south ran the tunnel to the main garage and the bathhouse. To the east went the passage to the staff garage and the astronomical observatory. The north held the entrances to the greenhouse and underground sports court. And to the west lay the storerooms and the animal pen. This pen held only one type of animal. Tigers. Not the Aristov pet tigers nor even their Sumatran ancestors, but adult Siberian tigers, amongst the largest cats on Earth, and a symbol of Konstantin’s strength. They were quite convincing animals, useful in negotiating deals and breaking whistleblowers. Dudnyk had witnessed the hardest of men recant at the threshold of those pens.

The priest’s cupboard was closer, only a few steps down the south passage. The original tenants of the manor, long before the Aristovs, had sheltered clergy and nobility here when the Reds were scouring the lands for their perceived enemies. A secret door of brick, invisible in the olden days, was even now revealed only by a lock keypad on the wall. Dudnyk rather liked the idea of the hidden passage in the old castle, like something out of ghost and pirate stories from his youth. Or Young Frankenstein. Such adventure. He was too much a dreamer for law enforcement really.

Young FrankensteinNinel tapped in a code, and a wall of bricks on invisible hinges swung open.

“Your show,” she said, motioning for him to go first. “Inspector Dudnyk is entering, captive!”

He stepped into a room he knew well. Three walls of bare brick, a fourth covered in plumbing pipes from the manor above. A bare mattress bed, a couch that folded out into a second bed, old fashioned brass bathtub, a toilet and sink on the wall near the pipes. It could be as plush or sparse as needed, depending on if the room were sheltering a friend or holding an enemy. Dudnyk had seen both. Presently, the décor tended towards the latter.

The room’s occupant, sitting on the bed, back against the brick wall, was a woman in her late twenties, scowling beneath dark bangs with hints of a reddish cast, and dressed in a cat-burglar black jumpsuit zipped to the collar. Next to her on the mattress was an opened animal carrier. A housecat—and it was definitely a true housecat—dyed in tiger-colored stripes lay curled beside the woman’s hip.

true“We’ve had her here four hours,” said Ninel. “She used that pathetic painted animal to talk her way into the foyer. Claimed she was friend of the family and her Aristov tiger was wasting away. While I was fetching Konstantin, she slipped away from the door and went gallivanting through the house unsupervised. I finally found her outside one of the bedrooms. Armed with this.” She pulled a miniature pistol from her suit dress pocket, handed it to Dudnyk.

“A Llama Micro-Max?” He laughed. “I thought they discontinued these nasty little things.”

“Our occupant is a nasty little thing herself. She fought tooth and nail to stop me putting her in this cell. Finally, it took Bogdan to get her inside and she bit him along the way.”

“Bit him?”

The woman shrugged. “I didn’t bite him. It was my cat.”

Perfect Russian, thought Dudnyk, but just a trace of an accent. Where was she from?

As if reading her lover’s mind, Ninel produced a burgundy-colored booklet from her pocket. “Her passport, Inspector Dudnyk.”

He took the passport. Read it.

“Santa Ezeriņa. From Rīga.”

“Present.”

“A Baltic girl. You’re a long way from Latvia, Ms. Ezeriņa.”

“Duty calls. I’m a journalist. The whole world wants to know who’ll be heir to the Aristov fortune. Especially given the fate of the last heir, Rurik. Those little tigers have made your employers international celebrities. And—”

“I’m employed by the Russian state, Ms. Ezeriņa.”

“As a hobby?”

“As you can see, Inspector,” said Ninel, “Konstantin is concerned about her presence. If the staff can’t even know what is said tonight, well, we don’t want a foreign journalist—”

“Oh, Latvians aren’t really foreigners, Ms. Safronova,” mused Dudnyk. “Baltic or not, they will be reunited with Russia someday soon. I have faith in Mr. Putin.”

Ezeriņa glared at him, slipped off the bed, and stood in the middle of the room. “I think the least the Aristov family can do is grant a few interviews. I came six thousand kilometers, braved a plague, and dyed a cat. That’s dedication.”

“We should call PETA,” said Ninel.

“It’ll wash out.”

“You’ll be taken to town,” said Dudnyk, “and charged with assault and trespassing, possibly illegal possession of a firearm. And count yourself lucky. Mr. Aristov’s trespassers sometimes get lost in these tunnels. Open the wrong door and accidents happen.”