A Shadow of Myself. Mike Phillips

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      George thought it over.

      ‘What do you want to do?’

      ‘No deal.’

      ‘What happens if we tell them that?’

      Valentin gestured.

      ‘I don’t know. Maybe they make trouble for my friends. Maybe they go away. These people, they’re mad.’ He searched for the word. ‘Unpredictable.’

      ‘Who are they?’

      Valentin gave him an irritable look.

      ‘Who? I don’t know. Businessmen. Bandits. They don’t advertise.’

      ‘I don’t want to be mixed up with stuff like that,’ George said quickly. ‘If there’s going to be trouble, let’s bring it to an end. Give it up. Right now.’

      Valentin sighed.

      ‘Easier said than done.’ He paused. ‘There’s no harm in talking to them. If they’re there. If you’re worried, wait here for me.’

      George didn’t even consider the offer. He had to know what was going to happen.

      ‘I’m coming in.’

      The giant entrance to the building was guarded by closed steel shutters. Next to it was a small metal door. Valentin rang the bell and the door opened almost immediately, as if someone had been watching them drive up. The man who stood on the other side was tall and dark. Unlike the casual style of the Russians George had met previously on these expeditions he was formally dressed in a dark grey suit with a white shirt open at the collar, and shiny black leather shoes. Somehow the sharp, elegant look of his clothes seemed strange, out of place.

      Standing aside without a word he waved them through. Inside, the front of the building proved to be little more than a façade. Ahead of them was a long cabin with a concrete floor and an arching roof. The other end opened on to a courtyard beyond which was another building with a short stairway running up to a door on the first floor. The entire space was littered with cars. As his eyes adjusted to the sight, George realised that some of them were rusting bodies. Others looked almost new, resprayed and polished, as if ready to drive away.

      ‘Where’s Victor?’ Valentin asked in Russian. When the man didn’t answer he repeated the question in German. In reply the gatekeeper pointed towards the courtyard, making a little pushing gesture as if urging them on. Valentin shrugged and moved on, threading his way through the cars. George followed, automatically listening for any sudden moves from the man behind. Every instinct he possessed was warning him of danger, and if he’d been carrying a gun he would have had his hand on it. As it was he walked carefully, almost on tiptoe, his hands hanging loose by his sides, ready for anything.

      When they got to the top of the stairs the door opened as if by a signal and a clone of the first man looked out. This one was older, his black hair streaked with grey, but he was wearing the same suit and shoes and he waved them in with exactly the same gesture. They found themselves in a big rectangular room, a bit less than fifteen metres long, George estimated. The rear wall was lined with windows through which he caught a glimpse of branches swaying, but although there were also windows at the front next to the staircase all of them were so encrusted with dirt and grime that only a dim reflection of the light outside filtered into the room.

      Another man in a smart grey suit was standing next to a rough trestle table placed in the middle of the room. Victor was sitting behind it. He had the same sandy fair hair as Valentin, and once George saw him he remembered that he’d met the man a couple of times in much the same circumstances. He realised immediately, though, that this was different. Victor had shifted in his chair as they came in, but he didn’t get up and he didn’t meet their eyes. The man standing next to him watched them impassively, his black eyes shining through the gloom. Behind him George heard the door close and the gatekeeper’s footsteps descending the stairs.

      ‘This is Konstantine,’ Victor said.

      ‘Who the fuck is he?’ Valentin asked, peering down at him, speaking as if the other man wasn’t present.

      ‘Konstantine Patiashvili,’ the man uttered in a calm, even tone, and from the first syllable George’s guess hardened into certainty. These were Georgians; and it wasn’t only their height, colouring and dress which marked them out. George could barely understand what was being said, but he knew enough to be able to distinguish the marching rhythm and the heavily aspirated sound of Konstantine’s voice from the drawl of Muscovite speech.

      ‘What is happening, Victor?’ Valentin asked.

      George could feel the other man behind him and he shifted a little so that he could see him out of the corner of his eye. Then he thought to hell with it and took a good look. The Georgian was watching him impassively, hands folded in front of him. Konstantine put his hand on Victor’s shoulder.

      ‘We came to talk,’ he said. ‘We have a business deal for you.’

      ‘Zdyelka?’

      Valentin repeated the word with no particular emphasis, and Konstantine’s face made a tight grimace which George took to be a smile.

      ‘Sit down, please,’ he said.

      They sat on opposite sides of the table. As they sat down Konstantine looked directly at George for the first time.

      ‘Americansky?’

      George shook his head, not trusting himself to reply in Russian. Konstantine waited until it was clear that there would be no answer, then he shrugged and sat down.

      ‘The paintings you stole,’ he said, ‘came from Tbilisi. Did you know that?’

      Valentin spread his hands as if denying any knowledge. Konstantine gave a real smile this time.

      ‘Paratroopers.’ He made a nasal growl of the word. ‘If you were as good at fighting as you were at being thieves you would have beaten us.’

      ‘What do you want?’ Valentin asked him.

      ‘You’ve been selling our national treasures for a couple of years.’ He smiled. ‘Everybody is doing it. You must have made a lot of money out there. You stole that money from us.’ He paused, as if waiting for a reply or some kind of justification. When Valentin didn’t stir, he went on. ‘But these are different times. We are businessmen, and there is an easy way of compensating us. You continue your work and from now on we’ll be your partners.’

      ‘We don’t need partners.’ Valentin’s voice sounded calm and measured. ‘We don’t need this business either. You don’t need us. Anyone can sell their goods in the West.’

      Konstantine put his hand in his pocket and put a packet on the table. It was about the size of a small envelope.

      ‘You can be useful in other ways,’ he said. He pointed. ‘Open it.’

      Valentin unwrapped the package slowly. It was full of brown powder. He shook his head.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘This has been between Victor and me. Now it’s finished.’

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