Walking the Dog Ch. 05-07

"How much could it go for?"

"I've really no idea but if the black market price was really $5 million then it could be three or four times that."

There was a shocked silence all round. Niall gave a tight smile. "Enough to kill for, then," he said. I could only nod. "People have been killed for loose change," I replied. I was suddenly aware of something that had been nagging at me since we spoke to Cornell. "Look," I said, "I'm no expert but how many 13th Century Russian ikons can there be in this world? If it's as rare and expensive as it appears to be, someone, somewhere, must know something about it. We need to speak to a specialist!

"You don't get too far in my line of work without getting to know the Inland Revenue very well and particularly the denizens of the Capital Taxes Office. The CTO have experts in just about anything. They can value any kind of asset known to man, from stamp collections to bloodstock. I'll call Ted Allen first thing in the morning, he'll know who the UK expert in Russian ikons is."

We packed up the things we needed for an extended stay in Norfolk and I phoned Bernie to tell him I was taking a holiday early this year. He muttered some dark comments about 'getting mixed up in stuff where you've no call to do so' but agreed there wasn't anything that he couldn't hold for a while. It was now the beginning of December and the City would be shutting down for the holidays pretty soon. Liam and Niall agreed I should take my car so Angela and I put our things in the Volvo and Magic and Trotsky hopped into the back in their accustomed place. The twins said they would be back mid afternoon so we all could all drive up together so, as soon as they arrived, we headed northwards.

Since I'd deliberately told Cornell where we were going, there was no need to try and shake off any 'tail'. As it happens, if there was one, I never spotted it and as soon as we left the main roads and headed into the sticks, there wasn't another car to be seen. Angela had been pretty quiet so I asked her if there was anything wrong.
"I am having some trouble understanding all of this," she said. "I understand about the money but not why they make all this pretence."

"I think it's probably as Niall or Liam said. Cornell wanted to me think it was all official so I'd cooperate if I knew anything. What we seem to have is at least one robbery, possibly two or three. I think the Chechens probably stole all the ikons from a monastery in the first place then someone, perhaps your father, stole it from them. Who knows what happened after that? Of course, it could be a coincidence and the ikon up for sale is not the one that went missing in St Petersburg or Tallinn or wherever; I doubt it somehow."

"Yes, I understand all that but you did not know my father. He was not a criminal. I know he would not be involved in this knowingly."

"How well did you know your father? I mean really know him. By your own admission, you haven't been close lately."

"Yes, of course. Can one really know one's parents? I will not claim I knew him, you say, inside out? I do know that he was soldier and he did some bad things in the name of the old regime. He once said to me 'Angelika, I must do as they say. First it is my duty and second, they would hurt you and Vika if I do not.' But he was never a bad man."

I took her hand and squeezed it lightly. I could sympathise even if not truly empathise. I was raised in liberal England. How different it must have been for her, growing up in a country under the yoke of the Soviet Union. To even describe herself as an Estonian rather than a Soviet Citizen would have been an offence. I could understand, too, her father's position as a non-Russian in the Red Army. He would have been immediately suspect if anything ever went the slightest bit wrong. But why, then, did he stay in Russia after the collapse? I put that question to Angela.

"It must have been because he could get work there. Probably be paid in hard currency. After the Soviet Union broke up, it was very hard in Estonia. All our industry was geared towards the Russians and what they wanted. We couldn't compete in the West. Most people had no money and no jobs. I left because life was so bad."

"What about Vika?"

"She stayed. She had a man, was getting married. She talked of going to Finland or Sweden but we didn't stay in touch much. She was angry with me for leaving, for wanting to be free of it all. We were not so close, as sisters. She is older than me by five years. And now she is dead!"

I could see the tears welling up in those startling eyes and we drove on in silence. It was dark by now and I drove slowly through the narrow lanes. Angela had her eyes closed and her head was nodding forwards. I wasn't surprised; we hadn't slept much the previous night. This started me off thinking about sex.

Making love with Angela had been an amazing experience. She fucked with the same intensity with which she sculpted. Inevitably, this drew me into making comparisons with Steph. There was no denying that Steph had a body to die for. She should have, she worked at it hard enough and what nature couldn't accomplish, the surgeon and the beautician made up for. Her body was hard and smooth. She had prominent breasts that had had a little help; not enough so you could immediately spot them as fakes but enough to ensure they never drooped or sagged to the side when she lay down. Her nipples were small and pink and she had a golden all-over tan, with no lines, that told of hours spent in a solarium.

As I said before, she had all her body hair removed with laser treatment. Her labia were slightly prominent and she had surgery to ensure they were perfectly symmetrical. Now that's what I call vanity! She was not a generous lover. It was enough for her that she offered this perfect body for my worship. When we made love, it was very much for her benefit. It would be a lie to say I didn't enjoy it. I did. I felt a tremendous sense of achievement when she arched her back and gasped into orgasm. Once she'd come a couple of times, she would rapidly lose interest and more than once I had to finish by hand with Steph yawning beside me.

I became a past master at timing my own climaxes to coincide with hers or follow very closely behind. That was acceptable and worked best for us both. If I couldn't manage it, well, that was my problem. Sadly, Steph was as selfish in bed as out. It was just something else that, loving her, I'd learned to deal with.
Of course, I had only spent one night with Angela so far but, based on that, I was willing to bet she was the total opposite. Physically she was dark with pale skin and a luxuriant bush of pubic hair. Her breasts were completely natural and had swayed deliciously as she rode me. She had used her internal muscles to heighten my pleasure; and she had taken great pleasure in giving me pleasure. I knew it was only one time but I felt sure that she would be utterly different from Steph, generous and loving instead of demanding, soft and warm rather than hard and unyielding. Once again, an erection was straining my trousers. I couldn't wait to find out!

We pulled into the village and Liam and Niall let me overtake to lead the way to Angela's cottage. It was a typical December evening with a cold east wind off the sea and we were all grateful to get inside. It wasn't too much warmer in the cottage but at least it was out of the wind.

Angela and I tidied up while Niall and Liam gathered firewood and lit the fire in the parlour. There was a back boiler in the flue, which heated the radiators. Once the fire was roaring up the chimney, it wasn't too long before the place warmed up. Niall had brought a cooler full of food and I prepared dinner, assisted by Angela.

"I really cannot cook so good," she said. "When I was little, when my mother was still alive, she would teach Vika. Vika cooks very, very well. Me, well, I always wanted to do something else. I would sit in my father's workshop and watch him make things. It wasn't a proper workshop, just an old shed with no heating. My father would make things for the house. My mother would see something that she wanted but we couldn't buy so my father would make it."

"What was she like, your mother?"

"Very sweet, very, oh, traditional, I think you would you say. She always thought that a woman's job was to make the home for the man and the children. She always wanted a son but had Vika and me. She needed to look after someone. It made her feel, I think, valuable, somehow. Also, she was very brave."

"How so, brave?"

"My father was away often. Sometimes he'd be gone for two or three months, sometimes two or three years. She never complained. She just tried to be mother and father both, if you understand me?"

I thought of my own childhood. Packed off to Prep School at the age of seven, seeing my parents only in the holidays. First school, then University, then pupilage in Chambers down in Brighton. I spent my early years sweating on exam results. Common Entrance, 'O' Levels, 'A' levels, Degree, Bar Exams. Life had been a series of hurdles that had to be cleared. Of course, I was meant to feel privileged. One of the golden few for whom the secrets of success were revealed early and often. I don't really know how I felt at that age; my experience was little different from that of my peers. I accepted it as 'normal'. It was only later, at university perhaps, that I found myself unfitted for the real world. I knew little of the opposite sex, found it difficult to relate to people from other backgrounds. In summary, I was a social and emotional cripple.

I tried to explain this to Angela as we chopped vegetables for the stew I was making. She gazed at me like I was from another planet.

"So your mother and father, they sent you away when you were a baby?"

"I wasn't a baby, I was seven."

"Hah! That is still a baby. Why did they do that, were you very bad?"

"No, it was the system in England. Well, it was the system if you had money."

"Much better to be poor, I think!"

"I don't suppose they ever questioned it. My father went through it and so did my mother. Their parents too, I expect. It was, well, a tradition. I know that my great-grandfather was at Ampleforth; his father too, probably."
"And you would do this to your child?"

"I don't know. I've never had one so it hasn't come up. It has its advantages too, you know."

"Hah! Advantages – like it makes you rich but leaves you unhappy? I would rather be not so rich but more happy. In Estonia, in the old days, some children, if they were good at sport or the ballet, they used to be taken from their families and sent to special schools. We used to hear that you in the West thought this was cruel, unnatural. Now you say people here did this from their own choice. It is unbelievable!"

"I probably made it sound worse than it really was. We were very well looked after."

"As good as a mother would? I doubt it."

"Probably better than my mother could. She wasn't really, well, 'into' motherhood. I dare say she didn't have much an example. I think the shock of having me was too much for her. She hasn't really ever got over it. My parents were never 'warm' people. I suppose you might describe them as somewhat austere."

Angela gave an exaggerated shrug to show what she thought of this. I could see her thinking furiously. Her brow was furrowed in concentration and she scrubbed at a carrot with almost manic energy. It gave me a sudden insight into her nature. Angela, for all her independence and avant-garde work, was very much a traditionalist. Home and family ranked very highly with her. What must it have cost her to sever those links? Her life was bad but it must have been really terrible for her to leave what she obviously held so dear.

We carried on chatting in a desultory manner for a while as we finished up the preparations. I put everything on to cook slowly and opened a bottle of wine. It was something red and Australian is all I can remember but it can't have been too pernicious as I did manage to drink it without comment. I made a mental note to ask Angela a bit more about her reasons for leaving Estonia. I felt sure there would be quite a story.

The four of us ate my stew, Niall and Liam displaying great relish. I wasn't entirely sure it was sincere but I am a passable cook and the food was hot, tasty and filling; what more could you ask for on a winter's evening? After supper, the twins disappeared outside with a holdall and a couple of torches to 'secure the perimeter' as they put it. When they reappeared, I asked them if they were concerned.

"Nah," said Niall, "but better safe than sorry. I doubt we'll be disturbed but we've just been making sure of it. Set up a bit of an early warning system. Shouldn't need it, but just the same…"

Not for the first time, I was intensely glad that I had friends like Liam and Niall.

Chapter Seven

Angela's cottage had only one bedroom. The twins made subtle, but nonetheless obvious, hints that they expected us to take it while they sacked out in the parlour. Another khaki holdall produced two sleeping bags, which they proceeded to unroll. "Sorry, old son, we're bushed," said Liam, "not too much kip last night!" We murmured agreement and Angela and I headed off to her room. I was relieved to see a large old-fashioned brass bed with thick quilts. It would have looked inviting even without her beside me. I didn't sleep too well the previous night, either.

Angela lit a squat candle and its pale glow lent an appropriate ambience. There was still a chill in the air so we hurried through our ablutions and dived under the welcoming quilts. The sheets were cold and we hugged each other close like a couple of children, giggling and tickling each other with cold hands. Of course, I was aroused but it wasn't urgent. I was happy to lie alongside her, stroking the velvety softness of her skin and learning the intimate topography of her body.

We talked in whispers, sharing little intimacies as new lovers do. The conversation turned to our first time. I recounted my own experience. It wasn't much to write home about. It had been during the summer between school and University. I had gone on holiday to Greece, riding slow trains and hitchhiking under the achingly blue skies of that magical country. After doing the cultural bit, Athens, Corinth, Mycenae, Cape Sunion, I had gone island hopping, catching the slow and crowded ferries that serviced the Sporades, Dodecanese and Cycladese.

One glorious, star-filled night on a beach in Rhodes, I had lost my virginity to a pretty Danish girl. Her skinny, tanned body had been an unexplored country and she let me find my stumbling, hesitant way without complaint. She was sweet and kind to a fumbling young Englishman and had done her best to make it memorable. Unfortunately, it was memorable only for its brevity. I still think fondly of her, for all that. She pretended she was not disappointed and had laughed gently at my chagrin. We stayed together for the rest of the summer and she taught me to please her and to control myself better over the ensuing weeks. I was more than a little in love with her when it came time to part. Looking back now, what I value most was her unfailing good nature. I don't think I ever saw her without a smile. I guess I was one of the lucky ones.

Angela listened in avid silence as I described it all. When I finished, she snuggled against me and said, "She was a very nice girl, this Astrid." I could only agree. "What about you," I asked. She sighed.

"Once upon a time, there was this little, fat Estonian girl."

"Fat? Surely not!"

"Don't interrupt! This is my story. As I was saying, there was this little, well, chubby Estonian girl. When she was eleven, her breasts started to grow. When she was fifteen, they were still growing. She used to walk with her shoulders hunched so, so people wouldn't stare so much at her chest. Her sister was a little jealous, I think, because the men did not stare at her in this way. One day, a young soldier came to see my, I mean her, father. He was very dashing, very handsome in his uniform.

" He told her not to hunch her shoulders, to be proud of what nature had given her. He teased her and made her blush. When he passed her in the corridor, he gave her a squeeze, just here."

She took my hand and placed it on her breast.

"And then here"

She moved my hand to her buttocks and pushed back against it with a wiggle.

"Many times he did this and he made excuses to come often to her house. Once, she opened the door to let him in and he kissed full on the mouth, like so!"

Angela rolled on top of me and proceeded to kiss me passionately, forcing her tongue between my lips and undulating her entire body against mine.
"Of course, she was very confused. She liked the way the soldier made her feel but she knew what he did was not polite, not nice. Her body liked it but her heart did not. She could have hidden away, of course, when the soldier came to the house and, after he left, she told herself that this was what she would do, the next time. When the next time came, she couldn't wait to see him. It was very, mixed up? Is that what you say?

"Then her father went away for a while and the soldier stopped coming to the house. She was very sad. She couldn't eat, did not want to go to school. She wanted to sleep all the time. When she slept, the soldier came to her dreams and touched her again. After about six months, her father came back. She was just sixteen, now, and no longer chubby. Her father was surprised and told her she looked like a woman now, no longer a little girl. The young soldier came to visit again. He, too, was surprised. She had changed very much."

I detected a sudden change in her mood. I had the feeling that she just made a decision. She rolled away from me and lay very still. Her voice dropped its teasing quality and became very small as if she was speaking from a distance. The gentle modulations that I had come to associate with her disappeared entirely and she spoke on in a flat monotone.

"One night, he came late to their house. Her father and mother had gone to Moscow for the week. She wasn't expecting him. He knocked on the door and stood there, in the rain. He had some flowers. She let him into the house and later, into her bed. He was very experienced and made it good for her, at first. Then he wanted her to suck him. She didn't know about this, thought it was dirty. He made her do it to him. She was very angry. He laughed at her. Called her a silly schoolgirl. She spat at him. He beat her. Then he left. She never saw him again.

"When she was older, she came to think that he had used her innocence. She never told anyone. Until tonight."

"God, Angela, that's awful! He really beat you?"

"Yes, but he was clever, no bruises would show outside my clothes. He knew I would tell no one. For two reasons, first, I would never to confess what we did and second, he was a Russian."

We lay in silence for a while. I could think of nothing to say and felt the sadness that was in her through the tension of her body. I simply held her and let her regain her equilibrium. All desire had deserted me. I was filled with a senseless fury. It had happened years ago. I would never meet the Russian soldier. Still I seethed and raged inwardly. In part it was my impotence to change anything that stoked my anger. She must have sensed this and rolled towards me, putting her hand up to my face and stroking it gently.

"You must not mind, my Martin. I was a silly child and played with the fire. It is simple. I was burned. But all that is in the past, now. It makes me sad sometimes, to think of this thing. Now I am with you and we are not children. I was not going to tell this but then I thought I must. I hate secrets, you understand?"