A Fine Red Rain ir-5

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  "You were in the war, weren't you, Inspector? That's how you got your limp."

  "Yes," said Rostnikov, wondering where they were going now.

  "I was one of the youngest field officers in die Great War," said the Wolfhound, turning to face Rostnikov. There was a look on the older man's face Rostnikov had never seen before.

  "Younger people who have no experience with combat, have never faced death, now tell those of us who know something of what it means how we should react to it," Snitkonoy said. "Do you understand what I am saying here, Comrade Inspector?"

  The Wolfhound was clearly apologizing for his behavior during the meeting, which made Rostnikov wonder if Snitkonoy were quite the fool he thought him to be. Most likely he was a fool whose massive ego had been pierced by a young KGB agent who had no time for or interest in the egos of old men.

  "I understand, Colonel," Rostnikov said.

  "Good," said Snitkonoy with a deep sigh, raising his head and his voice. "Good."

  There was nothing more to say. Rostnikov left the room, picked up the plumbing books from the drawer in his desk in which he had put them, and headed for Lenin Prospekt and the apartment of Karya Rashkovskaya, As Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov left the meeting room, two floors below him Felix and Osip Gorgasali sat on a wooden bench outside the office of Deputy Procurator Khabolov. They had been waiting for almost two hours while others came and went. They had been escorted up the elevator and to the bench by a uniformed MVD officer who said nothing to them, did not even look at them. He had simply pointed at the bench in the dark hallway, and they knew mat they were to sit.

  Osip had suggested that they dress shabbily, two lowly merchants just able to make ends meet. Felix, being older, prevailed, however, and they had worn respectable suits with ties, though the doming was not new. In fact, both men had complete wardrobes of imported Polish clothes and even some American clothing. Osip owned two pairs of American Wrangler jeans.

  They said almost nothing as they sat. From time to time the dark and hairy Osip played with a shaving cut on his chin. He was afraid of bleeding in front of the deputy procurator, but he couldn't keep his fingers from his face. Each time the office door hi front of them opened, Osip jumped slightly and let out a small groan. Both men needed a toilet. Neither would rise or ask.

  And then, at a little before ten, a burly man in a shaggy suit stepped out of the deputy procurator's office and motioned to the brothers Gorgasali to enter. The burly man stepped past them and walked down the hallway. Osip was reminded instantly of the moment in The Wizard of Oz when the scarecrow, the lion, and the tin woodsman walk with Dorothy into the lair of Oz. The Wizard of Oz was one of Natalya's favorite tapes. His daughter had seen it twenty or thirty times before Felix and Osip sold it to a Pravda editor for 250 rubles. Osip had, however, made a copy, which wasn't as good as the original but that

  "Sit," said the man behind the desk, breaking in on Osip's thoughts of the Emerald City.

  The brothers sat on the two straight-backed wooden chairs facing the desk white the man behind it, his head down, continued to write on a pad of yellow paper. The man wrote for about five minutes, reread what he had written, gave the two men an icy look of appraisal, and then placed the yellow pad to the side of the desk.

  "Do you know why you are here?" asked Khabolov.

  "No, Comrade," said Felix. "We're just merchants, booksellers. We've witnessed no crime, committed no crime. We are honest citizens of the Soviet Union trying to make a living for"

  Khabolov's hand went up and Felix stopped. Osip was filled with a sudden fear that he would be asked to speak and would be unable to do so. He was the frightened lion.

  "We know all about you," Khabolov said, looking over at his yellow pad. "I plan personally to inventory your entire collection of tapes and machines."

  Osip couldn't help himself. A burst of fear let loose within him and released a loud sob. Felix looked at him angrily, but Osip could think only of prison, of his wife, daughter. Had he remained a simple bookseller, had he ignored mis brother who had always ordered him around, gotten him into trouble, he would be breathing normally nowpoor, but facing life.

  Khabolov ignored the sobbing Gorgasali brother and looked at the older one with the white hair who might be pissing in his pants but was able to hold on to a facade of confused innocence. The two men before Khabolov were ripe. This same scene had worked well before, in Odessa with the typewriter thieves, and was working even better now.

  "It was all my idea," Felix said, his shoulders dropping, at the same instant his sobbing brother pointed to him and burst out with, "It was all his idea."

  With mis, Felix instantly abandoned his ill-conceived moment of martyrdom, pointed at his brother, and shouted, "He lies. He threatened me to take responsibility. He beat me. It was his doing. I tried to get out but"

  "He tried," Osip said sarcastically, looking at Deputy Procurator Khabolov for support and getting none. "He forced my poor wife, my beautiful little daughter. Wait. I have a picture of my Natalya right here."

  Desperately, Osip fumbled in his pocket and came out with his wallet while Felix said, "What does that prove? That proves nothing. He beats his wife and daughter."

  "I… never. I love them both. Here, here," Osip cried, pushing his brother's restraining hand away and passing the wallet to the unsmiling man behind the desk.

  Khabolov took the wallet, and Osip sat back with a small sense of frightened triumph.

  "This is a very nice wallet. Canadian," said Khabolov.

  "Canadian, yes," said Osip. "A gift to me from an old friend. I'd like to make it a gift to you for your kindness, your understanding."

  Felix snorted in disgust and put his head down as Khabolov threw the wallet back to Osip.

  "Are you attempting to bribe an officer of the state?" Khabolov said, fixing his eyes on Osip, who was now completely panicked, without any sense of response or direction. All he could do was shake his head no as he clutched the wallet to his stomach with both hands. Osip looked to his older brother for help, but Felix was looking at the floor, defeated.

  "Comrades," Khabolov said, "I want you to do some-flung."

  Osip didn't hear the words. He simply sobbed and clutched his wallet, but Felix lifted his eyes at the words of the deputy procurator.

  "Anything," said Felix.

  "I want you to do some work for me in an investigation. I want the two of you to take part in a long-term government investigation of illegal marketing of videotapes and machines," said Khabolov, meeting Felix's eyes. There was an electric instant of understanding, and Felix sat up with new hope.

  "We would be honored to help in any way we could serve the state, Comrade Procurator," Felix said over his brother's sobbing.

  "Good," said Khabolov. "Your entire inventory will be taken over by the state. You will be permitted to continue to operate and keep a reasonable percentage of your profits. Let us say…"

  "Seventy-five percent," said Felix, reaching over and digging his nails into his brother's calf to shut bun up.

  "Forty percent," said Khabolov.

  "Forty percent," agreed Felix.

  "You will report directly to me, deal directly with me," said Khabolov. "You will never return here again. All contact will be made through me or my son, Andreyev, who will take reports on all of your customers and all transactions. It will be necessary from time to time for us to confiscate certain pieces of equipment and tapes that Andreyev or I will select for investigatory purposes."

  "Our inventory is small," said Felix with a sigh.

  Osip had stopped sobbing and was beginning to realize that the nature of the conversation had changed, that Felix was sounding like himself, that some kind of deal was being made.

  "It will have to sustain itself if you and your brother are to remain a useful part of the undercover operation I am planning."

  Which meant, Felix understood, that as long as he and Osip supplied the deputy procurator with all the free video equipme
nt and tapes that he wanted and made him their senior partner they would remain free and in business. The price was high, but the alternative was prison, possibly even execution, and certainly poverty. Besides, the protection of the deputy procurator might be very comforting.

  "We will do exactly as you say," said Felix.

  "Exactly," echoed Osip as Felix reached over to tug at his brother's sleeve.

  "Good," said Khabolov, with what may have been a slight smile. "Your patriotism will be rewarded. Perhaps there will even be a medal awarded at the end of this investigation, though, I must tell you, it looks as if the investigation may turn out to be a very long one."

  "Whatever we must do to serve the state and the people will be done." Felix sighed.

  Osip's sobs had departed, first replaced by a bland, open-mouthed incredulity and then by a slight, hopeful smile, as his eyes darted from his brother to the deputy procurator and up at Lenin, who did not look down from the picture behind the desk.

  Felix did not smile. The terms had been made clear. Osip and Felix would continue to operate as long as it was safe for Khabolov. At the first sign of trouble, the deputy procurator would produce whatever doctored records he had prepared showing mat he had conducted a patriotic investigation of their black market operation. He would turn in those whom it was safe to turn hi and deny any allegations of payments in equipment or money from the lying black marketers, who would certainly be imprisoned, if they were lucky enough to make it to prison. Still, thought Felix, it was better than what they could be facing.

  Being a Muscovite was dangerous at best. Better to be a wealthy Muscovite on the brink of disaster than a poor one.

  "My son will be in touch soon," said Khabolov without rising, as he pulled the yellow pad back in front of him. "You are dismissed, Comrades, with the thanks of the state for your zeal in volunteering to serve."

  "We are very honored…" Osip began as he rose, but Felix stopped him with a squeeze of the arm and led him out the door.

  In the hall with the door closed behind them, Felix looked around to see if anyone could see them. When he was sure it was safe, he sagged against the wall and began shivering.

  "We're safe," whispered Osip with a laugh. "Safe."

  Felix looked at his brother, wanted to tell him how safe they really were, wanted to remind him that brother had denounced brother only moments ago, but he did not have the strength.

  "Safe," he said, pushing himself away from the wall as two women in dark suits came around a corner talking and looking at them.

  Felix moved on shaky legs to the elevator door with Osip at his side wanting to talk, celebrate. Felix didn't hear what Osip was saying. He looked back at the door to Khabolov's office, praying that it wouldn't open, that the deputy procurator would not come out, change his mind, ship them across Moscow to Lubyanka. When the elevator arrived, he hurried in past a uniformed officer and leaned against the rear wall. Osip had stopped talking but wore a relieved, happy smile that infuriated Felix, whose stomach tumbled as the elevator went down. He needed a toilet badly now, but knew he would not ask for one in Petrovka. Others got on the elevator and some got off. When they came to a sudden jerking stop at ground level, Felix felt like letting out a shriek of relief, but as the doors opened the thought of a shriek caught in his throat.

  Standing ten feet away from the elevator, facing them, was a young man who seemed familiar. He wore a suit and carried a briefcase, and he looked directly at Felix and Osip. And then Felix recognized him, the student who had bought the Beatles record the day before. What was he doing here? Was the world full of informants and policemen?

  "We're free," Osip, hoarse, whispered as they strode toward the glass doors of the entrance past the armed guard.

  "Yes," said Felix, looking back over his shoulder at the young man with the briefcase, who was watching the brothers move toward the door. "Free."

  "Vadim Malkoliovich Dunin, you are relieved from duty," Rostnikov said to the young man who opened the apartment door.

  Dunin was holding a teacup in one hand and the door handle in the other. Someone with a gun could have eliminated young Dunin and stained the floor of Katya Rashkovskaya's apartment with a single bullet.

  "Yes, Inspector," Dunin said, stepping back to let Rostnikov in. "I have been unable to repair the toilet for Comrade Katya, but I did manage to turn off the water."

  "Admirable," said Rostnikov, looking around for Katya. "Where is…?" " "She went down the hall to a neighbor to use the toilet," Dunin explained, placing his teacup on the table and straightening his collar.

  "You were supposed to remain with her." Rostnikov sighed.

  "Even on the…?"

  "You could have waited in the hall. It doesn't matter. You are relieved. Now."

  "My duty officer would like you to sign my report, Comrade Inspector," Dunin said, pulling out his notebook. "I've made my morning entry."

  Rostnikov removed the books from under his arm, placed them on the table next to Dunin's cup, and reached for the report book.

  "I didn't" Dunin began.

  Rostnikov held up a hand to stop him and signed his name to the bottom of the report. He could have added a slight reprimand, or a stiff one, for Dunin's lack of caution in opening the door and his failure to stay with Katya. He added nothing, but he looked at young Dunin's face when he returned the notebook.

  "Thank you, Comrade," Dunin said, aware that no written comments had been made by the inspector.

  "You were lucky, Vadim Malkoliovich," said the inspector, with eyes fixed on the younger man's face.

  "I know," agreed Dunin.

  "You have an explanation?"

  "None," said the young officer.

  "Good," said Rostnikov, moving away to sit in a straight-backed wooden chair. "There is hope for you."

  Dunin smiled uncertainly and hurried out the front door.

  For the first few minutes after Dunin's departure, Rostnikov sat looking around the room and waiting for Katya Rashkovskaya to return. He knew from his previous visit that it was a large apartment with two bedrooms. He knew from previous experience that circus performers were among the privileged, the lower privileged perhaps, but privileged nonetheless. The furniture was comfortable, rather modem, and, Rostnikov was sure, not cheap. He got up and began to wander around, first looking at the bathroom, where the toilet sat silent and wounded. Then he moved to the small first bedroom, which held but a single bed and was decorated with circus posters, colorful posters, of clowns, bears, acrobats, dancers, elephants. Each poster was covered by clear plastic, and if one were to lie in the small bed one would be surrounded by a world of color and movement. The single window in the room let in a bright rectangle of sunlight that fell on the poster of a man precariously balanced on five barrels. The man was smiling, his arms outstretched. It was the room and poster of the man who jumped from Gogol's head. No doubt. It was not a woman's room, and there was something of the energy of Valerian Duznetzov in the posters. Rostnikov pulled open the top drawer of the dark dresser against the wall and found his judgment confirmed by the clothes it contained and by an album of circus photographs, most of which included a smiling Duznetzov. The end of the book included many photographs of the beautiful Katya, whose smile, in contrast to Duznetzov's, was a mask. Rostnikov concluded that the third man hi the photograph, the older bald man with the great chest, must be Pesknoko, the catcher.

  "You find it interesting?" Katya Rashkovskaya said with irritation as he flipped to the final page of the album.

  He had not heard her enter, a sign of her acrobatic lightness or his own age.

  "Yes," said Rostnikov, without turning to look at the woman. "Interesting, sad."

  He looked at the last page and slowly returned the album to the drawer.

  "You frequently snoop in other people's drawers, the drawers of dead people," she said.

  "Frequently," Rostnikov said, turning to face her. "It's my job."

  "You enjoy it," she said.

/>   "Usually," he agreed.

  She stood hi the doorway to the room, her arms folded in front of her once again, protecting herself. She wore a white dress and a light gray sweater, and her hair was loose and full around her face.

  "It is an unpleasant job, a dirty job," she attacked.

  "Sometimes unpleasant, sometimes duty," he agreed, again moving toward her. She stepped out of the way as he approached and followed him as he moved to the other bedroom.

  "What are you doing now?" she cried, as he opened the second door.

  "My job," he said. "I'm trying to find out who killed Pesknoko and frightened Duznetzov to death."

  The room he was hi was larger than the other bedroom. No posters, but over the bed a large framed color photograph of Katya and Pesknoko hi white tights. His arm was around her waist, and her smite, unlike that hi the other photographs, was sincere. The blanket on the bed was a soft brown with a flower pattern and looked as if it might be silk.

  "I don't want you looking in my drawers," she said.

  "I won't."

  Rostnikov glanced around the room and backed out into the living room, where he crossed to the small table.

  "What do you want?" Katya demanded.

  "I brought you the plumbing books," he said, handing her the books. "I also dismissed Dunin. The pistol I will have to keep."

  She reached over to take the books from him, a quite puzzled look on her face. The man in front of her was an average-sized, dark crate of a man with a typical Moscow face: flat, dark-eyed, weathered. There seemed to be nothing unusual about him at first glance, but she could see a melancholy irony in his eyes as if he were about to tell a sad but poignant tale. And his words, his words were disarmingly honest. He was, she decided, a man to be wary of.

  "Thank you," she said, taking the books and clutching them to her breasts as a schoolgirl would.

  "I made a call before I came here," he said. "There is a small park on Leningrad Prospekt just past the airport."

  "Near Alabyan Street?"