“Deputy Pleshkov,” Iosef said, “we would like you to accom-pany us back to Moscow.”
Akardy Zelach stood back but forced himself to keep from looking down. Yaklovev himself had, according to Iosef, ordered them to take a car, with a driver, out to Pleshkov’s dacha.
Both policemen anticipated that the confrontation at the end of the journey would not be easy. And it wasn’t.
Pleshkov looked sober, somber, cleaned, and well groomed. This was the Pleshkov of television interviews, the confident man with the smile of understanding.
Pleshkov’s wife stood behind him in the small reception area of the dacha. The son, Ivan, was nowhere in sight.
“No,” said Pleshkov. “I am sorry. I’m too busy. I have a speech to give at the assembly tomorrow. I must get it finished today. A trip to Moscow and then back would interrupt my thoughts and eat too deeply into my time. The day after tomorrow might be possible.”
“Deputy Pleshkov,” said Iosef politely, “this is very important.”
“I’m sorry,” said Pleshkov, looking genuinely sorry.
“May we speak to you in private?” asked Iosef.
“My wife can hear anything you might have to say,” he said.
“Murder,” said Iosef.
“Murder?” repeated Olga Pleshkov.
“Murder? ” said Yevgeny Pleshkov.
“A German,” said Iosef. “Wouldn’t you like to come with us?”
“Perhaps I should,” Pleshkov said with a sigh. “If this is about a murder and you think I may be able to help.”
“What is this, Yevgeny?” Pleshkov’s wife asked.
“You heard the young man,” Pleshkov said. “Apparently a German has been murdered.”
“So?” she asked. “What has that to do with you? Germans are murdered in Moscow all the time. Frenchmen are murdered. Finns are murdered. Americans are even murdered. You are not called to Moscow for every murder. What is so diplomatically significant about this German that your presence is immediately required?”
“That is what I intend to find out, my dear,” said Pleshkov, looking not at her but at Iosef.
When they were in the car watching Pleshkov’s wife through the window, the deputy, seated between Zelach and Iosef, said,
“Would you have arrested me had I refused to come?”
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“I see,” said Pleshkov as the car pulled away onto the dirt road.
“I’m sure we can settle this quickly and I can be back at my desk in a few hours, finishing my speech.”
“I don’t know,” said Iosef, looking forward, as was Zelach. “That will be up to Director Yaklovev.”
Pleshkov turned to look back at his wife standing tall, hands clasped in front of her. Ivan Pleshkov suddenly appeared in the doorway of the dacha. They both watched the unmarked police car head toward Moscow.
Pleshkov looked up at the sky. Still no rain. He had never seen anything quite like this in Moscow. The sky had been dark for days.
Thunder crashed. The wind swirled, but it did not rain. Yevgeny Pleshkov did not believe in omens, but he silently cursed the sky and to himself said, Rain, damn you. Rain.
The room was not large and contained relatively little. A bed with a pillow and a green blanket, a small table with two chairs, an electric hot plate, a cabinet that certainly held a few plates and cups, a sink, a battered chest of drawers, and a curtained-off area in a corner.
Raisa Munyakinova should have been in bed after her night of work, but she was dressed and tired when Rostnikov knocked at her door. She did not appear surprised when she opened the door and saw him and Karpo standing before her.
“You know why we are here?” Rostnikov asked gently.
“You have found the killer,” she said. “Come in. Would you like some tea, coffee? I don’t have too much to eat or drink at the moment. I’ve had little time to shop.”
“I’ve already had tea,” said Rostnikov.
“Thank you, no,” said Karpo.
Raisa moved to sit heavily on her small bed.
“It is not the man I described, is it,” she said. “Not the man in the coat.”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
He and Karpo stood before her. She looked up at them, nodding in understanding.
“May I sit?” asked Rostnikov.
She pointed to one of the wooden chairs. Rostnikov sat with some difficulty, holding onto the table to keep from toppling backward. Karpo continued to stand.
“You were on the cleanup crew at the Leningradskaya Hotel last night,” said Rostnikov, looking at Raisa, who showed only a distant blankness. “You work there regularly in addition to doing shifts at several hotels.”
“Yes,” she said.
“In fact, you were working the hotels on the nights when five Tatar and Chechin Mafia men were murdered,” said Rostnikov.
Raisa shrugged.
“We have the records and a newspaper photograph of you carrying your dead son who was killed in a gun battle between the two gangs.”
“I should have protected him with my body,” she said, shaking her head. “I keep seeing it, feeling myself trying to think.”
“There was no man in a coat,” said Rostnikov, “was there?”
Raisa shrugged again and looked up at Karpo. There was no sympathy, no condemnation in the pale face of the policeman.
“No,” she said.
“Would you like to tell us what happened, or shall we keep fishing?” asked Rostnikov. “I fish fairly well, but it helps if the fish cooperates. It is less painful for the fish and the final results are the same.”
Raisa Munyakinova began rocking forward and back, looking at the floor as she spoke.
“I made up the man in the coat and told the night manager of the health club that he was there, and later that he had left. The night manager seems to believe that he saw this man. You want to know why he believes?”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“Because I am nobody,” she said. “My son was a nobody. I am a drudge, a woman with no face who cleans men’s hair from toilet seats and mops up vomit and sprays showers that smell of alcohol.
They don’t look at me. They don’t see me. I’m sure the monsters who murdered my little boy forgot about him in minutes, if they ever thought about him at all.”
“Why did you take the body of Valentin Lashkovich to the river and how did you do it?” asked Karpo.
“I knew someday it was possible that a smart policeman would figure out as you have that I was working in each hotel on the night of the executions,” she said. “I wanted to make it look as if he had been killed and dumped in the river, killed somewhere other than the hotel. I’m very strong. The death of my baby made me even stronger. I shot him and he staggered through the door and into the pool. There he died. I pulled his body out of the water and put it in a garbage can, covered it with garbage and a few torn towels, and put the can on a two-wheel lift I knew was in the cleaning supply room. There is an old man named Nikolai at the back door near the loading dock. I am as invisible to him as I am to everyone else. He asked me nothing, even opened the door for me. I told him I was taking the garbage out. I sometimes do that. So did the other women. I hurried, but I did not run. I saw few people on the streets. I dumped the body and the garbage in the river and hurried back. Nikolai didn’t even notice that I had been gone far longer than was needed to dump garbage.”
“The gun?” asked Rostnikov.
Raisa kept rocking.
“The gun,” Rostnikov repeated gently.
“I bought it from a neighbor’s husband,” she said. “I know I paid far too much for it. I didn’t care. He showed me how to use it. He’s a cab driver. He has more guns.”
“Do you know where it is now?”
“I threw it in the gutter on the way home last night.”
“Then you decided you were through killing?” asked Rostnikov.
“I decided I needed a new gun,” she said. “If
I go to jail for a hundred years, I will live, and when I get out, I’ll kill every man who was on the street the day my only child was killed. He played the violin. Did you know that?”
“No,” said Rostnikov.
“A little boy who played the violin beautifully,” she said, looking at the impassive Karpo. “Little boys who play the violin should grow up to play in orchestras, concert halls. They should not be shot in the head by monsters who do not even care what they have done. Do they hear music, these monsters?”
“No,” said Karpo.
“No,” repeated the woman. “And now?”
“Now,” said Rostnikov with a sigh as he stood awkwardly. “You come with us to Petrovka. There is a place where you can sleep tonight. Tomorrow, we shall see. Take some things with you.”
Raisa stood up, nodding dumbly. She was standing in front of Emil Karpo, looking into his eyes.
“I did what had to be done,” she said. “You understand?”
“Yes,” said Emil Karpo. “I understand.”
Chapter Twelve
Iosef stood in Director Yaklovev’s outer office. Seated to Iosef ’s right were the soccer coach Oleg Kisolev, Yevgeny Pleshkov, and Yulia Yalutshkin, who sat erect and quite beautifully calm, smoking an American cigarette. Pleshkov, now quite sober, once again the politician, looked at his watch. There were only three chairs in the outer office where Iosef waited with his prisoners. Even had there been another, Iosef would not have sat. He was on the brink of his first real success as an investigator. The suspects were before him. The evidence was inescapable, and though he had no great fondness for the Yak, he did respect his ability, intellect, and ruthlessness. Yaklovev would follow through.
“I have a committee meeting at the Kremlin in one hour,”
Pleshkov said to Pankov, who sat behind his desk trying not to look at Yulia Yalutshkin, or, at least, not let anyone know he was looking at her. “And I have an important speech to prepare. One that will have great consequences for our country.”
“The director will see you shortly,” Pankov said with what was intended as an ingratiating, apologetic smile.
Oleg Kisolev was neither a politician nor a prostitute. He was very bad at hiding his emotions. Now he sat slightly slumped, his tongue running over his lower lip, glancing frequently at the for-bidding door of the director of the Office of Special Investigation.
After ten minutes, the Yak opened his door and stood looking at the three people seated against the wall across from him.
“Vighdyeetyee, come in,” the Yak said.
The three rose from their chairs, with Pleshkov leading the way and Yulia and Oleg behind him. Iosef started in after them, but Yaklovev held up a hand.
“Wait here, Inspector Rostnikov. I will call you in later. Pankov, no visitors, no calls unless there is a real emergency.”
“Yes, Com. . Director Yaklovev.”
Pankov still had no idea what he would do to determine if something was an emergency. If he believed in a god, Pankov would pray. All he could do was hope.
Yaklovev entered his office and closed the door.
Iosef looked at his watch. He had been running madly through the night, gathering information, evidence, listening to Paulinin ramble at two in the morning. Iosef wanted to be with Elena. He had not seen her since the dog had attacked her. By the time he had arrived at the doctor’s office and rooms, Elena had already left for home. He had no time to go see her, but the fact that she could go home was a good sign. She might be wondering where he was and what was so important, if he really loved her, as he claimed, that he could not get away for a few minutes to see her. No, that was not Elena’s way. Many others Iosef had known would have been hurt by his absence, pouted, complained. Not Elena. At least he did not think so.
There was nothing to be done at the moment. Iosef did what his father did. He took out a paperback, a German translation of three plays by Tom Stoppard. Iosef shared his father’s passion for reading but not American mysteries. Iosef ’s favorites were plays, particularly those by Gogol, all of which he had read many times.
Reading now would not be easy. How was Elena? What was going on in the Yak’s office?
There was no point in talking to Pankov, who had returned to the paperwork on his desk. Pankov was sweating, though it was not particularly warm in the outer office.
Iosef sat in the chair where Yulia Yalutshkin had sat. He could smell a faint scent of perfume. Iosef opened his book and tried to read Jumpers.
Inside the office Yaklovev directed his guests to sit in the chairs he had placed in front of his desk. When they sat, Yaklovev went behind his desk and stood with one hand on the neat, five-inch pile of yellow folders held down by a lead paperweight with the like-ness of Ivan the Terrible looking up at him. Beside the files was a small battery-operated tape recorder, which the Yak made no effort to hide. He handed the pile of files to Yevgeny Pleshkov and sat behind his desk, hands folded on top of it.
Yulia reached for a cigarette and said, “Nyeht lyee oo vahss speechyehk, have you a light please?”
The Yak said, “Smoking is not permitted in my office.”
Yulia shrugged and lit the cigarette herself. Pleshkov looked up to watch how Yaklovev would deal with this typical Yulia Yalutshkin behavior. The outcome might well affect Yevgeny’s own method of dealing with the duplicate Lenin behind the desk.
“Miss Yalutshkin,” the Yak said calmly, hands still folded before him. “If you do not stop, I will have Inspector Rostnikov take you to an uncomfortable and possibly very dirty cell. All that you have with you will be confiscated and two policewomen will check you and all of your body cavities for weapons. I understand that they are not gentle. Is your defiance worth the outcome?”
Yulia looked at her cigarette, shrugged, and looked around for an ashtray.
“Not in my office,” said the Yak. “Take it out to Pankov and get back here immediately, please.”
Yulia stood, glaring at Yaklovev.
“Now,” said the Yak. “I have much to do and I am growing impatient. I do not wish to waste our time on childish behavior.”
“Damn you,” said Yulia, striding to the door and exiting.
Yevgeny began examining the files-the photos, letters, reports on the body of the German, the evidence of what Yevgeny and the others had done. It was not just his career that was in jeopardy. It was his very freedom.
Yulia came back in, making a show of closing the door slowly.
Oleg wanted no quarrel with the man behind the desk, but he dearly wished he had something to occupy him or pretend was occupying him while he waited what would surely be his turn.
Yulia sat, and as Yevgeny finished each file he handed it to her.
The room was silent except for Oleg shifting in his chair and paper being slowly shuffled. After five minutes, Yevgeny and Yulia returned the files to the Yak, who again piled them neatly with the Ivan the Terrible paperweight on top of them.
“We have the physical evidence downstairs,” said the Yak. “The wooden stake, the body with its crushed skull and the wound to the neck, and, as the report you just read clearly indicates, much, much more.”
“You have your supposed evidence,” said Yevgeny Pleshkov.
“What do you want of us?”
“Perhaps to save you,” said the Yak. “If you cooperate. First, I want a statement from each of you about what actually happened.
Now, if you refuse, I will be forced to proceed with legal action, which the press will certainly hear of. Yevgeny Pleshkov first. The truth.”
“You said you may be able to save us,” said Pleshkov.
“The truth, now. We will see what can be done,” said the Yak, hands still folded before him. “You have examined the evidence report. You have little choice.”
Yaklovev turned on the tape recorder and nodded at Pleshkov, who looked at Yulia and Oleg and began to speak. Pleshkov’s statement was the longest. The others reluctantly confirmed and added some of the deta
ils that Yevgeny, in his alcoholic daze, had forgotten. The box with the photos and tapes, the fight with Jurgen, the attempt to destroy the evidence were all laid out with excuses from all three presenting the statement. The German attacked first and would have killed Pleshkov, who was only defending himself. They had burned the body in panic, to preserve Yevgeny’s reputation.
“I was drunk, in the apartment of a. .” Pleshkov began.
“Prostitute,” Yulia supplied.
“Yes,” said Pleshkov. “I had just killed a man who had attacked me. I would be destroyed.”
When they were finished speaking, the trio waited for Yaklovev to probe, ask questions. Instead, he turned off the tape recorder.
Yaklovev took out the tape and replaced it with a fresh one. The taped confession went into the desk drawer. The Yak spoke slowly, not turning on the tape recorder.
“Your story does not explain the evidence. I believe that evidence clearly shows that the following took place: Oleg Kisolev and Yevgeny Pleshkov went to the Yulia Yalutshkin apartment where the German and Yulia Yalutshkin were waiting. There was an argument.
I don’t know what it was about. The German, Jurgen, said he wanted to talk to Oleg. Yevgeny Pleshkov was drunk. Oleg asked Yulia to help Yevgeny to the elevator. She did. When they were gone, the German threatened to expose the fact that Oleg Kisolev is a homosexual.”
Neither Yulia nor Pleshkov showed any sign of surprise at the Yak’s revelation, and Oleg was now sure that they had known before. Yevgeny had hinted at his knowledge of his friend’s sexuality in the past, but Yulia clearly knew. For how long? Had Yevgeny told her?
“Exposure of your homosexuality,” said the Yak, looking at Oleg, “would end your career. You refused to give in to the German’s threat of such exposure. He attacked you. You fought. There was a box. You struck him in the head with it. It broke. You found yourself holding a small, sharp piece of the shattered box. The German attacked again. You struggled. Somehow the pointed end of the piece of wood went deeply into the German’s neck.
“You ran to the elevator. Yulia stood there impatiently. Yevgeny Pleshkov was in a stupor. You told Yulia to take him to a hotel.
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