by Greg Dinallo
“Out,” she replies impassively. Then her posture straightens, and she looks up at me. “Ah, yes, I know what I’ve wanted to tell you, Nikasha,” she announces, pleased at having finally remembered. “At the end of this month—” A distant phone rings, interrupting her. She squints in search of the thought, then loses it and glances to the ceiling. The muffled ring is coming from directly above us, from my apartment.
I excuse myself, dash up the stairs, fumbling for the key, then swiftly unlock the door, and dive across the desk for the phone. “Vera?!”
“No—Lydia,” comes the reply, accompanied by an amused giggle.
“Oh? Oh, hi,” I say, glad the “city’s best metro editor” can’t see my sheepish expression.
“There’s a Mrs. Churkin here looking for you. She wants to talk about your story.”
“Churkin? Mrs. Tanya Churkin?”
“That’s right. I told her you were free-lance and suggested she write a letter to the editor, but she insists she has to talk to you. I said I couldn’t give out your number without permission.”
“She’s there now?”
“Uh-huh. Won’t take no for an answer. I’ll put her on, if you like.”
“No, I want to do this in person. I’ll be there in about an hour. Don’t let her leave.”
I’ve no doubt this is the break I’ve been looking for; no doubt that after reading my story Vorontsov’s daughter recalled something disturbing, something she doesn’t want to take to the militia, who were too quick to decide he was killed for his medals, whom she doesn’t trust. Why else would she come to me?
I hurry from the apartment, stopping briefly at the Zhiguli. A half-dozen cigarette butts are crushed into the macadam. All Marlboros. All half-smoked. I work my Ducats right down to the filter. The fellow in the trench coat is either a foreigner or a Russian who’s beating the system—like the medal dealers.
The escalator deposits me on the crowded Metro platform where a man leans against a column reading a newspaper. A man in a trench coat! The man in the trench coat! Is he out to get me? If he is, why is he stalking me? Why hasn’t he made his move? If wants me to squirm for a while, if that’s how he gets his kicks, he’s sure as hell succeeding.
I drift toward the opposite end of the platform. He watches me over the top of his newspaper, then drifts in the same direction. I quicken my pace, weaving between the other passengers. As soon as I’ve put some distance between us, I step back into one of the arched seating alcoves, and slip out of my parka. Then I turn it inside out, put it back on, put up the hood, and remove my glasses.
The station is a blur without them, but what looks like a woman with a rambunctious toddler hanging from one fist and shopping bags from the other comes toward me and takes a seat.
I settle on the bench next to them and wave at the child. He screeches playfully in reply. My gut tightens as the soft-edged silhouette of a trench coat moves into view on the platform. The child screeches again and lunges at me, almost toppling off the bench. He’s still screeching as I catch him by the seat of the pants and swing him into my lap.
The man in the trench coat reacts to the sound and glances over his shoulder at us. He’s looking for unkempt hair, wireframe glasses, and a beige parka; but I’m wearing a dark blue one with a hood now, and have just acquired a lovely family. He anxiously sweeps his eyes over the other passengers in the area as the whoosh of air rises and the train pulls into the station. The woman takes the squirming child from me and smiles in appreciation.
“Why don’t I help you with those,” I suggest, hefting her shopping bags without waiting for a reply. I casually escort my “wife and son” onto the train. The man in the trench coat moves off down the platform in search of me. There’s no sign of him during the ride to Moscow or walk to Independent Gazette, though I’ve no doubt he’s as adept at concealment as he is at intimidation.
12
Metro editor Lydia Brelova, a gaunt, frizzy-haired woman with smiling eyes, shows me to a small conference room where Vorontsov’s daughter is waiting. Refined, composed, and well-dressed, in contrast to Independent Gazette’s frantic T-shirt-and-jeans staff, she sits primly on the edge of one of the folding chairs that ring the table.
“So what do you have for me, Mrs. Churkin?” I ask, anxious to get down to business.
“Have for you?” she wonders.
“Uh-huh.”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I’m sorry. I’m a little confused. As I understand it, you insisted on seeing me.”
“Yes, about my father’s medals. I want you to help me find them.”
“That’s very disappointing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m not sure that’s why he was killed. It might’ve been related to his work.”
She recoils slightly. “His work?”
“He was investigating the CSP. Surely you’ve heard of the corruption. The speculation is he either was about to expose, or was involved in, a privatization scandal.”
“Speculation?!” she snaps, stiffening with anger as she stands and advances toward me. “I warned you about destroying his name!”
“Only he could do that. I was hoping you had some information that might settle it one way or the other.”
“There’s nothing to be settled as far as I’m concerned. Fin interested in recovering his medals, nothing more.”
“That’s the militia’s problem.”
“They’re corrupt and inept. They won’t find his killer, let alone his medals.”
“I agree. Though in all fairness, Investigator Shevchenko turned down a bribe right in front of me. I think he’s trustworthy.”
“Maybe. But you wrote the story. You’re the one with the connections.”
“Yes, and making them damn near got me killed. If there’s one thing I learned, it’s that tracking down stolen medals is next to impossible.”
“I don’t see why. My father’s name was on them.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Positive.”
“Then forget it. I asked about them. No one had them. You’re wasting my time.”
“You talked to every medal dealer in Moscow?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, one of them must have them.”
“Maybe. Then again, maybe they’ve already been sold to a private buyer.”
“Fine. I’ll buy them back from whoever has them. They’re very important to me.”
“So is my life. You really think I’m going to put it on the line again? Just so you don’t have to queue at the local market?”
“That was uncalled for! I could buy any medals on the black market if that were the case. They’re, they’re—” She stops, overcome with emotion, and crosses to the window. The afternoon light warms her complexion and paints the courtyard below with long shadows. She settles down and turns to face me. Her eyes capture mine with undeniable sincerity. “My father’s medals are his legacy, Mr. Katkov. They represent something, something unique—a special time—a world we’ll probably never see again.”
“Let’s hope not.”
She groans, disgusted. “Their value is sentimental. Can’t you understand that?”
I nod contritely, reflecting on Mrs. Parfenov. “Yes, as a matter of fact I think I can. I’m sorry, Mrs. Churkin. I was out of line.”
“Does that mean you’ll find them for me?”
“I wouldn’t stand a chance,” I reply, though I’m suddenly aware it might give me another shot at finding out if Vorontsov’s killer was a thief or assassin. “But I know someone who might. Might. And if he does, it will be expensive.”
“I have money.”
“Hard currency?”
She nods. “My father traveled extensively and lived abroad for many, many years.”
“I understand. There’s a chance the dealers will take it and run.”
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” she says, her moist eyes hardening
with resolve.
I cross to the phone, slip the butane lighter from my pocket—the number of the Paradise Club is printed on the barrel—and call Arkady Barkhin in search of Rafik. Barkhin hasn’t seen him since that morning in the Lenin Hills, but suggests I try Kafé Graneetsa, a bar in Serebryanyy-Bor. The desolate island is situated at the end of a canal that connects the Moscow River with the Volga. Its resident dockhands and rivermen work the ferries and cargo vessels that sail northern lakes and the pleasure ships that take Western tourists on cruises to St. Petersburg.
Tanya Churkin offers to give me a lift. Her zeal and brand-new Lada make quick work of the journey, and we’re soon crossing the Khoroshevsky Bridge onto the island. The bull-rushes and milkweed that grow in the shallows are locked in ice.
Dusk has fallen by the time we arrive at the Graneetsa. It’s a typical waterfront dive of rough-hewn wood, coiled hawsers, and portholes that serve as windows. The air has the stinging bite of deep winter, as I leave Mrs. Churkin in the car and cross to the entrance. The interior is alive with the clank of mugs and dull thunk of darts. I stand just inside the door, scanning the crowd for Rafik. He’s nowhere in sight. The aroma of perfumed prostitutes working the rivermen thickens as I make my way to the other end of the bar. Still no sign of him. I’m about to give up when I spot a familiar cap bobbing in the midst of a raucous group of dart throwers.
“Katkov!” the diminutive fellow exclaims when he sees me. “I read your article. Nice job.”
“Thanks.”
“I never thought of myself as ‘the mysterious fellow in the evergreens,’ but I’m glad you kept my name out of it.”
“That was the deal.”
He nods, studying me with suspicion. “You didn’t come all the way out here to get patted on the back.”
“I hope not.”
Rank’s expression brightens. A flick of his wrist sends his last dart at the board; then he directs me to a table away from the action, where I brief him. “Vayluta,” he replies, using slang for hard currency. “Vayluta is the key.”
“Don’t be so sure. Those dealers were pretty pissed off. Damned near killed me. They might not be interested in doing business.”
“They’ll be killing each other to take your money, believe me.”
“Shevchenko seemed to think the medals are worth somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million rubles.”
“At the current rate, that’s damn near thirty thousand dollars. You’re sure your client can come up with that much?”
“Yes. More, if need be.”
“Lots more, if we don’t play this right.”
“You mean the instant whoever has them knows we want those medals and only those medals, he’ll know he has no competition, and the price will . . .” I pause, catching sight of a man who slips in a side door. It’s the guy in the trench coat. He walks toward us calmly, pulls a handgun from a shoulder holster, and starts firing.
I dive beneath the table, turning it on its side like a shield. Rafik pulls a small revolver from a pocket and scurries to the end of the bar, returning the fire. Rivermen and prostitutes are screaming and running for cover as more blinding flashes erupt. Six, seven, eight sharp cracks in rapid succession. The bullets splinter wood and ricochet off concrete. I’m curled up, flinching in terror at every pop and ping. Then silence, smoke, the smell of cordite, and the sounds of furniture being moved and people getting to their feet. I crawl out from behind the table slowly.
Several rivermen are crouching over the gunman’s body, which is sprawled on the floor. Blood bubbles from a hole in the center of his chest, pooling in the folds of his trench coat. He’s clearly dead, and those around him waste no time helping themselves to his valuables.
I push past them and find Rafik slumped against the bar, clutching his abdomen. His shirt is drenched with blood that runs between his fingers.
“Call an ambulance!” I shout at the crowd.
“No,” Rafik growls through clenched teeth. “No hospital. They report gunshot wounds. They—”
“Call, dammit, call!”
“Don’t,” Rafik pleads again, grimacing in pain. “The militia. They’ll—”
“You want to die?!”
He nods emphatically, struggling to get up. “Better than prison.”
“You’re not going to jail, and you’re not going to die either.” I help him to his feet and start toward the door.
Tanya Churkin must be serious about recovering those medals because, despite the commotion, she’s still waiting when I emerge from the bar with Rafik. Her jaw drops as we stumble toward the car. She isn’t thrilled at the idea of getting blood all over the upholstery of her new Lada, but she helps me settle Rafik in the backseat anyway.
“You know the Yushkov House?” I ask, referring to a famous building in Old Moscow.
“Of course,” she snaps haughtily, wheeling the car around.
“Good. We’re going right across the street. Sixty-three Myasnitskaya.”
“Why?” Rafik rasps apprehensively, his ruddy face turning pale as the car accelerates. “What’s there?”
“A doctor.”
“Better be one we can bribe,” he jokes weakly.
“One we can trust.”
“You’re sure?”
“No. But I was married to her once.”
13
Tanya Churkin’s Lada races along the Garden Ring, the tree-lined boulevard that circumscribes the spider-web of streets spun from the city’s hub. She turns off at Kirova and weaves through the darkened neighborhoods of Old Moscow. The chromatic facades are faded now, pale pastel hues overpowered by the Lada’s headlights.
“It’s the last one on the right,” I say as she angles into Myasnitskaya. “Turn into the alley.”
Like many buildings in this historic area that are being restored, No. 63 is sheathed in scaffolding, and the adjacent alley is littered with construction debris. Mrs. Churkin maneuvers next to a staircase that leads to the service entrance. She sets the handbreak and hurries up the steps ahead of me to open the door.
“Time to plug that leak,” I say to Rafik, moving him into a sitting position. A weak smile creases the corners of his mouth. He’s ashen and barely conscious. I’m getting an arm under him when Mrs. Churkin returns on the run. “The door’s locked.”
“Damn. Stay with him.” I dash up the stairs and try it to no avail. Light spills across the scaffolding from nearby windows. I climb onto the rickety structure and peer into a doctor’s waiting room. Every chair is occupied. Several patients queue at a desk where a harried nurse prioritizes files. My ex-wife was right. Getting rid of me and my political baggage paid off.
The shade on the next window is fully drawn, but a gap at the side affords a view of the examining room. Alexandra Sereva, the woman who promised to love, honor, and cherish me until death, sits at a desk jotting in a file. She’s between patients. Alone. Something’s finally gone right.
I’m about to knock on the window when she stands and crosses toward the door, lab smock billowing stiffly behind her. I rap sharply on the window. She pauses and looks about as if unable to place the sound. I knock again, louder, insistently. She zeroes in on the window and advances with caution.
Her shadow falls across the shade.
“Alexandra?!”
It suddenly goes up.
We’re face-to-face for the first time in years. She’s startled, her wide-set eyes blinking in disbelief at the sight of a man on the scaffold—at the sight of me. The frosty pane that separates us frames her classic face like a painting. She’s still attractive as ever, still radiant with Hippocratic goodness.
I’m drained, fixated on the life slipping away in the Lada. I’m not sure what I feel. “The service door’s locked,” I shout, gesturing toward it frantically. “The door, Alexa. Open the door.”
“Come round front,” she orders loudly, unable to imagine why I’m slinking about alleys and peeping in windows.
“I can’t. It’s an
emergency, dammit. Come on, Alexa. Open the fucking door!”
She’s momentarily taken aback, then nods and moves off, glancing back at me with uncertainty.
I jump to the ground and hurry to the Lada. Mrs. Churkin helps me remove Rafik; then, without a word, she drives off, sending bits of litter swirling in the darkness. I’m carrying Rafik up the stairs when the deadbolt retracts and the door opens.
“My God,” Alexa exclaims at the bloody sight cradled in my arms.
“Someone shot him. I didn’t think it’d be a good idea to drag him through the waiting room.”
“You should’ve taken him to a hospital.”
“I can’t.”
Her brows go up.
“You don’t want to know.”
“In that case, I can’t help him.”
“Come on, he’s going to die, for Chrissakes!” I push past her and hurry down the corridor.
“Nikolai?!” she says sharply, right on my heels. “Nikolai. The law requires I report gunshot wounds.”
“If you happen to think of it.”
“That’s not funny. I won’t do anything illegal.”
“I’m not asking you to. Paperwork falls through cracks, files get lost, assistants forget to fill out reports.” I turn into the examining room and lay Rafik on the table beneath the fluorescents. His face is the color of week-old snow.
“I won’t,” Alexa insists, taking his pulse instinctively. “I mean it.”
“Fine. We’ll wait here until he dies, and then you can report whatever you want.”
“You’re right,” she concedes with that sexy pout I still find alluring. “He’s barely alive.” She takes the phone and stabs a finger at the intercom. “Nina? I think I’m coming down with something. . . . Uh-huh. A nasty headache. . . . Yes, they’ll have to be rescheduled. . . . No, you can leave when you’re finished.” She hangs up and glances to me. “Lock the door.”
I know what’s coming. I’ve seen her in action countless times. Swift, precise, decisive, she could handle this in her sleep. I throw the latch and step aside as she fetches an emergency kit from a cabinet, sets it on a cart, removes an IV unit, tears off the sterilized wrapper, and plugs it into a bag of saline that she hangs on a mobile stand.
