“I thought you’d want to know, Grigori’s going to be all right,” said Karl.
“Thank god.”
“He’s in the hospital. His spleen ruptured and they had to take it out.”
“Son-of-a-bitch.”
Karl sat on the edge of the desk. “You working on the arrest paperwork?”
“Almost finished. I just have to — ”
“Forget it. He’s free.”
“You let himgo ?” Tarasov exclaimed.
“Had to. He never should have been brought in, and you know it.”
“He hit Grigori! He could have killed him!”
Karl waved his hand. “Don’t even start with me about this.”
Tarasov shook his head in disbelief.
“Listen, there’s something else I wanted to talk to — ”
Tarasov wasn’t listening. “This is dog shit, Karl. That guy was as drunk as a Cossack!”
“Will you shut up about it!” Karl said irritably. “Why do you always have to act like the only honest cop around here? I’m sick of it.”
Tarasov wadded up the report and tossed it in the trash.
Karl said, “Now, there’s something else I want to talk to you about. Something happened tonight, and it’s presented me with a problem.”
“Really?” Tarasov said with exaggerated interest.
Karl scowled. “We’re friends, right? I mean, I got you this job when you needed it. We went to school together.”
Tarasov shrugged. “Sure.”
“I need some advice.” He shot Tarasov a sideways glance. “It’s about the KGB.”
“You know I have no contact with Lubyanka,” said Tarasov. “It’s been over two years.”
“I know that. It’s just that . . . oh, shit, my neck is really in the noose on this one, Konstantin. I just don’t want to wind up in the gulag, you know?”
“What’s going on?”
“We fished the son of a Central Committee member out of the river tonight.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s not all. We pulled out another man, a Jew. He had a bullet in his head.”
Tarasov whistled. “You think the son did it?”
“Maybe. Frankly, I don’t care. The KGB has taken over the case. Some general by the name of Yuri Belov.”
“Belov!”
“You know him?”
Tarasov pinched his lips. “We’ve crossed paths.”
“I thought you might have. You were pretty high up. I mean, that’s what I heard, not that you ever talk about it.”
Tarasov shrugged. “And now you’ve got to figure out how to file your report?”
“Right. I mean, we’ve got a homicide here. You know this General Belov. What would he want me to do? Bury the report, or play it straight? I can’t very well ask him.”
“Belov would want you to bury it,” said Tarasov. “He’ll take credit for keeping the matter quiet and he’ll have another chip on a Central Committee member. He’s got more chips than a poker player on a good night.”
“Bury it,” Karl breathed. “Thanks. What a relief.”
Tarasov stood up. “If that’s it, I’m exhausted. I just want to get out of here.”
“Going home?”
“Of course I’m going home! Things aren’t that bad.”
“How is she?”
“Marina? She’s still after me. The usual. Flat’s too small. Neighborhood’s lousy. She wants some new furniture; we’re at the back of the queue.”
Tarasov didn’t mention the most serious issue — Sasha’s coming draft notice.
“We’ve all been there,” said Karl. “A woman marries agaishnik , she’s not exactly set for a life of luxury.”
“That’s the problem — Marina married a KGB-shnik.” Tarasov went to the door. “By the way, who was the Central Committee member?”
“Yevgenia Perova.”
Tarasov blanched. “The minister of agriculture? You’re sure?”
“Of course. It was her son at the scene. The astronomer.” Karl frowned thoughtfully at him. “What do you know about it?”
Tarasov shook his head and went out.
Tarasov came through his front door and hung his coat on the peg. He noticed at once that his wife’s coat was missing.
“Anybody home?”
No answer. He went to the kitchen. A note lay on the table.
Call me at mother’s. — Marina.
A sick feeling came over Tarasov. He went to the bedroom and opened the drawers of Marina’s dresser. Empty. Her closet. Empty. He went to Sasha’s room. The same.
He picked up the phone and dialed. Marina answered.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“I’m leaving you,” said Marina.
“Just like that? In the middle of the night?”
“I’m sorry. I told you, I can’t live like this anymore.”
“Like what? Do I drink too much? Do I hit you?”
“You know what I mean. A tiny flat in a factory neighborhood. No car. No status. Queuing for everything. I can’t do it.”
“Others do.”
“I can’t. And I have to think about Sasha.”
“I’mthinking about him all the time. Every minute.”
“You weren’t thinking about him when you left Lubyanka.”
Jesus.Tarasov sat down. “I thought we were getting through all this.”
Marina said, “You may as well know. I’m going to marry Vladic.”
The room spun. “Titovo? No. My god, Marina. The man’s an imbecile! You can’t be serious!”
“Sasha will be drafted in two years. Our little Sasha. If you had stayed at Lubyanka you could have gotten him into the academy. Now . . . you can’t even guarantee he’ll get an easy assignment.”
“And Vladic can?”
“He’s an undersecretary at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Of course, he can.”
“Since when are you a whore, Marina?”
“Call me names if you like,” snapped Marina. “If I ever need a ticket fixed, I hope I can still call. Good-bye.”
“Wait! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just . . . I can’t live without my family, Marina. You know that.”
“I don’t know what to say, Konstantin. I’ve said it all.”
“Say you’ll come back.”
“I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“All right. I won’t.”
Tarasov thought hard. “What if I said I could get my old job back at the KGB?”
“I’d say you were crazy. They’d never have you back. Not after what you did.”
“What if I said I knew a way? Would you come back then?”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Just give me a chance. But I need some time, Marina. A month.”
“I’ve given you the last twoyears. ”
“A month, Marina. You owe me that. How much is it worth to you to avoid spending the rest of your life under Vladic Titovo?”
Marina was quiet a moment. “One month. I’ll put off Vladic somehow. I’ll stay here at mother’s. But a month from today, if you’re not back at Lubyanka then I’m going to marry Vladic Titovo. I have to get on with my life.”
She hung up.
Tarasov got his address book from the drawer and looked up a number. He dialed.
“Allo?”
“Hi, Leo. Kill anybody lately?”
“Konstantin Tarasov? Jesus, I thought you were dead.”
“Very funny. Put me through to Shatalin.”
Leo laughed. “You’re quite a comedian. You still think you can call up the director of the KGB, just like that? I’ve got a news flash for you: You’re a gaishnik. Go give someone a ticket.”
“Just put Shatalin on the line.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“He does about this.”
“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
“Tell him it’s about General Yuri Belov. I may ha
ve some information for him.”
“I’ll pass it along.”
Leo called back five minutes later. “I’m sending a car over now. And Konstantin — this had better be real.”
The black Volga took Tarasov to the Moscow City Council Theater, a low-budget acting company that was an argument against state-supported arts. The driver parked at the front door and handed Tarasov a ticket. “Enjoy the show,” he said.
The ticket was for Balcony Row X, Seat 14. Tarasov went into the theater and climbed to the balcony. The auditorium was empty and nearly dark. He found his seat and sat down.
A few minutes later, two men appeared — one at each exit. A moment later, a third man came down the aisle toward Tarasov — Oleg Shatalin.
Tarasov had met the KGB director fifteen years earlier, shortly after Tarasov joined the service. Shatalin was then a middle-level agent in Foreign Intelligence. He would become the closest thing Tarasov ever had to a mentor. As an overseas operative, Shatalin had been brilliant. But even more important to his success were his political instincts. He was far more ruthless with his political rivals than he ever had been with the Americans. Shatalin shot up the ladder, always inviting Tarasov to go with him.
Shatalin’s last promotion had come just a year earlier, and this was the first time Tarasov had seen his old comrade since he became director. He wore a gray double-breasted suit and fashionable Finnish spectacles, like a Western businessman.
Tarasov rose from his seat.
“Stay as you are,” said Shatalin.
Shatalin came beside him and sat down. He did not offer his hand.
“Sorry about the meeting place,” said Shatalin. “But you know I can’t let you be seen in Lubyanka.”
Shatalin took out a silver cigarette case and snapped it open. “Smoke?”
In the dim light, Tarasov saw that they were Winstons.
“As I recall, you developed a taste for American tobacco,” said Shatalin.
“I’ve learned to smokepapirosy. ”
Shatalin wrinkled his nose. “Terrible Russian stuff.” He snapped a lighter and held the flame to Tarasov’s cigarette. He lit his own.
“So what’s this about General Bassett Hound?” Shatalin asked.
Belov had been Shatalin’s enemy for twenty years. While Shatalin had been coming up through the Foreign Intelligence route, a more customary path to the top, Belov remained in Moscow cracking down on internal dissent and building powerful allies in the Communist party. They had crossed paths on several occasions, and it had never been pleasant.
Shatalin’s promotion to KGB director should have spelled the end of Belov’s career. Shatalin couldn’t demote him, so he did the next best thing — he assigned him to Leningrad, where he was their number-two man. That assured him such benign duties as border fortifications on the Finnish and Norwegian borders. For an ambitious career man like Yuri Belov, it might as well have been Siberia. Then, in January, Belov returned from political exile and was installed by powerful men in the Party as head of Counterintelligence. Essentially, he was placed on Shatalin’s staff. Tarasov had shaken his head when he heard about it. Belov was a spy for the Communist party. The KGB and the Communists spied on each other even more than they did on the Americans.
“I’ve been following General Belov’s remarkable change of fate.”
Shatalin snorted. “Is that so?”
“I left the KGB, not the country.”
Tarasov took a hit off his cigarette. He’d forgotten how good Virginia tobacco could taste. “My guess is you’ve been unable to find out how he pulled it off.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Belov’s still there.”
Shatalin took a deep breath. “And I suppose you know?”
“I do. Podolok.”
Shatalin took a deep hit off his cigarette. “Go on.”
Tarasov knew he had the director’s attention now. In all the world, there was only one man Shatalin hated more than Belov, and it was Anatoly Podolok.
Tarasov said, “Clearly, Belov has some dirt on Podolok, something so damaging that he was able to blackmail Podolok into rescuing him from exile in Leningrad. Now, if you had that information . . . just think.”
“You have some idea about this?”
“I might. You know Yevgenia Perova?”
“The Iron Perova,” Shatalin shrugged. “Sure. Hard-working. Earnest. A real goody-goody. I read about her in the papers like everyone else.”
“It’s very suspicious, don’t you think, that both she and Belov were promoted the same week, both with ties to the same man — Podolok.”
Shatalin shrugged. “You’re reaching.”
“Last night at Rechnoy Vokzal the Moscow police found Yevgenia Perova’s son at a murder scene. The KGB has taken over the case. Guess who’s in charge? General Yuri Belov.”
Shatalin sat up straight. “How do you know this?”
“What does that matter? I know it.”
Shatalin smoked thoughtfully. “I’m going to tell you something . . . I hadn’t made the connection until just now.”
“What?”
“An American scientist named Katherine Sears disappeared from the Intourist Hotel last night. She was Victor Perov’s partner in some Soviet-American project.” He paused. “My men tell me it looks like an abduction.”
“Ours or theirs?”
“Ours.”
“That’s a hell of a coincidence — Victor Perov going in the river on the same night his American partner is abducted.”
They both sat quietly smoking and thinking about it.
“Podolok, Belov, Perova,” Tarasov said finally. “An interesting triangle.”
“The American — she could be the key to breaking it up.”
“Right,” said Tarasov. “But Belov’s got her. Hell, she’s probably already in a shallow grave somewhere.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Perhaps there’s another way.”
Shatalin threw his cigarette on the floor and stamped it out. “What do you want?”
“My old job back, restoration of my rank of colonel.”
“Why notmy job while you’re at it?” Shatalin scoffed. “Why do I need you? I could put any number of detectives on this.”
“Like Leo Yakunin?”
Shatalin didn’t answer.
“You need me because you want to involve as few people as possible, and I’m already involved. Because I’m on the outside, and you don’t have to worry about a chain of command. Because you know I can keep a secret. Because I’m desperate and I can’t afford to fail. And because I’m the best detective you ever had.”
Shatalin’s lips turned up in a small smile. “What do you need?”
“First, some kind of official status. Special consultant to the director, or something like that.”
“I’ll have Leo set it up.”
“I assume a task force has been organized to find the American.”
Shatalin nodded.
“I’ll need to attend the meetings.”
“Impossible. I’ll get you the transcripts. Good enough?”
“It will have to do,” said Tarasov. “I’ll also need access to KGB files, records, surveillance reports — that kind of thing.”
“Leo will serve as your liaison. I don’t want to see you in the halls of Lubyanka, Konstantin.”
“Fine. But not Leo. We have a history, and it’s not good.”
“You mean West Berlin?” Shatalin snorted. “You acted like a fool, Konstantin. You wouldn’t believe how many times I have had to explain to the boys in wet-ops why the father of the poison-tipped umbrella is working as a Moscowgaishnik. ” Shatalin shook his head vigorously. “I want to keep this investigation as contained as possible — just like you said. It’s Leo, or no deal.”
Tarasov sighed. “I’ll need a month.”
Shatalin put out his hand and smiled. “Welcome back, comrade.”
13
On the docks of Rechnoy Vokzal, it took police only a few minutes to identify Victor Perov as the son of a high-ranking official. They wrapped him in a blanket, gave him hot tea and drove him home.
As they neared his apartment, Victor warmed his hands on his cup and asked: “Aren’t you going to even ask me what happened?”
“I’m not on the case,” said the officer.
“Who is?”
The officer put his finger to his lips.
Victor understood. The KGB had taken over, which meant he would soon be getting a call from Yevgenia. What would he tell her?
Back home, Victor and Oksana went over and over the events of the past forty-eight hours — the dinner at the Moskva Restaurant, Sigmund at the river, Katherine’s message. They talked for hours in the kitchen over coffee about what Victor proposed to do next. By dawn, there was nothing more to say. Victor got to his feet.
“You’re sure?” Oksana asked one last time.
Victor had changed out of his wet clothes and was now dressed for work. Oksana was in a robe, her eyes puffy from crying. Even then, she managed to look beautiful.
“It’s best this way.”
She tried to hug him, but he withdrew.
She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, god,” she sobbed. “How did this happen?”
“I’m so sorry.”
She wiped her eyes. “Grisha and I will be moved out when you get back.”
“I’ll call.”
“We’re going to miss you.”
Victor tried to reply, but his throat clamped shut. He put on his coat and went outside.
He stepped through the doors of the SAPO Institute at 9:15 A.M.
“Feeling better, Victor?” asked the security guard.
Victor had nearly forgotten — he had called in sick yesterday.
“Much better, Ivan.”
Victor went to his office and began to dig through the papers in his file cabinet. A voice came from the door.
“Doing a little housecleaning?”
Oleg stood in the doorway.
Victor went back to his work.
“Stop by after you’re done,” Oleg said cheerfully. “We need to have a chat. I’ll be in Boris Orlov’s office.”
Victor continued paging through his files. “I can’t. Sorry, Oleg. Lots to do.”
“This is not a request.”
The Forbidden Zone Page 13
