Bolot arrived with policemen, who played the beams of their flashlights over the gutters of the building. There were no bullet shells. This had been a fastidious assassin.
“Did you see what he was wearing?” a policeman asked.
“He could have been in black or dark blue. I just saw him in silhouette.”
“And?”
“He was in a parka and carrying a long bag.”
“Did you shoot?” the policeman asked.
Arkady caught his poorly hidden amusement over a Moscow investigator who tried to shoot out fireworks.
“No. I wasn’t carrying a gun.”
“To be honest,” Bolot said, “I myself didn’t hear or see any shots being fired.”
“I counted six silent rounds that hit close by,” said Arkady, “including one I pulled out of the ice.” He produced the bullet, the only proof he had that the event was not a creation of a fevered brain.
“Do you want to make a police report?” Bolot asked.
“About what? That I was surrounded by hundreds of witnesses who hadn’t seen or heard a thing?”
“We’ll look around just in case,” the policeman said.
How had the shooter picked him out from all the men, women, and children who had filled the square? And how had he missed? Perhaps he didn’t mean to kill Arkady, only scare him. In that case, the shooter had succeeded. This was when he really needed Victor.
“You know,” Bolot said, “I pictured a Moscow investigator coming to Irkutsk and catching criminals with the snap of a finger.”
“Me too,” Arkady admitted.
* * *
As soon as he was back at the International, Arkady called Victor.
“It’s about time,” Victor said. “I thought you had forgotten me.”
“Someone shot at me.”
“That sounds like progress.”
“It depends on your point of view.”
Victor cackled. “The sniper who attacked you must have been a very good shot or a very bad one.”
“That’s insightful,” Arkady said.
“If it’s any comfort, your enemies, whoever they are, may just be biding their time. Maybe they just want you to leave Siberia.”
“Who do you think they are?” Arkady asked.
“Maybe someone who is connected to Tatiana. Do you know people in Siberia?”
“A few.”
“Then odds are at least one of them wants to kill you.”
That sounded logical, Arkady thought.
“I don’t know if you’re ready for good news, but I went down to Lovers’ Bridge as you asked. It’s unbelievable. We’ve got all these young couples and their bridal parties crowding onto the bridge and plenty of photographers to take their pictures. Even in the freezing cold, Chechens want to have their pictures taken. Their weddings are extravagant affairs. The brides all look like swans and the grooms all look like geese and Bentleys are stuffed with dowry money. And keep in mind, relations between relations are not always happy ones, especially if they’ve had any vodka.”
At the mention of vodka, Arkady opened up the room’s minibar.
“Fights break out,” Victor continued, “particularly when Chechens are involved. Not that they’re always to blame, but they’re not very good at waiting in line. Push comes to shove, and suddenly you have a confrontation. The bride starts to cry. Grandfather has a heart attack. It’s a tinderbox. And then somebody reveals himself to be a genuine asshole. You’ll never guess who.”
“Who?”
“Apparently, Prosecutor Zurin has a Cuban sweetheart. She wanted to have her picture taken on the Lovers’ Bridge and he didn’t see why he had to wait in line. He’s a big shot, after all. Guns were drawn all around. One was fired in the air and Aba Makhmud ran away into the crowd. The next day he was picked up by the police for attempted murder. What is interesting is that my photographer friend had taken a picture, before everything got out of hand, of Makhmud in a dark suit posing with the bridal party. Five minutes later, immediately before the fight, he is in a leather jacket.”
“Makhmud changed jackets?” asked Arkady. “Why would he do that? Did he anticipate a fight?”
“Who knows?”
Arkady asked, “The same photographer took both pictures?”
“Yes, and the date and time are always recorded on the film’s contact sheet. Makhmud was questioned but escaped to Siberia before Zurin could identify him.”
“Does your friend the photographer save rejects?”
“Generally, photographers throw away their rejects after a day, but we got lucky. He must have a million of them.” Victor made the sounds of a man settling into a good book. “Tell me about your brush with death.”
“It’s getting late, but anyway, tonight I was at an ice sculpture festival, when someone started shooting. They were using subsonic sniper bullets. A half dozen silent rounds. I had the distinct impression that they were aimed at me at a distance of at least three hundred meters, I would say. You can’t see, but I’m putting a finger through my hat.”
“That doesn’t sound like a welcome mat. It doesn’t have anything to do with Makhmud, does it? This could be one of Tatiana’s friends telling you to go home.”
“Well, as you said, it’s progress.”
“No, it’s insane. And how is your head? Obviously, you do not intend to keep it out of harm’s way.”
“It would be helpful if your photographer friend could scan all the contact sheets of the Chechen wedding and onlookers for that day and send them to me here. Cubans, too, while you’re at it.”
“Why not the moon?”
“And any of the dowry car.”
“Anything else?”
“Send them here, the same as the rest.” Arkady had Bolot’s email address on his card. “Send them to my factotum.”
“What’s a factotum?”
“I’m not sure, but I seem to have one.”
17
The next morning Arkady and Bolot were having coffee in the International’s restaurant, when a stream of beautiful women wrapped in mink and sable passed by their table.
“You seem distracted,” Arkady said.
Bolot slapped his forehead. “My brain must be numb. I had forgotten that the Global beauty pageant starts today. Mongolians love beauty pageants. Do you know why?”
“Why?”
“Mongolia has the most beautiful women in the world.” Bolot sighed.
“Did you get the wedding party pictures from my friend Victor?”
“Yes, I found them on my laptop this morning.”
“Would you care to share them?”
“Oh, right.” Bolot reached into his briefcase, pulled out a manila envelope, and added a magnifying glass.
“You think of everything.”
“A factotum must.”
The camera focused on a bride whose dress was as white as the wings of a dove. A musician plucked at a balalaika. Men and women danced. “Love” padlocks were fastened to the bridge like the bells on a donkey. Zurin and his friend, the tropical Cuban flower, stood nearby. She wanted to have her picture taken, and Zurin started pushing guests in the wedding party aside. One minute everything was gaiety, the next a brawl. Mayhem. There were pictures of chairs upended and punches thrown. Zurin tried to cover the camera lens with the meaty hand of authority. Aba Makhmud stood staring at a phalanx of police in blue uniforms.
“Anyone I know?” Boris Benz appeared at the table, his head cocked with curiosity. By his side was a Buryat bodyguard as hard as a barrel, with a crew cut and a penetrating stare.
Arkady whisked the photographs back into the manila envelope. “An old friend’s wedding pictures.” He stood to shake hands. “Have you met my assistant?”
Bolot was awestruck. He stood and bowed. “An honor.”
“Sit down, sit down,” Benz said. “Am I interrupting?”
“No. What are you doing here?” asked Arkady.
“I’m a Moscow boy, you know
, but I do have some interests here. It’s my Xanadu, my pleasure dome, and what’s a pleasure dome without a beauty contest? But what is an investigator from Moscow doing here? I like to think I know what goes on in my hotel.”
“I’m interviewing a detainee here for Prosecutor Zurin.”
“All the way from Moscow? Oh, I doubt it’s as simple as that—I doubt that very much—but here you are. Are you a fan of Mongolian wrestling? Timur here can unscrew a man’s head.”
“He must be handy opening bottles.”
“That’s very funny. I have an idea. Why don’t you come meet the girls. I guarantee it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
Bolot almost tipped over his chair, he got up so fast.
In the ballroom, contestants had set up their makeup kits. They went about their business in a businesslike fashion, smoked cigarettes, and paced the floor dressed in little more than hairspray and robes. Beauty was their trade. Skin tones varied from pale to dark, and shapes ranged from petite to statuesque. Arkady recognized the two “Vikings” from the plane.
“You know how beauty pageants are run?” Benz asked.
“I’ve never seen one,” said Arkady.
“Well, this is a contest, not a survival game. Some come with managers, some with mothers. Contestants represent every part of Siberia, and if they can say something patriotic about their homeland, that’s always nice. Tonight they will dress in their regional costumes, talk about their customs, and display their individual talents. Then, after intermission, we will have the traditional swimsuit competition. A million dollars goes to the winner and a week on my private South Seas island. The girls must win the judges over.”
“How do they do that?” asked Arkady.
“That’s up to them. We will find out. Maybe they are singers, dancers, or athletes, maybe even hunters.”
“Are the girls allowed to take any good books to the island?” Arkady asked.
By now the contestants were listening and Benz turned to them. “The judges are actors, celebrities, trendsetters, and all of them are millionaires.” He turned to Arkady. “It’s a fantasy. For every man there’s a fantasy woman, don’t you think so, Renko?”
“Perhaps. And there are fantasies that are real.”
“You mean Tatiana? She’s a higher-class fantasy. But she has already made her choice.”
“No one told me.”
“I saw her just yesterday. She mentioned you.”
Arkady couldn’t help himself. “What did she say?”
“She said you were a very persistent guy. Now you’ll have to excuse me. Many pretty women to attend to. But you know what? You should come by the pageant. It’s opening night. She might be there; you never know. You, too, Bolot.”
* * *
On the way to the transit prison, Arkady asked Bolot, “How rich is Benz?”
“I thought you didn’t care about that sort of thing,” Bolot said.
“How much?”
“Since you ask, in Siberia, Benz owns a healthy percentage of natural gas, petroleum, life insurance, rare minerals, real estate, television stations, and a pizza chain. Kuznetsov owns about the same.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I’d say that Benz is a little heavier in the hydrocarbons.” Bolot cast an anxious look in Arkady’s direction. “I’d say you shouldn’t mess with either one.”
“I totally agree.”
Arkady thought it was fortunate that in Makhmud he had someone other than Tatiana to worry about. He played a flashlight over the photographs Victor had sent. What Arkady had seen of the photographs taken on Lovers’ Bridge made less sense than ever, and somehow he knew that Prosecutor Zurin was behind it all. None of it was planned. All of it seemed inevitable.
When Makhmud was brought to the interrogation room, it appeared that the idea of spending years in prison had finally penetrated. He was pale, with dark circles under his eyes.
“How are you feeling?” Arkady asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. Have you had anything to eat?”
“He barely touched his breakfast,” Warden Kostich said.
“I’m okay,” Makhmud insisted. “But I want some nice clothes. I was wearing decent threads when the police picked me up.”
“Noted.” Arkady wrote: “The prisoner Aba Makhmud wants nice clothes back.”
“And shoes. Handmade. They stripped me of them when they took my clothes.”
“All right.
“Just so we’re clear…” Arkady put his tape recorder on the table and pressed ON. “This is Senior Investigator Arkady Renko of the Moscow prosecutor’s office interviewing the prisoner Aba Makhmud, who has confessed to the attempted murder of the Moscow state prosecutor Zurin. We are here to take testimony and determine whether he should be convicted.”
“Can’t we just cut through all this bullshit?” Makhmud asked.
Arkady continued: “Also present are Warden Wasily Kostich, and Public Defender Marcus Federov. Citizen Makhmud, is there anything in your previous testimony that you would like to change?”
“No.”
The public defender’s tie was as tight as a rope. He was eager to point out that the detainee had already confessed. “All you have to do is sign off on his confession and spare us the endless questioning. It will only make things worse.”
“You may be right, but I need the sequence of events explained,” Arkady said. “It shouldn’t take more than a minute.” He pulled out three contact sheets and laid them facedown on the table along with the magnifying glass. Federov’s face fell. Perhaps he would have to cancel any social engagements he had planned.
“I want you to identify some of the people in these pictures.” Arkady turned over the first sheet and pointed to a picture of Aba in a black suit. “Who is that?”
“Me.”
“You were with the wedding party? Where?”
“The groom is a friend,” Aba said. “And we were on Lovers’ Bridge.”
Arkady pointed to a picture of Zurin. “And who is this?”
“The asshole who was trying to push ahead of us and have his picture taken with his girlfriend.”
“Correct. Do you know who he is?”
“I know now. It’s Prosecutor Zurin.”
Public Defender Federov jumped to his feet and demanded that the slur on Zurin’s good name be noted.
“Did you at any time take testimony from Zurin?” Arkady asked Federov.
“It was not necessary. I’m a busy man.”
Arkady asked Aba, “When did you discover Prosecutor Zurin had accused you of attempted murder?”
“When I talked to the police.”
“So you had no intention of attacking a public official. Did your defense attorney tell you that if the fight was spontaneous, not a premeditated act, it would make a difference in your sentence?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Makhmud.
Federov threw up his hands. “The boy confessed. What does it matter?”
“It’s a mitigating factor,” said Arkady.
Arkady turned the next contact sheet up. Pistols were drawn, an elderly Chechen swung his crutch, a pair of policemen tried to peel one man off another. And there was Aba in the foreground, punching Zurin.
“That’s even better than a confession,” said Federov. “Photographic proof.”
The next picture showed Zurin pointing a gun into the air while his other arm encircled the waist of a lustrous, caramel-colored woman who was spilling out of her dress. Who would have thought it of Zurin? A passionate, intimate relationship.
“According to Zurin, it was only after he drew and fired his weapon into the air that everyone scattered,” Arkady said.
Arkady turned again to Makhmud. “You’ve had run-ins with the police before?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Never. It was all started by that pig trying to push ahead of everyone else.”
“Maybe,�
�� said Arkady.
Arkady turned over the next picture like a winning card. It was a wide-angle photograph of the fight and included more crowd pictures. He indicated a man wearing a leather jacket in the background, pointing a pistol. Who is this?”
“I can’t see,” said Aba.
“Use the magnifying glass. You should recognize him. It’s you. It seems that you are in two different places, wearing two different jackets at the same time.”
“It’s my brother.”
“What is your brother’s name?”
“Bashir.”
“Who’s older?” Arkady asked.
“Bashir is. What does it matter?”
“Why would you allow the police to believe it was you who fired the gun in the direction of Zurin and Señora Lupa?”
“Because I did. Just because you don’t have a picture of me pointing a gun doesn’t mean I didn’t shoot at him.”
“This is where we take a break.” Arkady turned off the tape recorder and turned on his laptop with a picture of Zurin with Señora Lupa on his arm.
“Where the devil did she come from?” Kostich asked.
“Havana.”
Arkady then turned to the files on the two Makhmud brothers.
“Just because Aba claims to be a violent criminal doesn’t make it so. Aba Makhmud’s big brother, Bashir, has a long history of crime, from car thefts to smuggling arms. Everything but homicide, and maybe a touch of that too. You, on the other hand, have a clean record,” Arkady said to Aba. “I bet you have a grandmother who keeps you in at night. And maybe it’s not you but Bashir who carries a gun to scare the piss out of loud Russian bullies. But the next time Bashir gets arrested, he’s a recidivist and he is put away for life—unless, of course, his little brother takes the blame and gets no less than ten years, while Bashir walks. Is that the deal you made with your brother?”
Aba hesitated. “He said with my clean record I would only get five months probation.”
“Well, he was lying, and you’re in the system now.”
“For what?”
“For obstruction of justice,” Arkady said.
“But I get out, right?” Aba said. “Some paperwork and then I can go home.”
The Siberian Dilemma Page 7
