The Hunters

by Chris Kuzneski

  ‘I am very grateful you chose me to accompany you on this trip, Monsieur Papineau,’ Ivanov said as they made their way toward the train. ‘I have always wanted to make this journey to Uelen at the Bering Strait. The mountains and wilderness are said to be magnificent.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Papineau murmured, his mind not on the video team he had hastily hired, but on his other team. He got into an automatic rhythm of shaking the hands of the boisterous crowd with both of his: gripping their palms and shaking them up and down without stopping his passage. Therefore, he was slightly taken aback when he reached out toward a striking older man and an assured young woman.

  Unlike the rest of the crowd, they offered no hands to shake.

  The woman held up her police identification, and the man kept his hands folded in front of him. They wore full dress uniforms, befitting the occasion - the man in dark green with a peaked hat, and the woman in blue with a knee-length skirt, low high heels, and garrison cap.

  Ivanov too was slightly surprised by their seemingly sudden appearance, but he responded by leaning down to study the proffered ID.

  ‘Sergeant Anna Rusinko,’ the translator said.

  The older policeman looked up at him with a calming smile. ‘No need to translate, my friend,’ he said in Russian. Then he looked at Papineau. ‘I will be pleased to do it,’ he said in French. ‘My name is Viktor Borovsky, Colonel Viktor Borovsky. And this is Sergeant Anna Rusinko. We are with Special Branch, Main Office of the Interior for Transport and Special Transportation.’

  ‘Part of the Federal Migration Services Office,’ Papineau said.

  Borovsky’s smile remained placid. ‘You have done your homework.’

  ‘No,’ Papineau replied. ‘I am educated.’ He resented the implication that he had boned up just to be here, like a politician on the stump.

  ‘My apologies,’ Borovsky said, apparently in earnest.

  ‘What can I do for you, Colonel? As you can see, I don’t have much time.’

  ‘You do not,’ he agreed with a touch of vagueness. ‘I’m sorry for this distraction, but we only learned of your impending departure a short while ago.’

  They had, in fact, broken several traffic laws getting here after extensively questioning several very frightened veteran railway employees. Memories of the KGB had become part of the collective DNA here.

  ‘If it’s about permissions, they were cleared quite some time ago,’ Papineau said, beginning to shuffle toward the train. ‘You may check with the Minister of Transport as well as the Minister of Natural Resources and Environmental Protection.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Borovsky repeated soothingly. ‘It is not that at all. Here, allow us to walk you to the train. We can talk on the way.’

  Papineau looked dubiously at the pair. In his mind, a colonel and sergeant suggested something other than ‘routine’, but he went along with it.

  What else could he do?

  38

  Papineau and Borovsky set off side by side, with Anna just behind them. Ivanov trailed behind her, ready to translate anything if it became necessary.

  The effect of their casual, new ‘police escort’ was immediate. The rest of the well-wishers parted for them like the Red Sea for Moses.

  ‘Be assured that we are not looking to delay your departure in any way,’ Borovsky said, giving the impression of two old friends on a leisurely stroll. ‘We are simply trying to locate a man named Andrei Dobrev.’

  Borovsky let that statement hang in the air, carefully gauging the Frenchman’s reaction. Papineau didn’t display one … physically. But mentally, he was doing gymnastics.

  ‘Dobrev?’ he echoed, deciding that the more truth he could include, the better. ‘I seem to remember someone by that name at the inaugural reception.’

  ‘Do you? Did you take note of every name?’ Borovsky asked.

  ‘In fact, I did,’ Papineau said, buying time. ‘It is a habit.’

  ‘What other names do you recall?’

  Papineau rattled off several, effortlessly. In his brain he was thanking Garcia: the IT man had been eavesdropping on the entire conversation, and with the time Papineau had bought, he had brought up the guest list and was reciting it into Papineau’s ear.

  ‘Impressive,’ Borovsky said. ‘Very, very impressive. Do you also remember what he looks like, then?’

  Papineau smiled softly. ‘There, I’m not sure I could help you.’

  Borovsky held his hand up to about Dobrev’s height. ‘Stocky, with a square-ish head, short gray hair standing straight up, probably wearing a tan suit?’

  Papineau laughed quietly. ‘Colonel, that describes about a million Muscovites.’

  Borovsky’s mild smile widened as if it was their inside joke. ‘Only a million? I’d say more than that. So, you didn’t talk to him then.’

  Papineau stopped a few feet from the smoking locomotive as the other minor dignitaries made their way onto the walkways behind him. ‘Colonel, to be honest, I’m just not sure.’

  ‘Let me put it another way,’ Borovsky said. ‘He would have been the only one you may have spoken to who possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the train system. I believe he is involved as a consultant.’

  Papineau was stuck. It would seem odd if he had not been introduced to someone who was, in fact, a key member of the survey planning team.

  ‘The man who knew about the trains,’ Papineau said generally. ‘Yes, yes - I believe we exchanged a few words.’

  ‘A few cocktail party platitudes?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Papineau smiled. ‘You know how it is.’ He gestured at the crowd behind them. ‘You’ve seen how it is.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Borovsky assured him. ‘Well, that was all I wished to know.’

  Papineau looked at the woman. He knew she would probably say nothing, having deferred to her superior, but he wanted to give the appearance of cooperating.

  ‘You, Sergeant? Is there anything you’d like to ask?’

  She seemed surprised by the attention. ‘Not at present.’

  ‘When, then?’ Papineau joked. ‘At the Bering Strait?’

  Borovsky stared at him. ‘If need be, yes. We will be there.’

  The laughter stopped, and Papineau no longer felt like joking.

  This man was not only a veteran; he was hard-core.

  Borovsky clicked his heels together - actually clicked his heels, his own salute to an apparently worthy opponent in something that clearly was not finished - and put his arm out, giving his grateful permission for Papineau to join the others on the front of the engine. The Frenchman noted that Sergeant Rusinko did not look at all happy about her own performance.

  Papineau took two steps up the platform before he turned and looked back. ‘Colonel?’

  The officer was still standing there, watching. ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’ll have real-time video journals posted on our survey website,’ he shouted over the growing noise of the train engine. ‘You can text me anytime.’

  ‘I am not comfortable with that technology,’ he replied.

  Papineau smiled. The colonel had let down his guard for an instant and allowed the Frenchman to know he was strictly old school. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

  Borovsky nodded his head, surrendering that point. He waved expansively and stepped back to where Anna was waiting for him.

  ‘Sir, is that it?’ she said, confused. ‘Let me go aboard. I can get off at—’

  ‘No, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘There is no need.’

  He waved and smiled until the train began to leave the station amid the cheering crowd. Borovsky remained in place long after the last of the well-wishers ran past him, cheering.

  ‘Colonel,’ she said, ‘forgive me, but I am mystified. They were never introduced at the reception. We have seen the video.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She stood straight up, gaining at least two inches. ‘Sir?’

  ‘The Frenchman does not speak Russian. Dobrev does no
t speak English. They could not have chatted about anything. He lied - but why?’

  Anna considered this and failed to reach any conclusions.

  ‘Mr Papineau had a translator at the reception,’ Borovsky said. ‘She spoke at length to Dobrev. She had to have told Mr Papineau about him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Anna said, still trying to get ahead of her superior.

  ‘She and Mr Papineau were on somewhat familiar terms, laughing, talking, conferring,’ Borovsky went on.

  ‘Again, true—’

  Borovsky shrugged. ‘She has not left the country. Why, then, was someone so trusted and apparently close to him not here, translating? And what about the other members of his staff - those with whom his interpreter occasionally interacted at the party? Where are they? Not one of them was here for the start of the survey.’

  Understanding came quickly. ‘They are somewhere else.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said with a smile. ‘Come. We must find them.’

  39

  Anna Rusinko was angry.

  Some of that anger was because of Borovsky, who had run this operation by not sharing key tactics and information with his partner. Yes, she was a subordinate, but she was here to support a goal that was larger than themselves: finding a killer. He could have told her what he was planning to do, that he apparently suspected - or simply sensed - a larger plot.

  But she was angrier at herself.

  No, not angry, she decided as they weaved through traffic. She was frustrated that she had not been thinking the way he had been thinking. She had always done police work by starting small and working out. This man obviously worked the other way, throwing out a big net and seeing what he dragged ashore. Then he sifted through the fish and debris.

  ‘Do you play chess, sir?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I already sit too much. I prefer darts, among other hobbies.’

  ‘Darts?’ she said, surprised. ‘To relax, or is there some kind of competition?’

  ‘Purely to relax,’ he said as he stared out the passenger window. ‘The brain gets a much-needed rest when you perform a task that is purely a hand-eye challenge.’

  ‘It is a tiny bull’s-eye, Colonel,’ she laughed.

  ‘Oh, I rarely aim for that. If you go for the same spot all the time you fall into a rhythm. You never want to do that in anything. No, I select different bands, different colors, different numbers so I have to keep adjusting.’ He nodded with satisfaction. ‘It’s a good life lesson.’

  Anna felt a little foolish for having offered a statement about the bull’s-eye instead of asking questions.

  It’s okay, she told herself. That’s a good life lesson, too.

  They rode in silence until they reached their destination. The Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts was across the street from the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour. Its golden dome towered over the Moskva River.

  ‘A nice balance,’ she commented.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Borovsky said.

  ‘Well, sir, one building is full of human outpouring, the other a house of solace.’

  He laughed. ‘Sergeant, those descriptions could apply to either one equally.’

  ‘I know that, sir.’ She grinned as she pulled to the curb.

  He looked at her with admiration. ‘Well done.’

  Now it was his turn to play catch-up.

  They stepped out in unison, but Borovsky waited before moving toward the museum. Anna followed his eyes and sensed a bit of the patriotic pride he must have been feeling when taking in its exterior. It looked like a temple to culture on a high podium.

  Borovsky glanced over to see her staring, and tapped her upper arm with the back of his hand. When she looked over, he pointed and said, ‘Copied from the Erechtheion on the Acropolis. Ionic colonnade. Finished in 1912. Just in time for World War One, and everything that followed. Originally called the Alexander the Third Museum, then the State Museum of Fine Art. Our great poet Alexander Pushkin died five years later, and they added his name.’

  The colonel pointed left and then right. ‘Three buildings. Two atrium courtyards. Glass roof lets the sunlight in.’

  ‘It’s impressive. I’m ashamed I haven’t visited before now.’

  He shrugged, and they started walking toward the steps. ‘Who has time in this modern age, what with gangs, the black market, the mafia, and a four-year-old daughter?’

  Anna stopped in place, but she caught up to Borovsky, who kept on walking, near the museum’s magnificent entrance.

  He glanced at her. ‘Do you really think I would ask you to assist me without checking your records?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she fibbed. That meant he knew about her marriage and divorce as well. She felt both naked and protected at the same time, exposed to his scrutiny but allowed into his circle.

  ‘Alma was one of the reasons I asked for you,’ he explained. ‘You were eminently qualified, of course, but so are many persons of your rank and station. The younger generation is the main hope of Russia’s future. I want someone who has a reason to preserve that future and work to make it better.’

  Anna was once again surprised by this man. Her heart swelled. Here was a real patriot, not one who used platitudes to control others.

  He looked at her. ‘You did not put your daughter in a child care center. You had your mother move in. I like that. I like it very much.’

  Then they were inside.

  Anna put her personal thoughts aside and focused on the building. The clean opulence impressed her. It was large, light, and airy, with a mix of clean colors and expertly designed moods.

  Borovsky pointed left. ‘Art of Ancient Egypt.’ He pointed right. ‘Art of Germany and the Netherlands in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.’ He pointed ahead of them. ‘Italian art from the thirteenth century, flanked by the Greek courtyard and Italian courtyard.’

  ‘Come here often?’ Anna asked with a smile. She felt as if a level of trust and familiarity had been achieved.

  Borovsky gave her an amused look. ‘You could say that.’

  The sentries and staff didn’t ask for any pass, ticket, or donation. Their uniforms alone would have ensured that, but Anna got the more-than-distinct impression that his face was familiar to them.

  ‘The core of the museum is Moscow University’s collection of antiquities,’ he said. They had circumvented the galleries and reached a hall of clean, crisp, new offices. He pointed at a teak and glass door.

  COINS AND MEDALS DEPARTMENT, she read to herself as Borovsky twisted the doorknob.

  ‘Viktor!’ was the first thing she heard as he entered before her. And the first thing she saw was a young, straight-haired woman in a simple sweater and skirt erupt from her desk and practically leap into an embrace with the colonel.

  He smiled back at Anna and made a ‘what can I do?’ face.

  The young woman gripped his shoulders, pulled back to arm’s length, and took a long, lingering look at him. ‘Viktor Stanislav Borovsky! Why didn’t you warn us you were going to visit?’

  ‘Warn? Am I a threat?’

  ‘You are!’ the woman continued, speaking to Anna, not the colonel. ‘He is a storm, a veritable cyclone.’

  ‘She is referring to one of those hobbies I alluded to,’ he said, half turning to Anna with mild embarrassment. ‘There is nothing - nothing—’

  ‘Romantic? Lord Jesus across the street!’ the curator laughed. ‘No, Viktor comes in with questions, more questions, then questions inspired by the answers to those questions. Mostly it’s about the gold of Troy. We have it here,’ the woman boasted. ‘Do you know its discoverer, Heinrich Schliemann? He was quite the character!’

  Borovsky changed the subject. ‘Natalia, this is Sergeant Anna Rusinko.’

  ‘How rude of me!’ The young woman collected herself and offered her hand to Anna. ‘It’s just that we don’t see him as much as we used to. You understand.’

  ‘Much more now than I did before,’ Anna answered with a smile.

 
; ‘Where’s Olga?’ he asked.

  ‘Where she always is,’ she answered, sweeping her arm toward a door at the end of a row of light brown coin drawers.

  Borovsky smiled broadly and hurried by. Anna followed, trying to interpret Natalia’s quiet smile as she went back to work. A young subordinate worker here who wasn’t romantically involved with Borovsky? Anna guessed he had helped her with something personal. She wasn’t wearing a wedding band. Perhaps her brother needed help getting into the police force? Or he got into trouble and needed help getting out?

  She still didn’t understand Borovsky.

  But this was a start.

  40

  Borovsky and Anna entered the room beyond the row of drawers. It was dark, but it wasn’t a menacing dark. It was welcoming. The only illumination came from a bright light attached to a large magnifying glass on a flexible pole. Behind it was what appeared to be a classic crone from a folk tale. She was lanky, gray-haired, and dressed in a bulky dark brown sweater and wool skirt that looked like they were spun from the fibers of tree bark.

  ‘Close that door!’ she commanded, eyes intent on the glass and what it was magnifying. Borovsky hastily ushered Anna in and closed the door behind them. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What do I ever want?’ Borovsky answered. ‘Your help.’

  Anna expected the response that he got.

  ‘Viktor?’ the woman said. ‘Viktor, is that you? Viktor!’

  The crone was not much taller standing than she had been sitting. She came forward quickly and then there were more hugs.

  Anna got her bearings after a second round of introductions. Olga Uritski turned on the bright overhead lights, drew up three stools, and gave them each a small glass cup of sbiten - the popular Russian drink of blackberry jam, honey, water, and spices.

  After the urgency Borovsky had expressed to get in here, she was surprised to see him take his time now. Or rather, be forced to take his time. Then she understood the politics: unlike Natalia, this woman required nurturing. It was the difference between the gatekeeper and the one who possessed what you really needed.