Denouncer

by Levitt, Paul M.

  “Who gave you this crap?” he asked, slipping out of his coat.

  “The secret police.”

  “It’s from Austria. Date: 1934. The shelf life is usually one year. You’re damn lucky the stuff hasn’t gone off, killing you and bringing down the whole building.”

  “But if the dynamite can still be ignited . . .”

  “Tell your police friends to discard this stuff immediately—before it goes off accidentally.”

  An agitated Viktor ran a hand through his hair and paced. “That’s your job! That’s why we brought you back.”

  “I never agreed to undertake a suicide mission.”

  “And what if they say, use what we gave you—or else?”

  “Or else what?”

  “We’ll sling your friend into prison and throw away the keys.”

  “If that’s the case, I’m leaving right now.”

  Viktor sounded like a braying mule. “From the moment you approached the building you’ve been watched from the building across the street, and I wouldn’t be surprised if an OGPU man is already stationed down the hall. Look for yourself.”

  A skeptical Petr grabbed his bag and said good-bye. He opened the door and looked. To his left, he saw a man lounging against the wall and smoking a cigarette. Bold as brass, Petr approached him and whispered, “The dynamite is so old it’s bound to be unstable. You shouldn’t be around it. If it goes off, the building and you are rubble. Is that what you want?”

  “Just do your job, and we’ll do ours.”

  “Do you plan to stand here all night and tomorrow and the next night?”

  “Someone will.”

  Defeated, Petr returned to the open door of the flat, from which Viktor had watched and surmised from Petr’s downcast look that his request, whatever it was, had been denied. Pulling off his coat, Petr said simply:

  “Let’s get started. The first thing I want to do is dismantle one of the sticks to see which absorbent substance they put the nitro in.” He just hoped it wasn’t sawdust or wood pulp.

  “Nitro!” Viktor exclaimed. “Those bastards told me the dynamite was perfectly safe. Even an idiot knows to shy away from that stuff!”

  “What did you think dynamite was based on, shoe polish?”

  With Viktor eyeing the door, wishing to distance himself from the danger, Petr said, “Let me check the electrical cable and fuses.” He carefully unpacked the crate. “We’ll need extra fuses and blasting caps, just in case. But whether any of it will work, who knows? By the way, ask your friends,” said Petr irascibly, “who will be digging the loading holes in the road for the sticks.”

  A second later, Viktor was gone. In his absence, Petr looked through whatever personal papers he could find in the flat. He still harbored the suspicion that Viktor and Galina had been lovers. Although he no longer cared, given his girlfriend in Kiev, he still wanted to know. From the top shelf of Viktor’s clothes closet, Petr removed a brown accordion file that held letters from friends and associates. Among the letters were two from Galina. In the first, she agreed to help him distribute leaflets and complained about Petr’s working for the secret police. The nature of the leaflets was never mentioned. In the second, she deplored Petr’s political timidity and wished she and Viktor could live together instead of having to “steal a few minutes when conditions permit.” For a second, Petr entertained the idea of rigging a small charge of dynamite and a timer to Viktor’s bed, but he knew that the dynamite was so unstable it might kill him in the process or might not ignite at all; and then too there was the agent in the hall. Petr would not be free until the day the explosives were buried in the road.

  Several hours later, Viktor returned. Over dinner, which, given Viktor’s culinary incompetence, Petr prepared, he brought up the subject of Galina, but not before prefacing it with the admission that he and Galina planned to divorce, and that he had met another woman. “For all your professed lack of interest in women, you did have a yen for Galina. I admit she’s extraordinary.” He paused and waited for his statement to seep into Viktor’s ventricles.

  “Good soup,” said Viktor, clearly trying to decide how to respond. “We had a great deal in common. I suppose we still do. It began as a political alliance and ended . . .”

  “In bed,” Petr interrupted.

  “You know the Soviet attitude toward such things. No one owns another. We were simply living like . . . liberal Bolsheviks.”

  Petr made no reply. If he decided to settle the score with Comrade Harkov, it would be on his terms, not Viktor’s, and Petr had time before that moment arrived. Perhaps with the same thought in mind, Viktor remarked:

  “I don’t see your service revolver, the faithful Nagant M 1895. You had it the last time you were here. The secret police now carry TT 33 pistols.”

  The OGPU had obviously introduced Viktor to bullets and bombs. “I left the gun with Galina. If a military patrol had stopped me on the way here, I didn’t want to be armed. Desertion is one thing, a revolver, another. People with guns are tempted to use them. I didn’t want to be tempted.”

  The telephone rang. Viktor answered it, and looked sick. Then he grabbed his coat and excused himself, saying he had to meet someone. But before leaving, he made the same loud alveolar clicking noise that he had often made when approaching or seeing someone he knew. He would pull the tip of his tongue down abruptly and forcefully from the roof of his mouth. In college, Petr had read about click languages in Africa. Viktor knew myriad sounds. And why not? He had taken a degree in linguistic anthropology and had always rued that his middling academic record had prevented him from doing fieldwork in Africa. As Petr carefully sorted and organized the dynamite sticks to his liking, he wondered how extensive a vocabulary “clickers” could have. The larger the selection, the more subtle the sounds. Did click language precede words? Infants and young children respond excitedly to clicks, as if the sounds were lodged in their genes.

  Out of the vaporous night, a car quietly came to a halt. From the window, Petr saw a man hurriedly exit, and Viktor emerge from the building to greet him. They entered the building together. A few minutes later, the two men materialized in the flat, neither of them looking pleased. Viktor introduced Petr to an unsmiling OGPU officer, Comrade Kirill Razumov, who wasted no time in laying out the “new” assassination plan. On the kitchen table, he spread a map with all the roads leading to the Ryazan Kremlin clearly outlined. Pointing to an X, he said:

  “Here’s where you need to plant the dynamite.”

  The spot differed from the one originally agreed upon. It was a hundred yards farther from the Kremlin, on a section of road that ran between a line of trees. Razumov, a squat brawler, whose bushy hair and eyebrows gave him a wild appearance, suddenly burst forth with a diatribe about traitors and Lukashenko lackeys. As if for effect, his powerful arms and large hands visually reinforced his angry words. A dumfounded Petr listened to Viktor explain that Lukashenko’s bodyguards had somehow learned of the arbor plan.

  “So forget the ferns and the car stopping and Lukashenko’s being blown sky high,” Razumov added. “We have to recalibrate. There’s an informer in our midst, but he’ll eventually tip his hand, and then . . .”

  Dismayed, Petr asked, “If the secret police can’t keep a secret, who can?”

  Without responding to Petr’s indictment of the police, Razumov wiped his runny nose on his coat sleeve and removed his black gloves, which he folded neatly and put in a pocket. “Our new plan is probably safer. We’ll run the cable under the road and place the detonator behind the trees. Then you can make a dash for it down the hill. We’ll have a car waiting for you. Don’t even consider the river. Half the city would be watching from the hill.”

  From Petr’s expression, the two conspirators saw something was amiss. But before Petr could speak, Viktor said:

  “I promised Comrade Selivanov I would be in charge o
f the detonator, and all he had to do was plant the dynamite and wire it.”

  Razumov shook his head in disagreement. “Your man here digs the bore holes, plants the sticks, wires the explosives, and sets them off. He’s the professional. You,” he said to Viktor, “are just an amateur. We’re not going to alter our plans again.”

  Clearly annoyed, Petr said, “Explosives are my territory, road digging is yours.”

  Comrade Razumov coldly eyed Petr. “I understand you’re particular about the loading holes, their width and depth. Well, since we can’t conduct a trial or test shot, I am merely suggesting,” he said archly, “that an expert make the bores: you!” Petr responded with a grimace. Razumov lit a cigarette. “Comrade Selivanov, I have the impression you regard me as a country bumpkin, a member of the secret police who can’t keep a secret. But I’m knowledgeable enough to know that in matters of explosives, you leave the details to the expert. If I’m not mistaken,” he said, proud to show he was hardly a fool, “in hard ground the hole is tamped at the top about the charge, and when you tamp the hole, you take great care to see that no dirt or pieces of sod get between the primer and charges below.” He smiled triumphantly. “In the service academy, we learned how to plant charges.” He then said that the OGPU would provide Viktor and Petr with the clothes and tools of a road worker. “Not even the local police will give you a second look.”

  ✷

  The road to the Ryazan Kremlin, like most secondary roads in the city, was only partially paved. Viktor drove a repair truck to the site on the map marked with an X, parked, and from a toolbox removed a pointed bar, sledge, and crowbar. The truck bed held shovels and wooden horses, which Viktor and Petr carried to the designated place in the road. Positioning the wooden horses in a circle, Petr began shoveling the thin layer of snow that covered the ground. The men were dressed in overalls, fleece-lined jackets, and rubber boots of the kind that all ditch diggers were issued. Once Petr had cleared the snow and bared the icy ground, Viktor went to work with his sledge and pointed bar.

  “The ground’s like cement,” Viktor groused.

  “Keep digging. I need the hole at least a foot deep.”

  When the two holes were dug, eighteen inches apart, Viktor started to run a trench toward the woods. A patrolling police car stopped. Two of Lukashenko’s henchmen exited and asked to see the work order. Razumov had provided Viktor with all the necessary documentation for a new drainage line.

  “On this stretch of road, it ices up bad,” said Viktor, affecting a laborer’s diction. “Then what you got is a toboggan run, with cars slippin’ this way and that. Why just last week I seen . . .”

  While one policeman questioned the digging, the other poked his head in the truck. Opening the toolbox, he found dynamite, blasting caps, and electrical cable. He immediately drew his pistol.

  “How do you explain the dynamite sticks in the toolbox?” he asked, tapping the barrel of the gun against Viktor’s chest.

  Had the Ryazan city police and the local OGPU not hated each other, Viktor could have pulled rank and displayed his OGPU courtesy card entitling him to special treatment. He would have to fashion another escape. “This ain’t the only drainage line we’re layin’. We’re layin’ others and also buildin’ a holdin’ pond for the runoff. That’s where the explosives come in. In this weather and with this rock-hard ground . . . and since we ain’t got no rock drills, we got to do the work with dynamite. If you wanna watch, we’ll be blowin’ the hole later.” He pointed to an open spot through the trees. “Right over there. But it’ll take several hours to get set up. Like I said, you’re welcome to watch.”

  Given the chaotic state of Bolshevik files and records, the policemen knew it was fruitless to telephone the office of roadworks to inquire about drainage lines and a holding pond. The best thing to do was simply return to the office and sort through the construction permits. The policeman holstered his pistol and, copying Viktor’s ID card number, said, “We’ll check in with headquarters. If there’s a problem, we’ll be back.”

  Watching the police car drive off, Viktor said, “No use hanging around here. Let’s find Razumov. We need a new site. Those guys just ruined this one.”

  A furious Razumov stomped around Viktor’s flat. “We can’t blow up the bridge. Too many innocent people might get killed. Besides, he might not take that route. There’s only one other course. We do some minor damage to Lukashenko’s official car, and while it’s being repaired, Comrade Selivanov will fit it with an explosive device.”

  “That’s far more complicated than detonating a road bomb,” said Petr. “For a start, you’ll need batteries, the right circuitry, transceivers, connectors, nonelectric igniter tips, a dependable clock, and more.”

  “Whatever it takes to rid ourselves of that bastard . . . I’ll get it for you. Just give me a list. Unlike the nitro, this stuff will be current. I promise.”

  Razumov made it clear that the black Packard sedan that Lukashenko used was bulletproof. So neither a sniper nor a hand grenade could do the job. They would have to plant the bomb in the car, but not in the trunk or under the hood, which would be the first places that Lukashenko’s bodyguards would check.

  “Is there a clock in the dashboard?” asked Petr. “If there is, I can rewire it.”

  Razumov asked Viktor to pour him a drink, which he threw back the moment his hand touched the glass. His body trembled from the effect. “I’ve never seen the inside of that vermin’s car, but others in the service have. We’ll arrange to have it serviced.”

  “And if it doesn’t have a clock, what then?” asked Petr.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” said Razumov. He took another shot of vodka. “Leave everything to me. I’ll see that his car ends up in the shop by tomorrow.”

  The winter festival would be ending in a few days, and, as Viktor pointed out, Lukashenko often used the occasion to take his mistress to a Swiss spa, his favorite retreat.

  Razumov vociferously declared, “I don’t care if it takes from now until the Second Coming—pardon my heresy—to kill that bastard, I’m going to finish him off.” With that statement, he departed.

  Why, Petr asked, was Razumov treating the killing as personal?

  Viktor explained that Razumov, like a great many others, had once trusted Lukashenko for his denouncing corruption, but that was before he became a sleazy mayor. A niece of Razumov had participated in the Ukrainian independence movement. Betrayed, she fled to her uncle, even though he was a Bolshevik and opposed to Ukrainian separatism. Razumov hid her in his flat for a few weeks, until her presence proved dangerous, particularly since Razumov at the time was training to be an OGPU officer. He wanted to spirit her to the East of the country, where she could work in one of the Siberian cities and establish a new identity. Having cooperated with Lukashenko on his anticorruption campaign, Razumov felt here was a man whom he could trust. So he told Lukashenko about the presence of his niece and his wish to arrange her escape. Luka-shenko assured Razumov that he would help get her out of Ryazan, and asked for her particulars: name, age, height, hair color, and a general description. When Razumov questioned the need for such information, Lukashenko said that it would be safer if Razumov did not accompany her to the train. Lukashenko would personally show up at the station and lead her to safety. Hence his need for the details. The day of the rendezvous, Razumov saw an unusually large number of city policemen guarding the platform—the very policemen whom Lukashenko and Razumov had been exposing for their venality. He told his niece they’d been deceived; they should leave in separate directions and meet again at his flat. But Lukashenko spotted the niece crossing the street and ordered her to halt. She started to run. A shot rang out, and the girl bled to death in the road. Either from fear or shame or deceit, Lukashenko swore the killing was a mistake.

  The obvious question, and the one that Petr immediately asked, was what did Lukashenko have to gain?r />
  Hardly able to contain his own hatred for the man, Viktor replied, “That mendacious maggot played both ends against the middle. He ingratiated himself with the local constabulary, who, he heard, were a step away from arresting him, and he earned the gratitude of the OGPU for fingering a Ukrainian nationalist. The OGPU, to their later regret, helped bring him to power. Now they want to depose him, having recognized their error.”

  “And we’ve agreed to help,” said Petr walking to the window. On the street, a horse with a yoked collar was straining to pull a canvas-covered wagon. The horse’s steamy exhalations, which looked like silver shafts, came in spurts. Then the horse stopped in the middle of the street. The driver climbed down from his seat and swore at the animal, but to no avail. Reaching into the wagon, he removed a whip and fiercely applied it to the horse’s rump. The horse buckled and fell to its knees. Petr could see stripes of blood running down its legs. The driver immediately unharnessed the horse, lest it topple the wagon. Without turning to face Viktor, a distraught Petr asked, “I know what I get, a clean record, but what do you get?”

  Viktor came to the window and looked at the scene below. What he saw was a horse quiver and roll to one side, apparently dead. He silently watched for a minute, as the driver kicked the animal in the back. When the horse failed to respond, the driver strapped the harness around his shoulders and waist and started to pull the wagon himself, leaving the horse behind. “What do I get, you ask? I’ll tell you. I rid this oblast of an odious creature, I ingratiate myself with the OGPU, and best of all I savor the sweet taste of revenge.”

  In the ensuing silence, Petr was thinking, as one often did in Stalin’s Russia, of other motives and possible machinations. Revenge for what? He glanced around the room, looking for a family photograph. Not a one, not even of parents or brother or sister. The flat was devoid of any evidence that the Harkov family had ever lived, except of course for Viktor’s presence. How very strange. Or was the explanation that Viktor’s head, teeming with plots, conspiracies, intrigues, and stratagems, had shriveled his heart? Petr wondered, remembering Alexander’s photograph of the Harkov family and his beautiful sister.