“Your brother,” ventured Petr, “once showed me a snapshot of your parents seated in a garden, with their three children around them. What was your father’s occupation?”
“He owned a general store, which the Soviets confiscated.”
Petr felt confused. If Viktor was telling the truth, why would Alexander have joined the OGPU, and why would Viktor lend himself to their black deeds? A second later, Viktor uttered the reason. “I despised my alcoholic father for mistreating my mother and sister.”
“What happened to them?”
“We’d better think about dinner.”
Petr went straight to the stove. “If you can stand soup again, I have a nice potato recipe.”
“It’s just as well, because we’re out of beets and cabbage. But there’s a lamb shank, which you’re welcome to use. I need to shop.”
Petr wrapped a dish towel around his middle and started slicing potatoes. “Tell me,” he said offhandedly, “about your mother and sister.”
“What’s there to tell? My mother died of typhus and my sister—she was older than me—she died for a revolutionary cause.”
“Your mama’s name?”
“Celia, and my sister’s was Relitsa.”
Now was the moment, Petr decided, to advance his hunch. “Did Comrade Razumov know your family?”
Viktor’s discomfort could be felt across the room. “He lived in the same apartment building and hung around with Alexander.”
“How old is Razumov?”
“Early forties, I would guess.”
“About the same age as your sister. Right?”
Grabbing Petr from behind by the shoulders, Viktor spun him around so they stood face-to-face. “Out with it! What are you trying to worm from me?”
Uncertain whether to be candid or not, Petr hesitated. It was just long enough for Viktor to tell him what he wanted to know.
“Razumov was in love with my sister. There, now you have it.”
But Petr knew he didn’t have it all. He felt certain that Razumov’s niece whom he hid from the police was actually Relitsa Harkova. Presumably he loved her. Was his ardor returned? And where did Lukashenko come in? Did he also have a yen for the lovely Relitsa? It wouldn’t be the first time a thwarted lover killed the object of his affections. Petr’s head was spinning with scenarios and scenes right out of a Russian romance novel. But was he right or simply nesting ideas, one inside the other, like a matryoshka doll?
✷
A morning telephone call from Razumov alerted Viktor and Petr that Lukashenko’s official car, with its tinted windows, was now in the repair shop, and that the two mechanics, by prior arrangement, would be absent from two to three. The car had a clock, and they had an hour to rig it.
The garage, situated in the basement of a government building and reached from the street by a ramp, was a dark and grimy affair. Petr had stored the dynamite and all his attachments in a canvas bag that he cradled ever so carefully. A sleepy porter nodded at the two men and then returned his gaze to a soiled newspaper. The door to the work area stood slightly ajar, and the interior lighting was poor. In under ten minutes, Petr disengaged the clock from the dashboard and wired it to two sticks of dynamite that he deftly lodged behind the glove compartment, so that when the explosion took place, it would occur directly in front of the passenger, Vladimir Lukashenko. By the time the porter looked up from his paper, all he could see were the backs of two men making their way up the ramp to the street.
The next step was to decide where to position themselves along the road to the Kremlin. Petr had serious reservations about taking the life of the innocent driver, but Viktor said that the “incidental damage” couldn’t be helped. “Cold-blooded” was the word that came to Petr’s mind, but he could not disguise the fact that he was not only party to the crime but also the bomb designer. He tried not to think about his participation, but unbidden reflections came to him, like concentric circles that radiated out from a fixed center called “assassination.” What if Lukashenko’s car was flanked by other automobiles or mobbed by admirers? Would they too be incidental damage? And could Razumov assure him that the only people in the Packard would be the driver and Lukashenko? The mayor was fond of appearing in public with average citizens and their families. Supposing a child was in the backseat? And not least was the fear that whoever replaced Lukashenko would be worse. Hadn’t the killing of Tsar Alexander II derailed reforms and enthroned his hateful son?
Returning to the area of woods where the police first encountered Viktor and Petr was out of the question. A new hiding place had to be found. But where? You could hardly set off a remote control device in a crowd. In an open space, the conspirators would be seen. After their last encounter with Lukashenko’s men, the woods undoubtedly would be patrolled. Razumov finally decided to have an OGPU car officially parked along the highway, ostensibly for the mayor’s protection, with Petr in the back operating his equipment. When Lukashenko’s Packard passed, Petr would signal the clock, which in turn would ignite the dynamite sticks. At Viktor’s suggestion, Petr had briefly considered setting the clock to explode at a certain time, but decided against that plan because, as Razumov pointed out, Lukashenko’s movements were notoriously erratic.
The night before the winter festival, Razumov invited the two men to dine with him at a restaurant frequented by OGPU agents. For all the candles and glitter and lights, it was a depressing place where secret policemen brought their mistresses and girlfriends. Viktor disliked coming here because the clientele drank too much and spoke too loudly, but Razumov, for some reason, had a soft spot for this cookhouse. Petr’s feelings were a mystery. Perhaps his mind was elsewhere: on the next day’s activities.
During the course of the meal, Razumov, who had a high threshold for alcohol, consumed nearly half a bottle of vodka. To look at him, you wouldn’t have known that his eyes were losing their focus and his mind its clarity. Even when drunk, he kept his physical balance. His head never lolled; his feet never shuffled; his hands never shook. The only sign of drunkenness was his maudlin remembrances: of family, friends, a pet dog, a forgiving schoolteacher, and Relitsa Harkova, a subject Viktor would have preferred to avoid.
“God, she was lovely,” Razumov intoned, to the discomfort of her brother. “Only a poet could do her justice, and I’m no poet. Far from it, just a cop with rough hands.”
“I think we ought to leave,” said Viktor.
“Hell, the night is young and tomorrow . . . tomorrow dawns a new day. For all of us. Thanks to our friend here, Tovarish Selivanov.” Forgetting Relitsa for the moment, Razumov shared his vision for the country. “Free of want and privilege. A place of equality, fairness, and justice. Are we there yet? Not by a long shot.” He quickly looked around to see if any of his colleagues might have heard him. But his fellow agents were seated at a safe distance. “The walls have ears,” he said. “You can never be too cautious.” He suppressed a burp. “I can just see that oily prick being thrown through the roof of his car and landing in pieces, a leg here, an arm there. His face no longer recognizable. He’s a murderer. You do know that, don’t you, Petr Selivanov? He’s a murderer. Ask Viktor here. Or maybe he’s already told you. He shot and killed the beautiful, lovely, and wonderful Relitsa Harkova. In the back, when she tried to run from that filthy rapist.”
“I think that’s quite enough,” said Viktor. “I’m going home. Petr, will you join me? We have to be up early tomorrow.”
But Razumov laid a heavy hand on Petr’s arm. “Let him go, I haven’t finished my story, and it’s one that haunts me daily.” Viktor reached for his wallet to pay for his share of the dinner. “Forget it,” said Razumov, “it’s my treat.”
Without another word, Viktor stood, went to the coat stand, slipped into his jacket, and left, while his friends watched.
“Well, that’s that,” said Razumov, though Petr had no idea to
what the “that” referred. “Where was I? A dismembered Lukashenko. Yes, how much pleasure that will give me. But the real point of the story is not about our soon-to-be-buried mayor . . .” This time he did belch, and loudly “. . . but about Viktor’s sister. The Harkovs lived in the flat above us. I was an only child. Breach birth. Mother couldn’t have any more kids. We could hear Viktor’s father, upstairs, beating the hell out of his wife and daughter. When Relitsa left for school in the morning, I walked with her. She was always bruised. I think the old man hated her because she was so pretty. You know how ugly people can often resent beautiful ones.”
Petr listened raptly. The more Razumov drank, the more Petr learned. Razumov admitted his fondness for Relitsa, “the only girl I really ever cared for”; and he defended her when other children threw snowballs or disparaged her drunken father. They had both studied at the college in Ryazan, she, philosophy, and he, accounting. Their different disciplines led them in opposite directions, both literally and figuratively. She departed for Ukraine, and he went into the secret service as a statistician and then an analyst. He hadn’t seen her for several years when he crossed her path in Geneva. Razumov had been sent there on an undercover mission, and she was fleeing a Soviet crackdown against Ukrainian nationalists. They had spent several days together, and had even enjoyed a boat ride on Lake Geneva. As they parted, she confessed that she would shortly be leaving Switzerland and stealing back to Kiev to continue the fight for independence, a cause that Razumov warned her would fail.
The next time they saw each other was in his flat, to which she had gained admittance by telling the building superintendent that Razumov was her brother. She was wanted for “espionage” and had been labeled “an enemy of the people.” After a week in his flat, the “super” started to nose around and ask questions about the stunning blond Razumov was “keeping.” It was she who first suggested moving east and assuming a new identity in Siberia. Unbeknownst to Razumov, Lukashenko had met her on one of his holidays to Andeer in Switzerland, where he went to enjoy the mineral waters. Relitsa had traveled to the spa to meet a comrade, a fellow nationalist, who was apprehended at the Swiss border and never made it into the country. While she was waiting, Lukashenko, who had an eye for the ladies and was already in the company of another woman, approached her and, in his charming Russian accent, tried to inveigle her into a rendezvous. She resisted and returned to her room. That night, posing as a hotel employee, he knocked on her door and, when she opened it, tried to rape her. Had she not screamed so loudly, he would have succeeded.
Why had Relitsa not taken refuge with Viktor in his flat? Razumov had asked her the same question, and she had told him about the bad blood between them. The cause? She had never forgiven Viktor for failing to stand up to his father and protect his mother and sister from the drunken man’s abuse. She related an incident in which she had taken refuge behind Viktor and had begged him to keep her from a certain beating. But Viktor pleaded neutrality and stepped aside. After Viktor had learned from Razumov the details of her death, he swore to kill Lukashenko—with the help of the OGPU, and from a distance, with a bomb.
By the time that Petr led Razumov from the restaurant, the fog of cigarette smoke and the humidity from the sweating windows had made breathing nearly impossible. The cold air of the street was tonic. Razumov seemed to shake off his intoxication like an old snakeskin. Petr stood gulping oxygen and only slowly recovered his senses.
“Well, tomorrow’s a red-letter day,” said Razumov. “Get some sleep, comrade. I’ll collect you at eight in the morning. The car will be parked at the curb outside your building. In the evening we’ll celebrate.”
✷
Promptly at eight, Petr and Viktor entered Razumov’s car, a black Skoda, which was not official OGPU issue. They were dressed in the same working clothes they had worn when they had tried to dig a hole in the road. Petr was carrying his canvas satchel with all the necessary equipment, and Viktor seemed intent on disguising himself with a peaked cap and dark sunglasses. Wordlessly, Razumov turned into the street and made his way slowly toward the main artery that Lukashenko’s car would follow to reach the Ryazan Kremlin. No secret police units, in their black Zim cars, were in evidence. This killing was not to have OGPU fingerprints. Razumov had brought his lunch.
“You never know how long you may have to wait.”
Petr asked, “What if you need a toilet?”
Razumov chuckled. “In the service, you learn to go once a day, in the morning, and once before bedtime. Good sphincter muscles . . . that’s what you need.”
Shortly after ten o’ clock, an escort of motorcycles appeared leading the black Packard with the tinted glass windows.
A second or two after the car passed, Petr set off the blast. The car seemed to rise off the ground, return to earth, and then fly apart, with windows and doors acting like projectiles and taking down everything in their path, including a few onlookers and motorcyclists. He had gauged the distance correctly. The assassins were untouched. Razumov backed up and sped off, taking numerous side and back roads to return to Viktor’s flat. Viktor and Petr exited the car, and Razumov drove away to hide the car in a barn on the outskirts of town.
Once the two men entered the apartment, Viktor turned on the radio. A lugubrious male voice interrupted a program of martial music to announce an explosion on the highway leading to the Ryazan Kremlin.
“The city police have already declared the incident an assassination attempt on the life of our beloved leader, Vladimir Lukashenko. But owing to the vigilance of devoted bodyguards, our precious mayor’s life was spared.”
Petr looked at Viktor and said, “Not a chance. More official lies.” Viktor calmly poured himself a drink and sank into his parlor chair, the one in blue slipcovers, the one he used for reading.
The announcer continued. “At this very moment, a river launch is docking below the Kremlin, and Mayor Lukashenko, to thunderous applause, is ascending the steps leading up to the fortress. All of his admirers, who have braved the cold and the wind, are on hand to see their adored leader. As for the bloody murderers, the police are looking for them at this very moment, rounding up Mensheviks, Social Democrats, dissident priests, monarchists, and, of course, Trotskyites. Once the villains are identified, they will be tried and shot. The victims of this terrible bombing have yet to be identified, but ambulances are on the scene.”
Martial music resumed. Viktor wordlessly entered his bedroom and returned with two traveling bags, both packed. When he put on his overcoat, Petr asked him where he was going.
“It’s time to leave,” he said. “For you, too.”
“Why’s that?”
“Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear? Lukashenko escaped. That means his bodyguards were tipped off. This job was assigned to Razumov and me. Ergo, some senior OGPU officers knew about it. But no one’s going to touch a senior official. That leaves the three of us: Razumov, you, and me. So start packing—and get out!”
A bewildered Petr asked, “Where?”
“You said you had a girlfriend waiting for you in Kiev. Me, I’m going to bury myself, as you did, in Balyk . . . with Galina. While the mayor’s men are looking for the bombers, the OGPU will be looking for the snitch. It’s time to clear out.”
“Police and secret agents will be watching every train and bus leaving the city. Did you think of that?”
Viktor opened the door, shouldered his two bags, and said, “I have a transit permit—and a promise to keep my name out of it. Comrade Razumov’s OGPU membership will insulate him from suspicion. That leaves you.”
Before Petr’s mind came into focus, Viktor was out the door and descending the stairs two at a time. “I’ll tackle the swine and choke him to death,” thought Petr, and sprang to his feet. But by the time he gained the stairs, the fleeing double agent had reached the street and entered a waiting car that roared off. “I must warn Galina,” he told himself
. Returning to the flat, Petr quickly packed, leaving behind the satchel with its incriminating evidence. When he entered the hall, two armed policemen were already on the stairs. Unseen, Petr climbed the narrow ladder to the roof, where the building superintendent maintained a greenhouse. No one was inside. He hid behind the potting table.
Shortly, the greenhouse door opened. Pause. Then he heard a man’s voice say, “He must have gone down the fire escape.” Petr remained frozen for well over an hour, until cramping forced him to stand and stretch. It was already dark outside when he stole from the greenhouse and made his way to the street and then to the rail yards. Still dressed in the same work clothes, he saw a freight train unloading coal. He clambered inside and rubbed his hands and face with coal dust, to blend in with his landscape. The train’s next destination was a mystery. He didn’t care, just so long as it left Ryazan. Slowly moving down the track, the train attracted two other itinerant travelers, who hoisted themselves into the car at the last second. By this time, Petr knew not to trust anyone and merely grunted when the two men extended their greetings. After several hours, he felt certain the men were not city police or Lukashenko bodyguards or OGPU. Only then did he hazard a laconic word, or rather a question:
“Where we headed?”
“Last stop, Minsk,” replied one of the men.
The reply suited Petr. It brought him that much closer to Kiev. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to make sense of what had just taken place. Viktor had originally been allied with the OGPU to rid the oblast of Lukashenko, and he had induced Petr, with his training in explosives, to join him. In return, Petr would have a clean military record. Razumov was Viktor’s OGPU contact. Both men had personal reasons for wanting to see Lukashenko dead, but aside from the personal, both men also had political motives. Razumov and his colleagues in the secret police wanted to see the oblast governed by one of their own, and Viktor had an unimpeachable reason to see the man dead: Lukashenko had killed his sister. The accusations of corruption and bribery were merely cosmetic. But in the end, Viktor Harkov was the most ruthless of all, and the most venal. He knew that Razumov would find protection in the spacious folds of the OGPU gown, and that Petr would be the likely suspect, a deserter on the run. A lingering question was whether Viktor’s behavior had anything to do with Galina? Petr had already indicated that he intended to unite with a woman in Kiev. He and Galina would divorce. So if Viktor had designs on Galina, Petr presented no threat. Then why set him up? It made no sense, unless it was a pure and simple monetary transaction and someone had to take the fall. Of the three men, Petr was the dupe.
Denouncer Page 21
