People Who Walk In Darkness ir-15

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

“You are the exception. Perhaps it is your Mongol blood or a quirk of birth, but I have always found your directness refreshing. We have always made a good team, have we not?”

  “Yes.”

  “Prepare yourself for a surprise when we land,” said Rostnikov.

  Karpo nodded. He was almost curious.

  The plane’s low, sudden roar signaled descent. Rostnikov put on his seat belt and felt the slight pop in his ears. He distrusted statistics on airplane fatalities. They were always reported in terms of miles flown and not in terms of takeoffs and landings. Airplanes seldom simply fell from the sky, but they did run into significant problems when trying to leave the earth or come back to it, where they belonged.

  The landing on the wide, cracked road to the mine, which doubled as Devochka’s airstrip, was reasonably smooth, and when the engines stopped the voice of the pilot wearily announced, “Voa ta na,” Here it is.

  They were within forty yards of the line of concrete block buildings.

  Seat belts clicked. The other passengers coughed, talked, shuffled. None of the handful who rose to get off seemed particularly happy to have arrived. It was difficult to imagine that some of them called this place home, that they and many he would meet had lived their lives here and, in all likelihood, so had their parents. Inbreeding had plagued Gulag towns for generations. Perhaps the same would be true of Devochka.

  The two policemen were the last to get off. Descent down the aluminum steps was an even bigger adventure than had been the ascent. Rostnikov did not know who was watching, and there was little he could do to make the maneuver anything but slightly awkward at best. He silently urged his young and senseless leg to cooperate in the venture.

  When he and Karpo had reached the ground and retrieved their bags, they saw a contingent of four men stepping across the road toward them.

  “Well, is it what you expected?” Rostnikov asked Karpo.

  The buildings appeared to be solid, well maintained, functional, and bleak. There were many windows, wide windows letting in the sunlight, facing not just the far less modern structure of the mine, but the forest and mountains beyond.

  “I had no expectations,” said Karpo.

  The quartet was almost on them now. The passengers had all deplaned, retrieved their luggage, and begun walking toward the closest of the buildings.

  “It is not like our last adventure in Siberia.”

  “That was two thousand kilometers from here.”

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov, looking toward a thick gathering of trees in the distance.

  Three of the four men were not impressed by the Moscow policemen but they tried not to show it. What they witnessed was a gaunt, thin, and quite dour spectre in black and a limping, average-sized, broad man with a typical Russian face.

  The engines of the airplane which had gone down to an uneven, impatient murmur, were now revving up with loud rattling noises of belching anxiety.

  “I’m Yevgeniy Zuyev,” said the first man, extending his hand. “I am the Chairman of the Town of Devochka. Let’s go inside where we can sit and talk and complete the introductions without the sound of the airplane.”

  Rostnikov nodded his agreement and followed the man, who could not have been more than forty.

  As they walked, Karpo observed Porfiry Petrovich’s eyes meeting those of a bearded member of the group who looked back over his shoulder. The meeting of eyes was without emotion. Karpo noted the exchange and thought the man looked familiar. Emil Karpo did not forget names or faces. He was sure he had not met the man before, yet the uncertainty of recognition impelled him to keep his eyes on the man as they walked. The man was perhaps fifty years old, bespectacled with a very serious and not friendly look on his face.

  “Slow down for the Inspector, Zhenya,” said the bearded man.

  “No need,” said Rostnikov.

  “Sorry,” said Zhenya Zuyev, slowing his pace.

  “Thank you,” said Rostnikov.

  The third man in the group was a tall, remarkably muscular man no more than thirty years old. His head was shaved and he wore no hat. He could have been quite forbidding, but the smile he wore looked genuine. The last man, who walked head down and looked worried, was the oldest of the group. His hair, peeking out from under a fur hat, was white, his back bent, his face furrowed with thin lines like dried up riverbeds.

  When they reached the closest building, Zuyev held the door open, and they stepped in behind Rostnikov and Karpo. They moved down a wide, well-lit corridor with Zuyev taking the lead.

  They passed a large room to their right, with comfortable chairs facing a wide-screen television set.

  “This is our primary building. Government office, security, large town meeting room, largest cafeteria. We have a large collection of DVDs,” said Zuyev. “Of course, most people prefer to watch in their own rooms and apartments.”

  Zuyev led them into a cafeteria-style dining room where a few of the several dozen tables held teenagers and older people snacking and drinking tea or coffee.

  “We serve three meals a day, every day,” said Zuyev. “Of course, most people prefer to eat in their own rooms and apartments.”

  “You said that,” said the old man impatiently.

  “Do you have a weight room?” asked Rostnikov.

  The bald young man with a smile said, “An outstanding weight room, eleven machine stations and a full range of free weights.”

  “Viktor is bench press, snatch, and clean-and-jerk champion of Siberia,” said Zuyev, skirting the tables and going through a door into a small private dining room. “He is training for the Olympics. We are very proud of him.”

  “I should like to see the weight room later,” said Rostnikov.

  “You lift, don’t you?” said Viktor.

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov.

  “I knew it,” said the young man.

  They sat around the table with white mugs and matching white plates set before them. Two platters of cookies stood on the table, along with insulated pitchers that Zuyev identified as Brazilian coffee and black tea.

  It seemed to Rostnikov, who reached for the coffee, more like an informal party than the beginning of an investigation into the death of a foreign visitor.

  “You’ve met Viktor Panin,” said Zuyev, nodding at the bald and smiling young man. “He, and the rest of us, are on the governing board, in addition to which Anatoliy Lebedev,” he nodded this time at the old man, “is the Alorosa mine director.”

  Which left. .

  “Fyodor Andreiovich Rostnikov,” said the bearded man, looking at Karpo. “Director of Security in Devochka and in the mines.”

  There was a silence in the room, a waiting for someone to say what had to be said. Now Karpo knew why the bearded man looked familiar.

  “Fyodor Andreiovich and I are brothers,” said Porfiry Petrovich.

  “Ask.”

  Iosef looked at Zelach and reached for a sticky apricot and mince pastry on the plate between them.

  “Ask?” Zelach repeated looking around the room.

  There were seventeen people at the tables. All of them but the two policemen were black.

  “Ask,” said Iosef.

  “What are we doing here?” asked Zelach.

  “Being very conspicuous,” said Iosef, drinking some of the thick, dark tea from the blue mug in front of him. “Have another one of these. They’re delicious.”

  Zelach took a pastry. It was his third. They were delicious. He would have liked to take one home for his mother but it would be awkward to ask and difficult to transport for the rest of the day.

  They were being examined. Some of the black men-there were no women-looked at them directly, with reasonable curiosity, others were more furtive. Four men at a table got up to leave.

  “It is my understanding from Titov. . You know Titov in the foreign visitors section?”

  “Yes,” said Zelach.

  A pair of men in their late twenties now rose and departed.

  “
He says this is where Botswanans gather. There are places where Ghanaians do the same, and many other black Africans have their own niches.”

  “But. .”

  “Our goal is to sit here and drive away customers by our very presence,” said Iosef.

  “Why?”

  “So that someone will eventually come to us, if for no reason other than to try to get us to leave.”

  “There is no other way?” asked Zelach.

  “Lots of other ways,” said Iosef, “but we only have nine days. Subtlety and discretion are not options. With each departure of customers, we come closer to. .”

  He paused as their waiter approached. He appeared to be the only waiter for the dwindling gathering. The man was very dark, hair cut almost to the scalp and showing a frost of gray. He had a thin mustache, which also showed signs of gray, and a smooth, youthful face that defied the hint of age.

  “Finished?” the man asked pleasantly reaching for the platter.

  Iosef stopped him by placing a hand over the plate.

  “What do you call these pastries?”

  “Vetkoek,” said the man.

  “Deep fried dough filled with mince?” asked Iosef.

  “Yes,” said the man, glancing over at another pair of departing customers. “And we add apricots. If you wish, I can wrap some for you to take to your home or place of work.”

  Zelach wanted to speak, but held back.

  “No, thank you,” said Iosef with a smile. “We’ll take our time and eat these here. You are the owner of this establishment?”

  “I am.”

  “Your name?”

  Iosef had removed from his pocket several of the white index cards he carried for notes. He paused, clicked his pen, and waited.

  “Maticonay.”

  Iosef wrote the name.

  “I. .”

  “Business is good, Mr. Maticonay?”

  “Fair.”

  “We are policemen,” said Iosef.

  “Yes,” said the man, looking at the low, sagging ceiling above him as Iosef put his cards and click pen on the table. Another two customers left.

  “We want to ask you some questions, and if we like the answers we will leave and recommend your place to other policemen.”

  “I would rather you did not recommend.”

  “Then we will not.”

  Iosef carefully withdrew an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. The man watched as Iosef removed two photographs and a drawing and placed them on the table.

  “You know these men?”

  The photographs of the two dead men on Paulinin’s autopsy tables were reasonably clear-clear enough to make it evident that the two men were dead.

  “No,” said the man.

  Iosef looked at Zelach who shook his head no.

  “That’s not true,” said Iosef. “My partner is psychic, or maybe just sensitive to such things. If he says you are not telling the truth, then you are not telling the truth, Mr. Maticonay.”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  “I would appreciate their names and where they lived. In addition, I would like the name of their friend, a third man.”

  Now Mr. Maticonay put his palms together, placed the tips of his fingers against his lips, and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes, he found himself looking at the drawing of the tattoo that was on both of the dead men. Mr. Maticonay’s knees were unsteady.

  “Please sit,” said Iosef.

  “No.”

  “Then. .”

  “I have six children.”

  “And?” asked Iosef.

  “They would like to know their father when they are grown.”

  “We live in difficult times,” said Iosef.

  “All times are difficult,” said Mr. Maticonay. “I cannot answer you.”

  “Too late,” said Iosef. “You’ve been talking to us. You look distressed. We are being watched by the few of your customers who remain. If the people who wear this tattoo are like all gangs throughout the world, you are going to have a problem unless we help you.”

  “You would have helped me by not coming into my shop and not changing my life,” Mr. Maticonay said. He sighed and continued. “Two men sitting back there, by the kitchen door.”

  “Yes?”

  “They wear this tattoo. It’s not a gang tattoo. It is a tribal marking.”

  “You have only one word to say to me and you should be perfectly safe,” said Iosef. “The word is ‘no.’ I will get up and shout now and you will answer ‘no.’”

  Iosef suddenly rose pushing back his chair, and shouting, “If you don’t tell me, we will have this placed closed by tomorrow.”

  “No,” said Mr. Maticonay.

  “You two,” said Iosef, looking at the two men near the kitchen who had risen from their table. “Where are you going?”

  Zelach was up now, too.

  “No one leaves,” Iosef continued. “For those who have not yet figured it out, we are the police. We want to talk to all of you. If you try to leave, my partner will be forced to shoot you.”

  Zelach was up now, and Iosef whispered to him,

  “The door.”

  Zelach slouched quickly to the front door, blocking it with his body.

  The two young men who had been seated at the table near the kitchen were up now. One of them reached for the kitchen door. Iosef had his gun in hand now.

  “You will stop,” he shouted at the two men as customers went to the floor, hands covering their heads.

  Both of the men at the kitchen door took out guns of their own and began firing as they pushed into the kitchen. Iosef and Zelach fired back. Mr. Maticonay, who had not gone to the floor, was on his way to it now, a bullet in his neck.

  “A back way,” called Iosef to Zelach, who understood and went out into the street in search of a rear entrance.

  Iosef glanced at Mr. Maticonay who sat stunned on the floor, his hand to his neck to try to stop the bleeding.

  “Someone help him,” Iosef shouted as he ran toward the door to the kitchen.

  The kitchen was small, almost nonexistent. There was no one in it. The rear door was open. Iosef moved toward it, gun held level, gripped in both hands. They could be waiting. They could count as well as he. Two policemen. Two men with tattoos who had something to hide. They could be waiting.

  Iosef stepped into the sunlight, looked to his right and then to his left, where Zelach stood and shrugged.

  “Look for them,” Iosef shouted and ran back through the kitchen and into the shop where a man was kneeling over Mr. Maticonay.

  Iosef went to his knees, holstered his gun, and examined the wounded man.

  “It’s not bad,” said Iosef. “Just bloody. I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Maticonay gurgled something. Iosef leaned close to hear what he was saying. The man’s eyes were closed.

  “Cowboys,” he said.

  Iosef understood.

  “Too many guns,” the man said.

  “Black,” said Georgi Danielovich, “from Africa.”

  “Where in Africa?” asked Sasha.

  They were sitting in a coffee shop, dim and dark and dusty, but far better than the horror which was Georgi’s one-room apartment.

  Georgi needed a shower, a shave, a haircut, and a change of clothes, but most of all he needed whatever his drug of choice might be.

  “I don’t know,” said Georgi, reaching for the cup of something tepid and brown.

  “Two of them approached you,” said Elena.

  “Two, that’s right.”

  “Their names?” asked Sasha.

  Georgi shrugged and said, “Who remembers?”

  “And this was the first time?” asked Elena.

  The shop was empty except for the two detectives and the addict, head in his hands, who was very quickly coming apart.

  “Could you identify these two men?” asked Elena.

  Georgi looked up with what was supposed to be a smile but looked more like a pained grimace, which, perh
aps, it was.

  “They were black,” he said. “They could walk through that door right now and I would not know them. My head hurts. I need a doctor.”

  “You do not need a doctor,” said Sasha, leaning toward him. “But you will if you do not start remembering things right now. We are in a hurry. We have nine days.”

  “Nine days?” asked Georgi in confusion. “We have nine days for what?”

  “No,” corrected Sasha. “We have nine days, but you have only a few minutes. You need to drink your coffee, maybe have something to eat, use the toilet, and you also need another clump on the head.”

  Georgi didn’t have time to protect himself. Sasha’s knuckles came down on the same spot where the gun had raised a throbbing welt.

  “Sasha,” Elena warned as Georgi screamed.

  The man behind the bar watched with interest but no sympathy.

  “You are boring me,” Sasha whispered.

  “My head,” cried Georgi. “Brain damage. You’re giving me brain damage. A doctor.”

  “You don’t use your brain anyway,” said Sasha. “If you did, you’d be helping us find out who killed your girlfriend.”

  “I just wanted to make a few rubles,” said Georgi. “Is that so bad?”

  The question was addressed to Elena.

  “Just tell us everything,” she said.

  Georgi tried drinking the dark liquid.

  “This is terrible. Can I get. .”

  “Talk,” Sasha warned. “I’m not only bored and impatient, I’m in a hurry. Maybe you’re like one of those butchka toys. You tap it and it runs in circles.”

  To Georgi, the good-looking policeman definitely looked insane. The plump pretty policewoman looked sane, but it was unlikely she would intervene.

  “My luck,” sighed Georgi. “The first chance I get to make real kapusta, money, and this happens.”

  “Christiana Verovona’s luck was worse.”

  Georgi shrugged and brushed back his dirty straight hair.

  “I should have kept the diamonds,” he said. “Run with them, but where do you sell diamonds?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sasha.

  “You see?” said Georgi. “You see? And one of those blacks looked even crazier than. .”

  He stopped and looked nowhere.

  “Talk now,” said Sasha, placing the gun he had taken from Georgi on the table.