Tarnished Icons ir-11

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  Alexi couldn’t take in the information. It was a trick, like the bomb he sent to the American embassy. They wanted the names. Somehow they thought this would make him give them the names of those his father had blackmailed.

  “This is a trick,” said Alexi. “A lie.”

  “No,” said Rostnikov.

  “I don’t believe you,” said Alexi.

  “But you do believe me,” said Rostnikov, gazing into the eyes of the man across the desk.

  “I will die anyway for what I have done,” Alexi said, doing his best to regain a sense of dignity.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Rostnikov. “The director of my office is a very influential man. I have asked him if he could assure you life in prison or perhaps in a hospital for the mentally ill in exchange for the names. I grant that our mental hospitals leave a great deal to be desired, but your mother and sister would prefer that you not die.”

  “I don’t know,” said Alexi. “I have to think. My mother knew? All this time? She knew he had killed himself?”

  “You will be given the opportunity later today to ask her,” said Rostnikov. “We are telling you the truth, Alexi Monochov. You have told yourself lies. You are not wrong about the nuclear dangers, but you and your family have not been singled out by them.”

  Monochov looked at each man. He read nothing in the face of the gaunt man. He read something like pride and vindication in the face of the man called Paulinin.

  “I’ll think about it,” said Alexi.

  All three men across from the one who had been the bomber knew that those words meant that he would cooperate, would provide the names, would live the rest of what promised to be a long life in a Russian prison or mental hospital, which many considered to be far worse than a quick death.

  Rostnikov knew that Monochov wanted time to think of another option. The only other one Porfiry Petrovich knew would be for Monochov to contact some of the more influential people his family was blackmailing and threaten them with exposure if they didn’t find a way to get him out of execution or prison. Corruption was almost always possible, but, Rostnikov concluded, in this case the evidence was too overwhelming. A confession had been made, and the media would be outraged. They would seek out the people who had perpetrated such an injustice, and they would be aided by leaks from the Office of Special Investigation. Monochov might try this approach, but it was doomed to failure.

  “Yes, think about it,” said Rostnikov. “But since this is a very important crime, you will appear before a judge within two days and the state will be ready to take you to trial within a week. Think about it, Alexi Monochov, but think quickly and let the guards know when you want to talk to me again.”

  Paulinin gathered the material from Alexi’s files and put it back in the envelope as Rostnikov and the man who had made a fool of Paulinin continued to talk.

  Who must decide now? Paulinin thought. Which button do you push? Which wire do you cut? Who do you believe? A mistake, Alexi Monochov, could mean your death. Now you know how it feels. Now we are even, more than even. You have tricked yourself.

  Though he said nothing, Paulinin believed that the balding man across from him would probably choose neither of the logical options open to him. Paulinin believed the bomber would try to kill himself in the next few days before having to appear before a judge, kill himself as his father had before him. That was if the bomber really had the courage to do so. He might not. In any case, should he kill himself, Paulinin wanted to conduct the autopsy. Normally he would have to wait until some incompetent pathologist butchered the body and either found nothing or drew the wrong conclusions. Only then, usually by official request from someone in Petrovka, would Paulinin get the corpse. Paulinin wanted this one first, wanted to examine the brain in detail. Rostnikov owed him that.

  Rostnikov rose awkwardly, using the desk to brace himself. The two men on either side of Monochov rose also and so, finally, did Alexi. The tall, gaunt man who had disarmed him in Rostnikov’s office left the room to find the guard who stood nearby.

  The guard returned and Alexi followed him through the door.

  When Alexi was gone, Rostnikov said, “He will give us the names. He will consider his choices and choose life.”

  “How do you know?” asked Paulinin.

  “There was hope in his eyes yesterday when we told him he wasn’t dying,” said Rostnikov. “That hope was there again. And now he wants to distance himself from his father’s madness. He will grow angry. He will curse his father and mother, but he will not want us to think him mad. He wants to live, even if that life is in a prison or a madhouse.”

  Paulinin nodded. He still thought Alexi Monochov would kill himself before the week was over.

  Leonid entered the apartment about an hour after Yevgeny, who was lying in bed, hands behind his head, working out his plan for murdering Georgi and his roommate.

  Yevgeny looked up.

  “What happened to you?” he said.

  Leonid touched his nose, turned away, and hung up his coat.

  “I was robbed and beaten,” Leonid said in mock rage. “A bunch of kids. They had knives, bricks, one even had a gun. I tried to fight, but they hit me, beat me, took my wallet and money, my watch and ring.”

  Leonid showed his empty wrist to Yevgeny, who looked up and said, “I’m sorry, Leonid. Let’s take care of your wounds.”

  “I’ll be fine,” said Leonid, moving to sit on his bed.

  Georgi had worked out this story with a few embellishments from Leonid, who had left his wallet, ring, and watch with Georgi. After Yevgeny was dead, Georgi would return them.

  “You didn’t go to the police?” asked Yevgeny calmly.

  “No,” said Leonid, his shoulders slouched forward. “What would be the point? They’d never find what was stolen. They wouldn’t even look. And I don’t think we want to go near the police. Not now.”

  “Anything broken?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Good,” said Yevgeny. “We do it tonight.”

  “Tonight?” asked Leonid. “That wasn’t our plan. I’m in no condition to …”

  Yevgeny was aware that his frightened roommate knew full well from the note that had been passed under Georgi’s door that Yevgeny had decided to move tonight.

  “Our plan has changed. I have reasons. The police came to the hotel and questioned me about Igor. They plan to question you. The policeman who questioned me suspected something. I want to do it and get out of Moscow before they find you. If they ask you questions, they might trick you. You understand?”

  “I understand,” said Leonid. “Tonight.”

  “I’ve already told Georgi,” Yevgeny said. “I left him a note.”

  “Tonight,” Leonid said, lying back on his bed. The move caused a punch of pain in his stomach where Georgi had hit him. Well, at least he would not have to go to work that night.

  Minutes later Leonid was asleep and gently snoring.

  Yevgeny looked at his friend and considered killing him right then. It would be easy. A pillow over his face. His arms pinned down. But Leonid would be useful in the night’s work, and it would have been difficult to get rid of the body anyway.

  Yevgeny went back to his musing after checking his watch. Eight more hours and with a little luck he would be a very wealthy man.

  Elena and Iosef quickly finished their calls to the stations and began to do the paperwork that had piled up on both their desks. Forms, reports, tedium. Sasha had volunteered to go out and take all the photographs. Iosef thought Sasha had done so to leave them alone, out of either goodwill or a desire to get away from their courtship ritual. Elena, who knew Sasha better, thought he had volunteered because of his personal problems. Thanklessly running from station house to station house to take pictures of surly, uncooperative police officers would both keep him busy and let him feel sorry for himself. In any case, he was gone.

  “Have you made a decision?” Iosef called from his cubicle.

&n
bsp; “The answer is no. I will not marry you,” she said.

  “Is that a no for now because you want more time, or a forever no because you don’t love me and you never want to marry?”

  “A no for now,” Elena said, trying to read the new form on her desk.

  “Then dinner at your aunt’s is still firm?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Elena, wondering when she would shop and cook, what she could make that was quick and easy.

  Elena forced attention back to the form that lay flat in front of her. She had gotten to the fourth question: “Is the suspected, perpetrator of the crime able to understand the difference between right and wrong?”

  Elena had no idea. Even if she were to question the perpetrator when he was caught she would have no idea. She could ask the suspect questions about whether certain things were right or wrong, but she had learned that answers could seldom be trusted. It was how you felt about the suspect sitting before you that formed your opinion.

  The question before her had no answer now and would have none later. She left it blank and went on. Of the twenty-seven questions, she left more than half blank. She was sure when she finished that the form had been created by someone who had never done any criminal investigation work. The form wanted answers where there were no answers. The form wanted certainty where there was usually uncertainty, even if there was some conviction on the part of the officer. She put the form aside and reached for another, going through the pile for something more familiar.

  Perhaps there would be sahsseeskee, sausage, at the market. Perhaps it wouldn’t cost too much, though she knew it would. Although it was against her principles, she would move to the front of the line at the market, showing her police identification. The people would boo and hiss and tell her she should be ashamed of herself. She had never done anything like that before. The people behind her would be right. She knew that many police still moved ahead, though they could no longer do so with the indifference or resignation of the people behind them as they had in the Soviet Union.

  Am I capable of knowing the difference between right and wrong in such a case? Elena thought. She decided quickly that she was capable, that what she considered doing, annoying as it might be, would cause little harm. It was wrong, but it was expedient and, she felt, necessary if she was to prepare dinner tonight, a task she would never leave to her aunt with a guest coming. But she also knew that she wouldn’t do it. She would wait her turn, read a book, pay more than she could afford for inferior food, and not complain.

  It is not whether the person knows right from wrong but whether they believe what they have done, no matter how terrible it might be, was done because it was necessary and expedient. Right and wrong, Elena thought, were lost concepts in the new Russia. She believed in obsolete ideas.

  Sasha was on his last roll of film in his last station. He took two group photographs and three individual ones. A few policemen protested mildly. Most simply looked bored.

  From this final station, he called home. Maya answered. The baby was doing well.

  Nonetheless, a quiver in her voice told him there was something else happening, that the baby was doing well but Maya was not.

  “Lydia is here,” Maya said. “She has given me many suggestions on how to take care of the baby. Would you like to talk to her?”

  Sasha definitely did not want to talk to his mother, but Maya had given him no choice.

  “Yes,” he said, wearily playing with the most recently shot roll of film, a roll marked in black with the number of the police station.

  Seconds later his mother screamed into the phone. Across the room an officer taking another call looked up at the sound.

  “Mother,” Sasha said as calmly as he could. “The baby is fine now. You can go home.”

  “My grandchild needs me. Your wife needs me. Where are you in this crisis?”

  “Working, Mother, and there is no crisis.”

  “I’ll judge for myself when there is a crisis,” she said, her voice only a meaningless decibel or two lower.

  “The doctor told us the baby would be fine,” he said.

  “No he didn’t,” Lydia said.

  “Ask Maya,” he said.

  “I did. She said the same thing. I don’t believe it.”

  “You think Maya and I are lying.”

  “I didn’t say that,” his mother countered. “You believe the doctor said that. I don’t believe the doctor said that. We respect each other’s beliefs.”

  Sasha was momentarily confused.

  “I should respect that you think my wife and I are liars?” he said.

  “You believe what you want to believe. I believe what I want to believe. This is a democracy now. I can believe what I want.”

  Sasha took a deep breath and, as calmly as he could, said, “Mother, you must leave now. Maya needs rest. She’ll get no rest with you there.”

  “She’ll get more rest,” said Lydia. “I’ll take care of the children. She can go rest.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Sasha, surprising himself. “I believe she’ll get more rest if you leave. You believe she will get more rest if you stay. This is a democracy. You believe what you want to believe. I believe what I want to believe. Go home now.”

  “But Maya wants me to stay. Ask her,” Lydia shouted.

  Sasha knew that Maya would never bring herself to tell her husband’s mother to leave. The rift in the relationship of the two women would be too wide to bridge.

  “No,” said Sasha. “I’ll call you later. We’ll have you over for dinner in a day or two.”

  “If that’s the way you feel, that’s the way you feel,” she said, resigned and obviously feeling sorry for herself. “I’ll go.”

  “And, Mother,” he said, now that he had the nerve, “I think you should call before you come to the apartment. Don’t just drop in. Anyone who simply drops in can be coming at a bad time.”

  “You want to get rid of me?” she said angrily.

  “No,” he said.

  The man on the other phone was looking at him.

  “I don’t want to get rid of you,” Sasha continued. “You’re my mother. I love you. I need your warmth, your wisdom, your caring.”

  She had ample reason not to believe any of this, but this time she chose to.

  “I’m going back to my little apartment now,” she said. “I will take comfort in the always welcoming company of Anna Timofeyeva. I will call you when you are more calm and we can talk about this sanely.”

  “Fine,” Sasha said, putting the roll of film back in his pocket.

  “You can come to my apartment and we’ll talk calmly,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow won’t be good for me,” said Sasha. “I’ll call you. We’ll make arrangements.”

  “We’ll see,” said Lydia skeptically.

  Before Sasha could say more, his mother hung up.

  “I’ll be late again,” Valentin Spaskov said into the phone.

  “Very late?” asked his wife.

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  Spaskov’s wife had begun to think there was another woman. Once she had called the station to give him a message when he was supposed to be on duty and had been told that he was not working that night. More and more often he’d been coming home late, almost too depressed to play with his daughter if the girl was still awake. On those nights, Valentin had clung to her in bed.

  Did he feel guilty? Did he want to confess? What about the blood he had hidden? She bore it silently, hoping it would end.

  “I’ll have food ready for you,” she said as she always did.

  “Good. I’ll probably be very hungry,” Spaskov said. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  So did Spaskov, who stood looking down at it for a minute or two, his hands flat on the desk.

  If everything went as planned, Spaskov was certain he would have no appetite this night.

  TWELVE

&nb
sp; Porfiry Petrovich grunted mightily, his hair and brow damp with sweat, his purple-and-white Northwestern University sweatshirt with the tiny hole in the sleeve turned nearly gray from his perspiration. If he did two more bench presses, just two more, it would be a new record for him.

  To the voice of Dinah Washington singing “Down with Love” Porfiry Petrovich, in the corner of his living room in his apartment on Karasikov Street, willed his arms and chest to move. Two things other than his own determination were helping him toward the new record. First, using extrastrength green plastic piping, he had designed and built a simple stand onto which he could place the weight as he lay back on the narrow bench. Placing the weight on the stand made it easier to get the weight in the air by not having to awkwardly lift it from the floor. He had no one to spot him on either side, so he had to be sure of the safe extent of both his weights and repetitions. He should have considered such a device years ago. He had seen them, used them in many weight rooms, even one in a small navy weather station in Siberia, but building one had only recently occurred to him. The second thing that made it easier to do the bench presses was the new leg. With his crippled leg he had balanced awkwardly on his right leg while doing the presses. It had taken a major effort just to get the weight to his chest and then down again when he finished. The new leg served as a brace, like the strong leg of a table.

  The two girls, as always, sat watching Rostnikov. They sat quietly, listening to the music and to his grunting. Grunting and blowing air were not only part of the ritual, they actually helped him get through each exercise.

  They had finished dinner, chicken tabak, Rostnikov’s favorite. He did not ask Sarah where she got the chicken, but he had not eaten with his usual hum of satisfaction. Sarah had something to discuss. He could see it in her face, her movements, in the fact that she had served him his favorite meal. They would talk later, either in bed or seated on the sofa with the lights low.

  He, too, had something to tell his wife, but he was somehow sure that what she had to say was more important. It was her look, the look of a witness who had decided after hours or days or years of agony to come forth with what she knew and could no longer keep to herself.