Blood and Rubles

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  “Who?” asked a woman.

  “Police,” said Sasha.

  “Police, there are all kinds of police,” she said. “All kinds of people who say they are the police.”

  “We are the police,” Sasha said, looking at Zelach, who stood patiently.

  “What do you want?” the woman asked.

  “To talk to you without shouting,” said Sasha.

  “Talk about what?” she said.

  “You will find out when you open the door.”

  “I’m not that curious,” the woman said.

  “Then you will find out when we break the door down,” said Sasha.

  “I’m calling the police now,” the woman said with more determination and less fear than Sasha would have expected. He was reasonably certain that she had no phone.

  The door was heavy, and time was passing. Sasha looked back toward the front door of the building and hoped that the Chazovs didn’t coincidentally arrive in the minutes they were wasting. Sasha had no intention of trying to knock down the woman’s door. It would be easier to move up one flight and try another door. But it would have to be done quickly.

  He took a step back from the door and was about to head for the wooden stairs when the door opened and he found himself facing a woman and a rifle. The rifle was large. The woman was small, and she seemed to be about fifty years old.

  “Show me,” she said.

  Sasha and Zelach took out their identification cards.

  “Proves nothing,” she said. “Come in. Remember, I can shoot this.”

  “We will find it difficult to forget,” said Sasha, stepping in. Zelach stepped in beside him.

  Sasha looked at the windows of the apartment. They were barred. Through the bars Sasha could see the front entrance of the Chazovs’ apartment building.

  “May I close the door?” Sasha asked.

  The woman considered and looked at Zelach. Something about the way the woman looked at his partner reminded Sasha of the way his mother looked at Pulcharia when she was doing something Lydia thought was particularly cute.

  “Close it,” she said, “Softly.”

  Zelach closed the door. The apartment was really only a single room, with a bed in one corner covered with a colorful quilt. A small alcove had been converted into a kind of kitchen. There were two standing portable closets and a trio of matching cushioned chairs covered in a well-worn green material. A small table with two chairs stood next to the bed. The rest of the room was taken up by cheap bookcases of various sizes and shapes. One particularly impressive floor-to-ceiling bookcase was jammed with books.

  “What do you want?” the woman asked.

  “To sit at your window,” said Sasha, looking out the glass. “We are waiting for some suspects to enter that building across the street.”

  The rifle was obviously getting heavy. She hoisted it up.

  “The Tivonovs?” she said. “Short, fat man and a woman who looks like his twin?”

  Sasha did not answer.

  “The boys,” she ventured again. “Tried to get in here once. I keep the shades down when it gets dark, but I sit by the window and read and watch when I can.”

  Still Sasha didn’t answer her question but said instead, “We would simply like to take turns sitting at your window. We will require nothing of you but your silence. You can go on with your routine.”

  “What if they don’t come back till night? What if they don’t come back for days?” she asked.

  The rifle was now definitely aimed at the floor in front of Sasha. There was little chance that she could raise it and fire before he could step forward and take it from her hands.

  “My partner will begin the watch. I will relieve him at midnight. You may sleep while I watch.”

  “Someone tried to rape me once,” she said, looking with suspicion at the two men.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sasha, feeling a rush of impatience he recognized as dangerous. “We will not harm you. When we are finished, we will give you a letter of commendation for your cooperation. The name of a chief inspector will be on the letter. You can say that you have a friend in the police who is a chief inspector.”

  “In this neighborhood,” she said, moving to the door and leaning the rifle against the bookcase, “such a letter could get me killed. No letter.”

  “No letter,” Sasha agreed.

  “Money,” the woman said.

  “Perhaps a little, after we catch them.”

  “How little?” the woman said, facing the young detective.

  “I don’t know.”

  “American dollars,” she said. “Five American dollars.”

  “I can’t get five American dollars,” said Sasha, glancing out the window again. “I’ll get what I can in rubles.”

  The woman shook her head and said, “I have a choice?”

  “No,” said Sasha.

  “You want tea?” she asked.

  “I am leaving,” said Sasha. “You don’t have a phone. Where is the nearest phone?”

  “Two blocks that way. In front of what used to be a hotel. It still works. You want to know why?”

  “Why?” asked Sasha wearily.

  “Because the drug dealers use it and they’ll kill anyone who breaks it,” she said. “If it weren’t for the drug dealers, this neighborhood would be a hell. It takes the police more than half an hour sometimes to answer a complaint in this neighborhood. You call one of the drug dealers and they take care of things fast. They don’t want the police around.”

  “I would like some tea,” Zelach said, moving to the window.

  “You have the appreciation of the Moscow police,” Sasha said to the woman, who had moved to her alcove to prepare the tea.

  “I’m the widow of a policeman,” she said. “You people appreciated him so much that now I have a pension so small, I can barely stay alive on it and I have to live in this prison. You have families?”

  “My partner lives with his mother,” said Sasha. “I have a … This is not relevant.”

  “To me it is,” said the woman. “And to your family. What happens to your wife if you get shot down dead in the street? I’ll tell you what happens. She gets a pension too small to live on.”

  Zelach was standing at the window.

  “Sit down,” the woman said.

  Zelach sat, still wearing his coat.

  “I will return at midnight if they haven’t come back by then,” Sasha said.

  The woman shook her head and said, “I get little company. Having a man sitting at my window may not be such a bad thing.”

  Sasha left, closing the apartment door behind him. Zelach knew the routine. If the boys returned, he was to call Sasha at home and do nothing till Sasha arrived, nothing but watch the door.

  Sasha’s jacket was a bit too light for the weather. His heavy coat was not yet needed. He walked through the chill toward the nearest metro station. People moved in both directions. Sasha scanned faces for a trio of young boys as he moved.

  He was now in a decidedly bad mood. He imagined himself on a hospital stretcher, his dead body flat, Maya looking down at him, wondering how she could manage without his salary. It was a good thing that he did not see the Chazov boys before he got to the metro station. He was certain that had he seen them, he would have done something quite foolish and possibly dangerous.

  Alexei Porvinovich paced his designated side of the room considering something quite foolish and possibly dangerous. He had paced for hours. Artiom Solovyov had not returned. Alexei had leafed through the magazines that had been left for him. He had glanced at the lean masked man with the automatic weapon. The lean man sat watching Alexei and not speaking.

  The pain in his face had been reduced to a constant tender throbbing, but his face in the mirror looked as if he had contracted some horrific, disfiguring disease.

  Before doing something foolish and possibly dangerous Alexei decided upon a plan. He had made a near fortune being patient and dealing with bureaucrats at al
l levels. Some had been smart or at least cunning. A number had been fools. Usually the fools were much more difficult to deal with, and the man in the chair across the room certainly looked like a fool.

  “You can remove the mask,” said Alexei. “It must be very warm.”

  The man did not answer.

  “Your name is Boris,” said Alexei, finding it difficult to speak through his pain. “You work for Solovyov. I’ve seen you many times. I can identify you with or without the mask.”

  Boris considered this and looked at the door, wondering what Artiom would say if he returned and found him without the mask. But Porvinovich was right. What difference could it make? And the mask was driving Boris mad. He pulled it off and placed it nearby on the floor. He brushed back his hair, which resisted and turned him into a wild-haired clown with a gun.

  “What do you know of me?” Alexei asked him.

  Boris didn’t answer, but he did look at his prisoner. It was a small step.

  “I am very rich,” Alexei said. “You know that. That is why you’ve joined Solovyov in this.”

  Boris said nothing but watched Alexei, who had stopped pacing and now sat in a chair, which he turned to face the man with the weapon. Alexei would have liked to put on his business face, a resigned, understanding smile, but he knew it would look grotesque. Instead he sat casually, one leg crossed over the other. A cigarette would be a wonderful prop now, especially if he could pluck it casually from the silver case he normally kept in his pocket. Unfortunately, the case had been taken from him.

  “How rich do you think I am?” Alexei said softly, the voice of a conspirator.

  The man with the gun did something that may have been a shrug.

  “How much is Solovyov paying you for helping him, Boris?”

  Boris did not respond.

  “A few thousand rubles? More? Maybe he promised you millions,” said Alexei casually. “I have that, and what does it hurt him to promise you anything?”

  He had the attention of the man with the gun, though he had still not gotten a word from him.

  “He will have to kill me, Boris,” said Alexei. “I know who he is. I know who you are. Would I go to the police with this information? Never. I don’t want the police to start looking into my businesses. No, I would go to a man I know, a man so much worse than you and your friend that any comparison would be comic. This man, to whom I would pay a great deal of money, would gather his friends and they would find you. They would find you, cut off your heads, and bring them to me.”

  The man on the chair had opened his mouth slightly, using what imagination he had to conjure the image of someone awkwardly chopping his head from his body.

  “But,” said Alexei, “that will not happen, because Solovyov must kill me. I know that. You know that. Am I right?”

  Boris did not answer.

  “I’m right,” said Alexei with a resigned sigh. “He will kill me and then he will kill you, Boris.”

  The man in the chair looked as if he was going to speak and then thought better of it.

  “He will kill you because you will know that he is a kidnapper and a murderer,” said Alexei. “He will kill you because he thinks you are too stupid to keep your mouth shut. He will kill you because if you are dead, he need not pay you or worry about you. It takes only a small brain, perhaps the size of a crow, to know that what I’m saying is true.”

  “I’m not stupid,” said the man with the gun.

  Alexei shrugged and looked at a neutral wall.

  “I have thought about these things”—Boris was lying—“I know how to take care of myself.”

  “How?” said Alexei, turning back to his captor.

  “I know how to be careful,” the man said. “Artiom is my friend. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “The woman might tell him to,” Alexei said. “Does he talk about her? Don’t you know he’ll do whatever she tells him? Don’t you know that he is only a little smarter than you?”

  The man in the chair blinked and put one hand to his forehead.

  “No more talking,” the man said.

  “Of course,” Alexei said. “You need to think. But you had better think quickly. Once Artiom comes back, it may be too late.”

  Boris stood up, gun in hand.

  “No more talking,” he said.

  Alexei held up his hands and said, “Fine. No more talking. There are ways out of this for you, but if you say no more talking—”

  “What ways out?” demanded the man.

  “You take me away from this apartment, someplace where I can make a call to that friend I told you about.” Alexei was whispering rapidly. “My friend finds Artiom and kills him. You still have me. I call my brother and tell him to deliver a sizable sum of money to a place of your choice. It will be a great deal of money for you. A small amount to me.”

  “And then you have me killed,” the man said.

  “Why?” asked Alexei, showing the empty palms of his hands. “You know what will save you? Your stupidity and insignificance. You aren’t worth my time. I have others to deal with, others who set this up with your friend, Artiom, who plans to kill you.”

  “Where could I take you?” asked the man softly.

  Alexei forced himself not to smile, though he doubted if a smile could be recognized on his purple, broken face.

  “I know of such a place,” he said. “An apartment I keep for a young lady. You understand. She is in the countryside now visiting her grandparents.”

  “I …” the man began.

  “You’ll have to decide now,” said Alexei. “If Artiom comes through that door before we leave, we are both dead men.”

  The man with the gun was pacing the floor now. It was Alexei who was sitting.

  “I don’t know,” Boris said, running his hand over his head. “I can’t think it through.”

  “It is really very simple and clear,” said Alexei. “We leave here and live, and you walk about safely with more money than you had been promised by Artiom, far more. You can either leave Moscow or stay. Artiom Solovyov will no longer be among the living.”

  The man with the gun kept pacing, but Alexei sat back, relaxed. He knew that if Solovyov did not enter the room in the next few minutes, Boris would give in. Alexei knew that if time was just a bit kind to him, he would succeed.

  Natalya Dokorova wore a plain black mourning dress with long sleeves. It was not new. Rostnikov suspected that the old woman wore black even when she had not lost a relative. The Wolfhound had left early for a reception for the French ambassador, and Rostnikov had bullied Pankov into letting him use the colonel’s office for the interrogations.

  “I will take full responsibility,” Rostnikov had told the little man. “Why don’t you try to find the colonel? I’ll be happy to explain the situation to him.”

  “He did not want to be disturbed unless it was an emergency,” Pankov said.

  “Does sitting at the table in his office constitute an emergency?” Rostnikov asked.

  Pankov sat thinking. “First thing in the morning,” he said, “you must be here to tell the colonel what you have done and that you did not listen to me when I told you not to do this.”

  “First thing in the morning,” Rostnikov had said.

  And now they sat around the table. Rostnikov on one side. Craig Hamilton on his left. Elena Timofeyeva on his right. Across from them sat Natalya Dokorova. The tribunal had begun.

  “First,” Rostnikov said, “I am sorry for the loss of your brother.”

  Natalya nodded.

  “Second,” Rostnikov went on, “I am responsible for recovering the items that were stolen from your house.”

  “They are mine,” she said, back straight, looking at Elena.

  “That is an issue that can be addressed when we have the items,” said Rostnikov. “First we find them. Then we discuss who owns them. That, however, is not a decision for me to make. I have something for you.”

  Rostnikov leaned over. When he sat upright, t
here was a flower in his hand. He looked at it for a moment and then reached over and handed it to Natalya Dokorova, who took it and sat back in total confusion. Rostnikov could see from the bewildered look on her face that no one had ever given her a flower before. She placed it on her lap with her right hand over it as if to keep it from fleeing.

  “I burned everything,” said Natalya Dokorova.

  “No,” said Rostnikov, “you did not.”

  “I …” she began, but Rostnikov raised a hand to silence her.

  “Guards from two different jurisdictions on each of the doors,” Rostnikov said. “Ground floor is solid. Insufficient space in the walls to hide much. Distance to the buildings on either side too far to run a ladder or a plank, and even if it could be done, the noise would clearly draw the attention of the guards. Someone suggested a helicopter on the roof. Too much noise. Conclusion?”

  Natalya sat silently now, clutching her flower.

  “Show her,” said Rostnikov with a sigh.

  Elena reached under the table and came up with a piece of dark wood. She placed the piece of wood carefully on the table so as not to scratch its surface. Natalya looked at the wood.

  “Can you tell us what this is?”

  “It looks like the leg of a chair,” she said. “Or a table.”

  “Found in your garbage,” Rostnikov said. “A number of pieces of burned furniture were found in your garbage and the closets of your house. Why are you burning and hiding broken furniture? The furniture in your closets and garbage has no great value.”

  “I am eccentric,” the old woman said.

  Rostnikov nodded at Elena, who said, “Natalya, you spent the night burning cheap furniture to give the impression that you were destroying your brother’s collection. I don’t believe you could destroy any of the items your brother had collected. You told me that the chairs in your parlor once belonged to Catherine the Great. We think that every item in your home, every painting, every table is an antique of great worth, and it is only the cheap, everyday furniture you have destroyed.”

  Natalya said nothing.

  “The jewelry, books, paintings, that’s a different story,” said Rostnikov. “Would you like to tell us what you did with them?”