“No,” he whispered. “My colonel had an urgent plumbing problem. He needed the plumbing policeman.”
The girl giggled.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered, moving toward the door, a large piece of bread in his hand. “There is school to attend, and I will be needing my plumber’s apprentice to be well rested for emergencies.”
She giggled again and put her head on the pillow.
There was a car waiting at the curb for Rostnikov. It was a small white Lada. The driver was a woman in full uniform and cap. Rostnikov climbed into the backseat and closed the door. The car pulled away into the gentle hint of sunrise.
“Have you eaten?” asked Rostnikov.
“Yes, Chief Inspector,” she said. “I am on the night shift.”
Rostnikov nodded and sat back to finish his bread, tearing off little pieces to make it last longer. He had drunk the cold coffee too quickly. Each bump in the street—there were many small and not-so-small holes—upset his stomach.
With the small amount of traffic so early in the morning, they reached the hospital in ten minutes.
“You may go,” Rostnikov said, getting out of the car with the usual difficulty.
“I am on duty till nine,” the driver said. “I have been assigned to you directly by order of Colonel Snitkonoy.”
“Then,” said Rostnikov, “I shall be down shortly.”
He made his way to the desk. He knew several of the day-and night-shift people at the hospital. He had many occasions to come here, but the man on the desk this morning looked up without recognition. Rostnikov took out his identification card and said, “Tkach, what room?”
The man in white behind the desk looked up the room number. Rostnikov thanked him and moved down the hall to the elevator. There was a sign on it that read OUT OF ORDER.
Rostnikov sighed, found a stairway, and made his way painfully to the third floor. A nurse at the station at the end of the corridor looked up as he hobbled toward her. As softly as possible, to keep from waking the sleeping patients, he said, “Tkach.”
She was very young, very thin, and very plain, with big glasses and a uniform at least a size too large. She gave him the room number and suggested he not stay long.
He smiled at her, found Tkach’s room, and went in. It was a double room, a luxury in a Moscow hospital. Even Sarah, when they were not sure if she would survive her tumor, had been in a room with three other women, one of whom moaned throughout the night.
Standing next to the first bed, the dawn now truly coming through the window, stood Colonel Snitkonoy, nearly at attention, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked impeccably clean, well pressed, and not the least bit tired, though he couldn’t have gotten to bed much before Rostnikov.
“Colonel,” Rostnikov said, softly moving to the opposite side of the bed and looking down at the sleeping Tkach. Sasha’s head was covered with a turbanlike white bandage that showed a large red blotch of blood.
“Chief Inspector,” said the Wolfhound quietly. “He has suffered a severe concussion and a thin crack in his skull. No blood appears to have leaked through the crack and there is no apparent brain damage. He has a jagged cut on his back that required forty-two stitches. The doctor, whom I know, assures me that he should be up and in pain within a day or two. He will probably be quite dizzy.”
“What happened?” asked Rostnikov.
“The boys he was attempting to find found him. Officer Zelach apparently saved Inspector Tkach’s life and apprehended the boys. In better days I would recommend Zelach for a medal. Now …” The Wolfhound looked down at the medals on his uniform. “I will give him a certificate of merit, framed and enclosed in glass.”
“He will appreciate that,” said Rostnikov. “Does Tkach’s family know? His wife and mother?”
The colonel looked at his watch.
“When I was told that he would survive, I thought they should have a peaceful night of sleep. I will go to his home now and inform them,” said the colonel, touching a stray hair just behind his left ear. “I will also inform them that you have already been here.”
Although he was wearing his boots, the colonel managed to walk lightly and quietly out the door.
“Is he gone?” whispered Tkach, eyes still closed.
“Yes,” Rostnikov answered.
“Good,” Tkach said, opening his eyes.
He looked in the general direction of Rostnikov, found him, tried to turn his head, felt a swift pain, and closed his eyes again. “I didn’t know what to say to him,” said Tkach. “I couldn’t carry on a conversation.”
“That is understandable,” said Rostnikov.
Tkach’s arms were lying at his sides over the thin orange blanket that covered him. One hand moved toward his head. There was pain in Tkach’s face. Rostnikov intercepted the hand and put it back at his side.
“My head,” said Tkach.
“I’ll ask a doctor to give you something for the pain,” said Rostnikov, realizing that he was still holding the young man’s hand.
“That would be welcome,” said Tkach, eyes still closed. “Zelach just left. He saved my life.”
“The colonel just told me.”
Tkach tried to shake his head but found it impossibly painful, so he simply slumped back and licked his lips. “I think I should sleep now,” he said. “I had little sleep last night.”
“I’ll be back later,” said Rostnikov.
“No need,” said Tkach dreamily.
“I’ll be back,” said Rostnikov, and then he left.
At the desk in the corridor he told the plain-looking nurse with the glasses that Tkach needed something for his pain. She said she would find a doctor.
It was dawn when Rostnikov hit the street. It was definitely cold, not as cold as it would be in a month, but it was certainly Nahyahbr, November, and cold enough for snow. This was Rostnikov’s weather. His leg hurt less in the cold; it often went quite pleasingly numb for brief stretches in the winter.
He got in the car and checked his watch. It was a little after six, a very unreasonable hour for a social call. He gave the driver the address of the Porvinovich apartment building and leaned back to get a few minutes of rest as she pulled into the early-morning traffic.
Emil Karpo recognized the building on Vozdvishenka, the Street of the Exaltation of the Cross, which, along with the Noviy Arbat, New Arbat, was still called by most Muscovites Kalinin Prospekt, in honor of Mikhail Kalinin, one of the few old Bolsheviks to survive the purges of Stalin and die an honored old man in 1946. The apartment building, a one-block walk from the Praga Restaurant, dated back to the turn of the century and therefore was much sturdier and well built than the skyscrapers that had come after the war against the Nazis. It had originally, though briefly, housed large apartments for those in the czar’s ministries. Then, until recently, it had housed members of the president’s cabinet and high-ranking members of the politburo, along with a sprinkling of bankers. Now it housed the newly rich and influential, men such as Igor Kuzen.
Hamilton had admired the building as they walked toward it from the FBI agent’s dark Ford, which was parked quite illegally with the flap down, indicating that he was there on police business.
It was a few minutes after six in the morning.
There was a man on guard at the locked door. He was dressed in a dark suit and tie, and his battered face looked formidable. Karpo showed his identification card. Hamilton took out his FBI photo ID. The man with the battered face reluctantly opened the door.
“Igor Kuzen,” said Hamilton.
The man was not accustomed to black men, particularly those who showed cards and acted with such confidence. The policeman with him was as chilling a pale specimen of humanity as he had ever seen, and he had seen a great many in his life.
“He is probably not yet up,” the man said. “He seldom rises before eight or nine.”
“Unfortunately,” said Hamilton, “we will have to disturb his routine. His room number?�
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The man with the battered face was confused. He looked back into the lobby, from which a large man emerged. The large man wore black pants and shoes and a white long-sleeved turtleneck shirt under his jacket. He was completely bald.
“Is there a problem, Georgi?” the man in the turtleneck asked.
He was big, very big, and Karpo could see that the backs of both his hands were tattooed.
“These men want to see Mr. Kuzen,” the battered man said. “They are from the police.”
This information did not appear to impress the big man.
“You will have to come back later,” the man said. “Mr. Kuzen is not up yet. Give me your names and numbers and I will ask him to call you when he gets up.”
“We would like to see him now,” Hamilton said.
“Out of the question,” said the big man, now standing directly in front of Hamilton.
“I’ll have to ask you to step out of our way or be arrested for obstructing a criminal investigation,” said Hamilton, meeting the man’s eyes.
The big man smiled.
Hamilton’s left leg shot out and came back behind the left knee of the big man, who started to crumple to the ground as he reached under his jacket. Hamilton’s right hand brought the reaching hand backward, fingers almost touching the man’s wrist. With his other hand Hamilton reached under the now-kneeling man’s jacket and came up with a pistol, which he handed to Karpo, who stood watching without emotion.
“What room is Mr. Kuzen in?” Hamilton asked, releasing the fallen man’s hand and straightening his tie.
The man with the battered face looked at the kneeling man, who gave him no help. The kneeling man was nursing a very sore knee and a very numb right hand.
“Sixty-three,” said the battered man.
The big man in the white turtleneck with no gun tried to stand, but his left leg wouldn’t cooperate.
“Impressive,” said Karpo as the two men went to the open elevator, and the man with the battered face went to help the fallen giant.
“Thank you,” said Hamilton, not knowing whether Karpo was capable of sarcasm. “What would you have done?”
“Sudden, quick palm to the bridge of his nose,” Karpo said, getting on the elevator.
“You might have driven the broken bone into his brain,” said Hamilton.
“It would be a possibility,” Karpo agreed as the elevator doors closed.
The door to room 63 was opening just as they arrived. The man with the battered face had undoubtedly alerted Kuzen to the arrival of the unwanted visitors.
“It’s early,” said the drowsy man, standing in the doorway.
He was around fifty, a small man with a bit of a belly and thinning gray hair, which looked a bit morning-wild. He wore thick glasses and green pajamas, which were probably silk. He stepped back from the open door and invited the two men in.
“Georgi tells me you’ve hurt Karono,” he said, closing the door.
Neither Hamilton nor Karpo said anything.
They were in a reception room with white walls and gold baseboards along the floor. A painting stood over an antique telephone table.
“This way,” the man said, scratching his head and moving down the corridor to a room on his right. “You want coffee? Tea? Something to eat?”
“No,” said Hamilton.
They followed the man into a huge room with a broad window looking out toward the city. The sun had risen over the roofs of the clearly visible towers of Saint Basil’s.
The room was furnished with delicate, turn-of-the-century furniture that looked quite authentic to Karpo.
“I started coffee when Georgi’s call woke me,” the man said. “I need a cup to wake up.”
“You are Igor Kuzen?” Hamilton asked.
“I am,” he said. “And I’m much more impressive when I’m fully dressed. Have a seat. Excuse me for one moment only.”
The two men continued to stand.
“Why do you do what you do?” Karpo asked, looking around at the furniture.
“Why do I … ? To feed my family. Because I believe in preserving and protecting my government,” said Hamilton.
“Capitalism?” Karpo asked, examining a cushioned chair with delicately carved ebony legs.
“Capitalism,” Hamilton agreed. “Democracy.”
“Capitalism and democracy seem to be destroying my country,” said Karpo. “This chair is of museum quality.”
“Why do you do this?” Hamilton asked.
“Because I believed in Communism,” Karpo said. “I still believe in Communism. It was the weak, stupid, corrupt leaders who only gave lip service to our system who eventually destroyed the Soviet Union and betrayed Communism.”
Karpo kept examining the furniture, knowing that he was conversing with the FBI agent primarily to help contain the urge he had to begin destroying everything in the room.
“So you work in the hope that Communism will return,” said Hamilton, watching him.
“No,” said Karpo. “If it returns, it will be the same or worse. It is too late. I continue my work because I know nothing else to do and I do it well. The sense of satisfaction has diminished, whereas crime has increased. I’ve become a garbage man cleaning polluted litter that never stops falling and may destroy me.”
Since he did not know Karpo, Hamilton was not as amazed as his colleagues at the Department of Special Affairs would have been at Karpo’s openness. Karpo found it easier today to talk to a stranger who was very much like him in many ways.
“And the woman?” asked Hamilton. “Mathilde Verson?”
Karpo turned to look at the FBI agent and this time said nothing. The question was not a welcome one. The tension was broken by the return of Igor Kuzen with a cup of coffee on a saucer. Both cup and saucer were patterned with flowers and looked very delicate. Kuzen had also taken the time to brush his hair and put on a robe that exactly matched his pajamas. He sat in one of the more erect pieces of antique furniture and began to drink his coffee.
“You don’t want to sit?” he asked.
“No,” said Hamilton.
“As you wish,” said Kuzen.
“Aren’t you curious about why we have come?” asked Hamilton.
“Yes,” said Kuzen. “But I assume you will soon tell me. I saw you admiring the furniture.”
“And the view,” said Hamilton.
Kuzen smiled and took another sip of coffee.
“You are a scientist.”
“Correct,” said Kuzen.
“By appearances a wealthy scientist,” said Hamilton.
“I am comfortable,” admitted Kuzen, looking at Karpo, who definitely made him uneasy.
“You worked in a government office, at government wages,” Hamilton said. “Fifty dollars a month, maybe a bit more.”
“A bit more,” Kuzen said. “I’m a good physicist.”
“You worked in nuclear research,” said Hamilton.
“Dismantling nuclear arms and disposal of nuclear waste,” said Kuzen. “Beyond that, as your colleague will tell you, I am unable to comment.”
“You quit,” said Hamilton.
“To work in private industry,” said Kuzen, finishing his coffee and setting cup and saucer on an ornate metal trivet on the table in front of him.
“Private industry seems to have recognized your expertise,” Hamilton said, looking around the room.
“Capitalism has been good for me,” Kuzen said, folding his hands.
“What company do you work for?” Hamilton said. “We couldn’t find it in your files.”
“I am a consultant to many companies,” Kuzen said. “Both foreign and domestic.”
“Do you know a Mikhail Sivak?” asked Karpo.
“I’ve met him,” Kuzen said. “Hired him and some of his associates to transport goods for a company I do some work for.”
“Do you know that Sivak is dead?” asked Hamilton.
“I was informed,” said Kuzen, growing increasingly ner
vous at the hovering presence of the gaunt policeman in black.
“A shoot-out,” said Karpo. “Rival gangs. A woman died in the cross fire.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Kuzen, adjusting his glasses.
“Sivak was a member of a mafia,” said Hamilton. “An organized gang composed mostly of former convicts, the Beasts, many of whom had served sentences at Correctional Labor Colony Nineteen.”
“And?” Kuzen asked, looking at Hamilton.
“And members of this mafia can be identified by a prison tattoo, an eagle clutching a nuclear warhead,” said Hamilton.
“I never noticed such a tattoo on Sivak or any of his friends,” said Kuzen.
The two men had slowly inched forward and were looking almost directly down at Kuzen.
“The tattoos are generally in places that are not visible if the man is clothed,” said Hamilton.
“Interesting,” said Kuzen.
“Several years ago an attempt was made to smuggle nuclear material into Germany,” said Hamilton. “Is that also interesting?”
“Yes,” said Kuzen.
“You had heard about this attempt?” asked Hamilton.
Kuzen was definitely sweating now and was unwilling to wipe his forehead for two reasons. First, the policemen would see. Second, he might stain his silk robe or pajamas.
“Something. Vaguely,” said Kuzen, “when I worked for the government.”
“How secure are nuclear weapons in Russia?” asked Hamilton. “Your best guess.”
“Not terribly secure,” said Kuzen.
“Weapons depositories are guarded by a few untrained soldiers and a barbed-wire fence,” said Hamilton.
“I know nothing about that,” said Kuzen, looking up from man to man, sitting back as far as he could.
“How much of a problem would it be to steal fissionable material, perhaps even short-range warheads?”
“I couldn’t begin to speculate,” said Kuzen.
“The mafia for which you are working,” said Karpo, “is already, with your help, in possession of nuclear material and planning the massive theft of nuclear weapons. These are to be shipped out of Russia with the help of Italian criminals and sold to North Korea, Iran, and China.”
“Me?” Kuzen said, pointing to himself.
Blood and Rubles Page 18
