Rostnikov vacation ir-6

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  He raised his weapon. The little man looked at Pato for help, but there was none coming from him or from Rostnikov, who knew better than to interfere.

  "You want to answer questions, either of you?" asked Ivanov.

  "No," said Pato.

  Ivanov's gun was now aimed squarely at the little man's chest.

  "Yes," cried the little man.

  "Be quiet, Yuri," Pato said.

  "I'm going to shoot you now," said Ivanov. "I am a very impatient man."

  "We killed him," the little man said. "We were told to kill him. We were hired.

  Actually it was Pato who-"

  "Yuri," Pato warned.

  "Shut up, bear," Misha said. "Let the man speak and live. Who hired you?"

  "My arm is bleeding," bleated Yuri, removing his hand from his arm to show the flow of blood.

  "Thank you for informing me," said Misha, stepping forward. "Talk or die."

  "This is not fair," cried the little man. "Why aren't you threatening Pato? Why does everyone think I'm the weak one? Is this fair? I lost an eye. I lost a finger. Look. See. Here. They sewed it back on. I can't bend it. Why shoot me?"

  "Who hired you?" asked Ivanov.

  "The man at the hotel," said Yuri. "At the Lermontov."

  Before either Rostnikov or Ivanov could react, the huge man had grabbed the neck of the wild-eyed little man and twisted it with a terrible crack. Ivanov fired three times. The first bullet hit Pato in the neck. The second tore into the right side of his forehead as he spun around, and the third hit him low in the stomach. He dropped the little man, pitched forward on his face silently, and died.

  Ivanov and Rostnikov moved forward to the fallen little man, who looked very much like a scrawny dying bird as he lay on his back.

  Ivanov kicked the dead Pato once and lifted his head to be sure he was dead.

  Rostnikov knelt at the side of the little man.

  "Don't move," said Rostnikov.

  "Can't move," the man whispered, a trail of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. "Can't feel."

  "Who hired you, Yuri?" said Rostnikov gently.

  Ivanov, who had joined Rostnikov, hovered over the dying man, his weapon leveled at Yuri's head.

  "Answer the man," he said.

  "Shoot me," whispered Yuri, his voice fluttering.

  "Pato has killed you, Yuri," said Rostnikov. "He has betrayed you."

  "Pato was always my friend till he killed me," Yuri breathed, his eyes closing.

  "Was it the waiter?" asked Ivanov. "Anton, the waiter?"

  "No," said Rostnikov. "It was McQuinton."

  "The American. Yes," said Yuri, opening his eyes. The good one found Rostnikov.

  The glass one looked into forever, and Yuri died.

  TEN

  There had been no time to confess to Maya.

  When they reached the apartment, she had put Pulcharia in her crib for a nap and then helped Sasha cleanse the wound on his head.

  "You should go to the clinic," she said. "I think it needs stitches."

  But she made it a suggestion, not a demand. There was something more important going on than concern over a physical scar.

  "Zelach is in the hospital,'' he said as she cut away a small patch of his hair so she could close and tape the wound. "He may lose an eye."

  "I'm sorry," Maya said with more concern for her husband's anguish than for what had happened to his partner. Maya had met Zelach only twice, and both times very briefly. What little her husband had said about the man had not been particularly complimentary, but the effect of what had happened was clear in the vacant pain in her husband's face. For the first time since she had met him, he looked every day of his age and perhaps even more.

  "I must tell you, Maya," he said. "It was my fault."

  Maya considered asking him to take his clothes off and get into bed with her.

  Pulcharia was sleeping. He obviously had some time, and they had not been together for days. Maya was in her fourth month, and the roundness of her tummy was just beginning. When she was carrying Pulcharia, she and Sasha had made love right to the final month, the few times they were able, when Sasha's mother was not in the next room.

  Now that they had their own apartment they made love about as frequently as they had when Lydia was around, but they did it with a sense of freedom. But Maya was certain that if she suggested that they now take off their clothes and get in bed, he would reject the idea.

  The phone rang. There were two small rooms in the apartment. One was the bedroom with their bed and Pulcharia's. The other was the combination living room and kitchen in which they now sat near the small sink. In the next room the baby stirred, and Maya dashed across the room to answer the phone before it rang again.

  Something in her dash, the swish of her dress, stirred a memory within Sasha and made him want to weep.

  "It's Karpo," Maya said, holding out the phone to him.

  Sasha's knees felt weak beneath him, but he rose and took the phone.

  "Yes," said Sasha, looking at Maya, who had crossed back to the sink to clean up.

  ' 'Can you be in front of your apartment in three minutes?'' "Three… but…"

  "I am unable to call anyone else," said Karpo. "I am not supposed to be in Moscow. I will explain if you can come. If you cannot, let us terminate this conversation."

  "I'll be down in three minutes," Sasha said, and hung up the phone.

  Maya looked at him. She was framed against the window. She looked soft, round, and her voice was gentle, with that slight touch of Georgia that always stirred him.

  "You are in no condition to do anything or go anywhere, Sasha," she said. But she spoke knowing that he was going, even considering that it might be best for him to go rather

  than say what he planned to say, for surely now, though he felt the need to speak, she did not feel the need to hear.

  "I… it will be. I'll be back as soon as I can," he said.

  She stepped forward and put her arms around him, her belly against his, and he felt or imagined he felt the baby kick.

  "Have you eaten anything today?" she asked, stepping back to look at his face.

  "No," he said.

  Maya went to the cabinet and took a piece of bread from the enamel bread box with the little flowers, a wedding gift from her mother.

  "Thank you," he said, holding the bread in two hands as if it were a precious gift.

  ' 'Sasha, it's just a piece of bread.'' "I'll stop and see Arkady before I come home," he said, moving to the door.

  For a moment she didn't know who her husband was talking about, but then she realized it must be Zelach. She had never before heard his first name.

  It was the city of Chekhov, so Rostnikov decided to stage the scene as if it were the end of the second act of one of the master's plays. Misha Ivanov had arranged for the quiet removal from the woods of the bodies of both Pato and Yuri and, after they examined the contents of the notebook Rostnikov had removed from under the rotunda, had agreed to Rostnikov's proposal to stage the scene.

  The notebook had contained a list of names and notations. Some of the names had lines through them, others had notes after them, and neatly penned speculations were at the bottom of almost every sheet.

  "How many do you count?" Ivanov had said as they sat on a bench near the entrance to the woods. From the bench they could watch the nearby traffic on the road and look up the hill toward the Lermontov Hotel. A gray van was parked

  no more than ten feet from them, partly blocking their view of the road toward town.

  "In Yalta?" Rostnikov answered. "Seventeen. That includes both you, me, and Georgi himself."

  "Conspiracy?" asked Ivanov, pulling his jacket around him, though Rostnikov felt no surge of cold air.

  "That was clearly Vasilievich's belief," said Rostnikov.

  "Confirmed by his death and the interest of those two to obtain this book," said Ivanov.

  As he said "those two," the body of Pato was being ca
rried past them on a stretcher by two men, who strained under the weight.

  "Something is going to happen in Moscow," said Rostnikov.

  Ivanov sighed deeply in answer.

  "If Vasilievich was correct, the senior investigators from all branches, KGB, MVD, GRU, who would be most likely to uncover and disrupt this thing, were sent on vacation away from Moscow at the same time."

  "Or," added Ivanov, "sent on the pretext of watching one of the investigators.

  And who knows how many were sent places other than Yalta. When will it happen?"

  Rostnikov looked at the notebook.

  "Soon, very soon. According to Vasilievich, five of these vacations end the day after tomorrow."

  "All right," said Ivanov, standing and brushing fallen leaves from his lap. "The American."

  "Yes," said Rostnikov, also rising as the two men took their now empty stretcher back into the woods for the second body.

  And that had led them to the scene that Porfiry Petrovich was now playing out with the American. Rostnikov had gone to his room and knocked, and McQuinton had answered, a book in his hand, fully dressed. His white hair was brushed back, but he needed a shave. Little white bristles caught the dim light of the hall.

  ' 'Have the women returned?'' Rostnikov said.

  "Haven't seen them," said McQuinton. "You all right? You look a little-"

  "I am, a bit, what is the word? Is it 'disgruntled'?"

  "Probably not," said McQuinton. "You want to come in?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  McQuinton stepped back. Rostnikov entered, and the American closed the door behind him.

  "Not much room," said McQuinton, looking at the bed, wooden cabinet, and single straight-backed chair. ' 'Take the chair. Mind if I shave?"

  "Thank you," said Rostnikov, "but I would prefer to stand. My leg is misbehaving a bit."

  "Suit yourself," said McQuinton, moving to the washroom.

  Rostnikov followed him and watched from outside the door. There wasn't enough room inside for two people.

  McQuinton ran the water and found his razors in a leather case.

  "Damned water never gets warm," he said, wrapping a towel around his neck and patting his face.

  "What are those?" asked Rostnikov.

  "Disposable razors. Here, take a couple. I brought plenty from the States."

  He handed three blue-handled plastic razors to Rostnikov, who put them in his jacket pocket.

  "Thank you," he said. "And I have something for you, but it is less in the form of a gift than a burden.''

  McQuinton was examining himself in the small mirror over the sink as he shaved.

  Rostnikov removed Vasilievich's notebook from his pocket and held it up where McQuinton could see it in the mirror. The American's hand did not waver. The stroke from neck to chin was smooth.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "A notebook," said Rostnikov.

  "What do you want me to do with this burden?" asked McQuinton, turning his head to one side to inspect the progress of his effort. He seemed satisfied.

  "Take it with you," said Rostnikov. "Turn it over to the CIA when your plane refuels in Paris."

  McQuinton removed the towel from his neck, wiped the remaining soap from his face with it, examined himself in the mirror once more, and turned to face Rostnikov.

  "What is it?"

  "It contains a list of names of senior Soviet investigators,' ' said Rostnikov.'

  'It documents their ordered departure from Moscow and includes speculation by the senior investigator who compiled the list that all of these men were ordered to take vacations at the same time. It was his belief that something was about to take place in Moscow, something that some high-ranking figures do not want to be stopped by anyone who might be capable of determining what was taking place."

  McQuinton looked at Rostnikov and the book and moved out of the small bathroom and to the bed, where he propped up the two pillows and sat against them.

  "I don't follow," said the American.

  "If something does take place within that period," Rostnikov went on, facing the lounging but attentive American, "this notebook will be evidence that a conspiracy exists."

  "And you want me to smuggle the notebook out of the country and turn it over to the CIA? Why?"

  "You are leaving. It is possible the CIA will be able to use channels to stop the event, to expose it. If not, they can reveal that the event, which might be made to look like an individual-"

  "Rostnikov," said the American. "Spit it out."

  "I don't-" ' 'What's going on?'' "I think an attempt will be made to kill Mikhail Gorbachev within the next two days," said Rostnikov, looking at the notebook. "I think it will be made to look not like a coup from within but a random mad act, probably from a foreigner."

  "Holy Christ," said McQuinton, sitting up. "You're not kidding."

  "I am not kidding," said Rostnikov.

  "Why can't you just take this book to Moscow?"

  "I can," said Rostnikov. "I may or may not be believed. I may or may not be allowed to live long enough to air my suspicions. My credibility as an investigator is secure, but my relationship to the KGB, which would have jurisdiction, is weak, and I am not sure which elements of the KGB might be involved. I am being frank with you."

  "I appreciate that," said McQuinton, getting off the bed and starting to pace around the room. "But, hell. I'm on vacation with a sick wife. I'm not sure I can risk getting caught with this thing."

  "I appreciate your concern," said Rostnikov. "If you would rather not, I fully understand."

  "Hold it. I didn't say I wouldn't. Okay." The sigh was enormous, as if the American were about to take on the responsibilities of the world. He held out his hand for the book.

  "You should know that the man who wrote this notebook is dead," said Rostnikov.

  "I'm in," said McQuinton, shaking his head.

  "Would you like to know who killed him?" Rostnikov asked.

  "Yes, it might help cover my ass."

  "You killed him," said Rostnikov.

  McQuinton's hand wavered inches away from the notebook that Rostnikov held out.

  Several possibilities went through Lester McQuinton's mind. All were evident in a series of looks that quickly crossed his face. He considered a smile, an assertion that the idea was absurd. He considered violence, a grab for the book and an attempt to overpower and possibly kill Porfiry Petrovich. He may even have considered the possibility of simply running, for Rostnikov could certainly not follow, but where would he run, and besides…

  Rostnikov had moved to the door, which he opened. Misha Ivanov was standing in the hall, his hands folded in front of him. He stepped into the room, and Rostnikov closed the door.

  McQuinton shook his head and sat heavily on the bed.

  "Andy really likes your wife," McQuinton said, looking up at Rostnikov. "Hell, what difference does that make, right?"

  "Sarah likes your wife also," said Rostnikov. "She is not…?"

  "No," said the American. "As far as she knows, we're just here on a vacation. I saved the money, and here we are."

  "My English is terrible, Rostnikov," Misha Ivanov said in Russian. "Ask him."

  "Are you an American?" Rostnikov asked, moving back to lean against the low wooden cabinet.

  "I'm an American. I'm a cop. No lies. That's about all you get from me unless we deal," said McQuinton.

  Rostnikov translated for Ivanov, who said, "Tell him we make no deals."

  "Gentlemen," said McQuinton, "I'm an American tourist. I don't know what you've got or think you've got on me, but accusing an American of killing Soviet citizens isn't going to do relations between our countries very much good."

  "We both heard Yuri identify you as the man who hired him and Pato to kill Georgi Vasilievich," said Rostnikov. "He and the man called Pato are quite willing to confess both to the murder itself and your responsibility."

  "Come on. No motive, no evidence," said McQuinton, b
ut he did not say it with confidence.

  "Motive?" asked Rostnikov.

  "Reason to want your Vasilievich killed. Did I pronounce the name right?"

  "What is he saying?" asked Misha Ivanov impatiently.

  "We have no motive, no evidence," Porfiry Petrovich said.

  "Tell him I'll shoot him in the face if he doesn't talk," said Ivanov, opening his jacket and pulling out his gun.

  Lester McQuinton looked at it but showed no sign of being frightened.

  "No, I have a better idea," Misha Ivanov said brightly. "Tell him I will shoot his wife and then I will shoot him." ' 'Ivanov,*' Rostnikov said softly, looking at the KGB man, but Rostnikov could see in the man's gentle grin that he meant what he said.

  "Tell him," Ivanov insisted.

  "He's threatening Andy, isn't he?" McQuinton said.

  "Yes," Rostnikov confirmed. "But I would not let him do that."

  "You might not be able to stop him," McQuinton said with a sigh. "Good guys, and bad guys. Hell. Let's work a deal here. I tell you what I know, you let me get on the plane tonight and go home with my wife. If you think I'm holding back or lying, you arrest me, shoot my ass, or whatever you guys do."

  "You would trust us?" asked Rostnikov.

  Lester McQuinton ran his thick right hand through his white hair. "I got a choice?"

  "Rostnikov, I grow weary," said Ivanov.

  Rostnikov explained what McQuinton had said.

  "Make the agreement, Porfiry Petrovich," said Misha.

  "We honor it," Rostnikov said.

  "And we decide if he should be arrested when he is finished," Ivanov said.

  Rostnikov nodded at McQuinton.

  "I want this done one way or the other before Andy and your wife get back."

  "Then speak quickly," said Rostnikov.

  "I go to this bar back home," said McQuinton. "Place on Fiftieth Street called On the Way Home."

  "I don't…" Rostnikov began.

  "Bars back home sometimes have these cute names. Idea is that you can call your wife and say you're On the Way Home."

  "And that is humorous?"

  "Some think so," said McQuinton. "I could use a drink now. Just a beer. Beer in your country stinks."