Rostnikov vacation ir-6

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  "I thought you wanted to get this told quickly," said Rostnikov.

  And McQuinton changed modes. He spoke quickly and clearly. He was suddenly a policeman, and he gave a policeman's report.

  "Guy in this bar got friendly with me, other cops," he said. "Asked questions, said he used to be a cop in Russia. Accent was right, but he didn't look like a cop, not a cop like me or you two. I thought he was full of shit, but he bought drinks. Long story short. One night I told this guy, said his name was Oleg, that Andy was sick and I was broke and getting close to retirement, that I hadn't saved anything and that the pension wouldn't cover… You know. Cop grousing."

  " Yes,'' said Rostnikov. He translated the essence to Misha and nodded for McQuinton to go on.

  "Oleg says, 'What if?' You know. What if someone handed me fifty thousand dollars. Cash. Tax-free. Plus a free trip to Russia. What would I do for that? I still thought he was full of shit. I said I'd kill for it. Few nights later Oleg came back with the same thing. I said I didn't find it funny anymore. He handed me a package. I figured it was a setup, Internal Affairs. I gave it back and told him to follow me into the John."

  "John?"

  "Toilet. I checked him out for wires. None. I checked the John. Clear. I told him to open the envelope. He did. It was full of bills. I still wasn't buying it, but I wanted to. I made him take out the bills, wipe 'em clean with his handkerchief, and lay 'em on the sink. When he reached ten thousand dollars, he had my interest. You know what's crazy? I stopped smoking twenty years ago. It'd kill me if I started again, but I need a cigarette now.

  Crazy."

  Rostnikov translated. Misha nodded and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, which he handed to McQuinton, who took one, accepted a light from Ivanov, and inhaled deeply.

  "Tastes like I never stopped," McQuinton said, and then he coughed, a terrible cough. He looked at the cigarette as the coughing subsided and continued to smoke as he talked.

  "Oleg told me I could take what he had with him and get the rest before we left the States. He would trust me. And he said it was possible I might get to keep the money and not do anything for it. But if anyone approached me and gave me the right word, I was to do what he told me. Oleg said I wouldn't have to kill anyone myself, just call a number and some guys would come. And I'd give these guys the name of the guy to hit. Like I said before, sounded like bullshit, but the money was real, and Andy ain't well, and it wouldn't be the first crap I pulled. Thirty years a cop is a long time."

  Once again, McQuinton paused and smoked while Rostnikov translated and Ivanov responded.

  "The man who approached you?" Rostnikov prodded.

  "Woman," corrected McQuinton. "About forty, plain, dark suit. In the lobby when we got to the hotel here. Haven't seen her since. She said she had been sent to see me by St. John the Baptist. That was it. She gave me a name and a phone number and said I should tell the guys I hired that the hit might have notes or a book. They were to bring the notes to me. Woman said the money would be in my room under the bed. It was. You saw the two I hired. Fifth-rate. Amateurs, and bad ones at that. That's the story."

  McQuinton finished his cigarette, crushed the butt in an ashtray on the table near the bed, and said, "Got to remember to clean that before Andy shows up."

  Misha Ivanov heard the rest of McQuinton's tale from Rostnikov and rubbed the tip of his nose gently.

  "It's a ridiculous story," Ivanov said, looking at the American. "Why would anyone go through the trouble of hiring an American to do this? Why not do it themselves? It makes no sense."

  "You think he is lying?" asked Rostnikov.

  "No," said Ivanov. "Conclusion?"

  "He's a scapegoat," said Rostnikov. "If this were discovered, as it has been, someone wanted an American blamed. I think Lester McQuinton is fortunate that we got to him before he conveniently had an accident."

  "Or conveniently committed suicide," said Ivanov.

  There was no knock at the door. It came open, and Misha Ivanov turned toward it, gun in hand.

  Andy McQuinton was in the middle of a laugh when she saw the gun. Behind her, Sarah Rostnikov, who had not seen the weapon, was still laughing, but when Andy went silent, she knew something was wrong.

  Ivanov put the gun away and moved to close the door behind Sarah as she and Andy stepped in.

  "Lester?" the frail woman asked, looking at her husband, who had definitely changed quite a bit in the few hours since she had gone out.

  Lester sat up at the edge of the bed.

  "Cop talk," said Lester. "Man here's a KGB officer. Showing me his weapon."

  "I am sorry," said Misha Ivanov in English with a smile.

  Sarah looked at Porfiry Petrovich and knew, not the details, but she knew that something was very wrong in this room. Andy McQuinton was carrying a small package. She put it on the bed and moved to her husband, who took her hand and gave her a false wink of confidence. The frail woman's nose crinkled, and she looked at the dirty ashtray.

  "Lester?" she repeated gently, afraid.

  "Later, Andy," he said softly.

  "Let us go, Misha," said Rostnikov. "The McQuintons have packing to do. There is a plane for Paris in two hours. Perhaps we can all drive them to the airport and sit with them till they leave."

  Ivanov looked at the Americans and shook his head a few times before heading for the door. Sarah moved to Andy's side and put her hand on the little woman's shoulder. Without looking back at her, Andy McQuinton touched Sarah's hand. The strong man on the bed was now quite weak, and the weak woman who stood before him had found within her a great strength.

  When they had gone into the hall and left the Americans to their packing, Ivanov turned to Rostnikov. Sarah took her husband's hand.

  "All right," said Ivanov. "We get them on the plane and then…"

  "I fly to Moscow and give this book to my division commander," said Rostnikov.

  "And he will believe you?" ' 'He will believe me," said Rostnikov, looking at his wife, who was quite pale.

  "And he will act?"

  "I do not know," said Rostnikov.

  "Porfiry Petrovich, I think we have stepped into something deep and very dirty.

  I'll arrange for a flight for you tonight. Get ready. I'll wait here till the Americans are prepared to go."

  Sarah had not said a word, and she did not do so even when they were back in their room.

  "Sarah," he said. "I won't even pack. I'll change clothes at home in Moscow and be back here tomorrow, the next day at the latest."

  Sarah Rostnikov was sitting on the chair in the corner.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, moving to her side. "Do you have a headache? You want your medication?"

  "It follows you wherever you go, Porfiry Petrovich," she said, looking at him.

  "Yes, "he admitted.

  "It is not an accident, is it?"

  He was not sure what she meant, but he answered what he understood.

  "I do not think so."

  "I like the American woman," said Sarah.

  "So do I," said Rostnikov.

  ELEVEN

  They drove in silence.Karpo explained nothing, and Tkach asked nothing. Neither man was uncomfortable with the situation, though Emil Karpo noted the lack of curiosity in his colleague, the wound on his forehead, and the semidrugged look in his eyes. And these made Emil Karpo wonder why Rostnikov had told him to pick up Sasha Tkach before he went in search of Jerold and Yakov.

  He had called Rostnikov about twenty minutes before he went to Tkach's house.

  Rostnikov had told him three things. The first was quite clear, that Zelach had been injured and that Tkach felt responsible. The second was quite cryptic, that Rostnikov had run into Karpo's Uncle Vetz, the uncle they had last seen where they caught the car thief. Third, Rostnikov said that Sarah had not been feeling well and was taking naps every morning at nine. Karpo had expressed concern and hung up understanding that Inspector Rostnikov had reason to believe their conversation was list
ened to and that Karpo was to be at a specific place at nine the next morning, the place where he and Rostnikov had caught a car thief named Vetz.

  None of this he told to Sasha Tkach. It was only when they had driven more than thirty miles and were turning into the road that led to the house that Karpo spoke. He began the history of Yakov and Jerold and the death of Carla. Tkach nodded to show that he understood, but he looked straight ahead. Karpo pulled over to the side of the road and turned off the ignition.

  "Tkach," he said, "it is essential that you understand and are attentive. The people we seek are quite dangerous."

  Sasha looked out the window and then turned to face Karpo.

  "I will not fail you, Emil Karpo," he said.

  Karpo opened the car door and got out. So did Tkach, who checked his gun as soon as he closed the car door. They moved off the road and walked forward along the line of trees. Around a curve, about fifty yards from their car, they saw the house, a modest house before which sat a black automobile with a dented left fender scratched with the white paint of the car it had hit after Jerold had fled with Yakov from the Kalinin Prospekt in front of the cafe.

  The policemen moved into the cover of the trees and made their way to the side of the house so they would not be seen approaching. There was an open space of dirt and stone about fifteen yards from the trees to the house. One window faced the two men as they crossed quickly to the wall.

  "Front door," Karpo said, so softly that Sasha was not sure he heard him.

  Before Karpo could say another word, Tkach moved around the building to the front and strode past the parked black car to the door of the house. Karpo, who had drawn no weapon, stepped out after him as Tkach reached over to knock.

  "Tkach," said Karpo, walking to join the younger man. "I did not mean for you to walk up to the door and knock."

  "I'm sorry," Tkach said.

  "I do not believe your suicide would have a productive result."

  Tkach did not answer. He knocked at the door. Karpo moved to the side of the door and motioned Tkach out of the way. Karpo reached over and knocked. Someone stirred

  inside, and the door began to open. Tkach held his gun outstretched at eye level, about where the head of an average-sized man might appear.

  The door was opened all the way now, and the scrawny doctor who had treated Jerold stood there calmly, paying no attention to the young man holding the gun.

  "What do you want?" she said, adjusting her glasses and looking at Karpo without emotion.

  "We are the police," said Karpo.

  "I can see that," she said.

  Tkach moved a step closer so that he could not miss.

  "This automobile," said Karpo. "Is the driver here?"

  "The car is mine," said the woman.

  "They aren't here," said Tkach.

  "We are coming in," said Karpo, and the woman backed away to let them enter.

  "Why did they come here?" Tkach asked the woman impatiently. "Where are they?"

  The woman moved ahead of them silently. Karpo moved into the house and said to the woman, "You have a phone?"

  She nodded toward a closed door to the right of the front entrance. Karpo entered, and Sasha Tkach urged the woman into the room after him by pointing with the gun.

  They were in the treatment room. It looked clean, ready. Karpo moved to the wastebasket in the corner and looked into it.

  "She treated one of them for a wound," Karpo said. ' 'Bandages, recent blood.''

  Karpo saw the phone on an old metal cabinet painted with white enamel and picked it up while Tkach carefully moved to the wastebasket and looked down at its bloody contents.

  The woman folded her arms and waited while Karpo made his call, which began with Karpo giving someone the name of the town and the street number of the house in which they stood. It ended with Karpo saying, "Spasee 'ba," and turning.

  "Her name is Katerina Agulgan," he said. "She is a doctor. She owns an automobile, but it is not the one parked in front. Hers is a green Zil. A search for it is now being undertaken with concentration within Moscow."

  "She can tell us where it is," said Sasha, moving forward to hold the gun to the right temple of the woman, who did not flinch or turn her eyes to~him. Instead, she looked at Karpo, who met her gaze.

  "She will not tell you, Sasha," he said.

  "Then I shoot her," said Sasha, his voice breaking.

  "There is nothing to be gained from her death, as there was nothing to be gained from your suicide," said Karpo.

  ' 'Something must have a resolution,'' said Sasha. "Something this day must conclude without confusion, without…"He could not find the word, but the woman did.

  "Ambiguity," she said.

  "She will not tell you," said Karpo, "because she is the mother of Yakov Krivonos, as the computer told us. Since the man we seek was shot, it was possible that Krivonos would bring him to his mother for treatment. Doctor, you will sit while we search your house and wait. You will sit now, in that chair."

  She moved to the chair and sat.

  ' 'Sasha,'' he said, ' 'you will please put your weapon away and search this house.''

  Tkach put his gun away, looked at the woman, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  "What is wrong with that young man?" the woman asked when Tkach had departed.

  "He is brooding, Dr. Agulgan," answered Karpo. "I do not know the details, nor are they relevant to your situation.'' "They are if he shoots me," she said.

  "He will control himself," Karpo assured her.

  "How do you know? He is a brooding Russian."

  "And you are not Russian?"

  She shrugged and went silent.

  "Your son and the man called Jerold plan to commit murder," Karpo said, standing erect and facing the seated woman. "You know that." ''Your partner planned to murder me a moment ago,'' she said.

  "Yes," said Karpo.

  "You want me to help a murderer find my son," she said.

  "I want you to do so, but I do not expect it," said Karpo.

  "What do you expect?" she asked.

  "I expect nothing," he said.

  The door opened, and Sasha Tkach came in holding a framed photograph in his hand.

  The woman adjusted her glasses and looked at him defiantly, but she did not speak.

  "Your son?" Tkach asked.

  Karpo moved forward to take the photograph from Tkach, who held it at his side.

  Karpo looked down at the framed photograph, at the face of Yakov Krivonos as he had been perhaps ten years earlier.

  The woman was sitting erect, her mouth a very thin line drawn tight. Karpo handed her the photograph, which she put gently into her lap.

  "The man called Jerold will get your son killed," Karpo said.

  "And if you catch him, you will kill him," she said. "I see no difference other than if I tell you where they are I betray my son."

  "We will not kill your son if we can do otherwise," said Karpo.

  The woman tore her eyes from the young man and looked at the ghostly figure before her. Their eyes met again, but this time there was no duel. She clutched the photograph to her chest and whispered, "I believe you."

  "Do you know where they are?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said. "I heard them… yes."

  "Will you tell us?"

  "Nothing is simple," she said.

  "Nothing is simple," Karpo repeated, and though Tkach said nothing, he agreed.

  Set well back in Soviet Square on Gorky Street stands the Central Party Archives of the Institute of Marxism-Leninism, which contains more than six thousand manuscripts of Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels and over thirty thousand documents of Lenin. Party members, politicians, and scholars who come to the building are greeted before they enter by a red granite statue of Lenin dedicated in 1938. On the outer wall of the institute is a panel with paintings of Marx, Engels, and Lenin and the bold inscription "Forward, to the Victory of Communism."

  In front of Lenin
, blocking his view of Gorky Street and the Moscow Soviet of Working People's Deputies, stands a four-story-high statue of Prince Yuri Dolgoruki seated triumphantly upon his horse. The prince is credited with founding Moscow more than eight hundred years ago.

  The Moscow Soviet of Working People's Deputies is, as Moscow official buildings go, not terribly impressive. Built originally in 1782 as a one-story residence for the governor-general of Moscow, it was added to and rebuilt before and after the war with the Germans, complete with porticos and a balcony from which Lenin frequently addressed crowds on the street and in Soviet Square. In this building in 1917, the Revolutionary Military Council met and directed the October armed uprising in Moscow. Inside the Moscow Soviet can be found the banner of the city of Moscow. The banner bears two Orders of Lenin, the Gold Star of the Hero City, and the Order of the October Revolution.

  Lenin's name is permanently on the roll of deputies of the Moscow Soviet, who, until perestroika, were the Communist party members responsible for running the city's services. Each of the Soviet states has its own Soviet. It is from this one in Moscow that the newly elected officials governed, and it was in Soviet Square, in front of the statue of Prince Yuri Dolgoruki, that Boris Yeltsin, the president of the Russian Soviet, and Mikhail Gorbachev, premier of the Soviet Union, would, with many other officials, generals, and party officers, be gathering in a few hours to speak at the fiftieth-anniversary celebration of the first defeat of Hitler's army in the city.

  From the square in front of Prince Dolgoruki's statue, on a wooden platform that had been erected over the past two days, the speakers would be able to point to the granite in the large archways between numbers 9 and 11 on Gorky Street, granite that the Nazis had brought in from Finland to erect a victory memorial.

  And Yakov Krivonos had what was undoubtedly the best seat for the coming festivities. He was seated in an almost empty room at the top of the Moscow Soviet facing Gorky Street. Access to the building had been as easy as Jerold had said it would be. Yakov had shown his photograph and identification as Yakov Shechedrin to the guard at the door, adjusted his glasses with great seriousness, and had been allowed to pass carrying his rather large briefcase.