Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 5 - Red Horseman

by Red Horseman (lit)

  "The whole fucking CIA can go to fucking hell for all I care," Tarkington said crossly. When he got no reply, he muttered something to himself that Grafton didn't catch.

  BUTYRSKAYA PRISON LOOKED LIKE SOMETHING FROM A Kafka nightmare, Jack Yocke decided, and jotted the thought on a blank page of his notebook as he sat in the waiting room.

  The Russian interpreter sitting on the bench across from him was as nervous as a pickpocket at a policeman's ball.

  He gnawed on a fingernail already into the quick, then stared at the sliver of nail still remaining.

  He pushed on the raw quick experimentally and grimaced. He crossed and recrossed his feet and stared morosely at the filthy paint on the wall and the dirty floor. He carefully avoided looking at any of the other people slumped on the wooden benches.

  Yocke wondered about this desire to avoid even eye contact. After sweeping each of the other eight people in the room, his gaze returned to the uncomfortable interpreter, Gregor Something, Gregor followed by five or six Slavic syllables that sounded to Yocke's American ear like a pig grunting.

  Two days ago Gregor jackrabbited away from Soviet Square, yet the following morning he showed up at Yocke's hotel as if nothing had happened.

  Still glowing with the virtuous warmth of his new-found heroism and curiously eager to make this gutless wonder squirm a little, Yocke asked, "Why did you run?" "My wife was ill." Gregor didn't blink or blush, didn't look away, even when Yocke sneered.

  To be able to lie outrageously and shamelessly was an asset, Jack Yocke told himself, one that would of course stand Gregor in good stead here in this workers" paradise of poverty and desperation, but it would also be a cheerful bullet for his rdsumblef even in brighter climes, such as the U.s. of A. Across the pond in the land of the free and home of the brave he could lie like a dog to clients and customers, cheat on his spouse, steal from his employer, write creative fiction for the IRS, and in the unlikely event he ever got caught he could fool the lie detector and skip away with a happy smile. This multilingual grunter would fit right in, as red, white and blue as a telephone solicitor hyping penny stocks to shut-in geriatrics. Once he got his fastball high and tight he could even become a politician.

  This morning in the waiting room of Butyrskaya Yocke asked Gregor, "Have you ever thought of emigrating to America?" "My wife's cousin lives in Brooklyn." Yocke stared.

  "Brooklyn, New York." "I'm trying to recall if I ever heard of Brooklyn. It's out west, isn't it? With cowboys and Indians and tumbleweeds?" "Perhaps," Gregor said softly. "I don't know. My wife's cousin drives a taxi and earns many dollars. He likes America." He shrugged.

  "America is a great country." "He drives a Chevrolet. Only five years old." He glanced at the other people in the room to see who was listening. One or two had glanced up at the sound of a foreign language, but now all but one had retreated into their self-imposed isolation.

  "Umm," said Jack Yocke, looking hard at the young man who was looking at them. He had longish hair and an air of quiet desperation. His gaze wavered, then fell away.

  "Petrol is cheap there, my wife's cousin says. Every day he drives many many miles. All the streets are paved." A door opened and a man passed through the waiting room. Jack Yocke caught a whiff of the prison smell. He had smelled it before in the jails of Washington, a devil's brew of urine, body odor and fear. Yocke delicately inhaled a thimbleful as Gregor regaled his listener with the adventures of his wife's cousin in his Chevy on the paved boulevards of Brooklyn.

  Two minutes after Yocke reached saturation, a man came through one of the doorways and spoke to Gregor, then led the way along endless dingy corridors. The warden's corner office was big and had a carpet. A dial phone straight out of the 1930's sat on the wooden desk.

  The warden came around the desk to shake hands, then trotted back around the desk and arranged himself in his chair. He was a sloppy fat man with a heavy five-o'clock shadow that made his skin look dingy gray.

  Gregor and the warden nattered a while in Russian, then Gregor turned to Yocke. "He welcomes the correspondent for the American newspaper Post to Butyrskaya." "Thank him for taking the time to see me." Of course Yocke had an appointment, arranged by an official with the Yeltsin government, but he was willing to pretend this was a social call.

  More Russian.

  "Ask your questions." "I am here today at the request of the editor of my newspaper, the most influential newspaper in the United States.

  Everyone in Washington reads my newspaper every day, from Hillary Clinton right on down. Everyone, including all the people in the Senate and House of Representatives.

  Tell him that." After an Uzi-burst of Russian, Yocke continued. "I am here to interview Yakov Dynkin, a Jew who was convicted of arranging the sale of a private automobile for profit. I understand he was sentenced to five years in the gulag at hard labor." The warden's face lost its friendliness as Gregor translated. Yocke didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone. The interpreter said, "Yakov Dynkin is not here. No Jews are here." "Has he been shipped to the gulag?" "No," was the answer that came back. Just no.

  Yocke thought about it. Dynkin wasn't here and he hadn't been shipped to the gulag. "Have they turned him loose with a pardon or probation?" The warden merely frowned.

  Yocke extracted a press clipping from his jacket pocket.

  He handed it to Gregor and pointed at the appropriate paragraph. "Two weeks ago Tass said Dynkin was here. There it is in black and white." Gregor stared at the clipping.

  "Go on! Show him that and tell him I wish to see Dynkin and write about what wonderful treatment he is receiving here at Butyrskaya even though he was convicted of violating a law that was repealed a week before he was arrested." Slowly, as if this were costing him a major portion of his pension, Gregor passed the piece of paper across the desk.

  The warden refused to touch it, so it came to rest in the empty spot on the desk in front of him. He bent over and looked at the English words without showing the slightest glimmer of comprehension.

  After a few seconds the warden picked up the offending paper and handed it back to Yocke', who accepted it. Another spray of words.

  "He says you are wrong. Dynkin is not here.

  No Jews are here." "Where are they?" "He doesn't know. Is there anything else he can help you with?" "Couldn't he consult his records or something and tell me if Dynkin has ever been here? Or when he left. Or where he is." Gregor considered.

  "These people do have records, I assume, something scribbled somewhere to tell them who is rotting in what hole..." Gregor spoke to Yocke as if he were a small boy incapable of understanding the obvious. "He is not here." "Who are you working for? Him or me? Ask him the question." "But he has told you the answer. What more could he possibly say? The warden is a powerful senior official. If he says the man is not here, then he is not. That is all there is to that." Jack Yocke smiled at the warden. He then turned the grin on Gregor.

  "This fat geek is lying through his teeth.

  These greasy Commie bastards railroaded Dynkin for making an honest ruble just because he's a Jew. They've got him locked up somewhere in the large intestines of this shit factory. This pompous son of a bitch knows the whole prosecution was a farce to fuck Jews and embarrass Yeltsin and his people, make them took like lying hypocrites when they go begging in America and Europe for foreign aid.

  Dynkin sold a car for a profit and these old Commies are grinding him into hamburger." Gregor's face was frozen, immobile. Even his eyes were blank.

  "Ask him if it's true that about a hundred and twenty thousand people are still imprisoned in labor camps for doing business that is legal in Russia today. Ask him." Gregor put his tongue in motion. After a few syllables from the warden, the translator told Yocke, "He doesn't know." "Ask him how Russia can establish a free marketeconomy if it keeps all these people in prison for earning a profit." Gregor looked at his shoes.

  "Ask him!" The translator's head moved from side to side, about a mil
limeter.

  Yocke flashed another broad grin at the warden. "Come on, Gregor.

  There's a story here. These Commies ain't got religion. They're still the same filthy, diseased assholes they always were. They screwed Dynkin to get at Yeltsin.

  You can see that, can't you? They can't get away with it if we tell it to the world." Gregor's face looked as bad as Lenin's, who had been dead for over sixty years.

  "Don't chicken out on me again," Yocke pleaded.

  "Think up something that will open up this pig's.

  ." But Gregor was leaving. He stood and nodded obsequiously to the warden while he jabbered away like a parrot with a hard on. The warden expended the effort to get to his feet. He tugged his jacket down over his gut and adjusted his tie. He grinned at Yocke and thrust out his hand.

  At a loss for what to do next, Yocke closed his mouth, gave the warden's soft hand a token pump, then followed the retreating Gregor.

  Going down the corridor Yocke demanded, "What did you tell that fat screw?" "Screw? What is a screw?" "A prison guard. A power pervert." Gregor gave Yocke a look that was about an equal mixture of contempt and amazement and kept walking.

  Outside in the street, Gregor exploded.

  "You can't talk to a powerful person like you did in there. This is Butyrskaya! Are you insane? Do you know nothing?" He sprayed saliva.

  "My newspaper sent me to get a story," Yocke snarled.

  "That asshole was lying! He didn't even look at the records. What a crock! You people have held your nose so long that you can't smell shit when you're in it up to your ears. You've been fucked by these people for seventy-five years because you bent over and grabbed your ankles and held the position. You gutless wonders will-was Gregor spit at Yocke's feet. "You are a little boy throwing pebbles at a great bear. The chain holding the bear is very rusty, very weak. If you arouse him you will end up in his belly and no one at your rich newspaper in Washington USA will ever know what became of you." He snapped his fingers. "Like that. You will be gone. You and your dirty words and stupid questions and your notebook where you write your words making fun of us. Gone forever, Mister Jack Yocke. Think about that if you have any brains to think with." They went to Gregor's tiny Soviet sedan and shoehorned themselves in.

  Sitting there with his kneesjammed against the dashboard, Yocke said, "Why don't you drop the krulak act and stop feeding me bullshit?" "Why don't you stop acting like stupid Yankee billionaire looking down his nose?" "I will if you will." Gregor inserted his key in the ignition, then glanced sideways at Yocke.

  "Standing in Soviet Square while gunmen shoot bullets was the most grotesque'-he had to search for words--the most dumbest stupid thing I have ever in my life seen. Everyone ran because those who shoot don't want anyone to see their faces. We stupid Russians think of that real quick." He bobbed his head once and snapped his fingers. "Even if stray bullets don't kill you the gunmen will if you stand there like you are watching old men play chess. And you hung there on the side of the speaker's platform, an ape in the zoo. You weren't shot-a miracle, like an immaculate conception. Truly there is a God and he looks after grotesque stupidly Americans." Jack Yocke's embarrassment showed on his face. "Well, that was sorta.

  ." Gregor pointed at the prison. "In there, you shot your mouth." "Shot my mouth off." "Yes. Off. Shot mouth off. Can warden speak English?" Gregor shrugged grandly. "Was the office bugged by people who tape and listen?" He shrugged again.

  "Can the people who tape and listen speak English?" Another shrug. "Will the warden tell something he has been told not, to tell to you, an American reporter to write in your glorious important foreign newspaper God knows what?" He lifted his hands and raised his eyebrows.

  "Rub it in." "Okay." He used his knuckles to rub Yocke's head.

  "There. It's rubbed in. You Americans!" "So what happened to Yakov Dynkin?" Yocke asked as he tried to smooth his hair back into place with his fingers.

  "We could spend the afternoon thinking possibilities.

  He is dead. Moved to another prison. Maybe sick. Maybe re leased. Maybe in Siberia.

  Maybe used to clean up mess at Chernobyl.

  Whatever, for us he is no more." "Then why did the warden say no Jews were here?

  Most liars don't expand the tale beyond what is necessary.

  "Oh?" "Why tell a whopper if a little lie will do? If Dynkin's dead-was "I don't know." Another shrug.

  "Let's try to find Dynkin's wife. I have her address written down here someplace." Gregor turned the key and the engine caught after only three seconds of grinding.

  The apartment building was one of dozens in a sprawling area outside the second Moscow loop.

  They all looked alike, five stories high, splotchy plaster, flat roofs, not a tree in sight. They found the one they wanted because it had a number painted on one corner.

  Yocke looked it over and began to compose his story in his head. The adjectives, nouns and verbs came effortlessly as he looked at the appalling, dreary buildings and tried to imagine what it would be like to call one of these concrete cell blocks home.

  But he kept his thoughts to himself. Gregor probably lived in an apartment house like this. Or wished he did.

  When Gregor parked and killed the engine, Yocke laid a hand on his arm.

  "Let's see if we can reach an understanding between us.

  I'm a foreigner, a stranger. I'm here because the American people are interested in Russia and my newspaper wants to print the stories. All I want to do is understand. If I can understand what is going on, I can write it. But I need to get the truth. I need to get it anyway I can." Gregor stared straight ahead. "In Russia there is no such thing as truth. There is only what you write, and it is good for someone and bad for someone else." That comment seemed to give Yocke no opening, so he attacked in another direction. "Are you for democracy?" Gregor considered. "Maybe." Yocke frowned. Aloud he said, "For democracy to work, people have to know what is really happening. My job is to find out. was t Come on, Jack! You sound like a candidate for county sheriff.

  Even you don't believe that treacle. You are employed by the owners of the newspaper to make them money, to write stories that sell newspapers.

  To keep the long green flowing they aren't too picky about who they screw, an attitude they share with hundred-dollar, have-anice-day hookers. Now that is truth as red, white and blue as a Harley tattoo.

  "This isn't America," Gregor explained patiently, damn him!

  The reporter grasped his door handle and pulled.

  "It's a hell of a lot closer than you think," he muttered through clenched teeth.

  Jake Grafton and Toad Tarkington sat in General Yakolev's car in the alley behind KGB Headquarters while they waited for the driver to return the keys. Toad was in the front beside the driver's seat. He stared at the cut-stone walls morosely. Herb Tenney was in the belly of the beast and that was a good place for him, he told himself.

  Unfortunately Herb would be out dancing in the sunbeams in about an hour.

  Jake Grafton had properly rejected his spur-of-themoment proposal to send Herb on to his next incarnation The complexities of the proof problem troubled Toad not a whit: he knew Herb was guilty-but there undoubtedly were other people involved in Herb Tenney's slimy little mess; there had to be.

  Maybe as few as three or four others, maybe the whole damned CIA, all sixteen thousand of them slopping through kimchi right up to their plastic photo ID badges. As usual Grafton was right.

  Why trade the devil you knew for heaven knows how many you didn't?

  And just what was Herb's mess? If the CIA were merely squashing billionaires like stinkbugs, that could be forgiven as some kind of kinky weekend sport, sort of like tennis with live grenades. If they switched to American billionaires they could probably get a TV contract and sell tickets.

  No, if that were the game they wouldn't be so twitchy.

  So what was going on?

  Keren was a newspaper mogul, wasn't he?

 
Perhaps his papers had uncovered something the CIA didn't want unred. Now that made sense.

  Arms for Iran? Cocaine cove for guns?

  Maybe something to do with the last American election.

  But all of this was pure speculation. He was trying to guess what the puzzle looked like after getting a fuzzy glimpse of one small piece.

  Toad glanced over his shoulder at the admiral in the backseat. He too was looking at the grim secret police headquarters and the grotesquely ugly buildings across the street, but his face showed no emotion.

  You're never gonna be an admiral, Toad-man. Never!

  You don't have the cool for it.

  His mind turned from that happy subject to his serious contemplation of the murder of a fellow human being. He had been serious, he reminded himself guiltily. What if Grafton had said yes?