Zakharov's nod acknowledged that obvious fact. "You will find the Major quite capable, Mr. Stern. He has a sharp mind and quick responses. He's action-oriented. His father was a prominent engineer in Dnepropetrovsk, and he came to our attention while attending engineering school. He has a good grasp of technology. He can be a bit impulsive at times, but he readily adapts to his surroundings. Treat him as a fellow professional and you should have no problems."
"Sounds like a man I can do business with," Stern said.
Minsk , Belarus
17
Darkness as thick as black caviar shrouded the neighborhood when Yuri Shumakov arrived home. He stepped from the car to be greeted by a chilling breeze, a wayward challenge to summer that had just blown in from the Baltic. When he entered the tidy, compact apartment, he found the same chilly atmosphere prevailing inside. Both boys sat with heads buried in their books, stealing only furtive glances as their father walked in. He felt good about what he had accomplished in Kiev, but when he saw the storm-warning flags in Larisa's dark eyes, he knew he was not about to get a hero's welcome.
He looked slowly from one son to the other. "This place radiates about as much warmth as a peace table for Armenians and Azeris."
"Forget Nagorno-Karabakh," his wife said. "Try a cassette tape by that saintly icon of American popular music, Madonna." She shook her head, exhaling noisily.
Raising an eyebrow, Yuri stared across at the boys, who sat monk-like, totally engrossed, or so they would have him believe, in an avid quest for knowledge. "You two have been fighting over a cassette tape?" he said in apparent disbelief. If nothing else, appearances were helpful in getting a point across.
"It was mine," Petr said. "I swapped for it at school." He glared at his younger brother. "That idiot snitched it from me and hid it."
Yuri jammed his fists against his hips. His voice rose a few decibels. "Petr, apologize for what you just said about your brother."
The boy had his mother's good looks and his father's streak of stubbornness. "I'm sorry you're an idiot, Aleksei," he said with mock sweetness.
Yuri fought to keep the stern look on his face, remembering similar spats with Anatoli when they were growing up. After a bit of judicious mediation, he managed to get the two boys—Petr was now seventeen, Aleksei fourteen—back on speaking terms. An ardent hug and a kiss finally returned the warmth to Larisa's eyes.
"Don't forget the big soccer game on Sunday, Dad," Petr reminded him. "We're playing the Cyclers. They're sponsored by the Minsk Motorcycle Factory and they're currently number one. I think we can beat them."
"That's the spirit," Yuri replied. The boy had the right outlook. He might fool his father yet.
He had missed Petr's last big game. He vowed not to miss this one. He recalled how a few years back he had often found time to take the boys fishing. An expert with knives, he taught them how to fillet fish and prepare it for cooking. Wouldn't it be great, he mused, to possess some kind of magic that could transport them back to that simpler time? Since his promotion to chief investigator, the work had relentlessly piled up like a mid-winter snow. Sergei Perchik was not a great believer in leisure. The former prosecutor had sponsored outings for employees and their families. During those relaxed gatherings, Yuri had demonstrated his knife-wielding prowess, acting as unofficial butcher, whether the meal involved fish or fowl or some variety of four-legged beast. His colleagues had jokingly dubbed him "the Butcher of Minsk."
Larisa sat across the table as he ate his boiled dumplings with sour cream, washed down with hot tea from the samovar. There had been little time to discuss the trip before he left. Now she was eager to learn the particulars.
"Why is the Minsk prosecutor sending investigators off to a place like Kiev?"
"Just a follow-up on the old KGB case," he said, giving her the same story he had used with Oleg Kovalenko. Then he deftly changed the subject. "But wait till you hear what I learned about that accident, the one that killed Anatoli."
As he told Larisa what he had read in the Ukrainian Defense Ministry's file on the incident, withholding only the part about the chemical agents, she was pleased that he appeared to have finally come to terms with that tragic event. Now maybe he could put it behind him and move on to other things. But when he mentioned his skepticism about the accidental nature of Anatoli's head wound and the odd coincidence of the KGB team having left just before the explosion, she stared at him with eyes narrowed.
"You're getting paranoid, Yuri. Surely you're not suggesting the KGB had something to do with—"
"Don't count them out," he cut her off. "I've had enough experience with those people to know they were capable of anything."
"Why on earth would they want to kill Anatoli?"
He shrugged. "I have no idea."
"Or blow up an army ammunition dump?"
Why would they? It was rather far-fetched when you stopped to think about it. To his knowledge, Anatoli had never been involved in anything that could have concerned the Committee for State Security, unless it was that weapons theft case. But the investigation had ruled him innocent of that affair. Four other soldiers in the building at the time of the blast had been killed, yet none of them suffered a bullet wound like his brother. Still, the idea that the KGB would deliberately destroy an army ammunition bunker made absolutely no sense, particularly when it housed highly toxic chemical weapons with the potential for causing a major disaster.
"All right," he acknowledged, "maybe I'm grasping at straws. But with what I know now, I'm more than ever determined to learn the full story. I won't rest until I know who's responsible for my brother's death. I have one more angle to check out."
"What's that?"
"Vadim Trishin. I want to know what he remembers about that KGB team."
Larisa turned back from the samovar. There was a slight edge to her voice, a hint of irritation. "Are you going down to see him
"I shouldn't be gone long," he said, catching the disapproval in her tone. The long hours he put in on a normal day kept him away from home far too much. He knew he needed to spend more time with his sons, not to mention his wife. But...
"I'm due a little time off. When I talk to General Borovsky tomorrow, I'll ask him if it's all right to take a day off for a little jaunt to Brest."
She put down her tea and gave him a perplexed frown. "Why do you have to ask him? I thought you were working as a liaison for Prosecutor Perchik?"
Damn it, he thought, why did he have to have such a bright woman for a wife? It was a stupid slip on his part.
"I am. But since I'm working out of the General's office, I thought I should clear it with him."
He hoped that would be enough to satisfy her, though he should have known better. Larisa was never easily satisfied when it came to anything with a hint of mystery. She had always been plagued by a lively curiosity. He knew he was not an accomplished liar, and she could tell from the expression on his face that there was more here than he cared to admit. She had always taken a genuine interest in Yuri's work, closely following his career, often discussing difficult cases with him.
Larisa was proud of the work he did. At the same time, he realized she harbored a bit of resentment at being saddled with all the household responsibilities and more than her share of supervision of the boys. She worked fulltime too. Her job was not so demanding from a time standpoint, which put her at home well before her husband. That meant she was usually the first to deal with problems of the children. Whenever she brought up the subject, Yuri invariably invoked the image of her mother, a staunch advocate of the age old custom that decreed housekeeping and children were responsibilities of a wife and mother.
Olga Georgevna was a dumpy, gray-haired babushka who loved to cook and keep house and spoiled her grandsons whenever she was around. A widow, she lived with her son Grigori. But Larisa, in contrast to her mother, had religiously exercised and watched her diet and managed to maintain a trim figure, with just enough excess to accentuate the curves. Yuri found her equal
ly as attractive now as when they were first married.
Late that evening, as darkness spread over their bedroom like a soft black coverlet, Larisa snuggled up against him and laid an arm suggestively across his chest. "Did you miss me while you were gone?" she whispered.
"Of course," he said.
Yuri had been mentally sifting through the facts he had found in that disturbing file on the explosion. But he pushed everything to the back of his mind and turned to take in the full essence of this soft, warm woman whose presence had suddenly demanded his full attention. There was a natural attraction between them that, despite occasional disagreements, remained as untarnished as a freshly cut rose. He kissed her gently.
"Tell me something."
"I love you," he said. "What else?"
"What are you really doing at the KGB office for General Borovsky?"
Yuri stiffened.
"It must be something important," she said, her fingers playing over his chest, "or Sergei Perchik would never have let you go."
"Who said I was doing anything for Borovsky?"
She gave a slight snicker. "You did, silly. Not in so many words. But I know you. You don't kowtow to people. You wouldn't be asking Borovsky about taking off unless you were working for him."
He couldn't see her face in the darkness, but he knew she must be grinning. He hadn't lied to her, but he hadn't been forthcoming either. "Look, Larisa, I can't tell you what it's about, but I'm really on loan to General Borovsky. Chairman Latishev requested my help on a matter and Prosecutor Perchik agreed."
"Chairman Latishev," she cooed. "I'm impressed. But the Committee for State Security? You're not the KGB type."
"It isn't the old KGB anymore. It's different."
"Different how?"
"Well, they don't spy on people."
"Then what do they do?"
"They're concerned with economic crimes. You know, smuggling, speculation, racketeering, some of the same things I'm normally involved with. Look," he said, "what I'm doing there is highly confidential. The only thing I can say is that it really is sort of a follow-up to my old investigation."
He began a trail of kisses from her forehead, along the bridge of her nose, across her lips, onto her neck. "Now I'm going to make you forget everything you just heard," he whispered, and continued down to more interesting points.
18
When Chief Investigator Shumakov arrived at the General's office the next morning and asked about the boss, the secretary perfunctorily advised him it was "football morning."
Yuri stared at her in obvious confusion. As the new kid on the block, he hadn't been around long enough to pick up the KGB lingo. Was this a fancy name for some interoffice activity? Borovsky hadn't mentioned it.
"Football morning?" he repeated.
She was a heavyset woman whose attempt at improving her looks with makeup was an exercise in futility. It seemed to have had some affect on her personality as well. She obviously did not share the view that someone from the prosecutor's office was needed at the state security headquarters.
"Yes, football morning. You've seen his office. A chief investigator should be able to deduce that General Borovsky is one of Minsk's most avid soccer fans."
Yuri took a deep breath and held his temper. Recalling all the photos and banners, it was obvious. But that didn't answer his question. "That still doesn't tell me anything about 'football morning,'" he protested.
"In short," she said with a look of irritation, "it means there's a practice match going on at Dynamo Stadium. That's where you'll find General Borovsky."
Yuri shook his head. Somehow he hadn't pictured the hustling, fast-talking former military man as a rabid sports fan. "Would it disturb his morning if I went out there and talked to him?"
"Not at all. He's expecting you." Now, feeling she had gotten the best of him, she almost smiled. "Oh, and by the way, Prosecutor Perchik called yesterday. He'd like you to drop by to see him."
What did Perchik want, he wondered as he headed out to his car? Was there a problem? Had he left something pressing unresolved, with no one briefed to handle it? He couldn't recall any loose ends. But he knew it would be prudent to go by as early as possible. This temporary assignment was like walking a high wire at the circus. You had to keep everything in balance. The future of his career still lay in the prosecutor's hands. And Perchik was a man who demanded unquestioned fidelity.
The big stadium appeared a placid, empty chasm, as quiet as the Roman Coliseum on the gladiators' day off. Soccer was the national passion in this part of the world. Unfortunately, the Minsk team had a reputation for starting out the season strong, then fading down the stretch. The players, decked out in blue jerseys and white shorts, were on the pitch going through warm-ups. Squinting toward the small, sun-drenched group of spectators occupying the bottom row of seats at one side, Shumakov spotted Borovsky's flaming red hair. The General saw him and waved.
"Good morning, Shumakov. I hope this didn't inconvenience you."
Yuri took the seat beside him. "Glad to get out of the office, General. You must be an old soccer hand."
"Isn't everybody? Yes, I played left fullback. Did some coaching, too, in the army. How was your trip?"
Yuri told him about the capture and subsequent escape of Major Nikolai Romashchuk.
Borovsky nodded vigorously as he listened while keeping his eyes glued to the pitch, where the action had started. At one point he interrupted Yuri with a shout. "Watch the wing, Sulitsky! Sorry, Shumakov. Go ahead." When Yuri had finished, the General looked around with a smile. "But they confiscated his booty, eh?"
"I have a feeling there's a lot more where it came from."
"You're probably right." The smile slowly faded. "That uniform ploy bothers me. Do you think he might have a confederate in the Kiev Militia?"
"That's a possibility. Chief Investigator Kovalenko is putting his people to work on it. I'll check back with him in a day or so." Yuri opened the envelope he had brought with him and fished out a head shot of a bland-looking, dark-haired man staring unemotionally at the camera. "Here's Romashchuk."
The General scrutinized the photo. "Not a striking figure, is he?"
"I think that's the way he wants to look. The old detective who questioned him said he was the most convincing liar he had ever run across."
Borovsky nodded. "General Zakharov always picked his people carefully. I once had a run-in with him when I was in the GRU. He's a formidable son of a bitch."
"You were in army intelligence?"
The General nodded. "That's the background that got me this job. When the union started falling apart, the GRU, like everything else in the military, suffered a severe case of demoralization. The Party hacks knew their days were numbered. A lot of the dedicated professionals, like myself, threw their hands up and resigned. I had known Latishev a long time before he was elected Chairman. He's ex-army, too." He reached into his jacket, took out a leather wallet and removed a faded photograph, which he handed to Yuri. "That's us in more idyllic times."
Shumakov studied the smiling face of a much younger Borovsky in a captain's uniform. Another officer wearing lieutenant's insignia, obviously Chairman Latishev, stood beside him. Each of them had an arm around a busty girl at his side.
"Looks like you had the situation well in hand," Yuri said with a grin.
Borovsky grunted. "It was a situation that got out of hand. Later I was married to both of them. Not at the same time, mind you. I'm no Muslim. And I'm currently, how shall we say, unencumbered. Work and soccer are my only loves."
Yuri took another look at the uniforms and handed the picture back. "My younger brother was an army captain. He was killed in an accident a few years ago that never should have happened." He shook his head, then added, "Which reminds me, I have a score to settle on that. I'd like to go check on something in Brest. I'm due a little time off. Do you have any problem with my being gone tomorrow?"
"No. Go ahead. Maybe by the time you get b
ack, your friend in Kiev will have some news for us."
Yuri stuffed Major Romashchuk's picture back into the envelope. "Would you check with your contacts in Moscow and have them send us a photo of General Zakharov? It would help me to know what our other fugitive looks like."
"Sure. I'll put in a call as soon as I get to the office."
From the stadium, Shumakov drove straight to the prosecutor's office. Perchik greeted him again with his politician's smile, not the scowl that would indicate he had committed some unpardonable sin. Yuri viewed it with mixed emotions.
"Sorry to bother you with such an insignificant matter, Shumakov, but I need you to consult with Repin. He's prosecuting that shooting death you investigated a few days ago."
It was hardly insignificant to the victim, Yuri reflected. But it was a rather small thing for Perchik to be concerned with. "I'll be happy to talk to Repin," he said. "But I thought Detective Khan would have taken care of everything."
"Yes. Well, Khan said you did the actual interrogation. Repin, you know, likes to get his hands on every bit of evidence available."
Right, Yuri thought, and he would have you believe he had procured it all personally. He had heard that Repin had complained about Chief Investigator Shumakov's "overly ambitious maneuverings." The man was an unreconstructed communist who held to the credo that appearances of politically correct behavior were more important than actual accomplishments. Yuri suspected that Repin feared being upstaged if he were promoted to prosecutor. He had difficulty with an astute person like Perchik not being able to see through the phony bastard.
"I'll straighten him out," Yuri said. Then, as Perchik spoke again, he realized the true reason for his being summoned here.
"And where have your travels for the KGB taken you?"
"I've been in Kiev the past few days."
"Kiev, eh?"
Yuri nodded. "Kiev."
Perchik waited in silence, an expectant look on his face. Yuri knew that he was waiting to hear about the investigation. He also knew that he was forbidden to tell him anything. He reasoned that he shouldn't get his toes stepped on as long as he just danced around the subject.
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 12
