"I had the opportunity to renew an acquaintance with an old colleague there," he ventured.
"Who was that?"
"Chief Investigator Oleg Kovalenko."
"He was the one who helped with the KGB case, wasn't he?"
As usual, Yuri was impressed by the prosecutor's knowledge and memory. For a case Perchik was not involved in but had only read about, it was little short of phenomenal. "He's the one."
"Does that mean General Borovsky is interested in the old KGB apparatus?"
Yuri was getting a taste of how hapless defendants must feel during the prosecutor's relentless probing. He knew it could only get worse. He saw no way out except to admit the truth. "I'm sorry, but I was instructed not to discuss the case with anyone but General Borovsky."
For a small man, Perchik could loom very large when angered. He bristled like a bantam rooster with its hackles raised. His face flushed. His dark eyes hardened like frozen ripe olives. "Were you told specifically not to discuss it with me?" he demanded.
Shumakov could see his career beginning to slip through his fingers. Maybe he could get work as a private investigator. "Specifically."
"By whom?"
"General Borovsky said it was Chairman Latishev's instructions."
"I might have known. Latishev considers me a rival. I was a little surprised when he called me about you in the first place. Have you decided to dip your toe into politics, Yuri Danilovich?"
"I swore off thinking politically several years ago," he said.
"Oh? Do you find politics abhorrent?"
"I wouldn't use that word."
Perchik's eyes flashed. "What else did General Borovsky say about me?"
"He said I could tell you where I was traveling."
Perchik gave a grunt of aggravation. "Generous of him. So what's your next port of call?"
"I'm going to Brest in the morning," he said, then realized that was a bit misleading. "Actually, it will be more of a personal thing than business. It has to do with my brother's death."
The prosecutor's face had begun returning to its normal pallid tint. "Well, I would advise you to watch your step with those state people," he warned icily.
Back at the modest quarters he had been given to work out of at the KGB, still more spacious than his own office, Yuri had just sat down at his desk when General Borovsky's secretary appeared in the doorway displaying her usual frumpy frown.
"I just tried to call you. The General has an appointment with the Chairman and wants you to go with him."
Chairman Latishev's office was in the old Central Committee of the Belarusian Communist Party Building, now occupied by the Supreme Soviet. He sat behind a large mahogany desk, its polished surface glistening in a beam of sunlight. A pensive man in his late-forties, he had a light brown mustache that matched his wavy hair. The deep furrows of his broad brow and the dark, sensitive eyes marked him as a man accustomed to the intellectual battleground. Following his army service, Latishev had been a dissident writer and spent several years in exile after publication in the West of his novel, The Everyday Tragedy. The book depicted the hopelessness of a young Soviet family living in a drab, cramped apartment, working at useless jobs they hated, harassed unmercifully by the system when they spoke out against their dehumanization. He had been freed from exile by Gorbachev about the same time as Andrei Sakharov. Back home in Minsk, he began exhorting the republic's Supreme Soviet to push for independence before it became all the rage in the Baltics.
Latishev leaned across the desk and shook hands with Yuri Shumakov. "It's a pleasure meeting you, sir," he said. "You did a great service in ridding us of that state security barbarian."
"Wasn't he the officer who arrested you?" Yuri asked.
"Yes. And then interrogated me beyond exhaustion. It went on and on and on until I lost all track of time. I couldn't tell you today how long it lasted. Fortunately, those days are gone. Let's hope forever. I regret to say, however, there are communists and nationalists in the bureaucracy and among our legislators who would have us go in a different direction. I have continually pleaded for people to put aside politics and do what is morally right. It appears we cannot enjoy the true fruits of freedom without being constantly on guard against the rise of new tyrants."
General Borovsky looked around at Yuri. "I told the Chairman that you had been checking into Major Romashchuk's recent activities in Kiev."
Latishev leaned on his desk, his hands folded tightly. "I urge you to press forward as vigorously as possible, Shumakov. These people are fanatics. I don't know if they have the support to accomplish anything, but they could cause a lot of grief."
"I'll certainly give it my best," Yuri assured him. "General Borovsky tells me they might be orchestrating efforts against some of the commonwealth governments. Do you think they might be pursuing the ideas espoused by Ivan Stelbitsky?"
Latishev moved a hand up to his chin and massaged it thoughtfully. "If that's their intention, they are in for a rude awakening. During my recent visit to the United States, the President promised me he would not stand by and let that happen. I think the Americans are morally shamed by their inaction years ago, when they declined to stop the Soviets' disgraceful intervention in Hungary and Czechoslovakia. He promised the U.S. would help defend us, that he would work through the Security Council and directly with other governments to support our independence."
Yuri's eyes widened. That was a powerful endorsement. "What do you think these people are up to then?"
"More likely they're out to undermine individual regimes, put power back into the hands of their old communist cronies. If they accomplished that, then they might push for a voluntary federation leading to a new Soviet-style system."
"The meeting here on July fifth may see efforts toward something close to that," Borovsky said, tilting his head to take in both Yuri and the Chairman.
Latishev gave a frown of disagreement. "I don't think so, General. Sure, we're going to adopt some measures of closer cooperation. But as long as I'm involved, there will be no diminution of our sovereignty. The people of Belarus would not stand for it."
As they left Government House for the walk back to KGB headquarters, General Borovsky summed up his old army colleague with a smile. "He's an idealist. He'd like to see the political leadership be above politics, but it doesn't work that way. Latishev is a soul brother to Czech President Vaclav Havel. Havel was a playwright, you know. They even look enough alike to be brothers."
"You evidently feel the threat is more immediate than he does," Yuri said.
"Latishev spoke out against oppression back when that was dangerous. The people know that. That's why they've supported him. But he's naive if he thinks there are only a limited number of hardliners still around. There are enough of them that General Zakharov and his crowd could throw things into complete disarray, if that's what they're after. We need to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible."
Brest, Belarus
19
Snug against the Polish border, Brest stood at the convergence of several key highways, including the Moscow-Warsaw international route. It was one of those luckless Russian cities that had been a frequent battleground throughout its long history. The most celebrated encounter took place in June of 1941, when Hitler's forces crossed the border here to begin their destructive march through the Soviet Union. The town's lightly defended fortress was bombed and shelled with all the relentless savagery the Luftwaffe and the German army could muster, but the soldiers withdrew underground into fortified chambers and held out for almost six weeks as the Nazi juggernaut rolled eastward.
While searching for the vacuum cleaner company where Vadim Trishin was employed, Yuri Shumakov drove down Moskovskaya Street to a point near the confluence of the Mukhavets and Bug rivers where the large Brest Fortress memorial complex was located. A tribute to the valor of the soldiers who had fought against the Nazis, its entrance was a star-shaped archway cut through a huge chunk of concrete. If he had t
he time, he decided, he would return later for a closer inspection. But at the moment he had more crucial matters on his mind. After stopping once for directions, he arrived at the Brest Vacuum Works around eleven o'clock.
He parked in the lot beside the warehouse-looking structure and went inside. Recalling his experience in the U.S., he could see the American influence in the neat, brightly colored reception area and the attractive receptionist who greeted him with a friendly smile.
"I'm Yuri Shumakov from Minsk," he said by way of introduction. "I'm looking for Vadim Trishin. I believe he works here."
"Oh, yes, Mr. Shumakov. He's in our Sales Department. You're lucky. Most of the time he's out making calls, but this is report day for our sales staff. If you will just have a seat over there, I will find him for you."
Yuri took one of the well-padded, bright yellow chairs and checked out the magazines on the low, glass-topped table. He had just begun to leaf through a National Geographic when Trishin appeared in the lobby with a quizzical look.
"This is a surprise. I didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"Nor did I," said Shumakov. "But I've come across some new information about the explosion that killed my brother."
Trishin frowned. "Really?"
"Yes. I've been to Kiev. I have a few questions for you."
Vadim Trishin twisted his mouth back and forth in an unhappy grimace. "I'll be frank with you, Shumakov, I've had to deal with more than enough tragedy the past year. Both of my parents died of cancer, the result of a visit just downwind of Chernobyl at the time of the reactor accident. I don't enjoy reliving that tragic morning in the Ukraine."
"I'm sorry to hear about your parents, but this is really important to me."
Trishin glanced at his watch. "I shouldn't complain. It was me who steered you onto this business. I'm in a sales meeting that I need to get back to right away. If we need to talk, maybe you could meet me for lunch."
"I'd appreciate it."
Trishin wrote an address on a card and handed it to him. "I have to go by my apartment. Why don't we just meet there. "Say around one?"
Yuri thought of making that visit to the Brest Fortress but decided there would be hardly enough time. He headed instead for the downtown area. After a short drive, he came to a park with lush green lawns and neat beds of red, yellow and white roses. He found a quiet, shady spot with a bench and opened his briefcase. He took out the material gathered in Kiev, including copies of key portions of the Defense Ministry file. He studied the transcript of Trishin's interrogation and the pathologist's report on Anatoli Shumakov.
As he was leaving the park, he noticed a late model black Chaika parked about a hundred meters behind his weary Zhiguli. Two men sat in the front seat. He got the impression that they launched an animated conversation the moment he looked toward them. Was it just his imagination, or had there been a similar car parked near the Brest Vacuum Works when he came out?
He climbed behind the wheel and shook his head. Was he really getting as paranoid as Larisa had suggested? Why would anyone want to follow him? He dismissed the thought as absurd. Consulting his Brest map, he found a thoroughfare that would take him to the address on the card.
Trishin lived in a drab-looking, four-story building next to a food processing plant. The structures looked so much alike the apartment might have been called a people processing plant. A dark, musty stairwell led up to the second floor. Just as he located Trishin's flat, he encountered an emaciated neighbor, a tottering old man with vodka on his breath and remnants of his last meal on the front of his faded blue shirt.
"You a friend of young Vadim?" he rasped.
Yuri shrugged. "An acquaintance."
"He don't come home usually in the middle of the day."
"That's all right. I'll wait out front."
Trishin arrived shortly and suggested they walk to a nearby restaurant. More out of curiosity than anything, Yuri looked around to see if he could spot a black Chaika nearby. He couldn't. But as they were walking to the restaurant, two men appeared back down the street walking in the same direction on the opposite side.
The restaurant offered a luncheon special of beef heart, mashed potatoes, slaw and a bowl of borscht, solid fare which both Shumakov and Trishin ordered, although Yuri was really more interested in talking than eating. He promptly launched into a description of his visit to the Ukrainian Defense Ministry, barely aware of the two men who had entered the restaurant and taken a table across the room.
"Frankly, I found part of your statement somewhat troubling," Yuri confided.
"Which part?"
"About the KGB team that left just before the explosion."
Trishin frowned uneasily. "You really intend to push this, don't you?"
"I intend to find out if there was any foul play involved in Anatoli's death."
"You're not concerned about fallout from the theft investigation I mentioned?"
"Frankly, I haven't given it a lot of thought. He was exonerated. What can you tell me about this KGB group?"
Trishin shrugged. "They must have been doing an inspection of some kind. But it couldn't have been much of one."
"Why do you say that?'
"They didn't stay long enough."
"What did they do when they arrived?"
"This general in the limousine wanted to know where to find Captain Shumakov. Then they drove up to the ammunition storage building."
"Did you see what they did then?"
Trishin rolled his eyes slowly, remembering. "Seems they got out and went into the building. There were two officers and a driver in the limousine, and three others, I believe, in the truck. I didn't notice anything else in particular until they drove back down to leave."
"All of them went into the building?"
"Yes...no, I think one stayed out front talking to the guard there."
Recalling the interrogation report, Yuri knew that was a point Trishin had not mentioned earlier. Probably because the question had not been raised. Why had one of the KGB men remained outside? To occupy the guard, keep him from being aware of what was taking place inside? He had no way of knowing.
"Do you remember anything else about it? How long were they there?"
"Fifteen minutes at the most."
Only fifteen minutes? Trishin was right, Yuri thought. That was hardly long enough for an inspection of any consequence. But if they were not inspectors, who were they and what were they doing at the weapons compound?
"You said there was a general and another officer. What rank was he?"
"A major."
"Did you get a look at him?"
"Yes. It was a warm day and I remember he had on a short-sleeve shirt and no hat. He had dark hair and a disinterested sort of look on his face. It struck me as a bit odd. He was probably late thirties, compactly built."
Shumakov was impressed by Trishin's memory, as well as his detailed observation. He had the sudden, eerie feeling that Trishin could be describing Major Nikolai Romashchuk. But that was highly unlikely. He was about to move on to another question when a small voice inside his head objected. Hold it! A competent investigator checks out every possibility, no matter how unlikely.
He fished around in his briefcase and brought out the photo of Major Romashchuk. "Have you ever seen this fellow?"
Trishin stared at the picture, then back at Yuri. "Where did you...that's him, the major. I'd swear it. He was sitting next to General Malmudov."
"Malmudov?" Now Yuri stared. "How do you know—"
"When they drove up, he told me he was General Valentin Malmudov."
"You can recall—"
"The mnemonics system I told you about, remember? I thought I might have to deal with him later on, but he didn't stick around."
Yuri smiled. This was a bonus he had hardly expected. Not only had he established that the mysterious Nikolai Romashchuk was involved, but now he had another name to check out in the old KGB archives. Recalling the date, a full month followin
g the coup, he thought it almost a certainty Romashchuk and his buddies had already been suspended by Bakatin, the new reformist head of the KGB.
He knew the storage building under Anatoli's command had contained all sorts of ammunition, plus a supply of weapons such as grenade launchers, machineguns and mortars. Could this have been a theft operation? Those weapons and ammunition should have brought a good price from terrorists or third world revolutionaries, both groups the KGB had been in contact with. Perhaps that was how some of the cash had been raised for the Swiss bank accounts.
"Did you get a look into the back of the truck as they were leaving?" he asked.
"No." Trishin shook his head. "It was covered with canvas."
Yuri continued to probe for more details as they walked back to Vadim Trishin's apartment, but the young salesman could recall nothing else of significance. This time Yuri did not even bother to look around for strangers. It was simply inconceivable that anyone could be following him. Maybe, in the old days, the KGB could have done it, if he were involved in a case they were concerned with. But this was a different era. There was no place for that sort of thing now.
Shumakov thanked Trishin as they stopped in front of the apartment building. "You've given me a couple of good leads to check out."
As he was about to leave, the shabbily dressed old fellow he had seen earlier came out of the building carrying a small cloth bag. He wore a tattered jacket with an army medal pinned over the left breast. He reminded Yuri of a refugee from the ethnic violence in one of the more volatile states of the commonwealth. It was a picture he had seen many times on the TV news.
"Going somewhere, Mr. Zhuk?" Trishin inquired.
"Two days I will spend with my no good son in Kobrin," the old man growled. "That's as much as I can stand."
Trishin smiled. "I'll look after things while you're gone." He turned back to Yuri as the old fellow tottered off down the street. "My neighbor. He's a bit of an eccentric, but a nice old man at heart."
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 13
