23
It was mid-morning when Yuri Shumakov arrived at the KGB office. General Borovsky was not in but was expected in about an hour. Yuri called the hospital and asked for Larisa.
"I just got back in town," he said. "I decided against trying to make it back late last night. I stayed in Gomel and came on after breakfast."
There was a brief pause, as though she were searching for the right words. "Petr was heartbroken that you missed his big game." The tone of her voice said that someone else was equally disappointed in him.
"Damn!" The soccer game with the Cyclers. "I forgot all about it. I'm sorry."
She spoke slowly at first. Then the intensity increased as she began to vent the frustrations that had been building inside of her. "I don't know what's going on, Yuri, but it's something I don't like. You've changed. I don't know if it's this...this whatever you're doing, or if it's your almost fanatical obsession with Anatoli's death. You're running all over the countryside. You come home late at night, dead tired. You aren't eating right. You get up early and rush off. It isn't fair to me or to the boys. And don't think they haven't noticed. Petr tried to hide it last night, but I could see from the red eyes that there had been tears."
He felt like someone had just drilled a very large hole through his heart. "I...I don't..." he stammered. "I know I haven't been much of a husband and father lately. I'm sorry. But this investigation is suddenly picking up speed. I'd like to—"
"Yuri, they're calling for me. I have to go. Will you be home tonight?"
"I swear. I'll try to be early."
He put the phone down and shut his eyes. He could see Larisa's face, large brown eyes that normally flirted with laughter, now downcast. Soft red lips half-open, questioning. No, rebuking. Just when things had begun to brighten on one side of his life, they came suddenly tumbling toward a dark abyss on the other. He hadn't experienced this kind of problem even back in the frantic days of the KGB general's case. Was he really that obsessed with what had happened to Anatoli? This latest turn of events made it virtually certain he would be unable to separate the explosion on that Ukrainian state farm from the ominous activities that had General Borovsky and Chairman Latishev impatient for answers.
He had worried about the conflict between his job and the desire to protect his brother's good name. Now another dimension had been added to the dilemma, the budding destruction of his family life. It was like trying to smother a fire by throwing sheets of cardboard on the flames. The smoke was beginning to suffocate him. Regardless of which way he resolved the first conflict, the second would remain there smoldering.
Finding himself staring down a dead-end street, he turned to an avenue that offered a real possibility for progress. He reached into his briefcase and took out the envelope containing the small square of fabric he had removed from the casket in Kiev.
At the nearby militia headquarters, he headed for the crime lab. He had worked with a forensic analyst named Selikh who had once identified minute amounts of chemicals on a suspect's clothing. Yuri was a befuddled infant when it came to chemistry, but Selikh could accomplish miracles with something called a gas chromatograph.
"Chief Investigator Shumakov," Selikh greeted him warmly. He was about Yuri's age, a small man, almost like a kid except for his balding head. "It has been awhile since you brought us any business."
"Well, things have been routine long enough," Yuri replied. "I have one for you that may prove a dud, but let's give it a try."
He opened the envelope and tapped one end of it. The small piece of cloth slid out onto the sparkling white table in front of Selikh, who promptly seized it with a pair of tweezers and held it beneath a magnifying glass.
"Nice piece of material. Expensive. Silk. From a lady's gown, perhaps?"
Yuri smiled. "How about the lining of an expensive casket?"
Selikh nodded. "Yes, that would fit. Are you looking for body fluids?"
"No. I think something much more exotic than a corpse was kept in this one."
"I've seen some rather exotic cadavers," Selikh said.
"I'm sure you have. How soon could you give me a report on this?"
"I'll get to it as quickly as possible. I have a couple of other jobs ahead of you."
"I'd really appreciate it. Call me at this number." He wrote his KGB phone number on a card and laid it on the table.
Shumakov hurried back to his office. He had been gone only a short while and General Borovsky still had not returned. He began asking around until he found an employee of Polish descent named Paul Kruszewski. His father had been a brilliant young mathematician in Bialystok, not far from the Belarus border, when he was lured to Minsk's Lenin University in the late 'twenties. Born shortly before the Nazi invasion, Paul had lived a precarious existence the first few years. Conditions had improved markedly by the time he reached adulthood. He was now in his fifties, a plump, red-faced veteran in the identification field. He showed up at Yuri's office door shortly.
"You the fellow looking for Paul Kruszewski?" he asked.
"Right. Come in." Yuri walked around the desk and shook his hand.
"I'm Yuri Shumakov. Thanks for coming."
"The Minsk investigator who's helping the General on some special project?"
"That's me. Have a seat. I understand you speak Polish?"
Kruszewski gave a dry laugh. "With a name like mine, what else would you expect?"
Yuri shrugged. "I speak fair English, but no Polish. I need somebody to make some phone calls around the Port of Gdansk."
"What is it you want to know?"
Yuri explained about the trailer rig from Kiev found abandoned at the port. He wanted to know whether any cargo from Kiev, or elsewhere in Ukraine, had been delivered in the past couple of days for shipment through the Port of Gdansk. And if so, what ship had it been loaded on and what was its destination?
"For starters, I suggest we call the port office. Hopefully they can steer us in the right direction." He pushed the telephone across to Kruszewski.
After a brief discussion with a port official, Kruszewski made some notes, hung up the phone and turned to Yuri.
"I have the names and numbers of several agents for shipping companies. They had a freighter depart yesterday, and another is due to sail tomorrow."
"You'd better start calling and go right down the list."
While the ID man was on the phone, Borovsky's secretary stuck her head in the door, glanced at the man jabbering away in Polish, then said in a loud whisper, "He's back."
Yuri jotted a quick note explaining that he had to see the General. He stuck it in front of Kruszewski and headed for the KGB director's office.
"Glad you're back, Shumakov," Borovsky barked in his rapid-fire style. "The Chairman wants a status report on this investigation by the end of the week. With this CIS meeting coming up the first of the month, he's anxious for some answers. If there's a potential for trouble, he doesn't want it happening while all those people are here." He picked up a large envelope from his desk. "This just came in."
Yuri took the envelope, opened it and pulled out a photograph of a dour-looking man with close-cropped white hair wearing a neatly pressed KGB dress uniform with general's insignia. It reminded him of an old portrait of one of the czars. But this man was obviously no czarist.
"General Zakharov?" Yuri asked.
"That's your man. What did you find out about Romashchuk?"
"Some pretty bizarre things."
Yuri told about the empty casket and Father Dedov's strange tale. He decided to leave out the part about the patch of silk fabric until he had heard from the forensic technician. But he added the disappointing news that the truck driver who had sprung Romashchuk from the Kiev jail was missing.
"Did you and your Ukrainian friend reach any conclusion on what had been in the casket?" Borovsky asked.
"No. Oleg Kovalenko wondered if it had been money, or maybe gold. I doubt it since they apparently use Swiss bank accounts."
/> "What's your next move?"
"I came across another name I'd like to check out with your man in Moscow. The KGB general at the Romashchuk burial was named Valentin Malmudov." He didn't bother explaining how he knew that.
"My contact is a man named Orlov. Why don't you call him yourself. He knows you're working with me. Here's his number."
Yuri walked back to his office and found Paul Kruszewski wearily mopping the perspiration from his red face.
"How's it going?"
"Nobody has handled any recent cargo from Ukraine." He looked down at his sheet and marked off the last one he had called. "I have only one left.?"
"Don't stop now."
Kruszewski shrugged and placed the call. After explaining what he was looking for, he glanced up at Yuri, eyes widening. He placed a hand over the mouthpiece. "He remembers something from Kiev."
After what seemed an interminable wait, the heavyset man began to make notes. When he had finished, he replaced the phone and smiled.
Yuri found the suspense unbearable. "Well?"
"He had heard about the missing trucker. Said he was sure it was the man who delivered a large crate of binocular lenses, which they loaded aboard a cargo liner called Bonnie Prince. It's the ship that left yesterday. Scottish-owned, Liberian registry."
"Where is it headed?"
"Gulf of Mexico and the Caribbean. First port of call is Veracruz, Mexico."
Mexico? Yuri pondered that for a moment. It certainly wasn't the sort of destination he might have expected. Then he looked back at Kruszewski. "Is that where the crate was going?"
"Right. Consigned to the North Star Trading Company, care of an agent in Veracruz named Gerardo Salinas. Be there in about fifteen days. I recall there's a plant in Kiev that makes various kinds of lenses. What's all the excitement over lenses for binoculars? That some new kind of secret weapon?" He had a half-grin.
You're close, thought Yuri. "I suspect something entirely different was hidden among those lenses. Thanks for your help."
After Kruszewski had left, Yuri called the man named Orlov in Moscow and asked him to check the KGB archives for General Valentin Malmudov. By then it was lunchtime. He walked across the street to a stand-up snack bar and ordered dranniki, Belarusian potato pancakes stuffed with meat and fried in lard. To those around him, he appeared a man in a trance as he stared at the plate and slowly picked at his food.
From what Borovsky had said, the Chairman was obviously pushing him. The pressure was building. But Yuri was determined to go home early tonight, spend some time with Petr and Aleksei. Maybe plan some kind of weekend outing. And he'd do some serious pillow-talking with Larisa after the lights were out. In the morning, he would take her by the hospital on his way to work. She would see a new Yuri.
Back at the office, he received a call from Moscow.
"This is Orlov," a businesslike voice said. "You're in luck. The computer turned up no Valentin Malmudov, but I have my own impeccable source. He's been retired for some time now. Spent his entire career at KGB, knows the place and the people inside out. He says the name 'Valentin Malmudov' was long ago erased from the files. It was an alias used by Valeri Zakharov."
"Malmudov is Zahkarov?"
"Undoubtedly. Where did you find him? I understand you turned up Major Romashchuk's footprints in Kiev. Has the General been there, too?"
"Yes. But I don't know if he was there recently." He briefly explained the fake burial and the revisit to the casket by parties unknown.
"The odds are ten to one he was there," said Orlov. "You have no idea what they had hidden in the grave?"
"Not as yet, but I'm working hard on running it down."
"Well, keep us posted on what you find."
Yuri spread the photos of Zakharov and Romashchuk on his desk. He studied both faces carefully, imbedding the images in his mind. Then he thought of Vadim Trishin. Trishin had easily recognized the Major. If Valentin Malmudov was indeed General Zakharov, he should have no trouble with that one, either. Orlov's information made it a virtual certainty, but Trishin could cinch the identification. And Yuri wouldn't need to make a trip to Brest this time. He would simply mail a copy of the photo and get Trishin's reaction.
Yuri called the Brest Vacuum Works and got the pretty receptionist he had met there on Friday.
"I'd like to speak with Vadim Trishin in sales, please," he told her.
She replied hesitantly. "Mr. Trishin is no longer with us. Could—"
"What do you mean Vadim Trishin is no longer with you?"
"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Trishin...died last week."
Something like an electric shock went through Yuri's body. Trishin dead? Surely there was some mistake. "I just talked to him on Friday," he protested.
"It must have been Friday morning," she said in an apologetic tone. "He died that afternoon."
"I can't believe this. What happened? An accident?"
"No, sir. Somebody killed him. If you'd like to talk—"
"Thank you," he said and dropped the phone in its cradle.
He sat there breathing deeply and feeling limp, like he had just finished a strenuous workout. Killed Friday afternoon? He had left Trishin outside his apartment around two o'clock. What could have happened? A robbery? Recalling the motorcycle mechanic shot by his brother-in-law, he wondered if it could have been a vodka-induced slaying?
24
The ringing phone jarred him out of his stupor. "Shumakov," he said.
"Yuri Danilovich," said the troubled voice of Oleg Kovalenko, "I tried to call earlier but couldn't get through. I had a very disturbing visitor this morning."
Yuri was instantly alert. Kovalenko was not his usual jovial self. "Who?"
"A detective from Brest."
"Brest? What did he want?" Still shaken by the news of Trishin's death, he could not imagine what this was all about.
"He had been digging around at the Defense Ministry and was referred to me by Colonel Oskin. You and I met with the Colonel on Wednesday morning. Remember? You left for home that afternoon. Did you go to Brest after that?"
Yuri's face was drawn into a puzzled frown. What the devil was Oleg getting at? "Yes. I went to Brest on Friday."
"To see that boy who was in your brother's outfit?"
"Vadim Trishin? Yes. What does—"
"What did you want with him?
"I needed to see what he could remember about the KGB team that visited my brother just before his death."
"What did you learn? Why didn't you mention it when we went to open that grave yesterday?"
Yuri didn't like the trend of his questions. If he told Kovalenko about Trishin's identification of Major Romashchuk, or the alias that had led to General Zakharov, it might compromise General Borovsky's investigation. "Damn, Oleg," he said. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk about that. I should have told you before, I suppose. I'm involved in a highly sensitive matter for the Belarus government. I can try to get clearance to bring you in on it. But I think—"
"I think, Yuri Shumakov, that you had better forget that shit and start looking for a good defense lawyer."
"A what?"
"That detective from Brest said you are the prime suspect in the stabbing death of Vadim Trishin. He was killed sometime around three o'clock last Friday at his apartment."
"Oh, my God!" Yuri slumped forward in his chair and let his forehead fall into his hand. How could they...?
"He was stabbed thirty-three times with a butcher knife. I hope to hell someone can swear to the time you got back to Minsk, and that it proves you had left Brest before three."
"But I didn't, Oleg. I left Trishin at his apartment around two. Then I went over and toured the Brest Fortress and museum. I didn't leave Brest till five or after."
"You're saying you didn't kill him?"
"Of course I didn't kill him." If Oleg could believe it, he realized suddenly, anyone could.
"I hoped you didn't. But it doesn't sound good, my friend. They found an old guy, a neigh
bor, who saw a man fitting your description talking to Trishin in front of the apartment building around two. Did you see anyone at the fortress who could place you there?"
"No. I was just one of hundreds of tourists."
"I was afraid of that."
By now the shock had diminished to the point that his mind had become analytical again. "Why would I want to kill Vadim Trishin?" Yuri asked.
"Someone who wouldn't identify himself called the militia. He said Trishin had told him you had been harassing him, that you blamed him for your brother's death."
"That's absurd."
"Maybe so, but now they've come up with another angle."
"Like what?"
"I hate to say it, but I guess I'm responsible."
"You?"
"Yes. The detective told me about Trishin's statement, what he said about the KGB team that was with your brother just before the explosion. When I realized that fake burial took place the next day, I mentioned our discovery at the Church of the Blessed Savior. That it involved a KGB major also."
"Oh, God."
"The detective had read other parts of the army file. Said your brother had been accused earlier of involvement in the theft of weapons under his control. The detective figured the KGB bunch was stealing weapons with your brother's help. Then he was accidentally killed in the explosion designed as a cover-up. He theorized that you were involved, too, and Trishin found out about it. He threatened to expose you, so you killed him."
"What can I say? None of that is true." But it was too close to the scenario he had come up with. To make matters worse, Trishin was slain with a butcher knife. It wouldn't take long for someone at the prosecutor's office to remember Yuri Shumakov, the "Butcher of Minsk." Add to that the strain he had exhibited on arriving home from Brest that night and a skilled prosecutor, someone like Perchik, could put it all together and absolutely nail him to the cross. And he had no alibi.
"I'm sorry, Yuri Danilovich. I wish there was some way I could help."
"Thanks, Oleg. You've already helped. At least I know what's coming. At the moment, I'm not sure what I'll do."
Overture to Disaster (Post Cold War Political Thriller Trilogy Book 3) Page 16
