A Whisper to the Living (Inspector Rostnikov Mysteries)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  They were having a very civilized discussion of the consequences of Albina having cracked her husband’s skull with a blunt instrument.

  “It was murder,” Albina said, looking at the knuckles of her hands. “He was not a bad man. He was not a good man. He was not a good husband.”

  “…and he killed Lena Medivkin,” added Vera.

  “And he killed Lena Medivkin,” Albina repeated.

  “If you do not tell the police what happened, Ivan Medivkin will suffer, go to prison, possibly be executed.”

  “True, but if I tell, I will suffer. Would you like more tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I have killed once. I think I can kill again. Let me show you something.”

  She stood and crossed the room to the chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. Then she brought something out. It was a gun.

  “I know almost nothing about guns,” Albina said. “Fedot said it was always loaded, that all one had to do was point it and pull the trigger. It was not unusual for him to take it out and aim it at my face.”

  “Why did you stay with him?” Vera asked, trying not to look at the gun.

  “I do not know,” said Albina, returning to the chair directly in front of her visitor. “I never considered leaving, probably never would have, had I not followed Fedot to that hotel.”

  “I think we should finish our tea and call the police, or perhaps we should simply go to them.”

  “I know a bit about prisons,” said Albina, looking first at the gun in her hand and then nowhere. “I know what will happen to me. I will be destroyed, violated, my body and mind insulted by the hands and tongues of foul-smelling strangers.”

  “It is the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing?” asked Albina “What do I care about doing the right thing? I care only at this point for staying alive.”

  Vera put down her teacup and said, “I have changed my mind. A little more tea would be nice.”

  “No,” said Albina, standing, weapon now aimed at her visitor.

  “Neighbors will hear gunshots,” said Vera.

  “In this outpost of the indifferent, no one will care. I can kill you and wrap you in something, maybe this carpet, and carry you out tonight. I can carry your body to the Metro station very late tonight, and when no one is looking I will sit you up on the bench at the entrance and leave with the carpet. The problem is that I like you. You have stuck by your man to the point at which your loyalty is about to lead to your death.”

  “It would be very nice if we could think of a solution other than your shooting me and carrying my body through the streets of Moscow.”

  “I am too tired to consider options.”

  “Since my life depends on such considerations, let me present a few problems with your plan.”

  “A few problems?”

  Vera should have noticed long ago, but the woman had kept it covered by a shroud of pseudo-or perhaps real grief: Albina Babinski was drunk.

  “Yes,” said Vera, still seated. “We seem to be getting along quite nicely. We might become friends. You do not really want to see me dead on your floor.”

  “No, but I probably will not be haunted by the image, and if I am, so be it. You will join the legion of the dead who invade my dreams.”

  Vera considered throwing the cup still half-full of tea at the head of Albina Babinski. It would almost certainly fail to save Vera, but there seemed to be nothing else to do. Albina raised the gun in a shaking hand and aimed it at Vera. The distance was but half a dozen feet.

  “I cannot do it,” Albina said, now cradling the gun as if it were a newborn baby.

  It was at this point that the door to the apartment flew open, destroyed at the hinges and locks. Both women turned toward the noise and witnessed a giant filling the doorway. He strode in. Albina fired at him.

  “Ivan, no,” said Vera.

  He pushed her to the side and advanced farther toward Albina Babinski.

  Vera turned and leaped at the woman with the gun who was about to shoot again at Ivan Medivkin. Before Albina could fire off another round, Vera sank her teeth into the wrist of the arm with the gun. Both women tumbled backward, Vera on top, Albina letting out a scream of pain and dropping the gun.

  Vera picked up the gun and turned to look at the Giant, who sat on the floor panting for air, blood pouring from a wound in his neck and another in his chest. She could see now that he was manacled.

  “Are you all right?” asked Ivan.

  “Yes, but you are not.”

  “I am sorry, so sorry,” Albina said as she wept.

  At that point, Iosef Rostnikov and Zelach thundered into the room. Iosef held a gun in his hand.

  “Medivkin, you are a fool,” said Iosef.

  “We might have been too late,” said Ivan.

  Zelach stepped forward to put handcuffs on Albina Babinski, who held out her wrists dutifully and said, “My wrist is bleeding.”

  “We will fix it,” said Zelach.

  “I would not have shot her, you know, but when he came rushing at me—”

  “No, I do not know,” said Zelach, helping the woman to her feet.

  Vera and Iosef knelt at Ivan’s side. There was no point in trying to help him to his feet. He was far too big and solid.

  Iosef had his cell phone out and called for an ambulance.

  “Do not die,” said Vera. “I will not forgive you if you die.”

  “I will not die,” said Ivan.

  Ivan, his eyelids now very heavy, considered the likelihood of his own demise and gave himself odds of five to two in favor of survival.

  Iris Templeton was packed and ready to go less than an hour after the attack by the two men. Elena stood at the door watching her.

  “You have what you need?” asked Elena.

  “More than enough,” said Iris, surveying her closed suitcase.

  She had given her statement to two detectives, one in a leather jacket and the other in a zippered jacket that threatened to burst under the pressure of the man’s distinct belly. Even before the two detectives, who were not from the Office of Special Investigations, released her, Iris had begun writing the story in her head. It would be in four parts. First, the prostitution ring in Moscow; second, the murders of the prostitutes and the pimp; third, the attack on her own life by Pavel Petrov’s men; and fourth, the full exposé of Petrov himself.

  The interviews with the prostitutes were on the miniature recorder that now rested in her suitcase, along with the recording of Pavel’s confession of murder. She did not want it or the tape she had purchased from Tyrone to be confiscated at the airport. Most of all she did not want Petrov to make another attempt on her life.

  “I am ready,” she announced.

  “You will wish to see Inspector Tkach?” asked Elena.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you? I think you see a cold-hearted professional woman who has a great story and has used a handsome Russian policeman for fun and profit.”

  “Used?”

  “As he used me for refuge from a past he chose not to disclose.”

  The door opened and the two detectives to whom Elena and Iris had given their report on what had taken place reentered the hotel room.

  The one in the leather jacket wore his thick dark hair brushed back. He wore a smile that suggested he found the world and its vagaries amusing.

  “We will have to search your suitcase,” the one in the leather jacket said.

  “Why?”

  “Orders,” said the man as the other detective, the one with the belly, moved to the bed and began to go through it.

  “Be careful with that please,” said Iris.

  Elena and Iris knew full well what the two men were looking for. Word had somehow gotten to them. Their orders were clear: find the tape.

  They took only minutes to find the miniature tape recorder and the tape inside. They were tucked into the suitcase lining. The detec
tive with the belly began to play the tape and immediately knew it was what he was looking for.

  “We must take this,” said the detective in the leather jacket. “It will be returned to you.”

  “I am sure it will,” said Iris.

  “We must also inspect your person,” said leather jacket.

  “I can do that,” said Elena, stepping forward.

  Leather jacket hesitated, a hand cupping his chin, and then said, “I will have to do that myself.”

  “I protest,” said Iris.

  “I understand,” said the detective as his hands went over her body from neck to toes.

  When he finished, he stood.

  “Have a safe trip back to England,” said leather jacket. “And come back soon.”

  “Thank you,” said Iris, trying to control her anger as the men left the hotel room.

  She checked her watch as she put her clothes back in the suitcases. “They were neater than I expected.”

  “They took your tape,” said Elena.

  “A copy rests uncomfortably wrapped in tissue between my legs, where I hoped that I would not be touched. There, I am ready to go.”

  Sasha had shaved hurriedly and managed to nick himself twice, small nicks, one just under his nose, the other on his neck. He was at Petrovka looking for Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov. When Sasha reached the door of the space shared by the detectives of the Office of Special Investigations, he was startled to see Tyrone, Sergei Bresnechov, coming down the stairs.

  Sasha and Elena’s plan had been to find Rostnikov and suggest that he put the boy who called himself Tyrone into seclusion to protect him from Pavel Petrov. Sasha crossed the hall quickly to the Chief Inspector’s office, knocked, got no reply, and entered to a sight that made his knees very weak and his stomach threaten to surrender.

  There sat his mother and his wife.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We are here to see Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” said Lydia.

  “Why?”

  “To determine if you merit yet another chance,” said Sasha’s mother.

  Maya sat, hands in her lap, looking up at him as if he were an unwelcome trespasser.

  “Go away,” said Lydia, sweeping him away with her arm.

  A dazed Sasha Tkach backed out of the office unsure of whether he had witnessed reality or a hazy dream. He considered opening the door again but decided to go across the hall to his desk.

  Could it be true? Has my mother pulled a plum from the pie?

  14

  Petrov and the Man Who Looks like Lenin

  Pavel Petrov’s office at Gasprom was impressive. It was meant to be. Colonel Igor Yaklovev, however, was unimpressed.

  Both men wanted, lived for, power, but the Yak was content with a reserved power.

  Petrov wanted those who came in contact with him and heard of him to think in terms of ruthless power. The Yak wanted few to hear of him and most to think of him not at all.

  And finally, Pavel Petrov was a violent pimp and a murderer. Igor Yaklovev was definitely not violent, and if he had caused a death or two in his career, it was just part of the job.

  Most visitors to Petrov’s office were intimidated by its size, the awards on the walls, the massive antique desk, and the man behind it.

  “Please sit,” said Petrov.

  It was not the Yak’s wish to leave his office except on very rare occasions to dine, lunch or dinner, at a restaurant, seated at a quiet table to the side, from which he could watch the people at middle levels of power. This was sufficient public exposure.

  The Yak sat, expressionless, across from the smiling, confident Petrov, who said, “You are admiring my desk.”

  “Yes.”

  “Following the Revolution the desk was taken from the office of the head of the personal guard of the Tsar himself. For sixty years it was forgotten in the office of a pompous notary. And then one day a collector of such pieces told an acquaintance of mine who owed me more than just a favor. And within a day, the son of the now-dead notary, after a very small payment and a few minutes of persuasion, sold the desk to me.”

  Petrov lovingly ran the palm of his left hand across the shining desk.

  They were a study in contrasts. Pavel Petrov was tall, definitely handsome, with well-groomed black hair, almost perfect skin, and white teeth. He was a presence with which to be reckoned. Igor Yaklovev in mufti was a most unimpressive presence. He was five-foot-six, lean, pale. Yes, Petrov decided, the man does look like Lenin.

  “It is yours,” said Petrov, patting the table as if it were a favorite pet. “I give it to you.”

  “There is no room in my office for such a gift.”

  Pavel Petrov swiveled in his chair. His back was to the Yak.

  “Then sell it. In one of the drawers you will find a very generous sum.”

  “How generous?”

  “That depends on the evidence you have of certain indiscretions of mine.”

  Had Petrov sent someone to follow the Bresnechov boy?

  “Like murder?” asked the Yak. “I am not interested in money. But I do have a counteroffer. I have a recording of a conversation between you and an English journalist named Iris Templeton.”

  Pavel Petrov spun around again to face his visitor. Petrov’s fingers began to tap out a quite uneven beat.

  “What does interest you in this fragile life?”

  The Yak ignored the threat and told the powerful man across from him that he wanted only to let him know that he had the tape.

  “I see,” said Petrov. “And copies?”

  “I expect to have all that exist in my hands before tomorrow ends.”

  “Am I to trust you, Colonel Yaklovev?”

  “It does not matter if you trust me. It matters only that you know I have the tape.”

  “I think we understand each other,” said Petrov, standing.

  “No, we do not,” said the Yak. “If you engage in any other criminal activity involving brutality or murder, if you hurt anyone, the tape gets released to the media and to all the members of your board of directors.”

  Petrov was up now pacing the floor, pausing here to touch some object or award, pausing there to look at a photograph of him with a famous person, including three with Vladimir Putin.

  “Offer accepted,” said Petrov.

  “It was not just an offer. It is also a condition.”

  Petrov decided to probe the dour man’s vulnerabilities. He would take his time. He would work slowly. He would find someone within the Office of Special Investigations to corrupt, someone who could find that tape and destroy it, as Petrov would then destroy this Colonel who reeked with the sweet smell of victory.

  Pavel was brought to a halt in his pacing by the Yak, who said, “I am not vulnerable to intimidation. I have no living relatives that I care in the least for. I have no friends. I have never broken the law, not even when I was a child.”

  The policeman had kept up with him.

  “I understand,” said Petrov. “Now, if you please, I would like to get back to work and do my part in keeping the gas flowing for the people of Russia.”

  “And what is your work?”

  “I am afraid I am not allowed to tell you that.”

  “Politburo.”

  “I cannot answer that.”

  The truth was that Petrov existed in the company as one of but several people who deflected attacks on the company with charm, half-truths, and lies.

  The Yak nodded in understanding.

  Petrov decided that Iris Templeton had to have a copy of the tape and it would have to be destroyed. How many copies of the tape were out there? How many people would he have to kill or have killed? It was his own doing, his own arrogance. He had lived long on the edge and felt he would never plummet. Even now, when disaster crawled toward him like a fat spider, Pavel Petrov felt a thrill.

  The smug police bureaucrat sitting in his office might have to be disposed of and—

  “The tape is safe,”
said the Yak. “If something happens to me it goes to someone who will immediately arrest you for murder. It will not matter if my death comes from a bullet in my brain or a fall down a flight of stairs.”

  This is the second time that Colonel Yaklovev has seemed to read my mind. Am I that obvious?

  Petrov decided he would make a phone call the moment the Yak left the room.

  “You want evidence of corruption within the corporation?” said Petrov.

  “Yes.”

  “And you will overlook my … indiscretions?”

  “No. Never, but I will not yet call them into the light as long as you continue to provide me with evidence that I can use.”

  “And you want this simply to uproot corruption?” said Petrov.

  “I have other reasons you would not understand.”

  “An honest man. There are all too few of them. I do not like honest men.”

  The two men did not shake hands, nor did Petrov rise. Igor Yaklovev showed himself out, which was fine with Pavel. He had urgent business elsewhere. He picked up the telephone on his desk.

  Paulinin took a plastic container from his desk drawer, popped it open, and put two yellow pills in his palm. He had been up for the past two days.

  He had to speak to the dead.

  Some of the dead had to be spoken to quickly, before they faded away. They did not stop yielding information, but they did deprive Paulinin of their company. The dead spoke only to him.

  Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was accustomed to the darkness and smells in the laboratory below the surface of Petrovka. He was also accustomed to finding a corpse on one or both of the tables beyond the labyrinth of tables filled with books, beakers, poisons, and instruments whose function it was best to keep to himself.

  “These two,” said Paulinin, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand, which clutched a bloody scalpel. Paulinin preferred to work without latex gloves. He wanted to explore the nuanced corners, crannies, and protuberances that lay beneath the skull and inside the organs.

  Paulinin, on rare occasions, admitted to himself that he might be mad.

  “These two,” Paulinin repeated, looking down at the pale naked corpses of a bearded old man and an older woman. “They are victims of yet another copycat.”

  The skull of the man was most recalcitrant. Paulinin picked at the cracked pieces as if they were parts of a coconut.