“How did he react?” Stepankov was curious.
“He opened his eyes wide: Are you serious? That’s exactly what he said: Are you serious? Yes, I say, but we’ll put that to one side and come back to it later. For the moment I would like to know why you went to that meeting carrying the terms for the tender for the new irrigation projects. You do know that this is against the law? Yes, he replies, but this Dyakonov came highly recommended from the first secretary, from Vezirov, and I can prove it! Do you get it, Valentin Maksimovich? We’ve got the intercepts and we wanted to use them to trap him, to nail him: We have proof that you wanted to get round the law on tendering! And then HE is the one who thinks he can get out of this pickle with exactly the same argument: I can prove it, he says…” Stepankov’s watery eyes shine with a flash of amusement. “He’s not so stupid, your neighbour, he could wriggle out of it with that ploy, if Vezirov and his clique decided to save him, but I think they’ll leave him to drown, partly because – oh, just a moment…”
One of the telephones started to ring, and with that fine assortment of them, it was difficult to understand how Stepankov could pick out the right one: but actually the ring mechanism also triggered a tiny flashing light. Our most advanced technology could achieve such things.
“Stepankov,” he says to the receiver. “Oh, hello there!
Well, not this morning. I’m sorry, I don’t have the time. At two? Why not? Have you phoned? I’ll go home, get my racket and all the rest… Yes, you’re right. I should buy another one and keep it here in the office. What’s that? No, I don’t know about that, we’ll see…”
The deputy chief prosecutor went silent for rather a long period and listened to what the other person was telling him, first with an expression of concentration, but then gradually it changed to one of amusement. Finally he burst into raucous laughter.
“Good one! Well, and do you want to hear the latest on the cooperatives? Yes? Well then, that’ll be ten roubles!…
Have you got it, Tolian? Yes, yes, that’s all right. At two.
Okay, I’ll see you then.”
He put down the phone and chortled as he looked at Nazar.
“Hey listen to this one, Kallistratych. You know the new security people the government have organised to stop thieving from the factories? Well, there’s a factory in Yerevan and they’ve got this inspector at the gate. One evening a worker comes out with a suitcase in his hand. The inspector has him open the suitcase, but there’s nothing in it, and so he waves him on. The next day the same worker comes by with a suitcase, and the supervisor checks again: the suitcase is still empty. The third day, the same thing; the man comes out with a suitcase and the suitcase is empty. In the end, the inspector has had enough and he takes the man aside and says, Now listen comrade, there’s something going on here, and I know you’re stealing something. Would you like to tell me what your factory is producing? Well, the worker replies, it’s suitcases, isn’t it?” Nazar smiles half-heartedly and says nothing, while Stepankov is still chortling to himself. He puts his fingers through his blond hair. “Now, where were we? Ah yes. Listen to me properly, Kallistratych, this mouthful is too big to chew all in one go. We practically choked just on the deputy minister. Would you believe it, the Control Commission were quite set against arresting him! Okay, they said, go ahead and arrest this Dyakonov, who can go to the devil; we understand the need for that, but why do you have to arrest them together? What’s wrong with arresting your trafficker on another occasion? And I said: But that’s not possible; we don’t even know what he looks like; it’s our only chance to get our hands on him… Take note that I didn’t mention the office in Gorky Street, because otherwise there’s no way they’d have given us permission to set up this little drama…
In the end, they said, all right, go ahead and arrest him; he’s not so important, after all. We’ve got hundreds of deputy ministers, but you be careful: if you haven’t got the proof, you’re in deep trouble! Do you understand, Kallistratych? So I’m telling you, they’ve now given up on Polad-zade, and they’ll let us swallow him whole, and the reason is pretty clear: down in Baku, they’re up to all sorts of dirty tricks, and no one’s too worried about that, but now their tentacles are beginning to stretch as far as Moscow and siphoning off a whole lot of money. Well, then it becomes another matter… And for that same reason,” he stroked his chin thoughtfully, “the other business… yes, the cooperative that manufactures artificial limbs, and the joint-venture with the Italians, well, I get the impression that we can come down heavy on them too. But we mustn’t make any false moves, do you understand me? By the way, have you started to gather any information on Metropolitan Pitirim?”
Nazar nodded that he had. And yes, that was yet another job he had to do. The previous day he had gone to the Council for Religious Affairs and obtained the personal file on the metropolitan, so he could get some of idea of the kind of character he was dealing with. Of course, the Accountant was probably telling the truth: the metropolitan knew nothing about the sleaze hidden beneath the constitution of the joint venture SovItKom, and the poor old man was simply concerned about the fate of disabled servicemen.
They were leading him by the nose to give a facade of respectability to their business. But you never know, and you have to check it out. Fortunately the available information did not give cause for concern, and Nazar jotted down the principal points in his notebook: Metropolitam Pitirim, whose original name was Konstantin Vladimirovich Nechayev, was sixty-two years old and was born near Tambov into a family with a clerical tradition that went back to the sixteenth century… Moreover he is an intellectual who has edited the Moscow Patriarchate Review since 1962 (yes, this magazine does really exist – would you believe it!) and when he becomes the vicar of the Diocese of Moscow, he takes charge of the Publications Office of the Orthodox Church; this, let’s be clear, might give rise to a little concern, but that’s not our job – that’s for all those departments that are supposed to keep an eye on archbishops with intellectual interests! In any event, there do not appear to be further problems in this area; the KGB report attached to the file makes it clear that Metropolitan Pitirim is considered, in their jargon, to be one of the “first group” of clerics who show their patriotism towards socialist society not only in their words but also in their deeds; “conscious”, as the anonymous compiler of the report likes to put it, “that our state does not wish to develop the role of religion and the Church in society, they do not display excessive zeal in propagating the influence of Orthodox Christianity amongst the population.” No, he is not one of those bishops, confidentially defined as “of the second group”, who although remaining loyal to the state, make every effort to extend the role of the Church in the lives on individuals, families and society, and still less is he amongst those “of the third group”, in short the stubborn old bastards who, as soon as your back is turned, strive to find ways around the legislation on worship…
Reassured about the role of the metropolitan, Nazar started to browse the other files, as he was finding this reading rather instructive. As all the material was filed in alphabetical order and stored in enormous box files, he found that on his table he had all the records concerning Orthodox clerics with names starting with the letters M to P.
And all life was contained in those worn folders, which no doubt other hands had rummaged though before Nazar, just because they were armed with an official authorisation! For example, here we have the late Meliton, Archbishop of Tikhvin, Vicar of the Diocese of Leningrad and Novgorod, originally called Mikhail Dmitrevich Solovyov: born in 1897, he went to war as a soldier at the age of nineteen and later joined the Red Army. He even served as a Staff officer up till 1921; once demobilised, he unexpectedly became a priest – he was ordained in the following year: it seems he went through some kind of mystic crisis whilst under arms! Until 1935, he was a parish priest first in Penza and then in Moscow; but in that year, catching sight of the radiant future that was appearing on the horizo
n, he decided to hang up his cassock and took a clerical position in an unspecified government office… But the best was still to come: in 1941, at the outbreak of the Great Patriotic War, he was called up again and, this is the crazy bit, was back on the General Staff! Clearly they hadn’t been updating his file at the Ministry of War after 1921… On return from the war, like many other veterans, he took advantage of the simplified examination and went through teacher’s training.
He graduated five years later and became a primary-school teacher, but fire must have still been smouldering under the ashes, because with Stalin’s death in 1954 off he goes again to ask for another parish, and they give it to the former colonel straightaway! It’s a pity that he still hasn’t had any time to study theology, but there’s a remedy for this too, and he enrols on a correspondence course run by the Leningrad Seminary, and in 1966, almost at the age of sixty, he graduates in theology. A few years later, they make him a bishop… Can there be another country, thought a bewildered Nazar, where you could live a life like this one?
There must be a novel in that; you only have to know how to write it!
“Well, have you?” Stepankov prompted and looked at him questioningly, as Nazar roused himself.
“It’s like I said,” he started without really remembering where he had left off. “The metropolitan has nothing to do with it, I think; they dragged him in precisely for that reason. He has been concerned about the fate of disabled servicemen for two years, and that’s why they appointed him to this committee… what’s it called… you know, the one that coordinates all the Veterans’ Unions. I’ll go and question him, but I don’t think that there’ll be any need to trouble him further.”
“Good,” Stepankov approved. “Well, once again, Kallistratych, you’ve shown that you know how to deal with clerics, eh? Let’s get back to serious matters. Apart from the business affairs of these two cooperatives in Gorky Street, the only other question we’re really interested in at the moment is the arms trafficking. As far as all Dyakonov’s other dealings are concerned, well, I’m not saying we should turn a blind eye, God forbid! But for the moment I only want you to record the information and keep those files nice and thick. This is not the moment for arresting people in Baku; it can wait. But the illicit import of arms needs to be stopped, no question of it. And it has to be done quickly. If I were you, I would come down on that right from the next interrogation. That’s the charge we’ve got to nail your Accountant on.”
“But not just him, though,” Nazar replied. “There’s at least one other arrest that must be carried out, and it’s a big fish I’m talking about.”
Stepankov furrowed his brow, “Have you not understood what’s going on here, Kallistratych? Don’t let’s mince our words, there’s a very real chance of civil war down there in Azerbaijan, and not just in Karabakh but in Baku, believe me. There too, things are not going well. The city’s military commander has already reported that he doesn’t have enough troops to maintain order, and if there is any rioting, there could be some deaths. So in a situation like this, I can tell you, no one wants to stir up the hornets’ nest. I can think of better moments for launching an anti-corruption drive! And what now?”
This exclamation was not directed at Nazar, but at one of the telephones, which had started to ring. “Stepankov. Oh, is that you? What’s that? Something has turned up. Who?
And he can’t come? Damn it, it was all organised… Listen, what if I find a fourth player? Yes, yes, don’t you worry! At two o’clock, as agreed.”
He put the phone down, and with his critical eye sized up the corpulent investigating judge who sat before him, with his round glasses in which the light from the window was reflected at that moment.
“Well, what were we talking about?” he asked, gently rubbing his pale and chubby cheeks.
“You were explaining that this is not the moment to go around arresting people all over the place. But I had understood this perfectly well, Valentin Maksimovich.
They’re stealing, well let them steal; we now know each one of them, and we’ll lose nothing by waiting. But if you want to stamp out the arms trade, there is one man down there who I have to arrest. He is the one who has organised everything.
Hell knows why! But I need that guy, and you have got to give him to me.”
“And who is he?” asked the Deputy Chief Prosecutor, after rubbing his chin in silence for a while.
“The Commander of the KGB, Yusuf-zade. He was the one who commissioned the Accountant to bring guns into the country and handed them out to the terrorists. There is absolutely no doubt about this.”
“Really…” Stepankov seemed to be meditating. “And haven’t you thought that importation of arms could be a covert operation run by the KGB; in other words a trick in order to infiltrate the terrorists?”
“I’ve thought about it. And I am convinced that it is not.
Come on, you only have to read Dyakonov’s accounts to understand that this is not the case. This is crazy; enough arms have got into Azerbaijan to equip an entire army, and the KGB seizes the odd consignment every now and then, just to save face, but derisory amounts – at the very most, ten per cent of what is coming in. And those arms have been firing for several months down in Karabakh. Hardly a covert operation, Valentin Maksimovich; those guys actually wanted to arm the terrorists, and I’m telling you, it’s fine with me if you want the investigation to concentrate on this… You know what? It occurred to me that one day or the other, some lawyer will come up with the fact that I am conducting an investigation into the death of Pashayev, and nothing else. In strictly legal terms, they might be able to demonstrate that I don’t have the authority to carry out any arrests in the context of that investigation… But we’re okay with the arms, because I know that Pashayev wanted to inform the authorities of this gunrunning, which he must have heard about, it was just that he got it wrong: the people he reported it to were exactly the same people who were pulling all the strings. How could he have known, but the mistake cost him his life…”
“So?” Stepankov interrupted.
“So I’m telling you we can restrict the investigation to the arms trafficking, because the link to the murder of Pashayev is absolutely clear, but to move ahead, now that we have what we have, I need to arrest General Yusuf-zade and perhaps one or two of his henchmen at the KGB.”
Stepankov was once again deep in thought and pinching his cheeks. That was a really irritating and exasperating habit. He couldn’t let a moment pass without touching his face: perhaps he needed to revive his blood circulation – he certainly had the pasty skin of an anaemic…
“You know what, Kallistratych? You go out and wait outside, and I’m going to make a couple of phone calls.
Okay?”
Nazar agreed and started to collect his papers, which he had taken out at various stages to make a point to Stepankov. But the Deputy Chief Prosecutor stopped him with a wave of his arm, “Leave them alone. I’ll call you back in immediately. You understand, right? But leave the papers here; I feel more secure if I’ve got them right in front of me while I’m on the phone to these people.”
And indeed, no more than quarter of an hour later, Nazar was recalled to the office, and Stepankov greeted him with these incongruous words:
“Listen, Kallistratych, do you play tennis?”
Taken by surprise, Nazar shrugged his shoulders.
“Really?” continued the other. “So much the worse for you; it is a very healthy sport, you know. And you get to make a lot of useful acquaintances… Listen, today I have a game at two o’clock. At the Friendship Sports Centre, do you know where it is? At Luzhniky, just behind the stadium…”
Seeing that Nazar was looking perplexed, Stepankov started to laugh.
“Don’t you understand? There will be someone there from the KGB; actually he will be there at one thirty, so you make sure that you’re there at that time too. We’ll meet at the cooperative café, and there’ll be half an hour before the gam
e. We’ll sit at a peaceful little table and you’ll explain very carefully to this comrade why and how you are going to arrest this man. And he’ll give us permission to go ahead, or at least we hope so. Eh?”
Nazar and Stepankov entered the Friendship Sports Centre at the appointed time. The man from the KGB was already seated at a table in the corner, at which there were two empty seats and in front of him there were a small carafe of vodka and a plate of salami. He was a big man, on in years and with magnificent silver hair. He was wearing a tracksuit with the Spartak Moscow colours, burgundy red.
For some reason, Nazar felt that he had seen him somewhere before… On seeing them arrive, the Cheka agent signalled to them with his hand.
“Please sit down. Hello, Valentin Maksimovich, it’s a long time since we last saw each other. As for you, Nazar Kallistratovich, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I have not forgotten you.”
The idea that someone at the KGB still remembers you is obviously not a reassuring one, not even for an investigating judge. Perhaps that was why Nazar’s brain started to work at a startling speed and in a fraction of a second, he had retrieved the data from his cerebral archive that allowed him to recognise the man. But of course, Colonel Zaporoshchenko, whom he had worked with on the Astafyev affair.
Colonel at that time, but now in all probability a general and who knows, head of a section or perhaps even a department…
“I too am very happy to see you again, Marlen Yefimovich,” he shook his hand.
“Good! Now let’s drink to our meeting,” Zaporoshchenko ordered. There were three crystal shot glasses next to the carafe, and those glasses were not transparent, but the colour of ox blood, like the general’s tracksuit.
The Anonymous Novel Page 46
