The man named Ilya had flipped a switch on the machine. It shook in his hands, sending it into a louder, angrier paroxysm that seemed to amuse Marina as she led Sasha through a wooden door and into the smaller cluttered room where he immediately saw the mattress in the corner. She closed the door behind them, her back to him a moment, possibly locking the door before she turned to face him, still that look of amusement in her eyes. It was at that point Sasha became well aware of the single drop of sweat on her upper lip, her quite full upper lip. The room was hot, and he felt dizzy. Had he his gun, he would simply have pulled it out and ended the whole charade, but he had purposely left it behind in case he might be searched or the bulge seen by an experienced criminal eye. Besides, he had expected no real danger. Even at this point he told himself that it was imagination, an imagination that any policeman felt in such a situation, the fear that his frail disguise had been penetrated, a sense of guilt at being the deceiver, though he was on the side of law and they were the criminals.
“We must arrange for a place of delivery,” he said in as businesslike a manner as he could muster. “A street corner will be fine. I’ll have the cash in a small box. You can count it, and I’ll—”
It was at that point that she had begun to unbutton her tight jeans. Each metal button, shiny and silver, popped open.
“What—?” he began, but he knew just what she planned.
There was no way he could refuse without a mad story, and his failure to answer her earlier questions about his assumed family and life had already created a possible suspicion that he did not want to build upon by saying that he was impotent, ill, homosexual, or any of several possibilities that sprang to mind. As her jeans dropped to the stone floor, Sasha knew that in his heart of hearts he did not want an excuse. Not only did he have to play out this scene; he wanted to do so. His head was warm and aching. Nausea swirled within, and moments later they were on the mattress in the corner, his clothes discarded, the warm, firm body of the woman on top of him, the smell of her sweat in his face. There was no doubt from the beginning that the woman named Marina was in charge. She grunted, sweated, controlled, urged, kissed, almost smothered him in frenzy, and left him exhausted as she rose and strode across the room to retrieve her clothes.
And so now he sat naked, guilty, confused, and watched her button her American jeans.
“The delivery,” he said, looking for his clothes and trying to gain some control of the situation. The thought struck him that when they were all arrested and brought to trial, the woman would certainly tell what had happened in the room. He didn’t know if he could keep Maya from finding out. He could simply deny it had happened. The court might tell her to be quiet. Perhaps no trial would be necessary. He wished he had a towel to relieve his drenched body and clean away some of the feeling, but all that existed was a grimy sheet crumpled at the foot of the mattress.
“You have delivered,” she said, looking down at him, mocking.
“The money, the automobile,” Sasha said, now feeling at a distinct disadvantage with her dressed.
Marina smoothed her hair and shook her head slowly to indicate a negative.
“But—”Sasha began.
“There is no money, policeman,” she said, her hands back on her lips. “At least I hope you are a policeman, and not KGB. I don’t think you’re KGB. You don’t have the look, the confidence, and a KGB man would have had his background story better rehearsed, at least most KGB men. Even within the KGB there is, sadly, some incompetence.”
Sasha got up and tried indignation.
“Look,” he began, and she indeed looked, which made him stop and feel his exposure from the soles of his feet through his soul.
“I’ve always wanted to make sex with a policeman,” she said, walking to the door. He considered leaping forward, stopping her if he could, and searching for a way, though he was sure there was no way out of this room but through the door through which they had come. The only windows were small and very high on the stone walls.
“You were not bad,” she said, “though you could have participated more. You are remarkably passive for a policeman. Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Yes,” he said, feeling the last possibility of his charade slipping away.
“Good,” she said, beaming. “I like that. Until today, I have never been responsible for anyone’s death. What is your real name?”
Sasha did not answer the question but inched toward the chair behind the table where he hoped he had thrown his clothes.
“There are policemen at the exits to this building,” he said. “It is best if you simply gather a few things and urge your partners to come out with me.”
She shook her head as if a small child had tried to play a trick on her.
“No,” she said. “There are no policemen at the exits. You would not have gone through all this, would not be sweating quite so hard, if you were not alone. Shall I guess, my little policeman? You simply stumbled on us here. You and maybe others are making the rounds, checking places on your own.”
“Make no mistake,” he said, knowing that dignity was impossible without clothing.
“I’ll make no mistake, policeman,” she said. “Ilya will kill you, and we will cut you into little pieces, very little pieces, and bury the pieces deep below the floor.”
With that and before he could move or speak, Marina threw open the door. Beyond it stood a burly, sad-faced man in a rumpled suit who looked something like a massive washtub.
Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov looked beyond the startled woman at the naked detective and pursed his lips. His head shook slightly, and Sasha realized that he could hear the man sigh. The sounds of machinery in the outer room had stopped. Sasha didn’t know when it had happened.
“Put your pants on, Sasha,” Rostnikov said.
“Inspector, I—” Sasha began, but Rostnikov interrupted.
“Pants, Sasha. Dignity.”
Sasha went for the chair, found his pants, and began dressing quickly, without looking at what he was doing, pushing his sockless feet into his untied shoes, buttoning his shirt incorrectly.
Beyond Rostnikov, Sasha could see the man called Ilya and the other two in overalls. Their goggles were off their eyes and on their heads, pushing back their dark hair. All three were taller, younger, than the inspector, who seemed not in the least perturbed.
“He came to the door,” Ilya explained to Marina. “Said he wanted to see the man who had come to buy a car. I didn’t know—”
“It’s all right,” Marina interrupted, looking directly at the rumpled inspector before her with interest. “Inspector—”
“Rostnikov. Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” the inspector supplied. “Sasha, come.”
Tkach stuffed his sock into his pocket, brushed his damp hair back, and hurried across the room, past Marina, and to Rostnikov’s side. Ilya and the two goggled men stepped back a bit, confused, into the crowded shop but blocked the path to the door.
Marina, apparently unconcerned and quite curious, closed the door behind her.
“Inspector,” she said, “I had planned to kill one policeman today, but you afford me the opportunity to kill two.”
“Marina,” one of the men in overalls said.
“We kill them quickly,” she explained, “and go out the back through the apartment. It is what we planned from the beginning. These are the only two who have seen us. Even if there are more outside, once we are gone, no one knows our faces. We start again, Ilya.”
Sasha looked at the sullen Ilya, who examined the younger policeman with quite obvious jealousy and hatred. Something metal and tarnished and heavy rested in Ilya’s oilstained hand.
Marina’s eyes met those of Rostnikov. She smiled, and he smiled back. There was something sympathetic in the man’s eyes that she didn’t like, that made her confidence falter. The man was about to die because she willed it, and yet he looked at her with—
“Do it,” she said. “Do it and let’s get out of he
re. Just leave the bodies on the floor and let’s go before the others outside start breaking down the door.”
Sasha stepped back and felt his bare ankle scrape against metal as Ilya raised the wrench to Rostnikov’s back.
“No,” Sasha screamed, and the Washtub stepped back quickly and to the right. The wrench sliced across his shoulder, and the two men in overalls leaped forward to grab the inspector’s arms. Sasha moved quickly forward toward Ilya and felt Marina’s push. He felt himself tumbling over a blanket-covered engine. His back struck something hard and jagged, and he rolled over, trying to grab something, to help the inspector and himself. Panting, he looked up as Ilya stepped forward toward Rostnikov, whose arms were held by the two men, and made it quite clear that he planned to aim his large wrench more carefully.
The grunt Rostnikov gave was less of exertion than of minor concentration. His two arms came forward, taking with them the full weight of the men holding him. They barely had time for surprise to register. Their bodies collided, and Ilya brought the wrench down solidly on the shoulder of one of the two, who screamed in pain and panic.
The injured man let go of the inspector and grabbed for his broken shoulder while the other man continued to hold his grip on the policeman, which proved to be a mistake of the highest order. Sasha scrambled up and saw a calm look of satisfaction on the inspector’s face as he grabbed the man in overalls with his now-free hand and lifted him off the ground to ward off Ilya’s resumed attack. The injured man, meanwhile, staggered blindly toward the office door and crumpled; gripping his shoulder as Rostnikov, now carrying the bewildered man above him, advanced on Ilya. There was no strain-on Rostnikov’s face, though the man he held above him easily weighed two hundred pounds.
Sasha looked around for Marina and saw her duck behind the half-painted Volga. He staggered after her, skipping over the whimpering man with the broken shoulder and watching with fascination as the wrench-armed Ilya felt his way back from the advancing Rostnikov.
A pause, a beat, and with a slight grunt Rostnikov hurled the screaming man toward Ilya. The grimy missile struck Ilya, sending them both sprawling backward into and over a heavy automobile jack. Ilya scrambled, dazed, out from under the apparently unconscious man atop him and searched for a way of retreating from the patient, limping figure that moved toward him. Sasha would later swear that Rostnikov was humming, humming something that might have been Bach, though later Rostnikov would claim that it had been Vivaldi.
Marina was nowhere to be seen. Sasha moved around the Volga, looking behind machines and parts, into corners. He thought he saw a movement ahead but stopped when the sound of that whirring machine screamed behind him.
Across the room Sasha saw the steadily advancing Rostnikov less than a dozen feet from the now-wild-looking Ilya, who held the grinding saw in front of him. Ilya’s muscles and T-shirt were dark with sweat.
“I’ll cut you in half,” he said through closed teeth, but Rostnikov, whose humming could no longer be heard, simply continued forward until the younger man had his back against the wall, the saw held out in front of him.
Something was said by Rostnikov that Sasha could not quite make out. He thought it was a patient “How long can you hold that?” or something equally conversational. He wasn’t sure over the sound of the saw. If indeed that was the question, it was never answered. Ilya shouted and rushed forward, the saw in front of him. Rostnikov’s left arm shot forward, his sleeve brushing the blade, which tore into the dark material. With his right hand, Rostnikov grasped Ilya firmly by the shirtfront while the inspector’s left arm continued its movement and slapped the still-spinning saw away. The saw struck the floor, sending up sparks as it bit in frustration at the cement. The cord slithered, and it looked to Tkach like an angry snake with a whirring, screeching metal head slithering out of control.
Rostnikov held Ilya up in front of him with one hand as the younger man tried to free himself and punched at the thick arm. Rostnikov whispered something as the snakelike saw skittered and continued to scream until it hit the wall, let out a bright final flash of anger, and went quiet.
“… were going to cut us into little pieces,” Sasha could now hear Rostnikov saying. The man with the broken shoulder was sobbing very gently, feeling sorry for himself.
Ilya’s T-shirt had begun to tear as he screamed, “Bastard,” and swung again at Rostnikov. Rostnikov shook his head in disgust at the inability of men to learn from their mistakes. His arm came back, and with a slight grunt he sent the startled Ilya sailing through the air, his arms flaying behind him, trying to grab something, to look back at where he was going, but the flight was too short. He hit the wall with a sick thud and slipped down in an unconscious heap. There was a stain of blood on the wall where his head had hit, and Sasha was sure that the man’s head was at least broken, if he wasn’t dead.
Rostnikov stood watching as Ilya shifted slightly, tried to rise, and failed, and sat back. Only then did he turn to look for Sasha, whose eyes met his across the room.
“The woman,” Rostnikov said.
“I—” Sasha began, but never finished his answer.
“Here,” she said, and the two men looked around, finding her at the same moment.
She stood next to an old wooden hoist dangling from the ceiling behind the Chaika in the air. The hoist was connected to the chains that held the Chaika in the air. Her hands on the hoist had set the dangling car slowly spinning like a massive white magnet seeking the elusive north. What troubled Sasha even more was that the slowly spinning car was directly above Inspector Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov.
“You move and I drop the car,” she said with a smile, her hands firmly on the lever of the hoist. “And I don’t think you are fast enough with that dead leg to get out from under in time. What do you think?”
Rostnikov shrugged rather indifferently.
“We must deal,” she said.
Her eyes were fixed on the inspector as Tkach slowly edged behind the Volga and moved behind her.
“What can we do?” Rostnikov said gently. “Would you believe my promises? You let go of that and we have you. You might crush me, it’s true. I don’t think I can make it out from under here in time, but what do you gain? You don’t leave here free.”
“But,” she said, “I’ll have the satisfaction of smashing one bear of a policeman and destroying someone important’s beloved car.”
Rostnikov glanced up at the car slowly spinning over his head and remembered Procurator Khabolov’s look of concern about his beloved white Chaika.
“I don’t like cars,” Rostnikov said softly, conversationally. Moving slowly, carefully, Tkach knew that the inspector was stalling, giving him time and cover to move. Marina’s grip on the hoist lever was firm, and for a horrible instant Tkach considered that his life might well be easier if he shouted, and let her crush Rostnikov, who had seen him naked and compromised. He could then simply murder Marina and— But it was only the next level of guilt upon guilt. He knew it was not in him to act on the evil thought. It came, went, was gone. He crept forward, very carefully.
“You are going to die, policeman,” Marina said with a laugh. “Do you know that?”
“You mean I’m going to die eventually or now? The former I am well aware of and have come to terms with. Of the latter, who knows? The scene is not yet played.”
Tkach was now about seven or eight feet away from her. He crouched next to the fender of the dark car. He could see the woman’s fingers slipping on the lever and knew that whatever was to be done must be done quickly. If Rostnikov were to be crushed, would Sasha wonder if he had purposely made the wrong move?
“Policeman,” she said with some admiration, “you are mad.”
Rostnikov put up a hand—his left hand, with the sleeve that had been cut by Ilya’s saw—and let it sweep the room.
“You are standing there with a dancing car threatening to kill me. Bodies are strewn over. You have no chance to get away, and you call me mad.”
“We are both Russians.” Rostnikov sighed. “You will do what you will do.”
The man with the crushed shoulder decided to let out a small whimper, and Ilya stirred slightly against the wall. The other man Rostnikov had thrown lay quite motionless.
Tkach tried to signal to Rostnikov as he stepped away from behind the dark car. He wasn’t sure the inspector saw him, but he had no time to check.
“Marina,” he shouted.
She turned quickly toward him, her hand touching the lever. The Chaika began to spin wildly as it jerked to a stop.
“No,” she screamed, and Sasha stopped no more than four feet from her, hesitating, watching her hand on the lever, but she was too late. She turned quickly toward the space under the car and realized that Rostnikov had stepped back, limped just beyond the shadow of the massive weight dangling from the chains.
Her eyes met those of the inspector and asked a question. Tkach glanced at Rostnikov, who looked up at the car and shrugged.
Marina’s hand pulled back as Tkach lunged for her, and the Chaika dropped on screeching chains, dropped with a massive crash, its front end hitting first and then its rear. Glass and metal exploded through the room, and Tkach threw himself to the floor. The Chaika and the car-theft operation were no more.
The pain was much worse that day than it had been the day before, but Vera had expected that. Actually, she welcomed it, for she had already committed herself, found meaning to the end of her life. If she were suddenly and miraculously to be cured, to discover it had all been a mistake, then the policeman and the others she had killed would have died for nothing. Well, not for nothing. The corruption would still have existed, but there would have been an irony she did not want to face. There was just so much irony a human can take, she thought as she finished putting the rifle in the trombone case, snapped the flimsy latch, and glanced over at her mother, who had fallen asleep over her sewing.
Red Chameleon Page 11
