4
Awakening to the caress of warm sunlight on his face, Nik might have been back in Granny’s little chalet near Zhitomir, where his bed was under a window.
He showered, shaved, and investigating the fridge, found it thoughtfully stocked with cheese, sausage, vegetables, and three eggs, enough for a decent omelette.
He wondered how Tanya and Volodya were getting on and what they were eating. He’d left them a thousand of the six thousand dollars he’d received for the flat, telling them to go easy, as they’d need money for here.
After breakfast he dressed, went out, and walked until he came to a gate, at which a soldier was asleep on a chair. He was unarmed. Ukraine, in contrast to Tadzhikistan, was a land at peace. He’d done well to come.
Exploring further, Nik found himself looking down on a meandering willow-bordered river with ducks. He went down some steps to where there were boats moored, then followed the towpath, revelling in the keen morning air.
“Any luck?” he asked quietly, coming upon a fisherman.
“Some, but it’s slow work.”
Feeling a need to talk, Nik inquired if he was from these parts.
“I live just up there. You on holiday?”
“Since yesterday. Are there any shops?”
“You’ve got a food store on site, and there’s a couple of shops in Koncha-Zaspa, twenty minutes from here. You’re not from Kiev then?”
“Tadzhikistan. Left my family in Saratov, and come on ahead to find a flat. What are prices like?”
“In Kiev, upwards of ten thousand dollars for a one-roomer.”
Nik was aghast.
“Against six thousand dollars for a three-roomer in Dushanbe …”
The fisherman looked sympathetic.
“You didn’t check beforehand?”
Nik said nothing, suddenly remembering that he’d no local currency, just the dollars for the flat, and must ask Ivan Lvovich about the promised removal expenses.
“As the fish are no longer biting, how about coffee at my place?” said the fisherman.
Nik watched him reel in, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The idea of cheap accommodation had been central to his plans for their future in a new country, and here was a complete stranger upsetting all that and inviting him to coffee.
“Not to worry, affordable,” had been Ivan Lvovich’s response when he’d asked about prices. Affordable, but not to him.
“You coming?” the fisherman inquired, standing with his rod and a can containing his catch.
“Thanks, I’d like to.”
They went up a steep track, through a gate, and on past a massive, old two-storey house.
“My mother-in-law’s place,” said the fisherman. “And that,” indicating the fine three-storeyed brick-built house ahead of them, “is what I built. With help from my son and some locals.”
“So you’re a builder.”
“Writer. It’s a writers’ colony here. Like Peredelkino outside Moscow.”
The entrance led straight into a vast kitchen. A long pine table stood before a long, old-fashioned high-backed leather sofa.
Nik ran his hand over the table’s polished surface.
“Made that too,” said the fisherman over his shoulder, lighting the stove, and setting the coffee mill whirring.
At that moment a woman in only a nightdress started down the stairs, went back, then reappeared, now wearing a housecoat.
“Svetlana, my wife,” said the fisherman. “I’m Valentin.”
“I’m Nik.”
“I asked Nik back for coffee,” Valentin explained. “He’s from Dushanbe.”
“I’ll have some too,” said Svetlana. She was tall, graceful, wide-eyed and vaguely aristocratic, very different from Nik’s earthy, countrified Tanya.
“We were late to bed,” Valentin explained. “We had friends from Kiev and sat up drinking till two. Which always means I wake at five, and there’s nothing for it but to go fishing.”
“Caught anything?” Svetlana asked.
“Seven roach.”
5
Nik found an agitated Ivan Lvovich waiting outside the chalet.
“Thought something had happened,” he complained. “You couldn’t possibly have slept through my knocking!”
“Back in a day or two, you said.” Nik reminded him, getting out the key.
“Yes, but situations can change, and fast. You go and sit down, I’ll put on the kettle.”
Nik dutifully went and sat down in the sitting room.
“Found a bug behind my kitchen radiator,” Ivan Lvovich continued, joining him. “Someone’s digging. You haven’t, I trust, been fraternizing with the natives.”
“No,” Nik lied.
“See that you don’t. Things are moving, and we must get our skates on. No more recuperating.”
He went to attend to the kettle, and when he returned with the tea his hands were shaking slightly.
“To be honest, we had not intended to brief you straightaway,” he said. “At least, not fully. Now we must. Our former KGB is facing reforms which aren’t to some people’s liking. But what matters is, that we have the President’s go-ahead.
“Top priority is the setting up of a Ukrainian Federal Bureau along the lines of the FBI. What’s needed are two services in place of the one, so as to ensure greater control over the loyalty and accountability to the government of both.
“Official moves in this direction have been killed off by Parliament. Not to their advantage, they say. Heads would roll. You see, at present, Ukrainian Security has the monopoly of incriminating evidence to exploit as it sees fit, regarding its interests as identical with the State’s. But a monopoly shared is a monopoly impaired – hence the antagonism.
“So what’s the problem?” Ivan Lvovich continued. “Simply that we do not have the funds for setting up a Federal Bureau. Funny, if it weren’t so serious! I’m Security old style. What I see being recruited nowadays is garbage. Straight in off the street. No principles. Out, at best, to make a career; at worst, to use Security for cover. Our Federal Bureau, when achieved, will be to Ukrainian Security what the KGB once was to the militia – more above board, and dedicated to the State’s interests. Would, I ask you, anyone in the old days have got away with trying to kill the Prime Minister? Or gunning down a deputy at the airport and calmly driving off?”
Raising his cup to his lips, he blew on it before taking a gulp.
“All this goes no further, and for reasons other than your being duty-bound to secrecy. It’s bigger than us. It’s dangerous, potentially fatal, stuff. It’s State’s interests über alles now, human frailty included. Sentimentality, emotion, they’re out. Absolute devotion to duty, instant, unswerving obedience, they’re what’s needed. As in any security service.
“As to funding: Russia, as you’re probably aware, has appropriated all Soviet property abroad, acting as self-styled lawful heir of the Great and Indivisible. But that other Great and Indivisible, the KGB, was possessed of even more property and investments abroad which have never been heard about. KGB colleagues of mine from former Soviet republics tried to raise the matter officially. I didn’t even make it to their funerals. I was advised against going. It’s a delicate subject which no-one at State level will touch, even though Ukrainian Security’s fair share of the proceeds is conservatively estimated at not less than a billion dollars.
“In the main, it’s active property: banks, businesses, factories, hotels – at least one in Switzerland – all operationally financed originally, and thereafter generating income, even spawning independent operations. One per cent of that lot would put us in business.
“Still, enough for today. Chew it over. Relaxing’s done with. You’ve work to do.”
“What?” Nik asked.
“Tell you later. That all?”
“How about a flat? And when my family joins me?”
“The flat will have to wait. Something decent’s what you want, and your present funds don’t
run to it.”
“There’d be something affordable, you said!”
“To the Federal Bureau, yes, when funds materialize and we’re up and running. Meanwhile, you’ve got this place free.”
“How about our container?”
“No sweat. That’ll hole up in some customs warehouse, and we’ll pay storage. But put your feet up, have a think. I’m going for a stroll.”
The ensuing silence seemed cheerless, alarming. His future was veiled in obscurity.
The prospect of work held no terrors. Indeed, the degree of trust implicit in the Colonel’s proposal was flattering and a plus. As also the Colonel’s chancing to select him just when he was doing his damnedest to get out of Tadzhikistan. His one anxiety was the prospect of extended separation from Tanya and Volodya. He wondered how they were, how they were eating, what they were doing.
Lying back on the sofa, he closed his eyes. What better than to spend his coming fortieth birthday with Tanya and Volodya? He could fly to Saratov. It would be a month or so before he found a flat.
6
Viktor bumped into Dima Rakin unexpectedly, while taking a breath of fresh air.
“Out and about in working hours?” Dima challenged.
“Looking for you, as a matter of fact.”
“A likely tale.”
“No, seriously.”
“Let’s go somewhere and sit down.”
The Grey Tom basement bar was empty, and Dima had to rap the counter with a coin before a girl appeared.
The marble table top was icy to the touch, and after the sun outside the bar seemed distinctly chilly.
“Tell me all,” said Dima.
“As I expect you know, I’ve got a murder case.”
“Your big chance. Well done!”
“Not so sure.”
Dima affected surprise.
“It feels like a setup. Petty crime’s what I deal with. Not murdered Presidential Advisers!”
“Is that you speaking, or Ratko?”
“What’s the difference?”
Dima pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one.
“It was me suggested you,” he said quietly between puffs. “I’ll explain, so far as I can, but it doesn’t amount to much, if I’m honest.”
He crushed the partially smoked cigarette into the ashtray.
Viktor got himself another coffee, and for some minutes they sat in silence. Dima crushed out a second cigarette.
“I thought you’d be good at the incidental lines of inquiry.”
“Such as?”
“External pressure, involvements, anonymous tip-offs … the normal stuff. Nothing to worry about. Make a good job of it and you could find yourself in a nice warm office with a proper window … Read the file? Well, what are you waiting for? Get marching, singing as you go! Like in the army!”
“Can a good job be made of it?”
Dima grinned ruefully.
“Depends … But don’t worry, you won’t be out in the cold. Help and advice will be forthcoming. You’ll see. And I’m there on the phone.”
He gave Viktor his card.
After the subterranean bar, the sunny side of the street was doubly pleasant.
Ratko greeted him with a knowing wink.
“Phone call from the Ministry. You’re big time, it seems. I’ll have to watch my step.”
“Balls! Big-time luck is what I need.”
“Anyway, you won’t get brained by a brick – you’ve got wheels. Or will have within the hour. A Mazda, one of ten, gift to the MVD from the Ukrainian Transport Bank! Democracy in action. Quite right, too. Better than two per general! What news from his nibs? Or were you just taking a breather?”
“What Dima said was – ”
“Don’t want to know. You’re the blue-eyed boy. I’ve got an officeful of cadets. Come and feast your eyes.”
The five skinny, lookalike young cadets in militia uniform were, like most of their generation, pale, pimply, wary.
“All keen to get cracking, eh?” demanded the Major.
The “Yes, Major!” was unenthusiastic and not in unison.
“Lieutenant Slutsky, here,” he continued, giving Viktor a grin, “will now address you and give you your case files. After which, all questions to me. Stupid questions will forfeit rations. OK?”
Exit Ratko, grinning.
“I’ll fetch your files,” said Viktor before darting out after him.
“Address them? What about?”
“Got to be an address. It says so in regs. And it’s not for an old cynic like me to witter on about honesty, probity, duty … Shoot ’em the odd slogan, bung ’em their case files, and pick an assistant. He can brew your coffee, fetch beer, but that’s about the best you can expect.”
He spoke for three minutes – the limit of their attention span – and as he gave out files, noted down names: Polishchuk, Petrov, Plachinda, Kovinko, Zanozin.
“Any questions?”
“The waiting list for a flat, how to get on it?” one asked, clearly speaking for all.
“Question for the Major,” Viktor said calmly. “All been assigned offices?”
“One between the lot of us,” someone said.
“To your office then!”
He went over to the window. From first-floor level the city looked surprisingly green and peaceful. Kids playing, as if it were high summer.
“Picked your man?” Ratko asked from the door.
“Not yet. I haven’t seen enough of them.”
“I’ve grabbed your spare desks … Post mortem findings due twenty minutes from now, so don’t go sloping off.”
“Post mortem?”
“Even dead generals have to have one. And now, having warmed my office, do the same to your own.”
Returning to the file and photographs, Viktor read:
Bronitsky, Vadim Aleksandrovich, b. Kresty, Donyetsk Region, m., one son. Address: Kiev, Suvorov St, 26, Flat 133.
Surprisingly, there was no mention of service or place of employment, and while Viktor pondered the fact, gazing at sunlit foliage seen through cracked glass, the phone rang.
“Come.”
With Ratko was a man in civilian clothes. He handed Viktor keys and a plastic folder of vehicle documents, and advised taking it easily at first, as he’d find the Mazda livelier than the Zaporozhets.
“Nose back to grindstone then,” said Radko when the man had gone. “Show ourselves deserving of the high trust reposed in us.”
The day was drawing in. Viktor made tea, then tackled the postmortem report. Death from cardiac arrest ran the verdict. He shrugged. In which case Murder was out, and Malicious Hooliganism or Desecration of the Dead was in.
Odd, though, to get strung by the neck to a balloon when dead, and sent skywards.
The address and telephone number of the forensic laboratory were as legible as the pathologist’s signature was not.
Now at 7.30 no-one would be there. Gathering everything into the file, he picked up the car keys.
“You’ve got remote locking,” volunteered the sergeant on guard approvingly, and taking the key from him, demonstrated what could be done.
Viktor drove slowly and cautiously, incurring derisive hoots from similarly fast and flashy cars.
He was half way over Southern Bridge, when a mobile phone warbled in the dashboard recess.
“Like it?” a man’s voice inquired.
“Very much! But who’s that?”
“Georgiy Georgievich. I’ll be your sidekick – like in American cop films.”
“When?” asked Viktor, mystified.
“As of right now. You’re no longer solo, so get used to it. It’ll be easier that way, and safer. Happy?”
“Not entirely.”
“Make a note of my mobile number: 240-80-90. Having seen the postmortem report, shouldn’t you have a word with the pathologist?”
“I’m going to.”
“Good man! Don’t leave your mobile in the
car!”
As he drew up outside their block, his spirits plunged. Once again he’d forgotten to collect their ration entitlement.
Having pocketed his phone and locked by remote control, he still checked all four doors and the boot, before looking round for any likely car thieves. But apart from lonely figures on the track between blocks and metro, there was no one about.
7
Ivan Lvovich returned later than expected, having met someone in a bar.
News of a bar in the vicinity prompted Nik to raise the question of money.
“Of course. I forgot.”
Reaching into an inner pocket, Ivan Lvovich produced an envelope.
“Something to be going on with, and why not adjourn to the bar. Drinks on me. Just one thing, though, before we go. If you’re not happy, Nik, about what I’ve said so far, you can back out, go to Saratov, live your own life, so long as you remain bound to secrecy.”
“I’m quite happy,” Nik responded, putting on his jacket.
Ivan Lvovich smiled.
“Come on, let’s go.”
Ivan Lvovich ordered, and they sat out on the terrace overlooking the river. The air was fresh and invigorating. He would come back here on his own, Nik decided. It was a pleasant spot.
“To our joint success!” said Ivan Lvovich raising his squat tumbler of vodka.
Nik downed his in a gulp, before noticing that Ivan Lvovich had merely sipped his.
“I’ll get you another.”
A young couple came and stood gazing down at the full moon reflected in the river.
“You must bring your wife here,” Ivan Lvovich was saying when his mobile rang.
“Fine,” he said, with the phone to his ear. “It’s now 21.45 … Understood.”
Popping a slice of lemon into his mouth and his mobile into his pocket, he took another sip of vodka.
“Things are warming up,” he said wearily. “But no rush. We’ve half an hour before we go into town.”
“For what?” Nik asked, only to receive a disapproving look.
Taking another slice of lemon, Ivan Lvovich consulted his watch.
The Case of the General's Thumb Page 2
