The Case of the General's Thumb

by Andrei Kurkov

  He nodded.

  “You’ve got a letter. In the kitchen.”

  No stamp, no address, only his name.

  “How did it come?”

  “Left in our post box.”

  The envelope contained a small slip of paper, and under yesterday’s date and a telephone number, “No offence, I trust. All the best, Refat.”

  Pocketing the slip of paper, he felt as if he’d been scanned by some vast X-ray machine. It left him with a nasty metallic taste in his mouth and a vague, almost childish sense of resentment.

  “Shall I make some coffee?” Ira asked.

  “Please. I must get back to work.”

  “But you’ll be home by 7.00?”

  He nodded.

  At District, he found Zanozin waiting patiently.

  “Major Ratko said you’d be back by lunch,” he said, getting up.

  “How’s it going?”

  “On duty on the night of the 20th-21st was a Sergeant Voronko, who’s now out of town, earthing up potatoes for his mother, but will be back on Independence Square tomorrow night. Anything else I can do?”

  “Yes, ring round all Bastion Street officers, find out who had a flat fire on his patch in the second half of May. Get the details.”

  When Zanozin had gone, Viktor stuck his tiny immersion heater in a glass of water, and gazed out at the trees.

  Away from Refat’s green-eyed gaze and calm assurance, he felt the need to check the accuracy of what he’d been told, and his instructions to Zanozin were a start in that direction. After which he had another simple task for him to get to work on and report back on by 6.00.

  It was irritating enough to have forgotten his wife’s birthday, without having some stranger remembering for him and acting accordingly. There was a touch of taunt and warning about it. As if to say, we’ve got your measure. Crimean muscat was just right, but roses weren’t. Ira preferred chrysanthemums, but perhaps there weren’t any.

  Slipping the photographs of the murdered Ivin into the Bronitsky file, he took paper to write a full account of all that had happened in Moscow, including what Refat had told him. But after staring for some five minutes at the blank sheet before him, he thrust it aside. Some things were better committed to memory.

  In the drawer where he had left it, his mobile rang.

  “Welcome back. How was it?”

  “Not quite as expected.”

  “How so?”

  “Ivin’s been murdered. The other two weren’t at home.”

  “Interesting. Anything else?”

  “The SVI man on duty on Independence Square that night has been traced, and I’m interviewing him tomorrow.”

  “Who’s dealing with the Ivin murder?”

  “Moscow CID. They’ve given me their crime scene photographs.”

  “Got onto them, did you? There was no need …”

  “They got on to me, before I knew.”

  “Well, Federal Russian militia assistance is something always worth having. You’re sure it was CID, not Security?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Right. Ring when you’ve seen the SVI chap.”

  Viktor drank his coffee, then looked in on the cadets. Zanozin was seated at a desk, writing hard.

  “Any joy?”

  “May 23rd, Block 15, Bastion Street, Flat 23, incident at about midnight. Gas explosion. Flat gutted. Owner lost his life.”

  “The owner being?”

  “Veresayev, Nikolay Petrovich, Colonel, Border Troops HQ, sole registered occupier.”

  “Did our man attend?”

  “No. The fire brigade was summoned by neighbours, and we were only notified when the fire was out and the body found. Our man sealed the flat next morning, but didn’t go in, the body having been removed.”

  “Good lad!” said Viktor, waxing genial. “Just one more job. Pop round to the Moskva, note who spent the night of the 19th there, and report back.”

  Zanozin darted off, and Viktor looked in on Ratko.

  “Ah, there you are! Your Zanozin keeps pestering: ‘Seen the Chief, Major? Seen the Chief?’ I’m Chief here, I tell him, but it’s water off a duck’s back. What’s he like for you?”

  “First rate.”

  “Like a decent drink?”

  “Not on duty and driving.”

  “I, too, am on duty, but all right, you drive, I’ll drink. It’s five years to the day my wife died. Not exactly in mourning, nor exactly happy, that’s me.”

  So saying, he tossed back his plastic beaker of Smirnoff, returned beaker and bottle to his safe, and flopped down on his swivel chair.

  For an hour they talked of this and that across Ratko’s littered desk, until there came a knock at the door.

  “Yes!” bawled Ratko.

  “Seen the Chief, Major?” asked Zanozin, half in, half out.

  “Hell’s bells! This here is Lieutenant Slutsky. Me, I’m the Chief! How many more times?” laughed Ratko.

  “Sorry, Major.”

  Returning to his own office, Viktor looked through Zanozin’s two pages of hurried scrawl, and spotted Sibirov, Refat Abdulkarimovich, Room 316. The assiduous Zanozin had even noted his passport details.

  “You deserve a medal!” he said. “Off you go. See you tomorrow.” Having chauffered his mildly tight major home, Viktor set off for home himself. It was 7.15, and remembering it was Ira’s birthday supper, he put his foot down.

  27

  Sakhno was not in the least abashed at discovering he’d bought a hearse.

  “Wouldn’t be seen dead in one, but now I’m not bothered,” was his comment.

  Its thirst for petrol was of the order of a Slav’s for vodka. Sakhno thought the fuel pump must be at fault, and one evening decided to check. But finding nothing wrong, he gave up. After all, Nik was paying for the petrol, as well as for everything else.

  In the days that followed they explored Koblenz and its surrounds, and Deutsches Eck, at the confluence of the Rhine and the Mosel, became a favourite spot for lunching off their breakfast sandwiches.

  Twice, late at night, and to Nik’s surprise and envy, Sakhno drove off into town. Lack of German notwithstanding, Sakhno seemed the more at home and at ease here. Of growing concern, beyond worry on the score of Tanya and Volodya, was the failure of anyone to make contact.

  One morning, after breakfast, he asked the elderly manager how much they owed.

  The elderly manager tapped away at a keyboard.

  “Nine hundred and sixty DM,” he said.

  Which, deducted from their remaining seventeen hundred and fifty DM, left Nik aghast, until he remembered his American Express card.

  Sakhno, carrying sandwiches wrapped in paper napkins, joined him in the foyer.

  “All set?” he asked.

  “Where to today?”

  “Somewhere in town, then into the country.”

  The somewhere proved to be a dingy suburb some distance from the city centre, where, pulling up outside a church and saying he wouldn’t be a minute, Sakhno disappeared down a dustbin-cluttered alley, only to return, clearly displeased, and drive on, swearing.

  “What’s up?” Nik asked, but received no reply.

  They were driving along a narrow forest road when Sakhno braked abruptly and performed a three-point turn, causing a fine new Mercedes to screech to a halt. Nik expected signs of annoyance from the elderly driver, but instead they received an affable nod. Maybe he thought they’d missed their way to a funeral.

  By the time they returned to the hotel, Sakhno was a little calmer. Seeing him take two bottles of wine from his carrier bag, Nik fetched glasses from the bathroom – why did the chambermaid persist in putting them back there? – but Sakhno gestured that they were not needed.

  Reaching again into his carrier bag, he brought out a round loaf of rye bread, which he placed on the glass tray reserved for the water carafe.

  “Got a knife? Well, get one from the old man – you’re his blue-eyed boy.”

  Sakhno
took the knife Nik brought and used it to cut out a small circle of crust. Into the resultant hole he poured the contents of the first bottle, then, more slowly and with exaggerated care – as if filling a mine with explosive – the contents of the second. He then replaced the circle of crust and passed Nik the knife.

  “You carve. Blow yourself up, and I take all!”

  “Cut it like a cake?”

  “Yes.”

  They ate the whole loaf in silence, Sakhno wearing a look of serene satisfaction. The wine seemed more than usually potent.

  “Where will you lie low when the job’s finished?” he asked suddenly.

  “How do you mean?”

  “To stay alive. The doers of jobs tend to get disposed of. It’s safer that way for the men behind them.”

  “Where will you?”

  “Not saying, even to you.”

  Getting up and slipping a cassette into the Walkman, he flopped back on to his bed.

  It was the heartbeats tape.

  “You played that at Sarny. What is it?”

  “Knowing when and where to get me out from under, you’ll know that too. So don’t play the innocent, Nik,” Sakhno answered, falling asleep and snoring.

  After a while the cassette ran out.

  28

  Sergeant Voronko resumed duty three days later than expected, having caught cold and recovered, predictably, with the earthing-up of the potatoes, tolerance on the part of SVI being every bit as firmly rooted as the venerable oak at the door of Mother Voronko’s hut.

  On the morning of June 9th, when at last Viktor interviewed him, it cost Voronko an effort to think back to the night of the 20th-21st May, and when he did, he swore. That was when he’d been summoned to some other post – he couldn’t remember which – only to be stood down when practically there. And to cap it, while he was away, some bastard had stink-bombed his booth. So he’d smoked a cigarette, then taken himself off to the Borisopol Highway access post, and played beggar-my-neighbour for the rest of his shift. The balloon had been there when he left the post, but he’d had other things to think about when he got back.

  Back at District, Viktor set Zanozin to discover which SVI post had summoned Voronko to attend on the night of the 20th-21st, who was on duty then at the Borisopol Highway access, whether Voronko had, in fact, joined them at cards, and finally, who had decontaminated the SVI booth, when and using what.

  Zanozin jotted it all down, smelling strongly of fish.

  “Celebrating last night?” Viktor asked.

  “Drinking beer till 4.00.”

  “You’ve got till lunch tomorrow. Sort that lot out, and the beer’s on me.”

  Zanozin moved faster than expected, and well before lunch came bursting in on Viktor and Ratko drinking tea in the former’s office.

  Viktor gave him a chair and tea.

  “Well?”

  “No one radioed Voronko. I’ve checked everyone then on duty. He was, though, at the Borispol post from 3.00 to 6.00, but not playing cards.”

  “Oh no, of course not,” laughed Ratko, “just studying the latest copy of Duty calls over a cuppa.”

  “Like us,” said Viktor.

  “Only we’re not SVI.”

  “Epidemiological Control,” continued Zanozin, “reports decontaminating dibetamethyl at the third attempt. Dibetamethyl is used in military anti-gas training. They smash a capsule at your feet and it’s on with your mask in fractions of a second.”

  “Permission to fall out, Comrade Major?” Viktor asked, tongue in cheek, getting to his feet.

  “Fall where you like so long as you drop the ‘Comrade Major’ – it’s even worse than ‘Ratty’!” said Ratko, slapping Viktor on the shoulder and taking himself off.

  “Let’s go for a beer,” Viktor suggested, when he and Zanozin were sitting in the Mazda, “And decide what next.”

  “This flat waiting list, Comrade Lieutenant,” Zanozin ventured. “I’m thinking of getting married.”

  “Over to the Major on that one.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “Keep at it. He’ll move in the end, if only to get shot of you!”

  That evening Viktor rang and reported the latest to Georgiy.

  “You’ve got more out of SVI than I’d have thought possible.”

  “But not who took Voronko from his post.”

  “Maybe nobody. Maybe he went to see some woman, came back, dropped the stink bomb, and nipped off for a game of cards. One sure check would be the SVI band monitor.”

  “Where do they hang out?”

  “Near Arsenal metro station. Access is tricky, but I’ll do what I can for you.”

  29

  Next morning found Sakhno off colour, disinclined for breakfast and unable to face what Nik took up to him.

  “Sorry about yesterday,” he said, squinting up at Nik, “and hitting the bottle. I’ll lie here a bit longer, then I’ll be fit.”

  The cassette, Nik saw, going over to the window, was no longer in the Walkman. So Sakhno must have left his bed to remove it. The air, through the open window, was cool and fresh. It was drizzling.

  “I deserve a good punching,” Sakhno said.

  “That business with the loaf …”

  “Antipersonnel mine, you mean. Inserting the charge was a monthly ritual with us in the army. Until there was no one left to do it with …”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Once, when on mine-clearing, we’d all got stoned. Next morning, seeing me fit for damn all, as now, they left me to sleep on. Trouble was they missed a tension wire, and up they went. You couldn’t get me some coffee?”

  He drank it slowly, then showered for a good half hour before returning, looking not much better.

  “Come for a drive.”

  “You should be taking it easy. Anyway it’s raining.”

  “I’ve got to. We won’t be long. You drive.”

  It was Sunday, and Koblenz seemed deserted.

  Ordering which turnings to take, Sakhno brought them to the familiar dingy suburb and the equally familiar stopping place outside the church and opposite the narrow dustbin-cluttered alley.

  “Wait here, and lend me a hundred.”

  Reluctantly Nik took the money from his wallet.

  “I’ll pay you back,” said Sakhno, and staggered off up the alley.

  Nik watched with increasing unease, and five minutes later set off in pursuit, abandoning the hearse as hardly worth stealing.

  Sakhno, he saw from afar, was standing gesticulating to one of a small group who was gesticulating back, apparently in deaf-and-dumb language. Rain torrented down, and when next he looked, Sakhno was hurrying back.

  “Where,” Nik asked, “did you learn deaf-and-dumb language?”

  “From my parents. Mother interpreted for deaf-and-dumb delegations abroad. Four languages, four systems.”

  “And you?”

  “Just three. And here it’s next left!”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Buying cigarettes.”

  From then on they travelled in silence, except when Sakhno, Koblenzer now to his fingertips, announced which turning to take.

  30

  “Rise, shower and breakfast!” instructed Georgiy. “Call you in twenty minutes.”

  Viktor heaved himself out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, clutching his mobile. From the bedroom a wimpering. As soon as Yana was off night feeds, he could return to their good broad bed. The sofa was leaving its mark on his back. But better that than a wakeful night.

  Refreshed by a cold shower, he was drinking coffee when Georgiy rang.

  “How are we?”

  “Better.”

  “Lesi Ukrainki Boulevard, round tower, know it? Good. Military entrance at 9.00, warrant card at the ready – they’ve got your name. Room 32’s what you ask for, after which keep your card out of sight. Go through to the courtyard, and turn left. The second iron door has a keypad lock. The magic number’s 3516. You then go
up to the first floor, where you tell them that you’ve had your car stolen, and that your Dad, General Borsyuk, has arranged for you to hear a playback of the SVI channel for the night in question, on the off-chance of its proving helpful …”

  A junior lieutenant, who looked too intelligent to be a soldier, led him to a vast tape library.

  “What’s it you’re after?”

  “SVI for the night of the 20th-21st.”

  He brought a large reel, put it on the console, searched, found the place, and passed the headphones to Viktor.

  The recording was chiefly of background hiss interrupted every now and then by a message.

  Twelve! Blue Mercedes, jumped lights, heading your way! Get him!

  Two! Time check please.

  0030 hours. Spoken to Stepan?

  Yep. Friday we go fishing.

  General alert! Red Samara, Registration: KIA 89-71, stolen Pushkin Street.

  Then, after a long interval:

  Seven! Proceed at once to 11!

  Received and understood.

  Viktor listened intently.

  Three! Red Samara just gone through – could be the one.

  Sod it then!

  A long silence, broken by:

  Seven! Attendance no longer required. Return to post.

  Viktor got the lieutenant to make him a copy.

  31

  Nik went down for a frankfurter and a mug of beer. When he returned, Sakhno was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling, and the air was heavy with a familiar smell that he couldn’t immediately place.

  “Like some sausage?”

  Eyes wide with amazement, Sakhno tried to turn his head, but was not able to, and suddenly it all came back – cannabis, that was what the room reeked of, like a Tadzhik bazaar! And Sakhno was the worse affected for having taken it on top of wine. Nik opened the window wide. It was damp and chilly, but no longer raining.

  Drugs, drink – God, what a combination! What the hell had Ivan Lvovich been thinking of? Tablets against his perhaps becoming a menace were beginning to make sense.

  In need of a drink, Nik went down for another beer.