The Case of the General's Thumb

by Andrei Kurkov

  “Found your Miller Ltd – in woods near Irpyen. Stripped of equipment, but plainly it’s been used for eavesdropping. I sent a bod to check your flat, and he’s just reported: two bugs in your corridor, and outside in the hall, there was a mini security camera trained on your door. So all this time you’ve been appearing on telly. Oh, and another thing. A highly intriguing piece of info. from a neighbour source regarding our German friend. We must meet.”

  “When?”

  “Not going anywhere, are you?”

  “Some hopes!”

  “Park yourself where I won’t wake the house when I ring.”

  It was nearly 1.00 before he did.

  “Come forth, listening all the way.”

  Viktor crept from the house and out through the gate.

  “Cross the road, head straight for the lake … See the life-saver hut?”

  “I think so.”

  “There’s a seat there. Come and join me.”

  A seat so sheltered from moonlight as to conceal Georgiy’s features, but not the fact that he was a good head taller than Viktor.

  They shook hands.

  “Switch your mobile off, put it away and listen. Nik Tsensky, it appears, is gunning for ‘our man in Paris’ and I – I’m given quietly to understand – am to see that we get Tsensky before Tsensky gets ‘our man’. A bit of a scream, that, coming from a section supposed to be unaware of our doings and our interest in Tsensky. The practical implication is that we are up against someone on our side of the house. Someone in a hurry to knock off Tsensky, now probably hot on the trail of the hoard. Someone smart enough to count on our having a greater interest in finding a live Tsensky to go shares with.”

  “So?”

  “We’ve no choice, we go ahead as instructed, but alone and to our own agenda. So you’ve got your dream. You fly to Paris!”

  “But I don’t speak French.”

  “You got by in London without English. There are times when it’s a plus not knowing the language. Takes them a day to find an interpreter if they pull you in, ample time to think up some cock-and-bull yarn about ‘a militia assignment’.”

  “Why should they pull me in?”

  “You might accidentally kill somebody.”

  “With no gun?”

  “A state our people will remedy. But keep them at arm’s length, that Paris lot. You don’t fraternize, just accept what they say, and go. If they follow, lead them a dance, get them worried, then lose them.”

  “Do Ira and Yana stay on here?”

  “I think so. We’ll move them, if need be. Warn Ira. Tell her, Georgiy will ring.”

  “There’s no phone.”

  “Tomorrow morning there’ll be a phone. Your plane’s tomorrow evening. We’ll send our taxi.”

  75

  The week went slowly.

  By now Nik had spent three nights in Tatiana’s tiny flat. They breakfasted and dined together. Each evening he met her punctually from work, and together they leisurely followed some new side-street route from Aeroflot to Sino-Arab Belleville.

  On the Wednesday evening, over Turkish coffee in a Turkish restaurant, he plucked up the courage to ask how she would feel about his giving up his hotel room and moving in.

  “Of course, especially as you’re not earning,” was her answer.

  “I’ve money enough for the moment, and I can look for a job … I’ve a German passport.”

  “German?” she asked in surprise. “You didn’t say.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course not. But jobs are scarce. I’ll ask around. You’ve worked as an interpreter?”

  “English, German, French.”

  For a while they sat thinking, Tatiana about jobs, Nik about the imminent return of Pierre and the need to resolve things one way or another: give Security at the Embassy the low-down on the billions, rehabilitate himself, induce Security to forget his existence.

  As to the money of dubious origin secreted in his case at the hotel, the sensible thing would be to open an account and bank it the very next day.

  On Thursday evening it was a tired, angry Tatiana who came from Aeroflot with no more than the ghost of a smile for her waiting Nik.

  “It’s been one hell of a day! Let’s go for a coffee.”

  A whole lot of strange Russians had been phoning and asking for Tereshchenko in connection with some mix-up over a pre-paid joint ticket. Tereshchenko was actually due back tomorrow, Friday, but the story they put out had been “not until Monday” to allow him time to think.

  Tereshchenko, like Weinberg, was between a rock and a hard place. Maybe that was the reason for his going to the Midi. It was time they talked.

  “How about seeing a film tomorrow?” Tatiana asked, suddenly her old self again.

  “Tomorrow I’ve got to meet someone, I’m afraid.”

  “The day after, then,” she said brightly.

  76

  At 8.00 a white Volga drew up at the gate.

  Looking in on Ira and finding her awake, Viktor kissed her goodbye, and she managed a sleepy smile, her grumpiness about his going forgotten.

  “When will you be back?”

  “I’ll ring.”

  Checking that the car’s registration was as Georgiy had said, he threw his bag in the back and was about to sit in the front, when the driver, a severe but intelligent-looking middle-aged man, motioned him to join his bag.

  They eased their way out onto the tram-lined road. It was snowing lightly, and for a time progress was slow. Beyond Berkhovtsy Cemetery, where the road was sanded, they speeded up a little. Intent on the driving, the driver spoke not at all.

  Wintery dawn was breaking as they drove through Kiev. Lights were going on, wan silhouettes stepping out on the pavements.

  Glimpsing the block of flats that was home, he felt a pang of nostalgia. From the flower-bed roundabout at the end of Kharkov Highway, they took the Borispol road, and after slackening speed for the SVI check-point, continued at a steady 110 kph.

  At the airport, the driver took Viktor’s bag.

  “It’s staff gate for us, so you won’t need your passport and there’ll be no record of your departure,” he said, opening an inconspicuous door.

  A guard in camouflage combat gear saluted, and pointed to a corridor which brought them out onto the apron.

  Drawing up at a boarding tunnel exit was a long squat bus.

  “That one’s yours,” said his driver, handing him a boarding card.

  Viktor’s ticket was a single, and only when sitting, bag at his feet, on the plane, looking out of the window, did the implications of that strike him. The Tsensky tip-off, as reported by Georgiy, had the appearance of a specially baited trap, but novice as he was, he’d play it hard, this who-eats-who game.

  They taxied to the runway, accelerated, and were airborne.

  Breaking with the past and hopeful of a future, he met, looking about him, the stare of a thin-faced man with a birthmark on his right cheek. The man looked away, but Viktor felt unsettled for the rest of the flight.

  Having only hand luggage, he went straight through to the arrival hall at Charles de Gaulle airport to a young woman displaying his name, who greeted him in Russian, and whisked him away to the car park and a dark green VW Beetle.

  “I’ll take you to your hotel,” she said briskly. “On the back seat you’ll find a briefcase with money, and all you need to tide you over.”

  A silence reminiscent of the dawn drive through Kiev followed.

  Dropped at the Etoile de Gallieni, he found his single room modest but comfortable. Sitting on his bed, he examined the contents of the briefcase: a velour-wrapped Beretta, spare magazine, a wad of francs, a street map of Paris, a Russian-language guide, a photograph of Tsensky outside Aeroflot, and another with a cross in biro by the first-floor window of a clearly numbered house in a clearly named street. There was also a visiting card inscribed “Mikhail Zhevelov, Real Estate Consultant”, with a mobile number.

&nb
sp; As Viktor stared at his own mobile as if in hope of answers, the old-fashioned room phone rang.

  “Got everything?” inquired a crystal-clear male Russian voice.

  “The briefcase, yes.”

  “Two hours from now, Subject will be at Aeroflot, Champs Elysées – it’s marked on your map – watching the door. See you do a good job.”

  77

  Tsensky was instantly recognizable, standing behind an Arab chestnut seller.

  It was nearly 6.00. Aeroflot was shut, most of the staff had left, but lights were still burning.

  Viktor positioned himself at a newspaper kiosk some twenty metres off, from which there was a clear view of both Tsensky and Aeroflot.

  Animated voices speaking their beautiful but incomprehensible language were filling the broad boulevard. It was Friday evening, and Paris, shop windows aglow, was in weekend mood.

  At Aeroflot the display windows dimmed. A tall man in hat and long overcoat came out, locked the door, and headed off in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.

  Tsensky set off after him. Viktor followed.

  The street into which they emerged from the métro station was near deserted.

  Once the tall man glanced over his shoulder as he walked, almost as if to make sure he was being followed. Finally he stopped to open his gate.

  Tsensky darted into the nearest doorway.

  Viktor walked boldly on past both Tsensky and the gate.

  When Viktor looked back, Tsensky had disappeared.

  A man in biker leathers appeared from behind a tree and the glint of his machine, and crossed the road to the gate.

  Viktor followed.

  The tall man had left the front door slightly ajar, and the biker was now standing with his back to it, listening, until a sudden thud prompted him to investigate, automatic in hand.

  A door banged.

  Seeing the corridor empty Viktor went in, drawing his Beretta.

  “Hands up, Tsensky!” he heard. “Up on your feet, Pierre! You, Tsensky, are dead!”

  The moment to intervene had come. Kicking open the door, and seeing Tsensky with his hands raised, Pierre bleeding on the floor, and Biker, swinging to face him, Viktor fired twice.

  Biker, dying, tried feebly to turn his weapon on Pierre, but Viktor kicked it away.

  Tsensky, having meanwhile retrieved his automatic, now held Victor covered.

  “I’m from Kiev,” Viktor said uncertainly, by way of explanation.

  “To do what?”

  “Assist.”

  “Drop the gun, sit.”

  Viktor joined Pierre on the floor.

  “You were waiting for me, so you know what I want,” Tsensky said, addressing Pierre, and receiving no response, struck him in the face with his automatic.

  “We’d do better to search,” Viktor said quietly.

  “Do you know what for?”

  “No, but we’ll know when we find it.”

  “Fetch down those books,” he ordered Pierre, “and you,” he turned to Viktor, “give each one a shake.”

  “That’s not where to look.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Experience.”

  “As what?”

  “CID.”

  “Which, for God’s sake?”

  “The Kiev.”

  “So where would you look?”

  “Not here.”

  Motioning them to lead the way, Tsensky followed Viktor and Pierre to the first floor, where there were two bedrooms, a study, a bathroom with jacuzzi, and a storeroom.

  “Where shall we start?”

  “The study.”

  Tsensky got Pierre to pull the desk drawers out and pass them to Viktor to examine. Concealed under the last they found an envelope of old Aeroflot cheque stubs for sums ranging from five hundred to a million francs with no indication as to payee.

  “Who was this paid to?” Tsensky demanded, and when Pierre gave no answer, struck him again in the face, but to no effect.

  “Let me look, Nik, you’ve had enough,” Viktor said gently, and Nik, for whom “enough” did not extend to sustenance, retired with Pierre to the kitchen.

  And there, smiling broadly and holding a fat test-tube containing something preserved in liquid, Viktor joined them.

  “What is it?”

  Viktor laid the corked and sealed test-tube on the table. The waxen, yellow something preserved in liquid was a human thumb.

  “Bronitsky’s,” said Viktor.

  “Who’s he?” Nik asked Pierre.

  Pierre said nothing.

  “The man you killed in Kiev,” Viktor prompted.

  “I killed no one in Kiev,” Nik said quietly.

  Viktor was inclined to believe him. He didn’t look capable of killing anyone.

  “Where did this come from?” Viktor asked Pierre.

  “It was delivered.”

  “Where from?”

  “Moscow. It should have been collected last week. I thought they’d come while I was away.”

  “They being?”

  Pierre shrugged.

  Viktor’s mobile rang and he went into the corridor before answering.

  “Well?” asked Georgiy.

  “We’ve found Bronitsky’s thumb.”

  “Splendid! Where?”

  “At Pierre’s, the Aeroflot man. Tsensky’s here with me. What now?”

  “Still alive, this Pierre? Well, put that to rights, then clear out. Check in somewhere new. With the thumb, of course. Ring you in three hours.”

  Retrieving his Beretta from beside the dead biker, Viktor returned to the kitchen and shot Pierre dead.

  “Now let’s get the hell out of here!”

  He grabbed the test-tube, and extracting keys from the biker’s pocket, ran with Nik from the house.

  Physically and emotionally drained, relieved no longer to be taking decisions, Nik climbed pillion behind Viktor.

  “Which way’s the city?”

  “The way we’re going.”

  He had, it occurred to Nik, left his automatic on the kitchen table. No matter, back at the hotel was the one he’d received from Sakhno.

  Where he was going, and with whom, he’d no idea.

  But there, for a fleeting moment, was the little Chinese restaurant.

  78

  Abandoning the motorcycle outside a striptease bar on the other side of Paris, they went to a café, where Nik ordered beer.

  “After this I’m off,” he said.

  “Where to?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “I saw your wife,” Viktor said. “At Valentin’s, when she came to collect the money.”

  “She’s dead. So’s my son.”

  “She wasn’t, this time last week.”

  “Both died in a fire last autumn.”

  “Who said?”

  “Ivan Lvovich.”

  “She’s alive, your Tanya! I met her at the station. I had a card saying ‘Tsensky’, but she told me she was Kravchenko.”

  Nik stared incredulously.

  Viktor’s mobile rang.

  “You’re where?”

  “Some café the other side of Paris.”

  “With the thumb? Good. Lose that, and your head rolls! Any thoughts re Tsensky? Now he’s served his purpose.”

  “But has he? How about Bronitsky?”

  “Bugger Bronitsky! Get rid of Tsensky.”

  “No!”

  “Only joking. He could still have his uses. Find a hotel. Brief you in an hour.”

  For half Georgiy’s hour they sat on over their beer, Nik asking about his wife and her visit to Kiev, as if still unconvinced.

  “Here for the night?” asked one of two scantily-dressed girls standing by the hotel reception desk.

  Viktor turned uncomprehendingly to Nik, who nodded.

  “Shop!” shouted the girl.

  A fat man appeared, entered their names in the register, and demanded payment in advance.

  No sooner had they shut the
door of their double room behind them, than Georgiy rang.

  “Fixed up? Right. Now take a shower, rumple the bed, get yourselves to the Gare de Lyon, and catch the express to Lyon. At Lyons airport, collect tickets ready in your names for the 0700 hours flight to Northern Cyprus via Istanbul. Don’t, on arrival, have your passports stamped, go for the option of stamp on a separate sheet.”

  “Then what?”

  “You’ll be met. Spell of relaxation near Kyrenia. Further details when you’re there. Keep close to that thumb!”

  “Off we go again,” said Viktor, pocketing his mobile.

  “Off where?”

  “Lyon. Then Cyprus.”

  “To collect?”

  The question came as a surprise. Nik was more in the picture than he thought.

  “To relax.”

  Nik nodded. Not a word so far on the score of Nina’s pass number or Weinberg. So the odds were that they, whoever they were, knew nothing about either. Whereas he, having the pass number and knowing which bank, was in the running for ten per cent of four billion!

  “I need to phone.”

  “Do, but don’t say where we are or where we’re going.”

  Nik was beginning to warm towards Viktor. He liked his down-to-earthness.

  He had to leave Paris for a day or two, he told Tatiana, and would phone the moment he got back. He was minded to mention the cheque book and credit card in the post from the bank, but decided not to in Viktor’s hearing.

  “My wife, how tall was she?” he asked suddenly.

  “Half a head shorter than me – though she may have had high heels.”

  “Doesn’t wear them,” said Nik thoughtfully.

  79

  On the flight from Istanbul, Viktor looked out at distant snowcapped mountains, feeling sadly in need of instructions from Georgiy.

  Nik, convinced at last that Tanya and Volodya were alive, struggled to fathom the illogicality of Ivan Lvovich’s reporting them dead. In their work, as in the army, illogicality served to camouflage either idiocy or cool calculation, and of the two, the latter seemed the more likely.

  As the plane came in over azure, boat-dotted sea to land, Viktor was wondering how to account for the test-tube and contents to customs.

  But apart from “Stamp in passport, or separate?” they went through unquestioned.